Fic: Crossroads Of Disbelief, Merlin BBang
Chapter 1
The moon was high, casting its full light upon the land, filtering through trees heavy with leaf and casting deep shadows along the road side. The silence surrounding them was heavy, unnatural; no night crickets chirping, no insects buzzing, not even the hushed flap of an owl’s wing in flight.
“You are certain this is the location?” King Baranak hissed, turning a moment to glare at his servant, standing timidly by his side.
“Yes, your majesty, I am certain. The crossroads of the West Downs, past the midnight of the full moon,” he answered quickly, voice hushed to match the air around them. He shifted the delicate bundle in his arms, shrugged his heavy shoulder pack into a more comfortable position and looked cautiously into the shadows. He had always feared what he could not see.
His master nodded and turned his gaze upon the high moon, his heavy black cloak shifting from his face to reveal pale skin, eyes dark and glinting.
“Very well,” Baranak announced to the air and turned in a circle, eyes searching. “We are here as arranged. Reveal yourself.” Stephen held his breath a moment, fear shivering up his spine before he forced himself to stand taller, moving a step away to give his king room. He gasped when his shoulder connected with something solid, a hand reaching out to squeeze his arm. He quickly spun away, arms tightening instinctively around the warm bundle he held. He hastily loosened his grip a moment later, remembering too late what it was he carried.
The child, but weeks old, began to draw in a huge breath. An unhappy keening filled the air. Stephen bounced the infant gently but made no other move to quiet it. He looked instead to the being of diminished stature before him, shoulders hunched, head covered by a silvery cloak, one gnarled hand curved around a staff that barely came to waist height. The witch stared at the crying child, white eyes narrowed and glowing hungrily, until his majesty stepped up beside her and broke the stillness that had surrounded them.
“I am glad to see you choose to honour our agreement,” the king spoke, his voice sharp and cracking in the still air. The witch looked up at him, cocking her head to the side, and smiled. The smile of one demented, Stephen thought, and suppressed the urge to flee.
“Honour? Perhaps.” She looked between the child and his king. “Perhaps.” She muttered and then shifted. The movement of his majesty’s hand to the hilt of his sword was not missed by anyone. The witch merely laughed and hobbled to the centre of the crossroads, the moonlight making her cloak shiver like a beacon.
“Perhaps,” she muttered again.
The king remained where he was, watching carefully. The child’s cry grew louder.
“Silence him,” his lord demanded.
“I am trying m’lord,” Stephen responded quickly, shoving a dirty finger into the babe’s mouth and shushing at it. The babe tried to spit it out, twisting his head away in disgust and hiccupping in distress.
“This is a dark path you choose to walk,” the witch spoke softly, laying a small blanket of hide on the ground, followed by a bowl, a pouch and a vile from her robes to lay beside it. A knife’s blade gleamed in her palm. “Be you certain this is the path you truly wish to follow?”
“I will rule Camelot,” his lord declared. He stood taller in the night, pulled his hood off and glared proudly down at her. “It is my calling.”
“But not your right,” she grinned and his king sneered distastefully at her and her missing teeth.
“Watch your tongue, witch! It will be my right.”
“Treason of the highest form,” she spoke. “Treason, worthy of death.”
“Much like the treason of magic,” he sneered.
“Worse, my Lord,” she implored, still smiling. “Worse, worse, worse.”
“Enough,” he snapped and stepped forward, cloak billowing behind him. “You are either in agreement of these decisions, as you were when you agreed to this meet, or you have changed your mind and we shall deal accordingly.” His hand was once again gripping at his sword. The witch laughed.
“I am in agreement. In agreement. So long as my passage to the Ire lands are still arranged.”
“It is. The boat shall sail in two morning’s time. Be sure that you never return to this land,” he directed.
“Agreed, agreed,” she sing-songed and then looked over at Stephen, her boney hands reaching out, the knife hidden once more in her robes. “The child,” she demanded. Stephen stumbled backwards, thinking to protect himself and the young heir. The movement startled the already fussy babe, and his screams carried high into the night.
“Give him to her,” his king demanded shortly and still Stephen hesitated, until his master turned his glare upon him. He was shamed to admit that this was the first time in his service to this man that he had ever hesitated to follow his wishes. But he had vowed allegiance, he believed in his King’s will, and so, after only a moments hesitance more, he stepped forth and passed the squirming bundle over to the witch. He couldn’t help cringing as her fingers brushed against his own and he quickly withdrew, feeling cold now that the tiny body was no longer pressed against him.
“There is no return,” she implored again and looked up at his majesty. “The sacrifice of your first born, of your only born, can not be taken back.”
“It is of no consequence,” he implored, voice deep and certain. “I shall sire another son when I am King once more. Get on with it.” Stephen did not watch as she lay the child on the skins, pulling the dirty blankets away from his tiny body.
“Did you bring it?” she demanded, hand already reaching towards them once more. Stephen quickly stepped forward and handed her a small cloth bag, then retreated behind his king. She pulled from it a lock of hair that shimmered golden in the moonlight.
“A lock of hair from Arthur Pendragon,” his king announced, eyes flashing in disdain at the name.
“The crowned prince, the crowned prince,” she laughed and dropped the hair in the bowl. The child still cried out into the night. She took blood from the king’s hand, slicing into his palm and collecting it with the prince’s hair and the chanting began. Stephen moved away, to the edge of the forest, chest tight as he kept his eyes on his king.
“A worthy position you will take,” the witch implored with a hollow, echoed tone and lifted her knife high so the moonlight could beam off of it.
The child’s cries ceased.
Stephen did not flinch, perhaps because he was uncertain of the reality he was witnessing, perhaps because the guilt was pressing him into the earth itself. The child was no more, and the lingering warmth from where he had held him was nothing but a memory. The cold knot of dread in his chest finally eased, lifting away, and in its place a numb ache that he had never felt before took up residence.
It was over and there was nothing more to fret over. Nothing left to protect that wasn’t his king. His king whom he believed in and loved, loved enough to follow even here. There was no turning back now. That in itself was a relief, to know that he was so trusted, so needed.
His King watched the ritual impassively (He had never held his child, never truly acknowledged its existence. Perhaps that meant it would be okay for Stephen to forget about it as well, to pretend it had never been.) as the witch chanted dark words, cold and dead enough to suck the moons lingering glow from around them. When she finished neither king nor servant could move until she broke the stillness, gathering wood to build a small pyre in the centre of the road. They all watched as the flames carried what had once been a life high into the sky.
“It is done?” his master demanded, patience absent from his voice as he stared down at her hunched form.
“It is, it is. Half a fortnight it shall need to set,” she began packing her belongings, tucking them away beneath her cloak, her milky eyes tracking the fire as it burned beside them.
“And how will they respond?” King Edgar demanded, and she looked up at him, staring a long moment before standing stiffly and taking up her staff.
“Arthur Pendragon, they’ll say. Crowned Prince of Camelot! And your authority shall be absolute. Take care, however! For when the half fortnight has passed another fortnight must come to be where the true Arthur Pendragon must remain alive. An early death for the young prince and this shall be for naught.” And then she turned and walked away, her hobbling steps making no sound and it was once again silent.
“My king?” Stephen moved once again to his side, careful to avoid getting even a glancing look at the fire and what may remain within its dwindling embers.
“I believe,” his Lord looked down at him, a grin on his lips, “that my Prince would be a more appropriate form of address.” Stephen grinned back softly. This he was okay with. This he could accept.
“But of course, my prince,” he bowed low and could feel the pleasure his king was emitting.
“Come, my destiny awaits and we must be in Camelot in a fortnight,” King Edgar ordered and Stephen followed without hesitation.
The young men moved back along the road. Their future was set, a destiny of greatness and wealth lay before them. Behind them the ashes of innocence were left to blow away.
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Art By: Eppy7
He’d been out all morning, trolling around for the herbs and roots that Gaius had made a point of having him collect whenever he had the time. It had been relaxing, if one could get past the utter boredom of wandering through fields and forests digging up roots and picking flowers. In all honesty Merlin was grateful just to have a task to occupy his mind, since Arthur had forbade him to join his hunt that morning, claiming that Merlin tended to scare away all the animals and that for once Arthur actually needed to come home with something for dinner.
Prat.
He stepped over a rather large bump in the dirt path and shook his head in unwanted amusement, after all he should be irritated with Arthur but as usual he just couldn’t muster any true ire. By default that just made Arthur more of a prat, which made Merlin feel a little better about being left behind. That and the fact that he’d had a building headache the last while that would have made a hunting trip just miserable.
His thoughts were interrupted as the sound of hurried footsteps approached from behind and he moved aside accordingly, blinking when three young farmers raced by without a backward glance, their heads bowed in excited conversation. People had been passing him on the road back into the great city for the last half hour, and while they’d held a sense of urgency about them he hadn’t paid them much concern. He frowned now after their retreating backs and narrowly missed being knocked into by two more adolescents speeding by. He adjusted his grip on his satchel, shifting it to better protect the more delicate herbs before his attention was grabbed by a group of women stepping from their home just before him. Flour still adorned their aprons and a white cloud puffed after one of them as she dusted her hands while they joined the rush to the castles grounds. He began to worry then, a knot of unease forming in his stomach and he picked up his pace, long legs eating up the distance with more urgency.
It wasn’t until he approached the gates into the castle grounds that he truly began to feel anxious.
“Merlin!” Gwen was standing by the gates, her yellow dress standing out among the other outfits that swept by her and into the castle walls. She waved frantically at him and he gave up any pretence of being casual about his approach. Gripping his bag tightly he ran the last distance until he stood right next to her, taking in her ashen face.
“Gwen!” He gripped her arm, hoping she wasn’t going to faint on him. “What’s happened? Are you all right?” She didn’t look all right, her face pale and her hands shaking as she reached out and gripped his own.
“I’m fine Merlin, but Arthur-”
“Arthur?” He cut her off, the unease in his stomach becoming out right dread. “What happened to him?” She looked up sharply at his tone, and perhaps it was harsher than warranted but if anything had happened to him, if Arthur was gone... Merlin shook his head, willing his thoughts to clear. Arthur must be okay, surely Merlin would have felt it if something had happened to him. He knew he would have.
“Merlin, calm down,” Gwen squeezed his hand imploringly which didn’t help him at all but he took a deep breath to pretend it had and then stared at her. “He is fine, Arthur is okay now,” she smiled gently and he forced himself to not snap at her as he understood the most important part of the statement.
“Now?” he asked quietly and her attention, which had been drifting towards the castle courtyard, focused fully on him again. She shook her head slightly, apparently not knowing where she should begin before just taking a breath herself and finally explaining.
“Apparently he’s been held prisoner for the last month. There have been accusations of the darkest magic, and that Edgar Baranak has been posing as Arthur all this time,” she rushed out. Merlin just stared at her, because surely that was a ridiculous accusation. He would have known if there had been dark magic anywhere near Camelot, let alone Arthur. And he certainly would have noticed Arthur not being, well, Arthur.
Wouldn’t he?
“Baranak?” He asked blankly, and let her tug him along with the crowds towards the courtyard.
“Yes, he was here half a year ago. King Camilus and prince Edgar, don’t you recall? Arthur and the prince nearly came to blows in the dining hall. Edgar has always been jealous of Arthur.”
Merlin did recall, suddenly. Arthur had treated him like complete dung that evening, responding to him as though he meant less than dirt and berating his competence the entire night in front of Edgar. He’d apologised later in his chambers while Merlin angrily turned down his bedding, stating he had his reasons for acting so harshly but he had never truly explained himself. Come to think of it Arthur had been a right prat the entire week that the royalty of Warwick were visiting.
“Edgar?” Merlin said, sounding as stunned as he felt.
“King Edgar now, his father passed away shortly after that visit. Honestly Merlin, don’t you listen to any of the talk?”
Apparently he didn’t.
“Arthur has been a prisoner of Edgar’s for a month?” His mouth was dry as cotton and he found the sentence difficult to enunciate.
“Yes, and Edgar has been living here this whole time,” her grip on his arm was firm but her voice was shaky and she was still pale as she continued. “He placed a spell over the entire kingdom, tricking us all into believing he was the true Arthur. We may have never known if Arthur hadn’t fought his way from their dungeons and finally made it back home.”
“I’ve been serving Edgar thinking he was Arthur?” He asked aloud, and then shook his head to try and make sense out of her words, because the idea was preposterous. Nobody was that good an actor, nobody could have taken Arthur’s place without at least someone noticing. Merlin would have noticed long ago, he was sure of it.
“It was hard for any of us to accept at first, but when you see him you’ll know,” she hushed, dragging him along. He suddenly became aware of the press of bodies surrounding him, people talking loudly, yelling, a group of young women weeping rather foolishly off to one side.
“What do you mean when I see him?” He asked, and then she stopped and pointed firmly over he crowd. He turned to look up at the platform she had pulled him towards. The one used for public executions and entertainers alike. He looked up to the solid post that had been attached to it, and to the man who stood beside it, alone above the sea of people.
He couldn’t see the man’s face, but from the side it was unmistakably Arthur. His flopping golden hair and proud stature unmistakable from the ground and Merlin’s breath stuttered to a halt in his throat, because that was Arthur up there. It was Arthur…
Without warning his world shifted violently, lurching away in all direction before his vision leeched to black and swallowed him whole. A vice clamped around his head hard enough that he feared his brain would burst from the pressure. It drilled into the very core of his mind and his entire body was flooded with ill. He was weak, nauseous and the pain was fast approaching a point where desperation to escape it might involve splitting open his skull to relieve the pressure- and then it went away. Just like that. Gone. His vision sharply cleared and he found himself blinking up into the painfully bright sun that was only partially blocked by a handful of faces that stared down at him. He frowned back.
“Merlin?” Gwen was suddenly there, her anxious brown eyes peering down, worry clear within their depths. “Merlin? Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” he squeaked, and cleared his throat. Several arms grabbed onto his and he was dragged to his feet, a few hands clapping his back in support as he managed to keep his feet. Gwen rounded on him as he shook his head. It still felt a bit fuzzy, and there was a slight ringing in his ear. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” she explained, and smiled kindly at him.
“I did not!” he denied instantly, ignoring the few laughs around him as he waited for her to explain what had really happened. Gwen just looked at him, patiently waiting for him to regain his bearing. “I did not faint Gwen,” he insisted, a little quieter this time and she raised an eyebrow at him as the doubt began to take hold. “I fainted?” Really? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d passed out, unless it was directly related to a blow to the head or a poison. Or he faked it to get out of chores for Arthur, but that had only really worked the one time.
Arthur.
“Arthur!” He exclaimed, and sucked in a breath as he twisted about to look upon the dais. He stopped, and stared. The knot of dread in his stomach was not dispelled in the slightest with what he was seeing.
The man on the stage was as Merlin remembered him to look, with pale floppy hair and stubborn square jaw, but it was clear now that it was not Arthur. He was an impostor, and it was only then that Merlin realized the impostor had turned his head and was staring right at him. From this distance he couldn’t tell that the man’s eyes were blue as he thought he remembered, but there was no mistaking the searching look he was giving him and Merlin swallowed thickly under the gaze, but he met it defiantly.
They stared firmly, and then Edgar (how, how could he have been mistaking this fair-haired man for his prince all this time?) took a breath, the searching look in his gaze hardening and he turned away to stare back out front of him. He squared his shoulders even more and lifted his chin, arrogance personified as he stood tall and Merlin was hard pressed to look away.
“That’s not Arthur,” he whispered, and flinched when a rotten tomato appeared from the crowd and smashed into the impostor’s back. The man didn’t move, but the guard Merlin hadn’t noticed before took a pointed step away from him.
“I know,” Gwen gripped his elbow now, her hands surprisingly strong despite her size. “He had us all fooled Merlin, even the King.” How this was even possible Merlin didn’t know and he felt rooted to the spot, uncertain of what to do next. A head of brown, rotten lettuce was thrown at the man standing bound on stage, his wrists held before him by thick coils of rope. Then an apple clipped the side of his head. He quickly shook it off and, if possible, stood taller.
When the rock smashed into the centre of his back, forcing him to flinch, the crowd cheered. Gwen’s hand tightened, Merlin couldn’t look away.
“Traitor!” Someone yelled from the back of the crowd.
“Coward!” Another joined in and the impostor said nothing, staring stonily at the balcony above.
“Conspirator to the thrown!” Another vegetable flew into his chest and Merlin watched as his hands clenched beneath the ropes. The hostility in the air was thick. This man had attacked their Prince and Merlin was only now coming to realize that the only punishment acceptable was death. Though he knew this wasn’t his prince standing bound before them all, a panic bloomed in his chest at the thought. He moved forward, to head around the front of the crowd to get to the castle. He needed to see Arthur, the real one, to make sure he was okay and hear the true story of what was happening here.
He barely made it a few steps before the crowd hushed, and he turned to look up at the balcony. There King Uther stood before them, proud in his royal black and burgundy and his eyes glared stonily down at the man on the platform. Should looks have the ability to murder, the impostor would have been struck down instantly. Then, moving to stand beside the King, was Arthur himself.
The crowd cheered, the wave of sound nearly deafening Merlin.
He looked Arthur over intently, noting that he was dressed sharply in black, silver buttons adorning his tunic, his near black hair brushed into place. His skin was pale, and a vivid bruise stood out on one cheek, visible even from this distance and Merlin felt a pang of regret that he hadn’t been there to help him when he had been needed. Hadn’t even noticed he was in trouble.
Now, Arthur stared down at the man on the stage, his stance unforgiving and cold and Merlin feared for what he must have gone through the last month to make him appear so harsh.
Uther raised a hand, and instantly the cheering stopped, the crowd staring up imploringly at their leaders.
“Good people of Camelot,” Uther leaned forward and rested a hand on the banister, “the man standing before you is a traitor of the most detestable kind.” Grumblings arose from the crowd and he silenced it with a glare. “He has used enchantments and dark magic to manipulate his way into our very hearts, forcing us to believe, against our wills, that he was my true son, and heir to the throne.” Merlin swallowed thickly, still staring up at Arthur, willing him to look down, just for a moment, and silently let him know he was truly okay.
“Under our laws the sentence for such an act is death.” The crowd cheered. Merlin looked back over his shoulder to see the golden haired impostor standing rigidly, staring at Uther with such force it made Merlin feel uneasy within his bones. He looked back up to Arthur who, while both shorter and slighter than his father, still stood imposingly strong. He stepped forward with a limp to stand beside the King, but made no acknowledgment of the pain and the act of stoicism was so plainly true to his character that Merlin was filled with pride.
“And death is the sentence he shall receive.” Arthur’s voice carried over the crowd, hushing them once more, “but such an act of treason, such cowardice and deceit, can not be forgiven by the mere act of an axe.” He looked away from the crowd and glared down at the traitor that had caused him torment, and smiled viciously. “So you, Edgar Baranak, shall feel the swiftness of Camelot’s retribution. A message must be sent to show that we will not bow down to our enemies.” Arthur kept a steady glare on the traitor. “We will not take light acts of treason and hostilities, and those who oppose us shall know our wrath. I order ten lashes to be executed immediately, and we shall gather again upon the fortnight to witness final execution. May death show you a mercy you do not carry within your own soul.”
The crowd roared, boots stomping at the ground, swords banging loudly against shields, fists pumping the air in righteous fury and Merlin spun around to watch as Edgar’s red shirt was swiftly ripped from his pale body. Bruises were revealed on his arms and torso, still too fresh to have properly formed, showing the extent of his struggle against capture. He was shoved forward until his hands were tied down to a ring in the post before him. It forced him to hunch over, his back bared and unprotected for the world to see, and behind him the executer jumped onto the stage with a whip coiled tightly in his hand and grin on his lips. He would not be kind.
Merlin’s mouth went dry.
Surely this traitor deserved everything he got. There could be no greater cowardice than to use dark magic to usurp the future king, and Merlin had little patience for anyone who threatened Arthur. But seeing this man bared so, and still trying to stand proud amongst them, it pulled at something within Merlin and he was suddenly uncertain that he could witness the pain that was to come.
The crowd hushed and Edgar, making no move to escape his bindings, tilted his head up to stare defiantly at King Uther.
“My name,” he shouted out, “is Arthur Pendragon. I am the true Crowned Prince of Camelot.” The crowd mocked him but he did not remove his gaze from the balcony, fury evident in every line of his body. Merlin watched as the whip uncoiled and then, moments later, its loud snap was unmistakeable as it hit flesh.
Edgar jerked forward, face scrunching in the sudden pain before clearing. He opened his eyes, and unerringly locked onto Merlin’s gaze. He stared imploringly, and Merlin couldn’t hold the gaze, looking away a moment, unable to decipher what to feel as the urge to protect and seek revenge warred within him. When he looked back again Edgar was looking away once more, staring at his clenched fists and nothing else about him. The whip cracked again, and the crowd cheered.
By the sixth lashing Edgar was sagging forward, his hands braced on the pole before him to keep him on his feet. He’d bitten his lip to keep from crying out, blood trailed down his chin to drip on his chest and the planks beneath his feet. His skin was as pale as linen.
On the eighth snap of the whip one of his knees gave out beneath him and smashed into the wooden decking. He did not move to stand, but refused to fall further, now staring at the post that sat before his face, arms stretched above his head.
On the tenth lash he barely managed to stifle a yell. The crowd had grown quiet. Merlin could see the blood from his back trickling around to his sides, slick and scarlet on his ghostly skin. And then, after a moment of breathing and silence, he pushed off his collapsed knee to stand, hunched over, once more.
Somebody in the crowd spit on him.
“Let this be a lesson,” Uther implored. “Take him away.”
Merlin watched as Uther disappeared quickly, leaving Arthur to stand over the proceedings. The crowd parted as Edgar, barely managing to stand, was hauled to the edge of the platform and roughly shoved off. He landed with a thud, the air forced from his body, dirt mingling with blood and sweat, but instead of curling upon the ground like Merlin was certain most sane people would, he straightened out and once again moved to stand.
The guards didn’t give him a chance to get to his feet, wrapping their hands under his arms and dragging him bodily from the yard until they disappeared through the doors that Merlin knew led to the dungeons.
He blinked as the doors were secured firmly.
“I’ll bet you’re itching to go and make sure he’s all right,” Gwen appeared by his side and he jerked, feeling on the verge of tipping over an edge he couldn’t see. His skin felt tight and scratchy all over. The headache from that morning still demanding his attention, only it was heavier now. He must have knocked it when he fell.
“What?” He asked, startled, before his brain caught up to what she’d said. “Who?”
She stared at him incredulously a moment.
“Arthur, of course,” she laughed, sounding shaken and he realized that she was trying to put the beating they had witnessed behind her.
“Yes, Arthur,” he echoed and looked back at the doors that Edgar had been dragged through. Fresh blood was splashed on the grey stones. “Of course. I can’t believe he had been imprisoned for so long,” his mind focused sharply as he refocused on his prince, thoughts of the torment he must have suffered flashing through his mind.
“He is an incredibly strong person,” Gwen sighed, worry once again clouding her features. “I do hope he is as okay as he appeared.”
“I am sure he is. You know Arthur, he could have a missing leg and he’d still insist on training. All the same, I’d best go and see if he needs anything.”
Merlin took his leave quickly. Arthur was fine.
He was just fine.
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