Fic: Merlin; G-PG; Equilibrium - Chapter 1
Title: Equilibrium, Chapter 1
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: G-PG for eventual light romance
Word Count: This part - 4740
Pairing/Characters: Ensemble, eventual Merlin/Arthur, plus male OC sort of (he's from the original legends but hasn't turned up in the show... yet)
Disclaimer: The characters and concept of Merlin do not belong to me. I merely kidnap them and play with them sometimes.
Warnings: Uhm... I twisted Arthurian legend for my own nefarious purposes.
Spoilers: Up to The Gates of Avalon I think, whatever number that was. I can't remember
Author’s Note: This was originally written for merlin_the_elf but it grew a life of its own and, despite a supreme beta job by wrennette, I didn't have it edited in time. It was completed before the finale however, and most of it was done before the last three episodes. The finale did make it AU, though, to my displeasure.
For those of you who know Arthurian legend or who have at least read the works of Chretien de Troyes, I apologise in advance for the corruption of his story. I thought that Percival would work best for this role, and I'm rubbish at thinking of names.
Also - the title is rubbish because I couldn't really think of one. bah, humbug. I got a plot but no title. I suppose this is to balance out all those times I got a title and no plot.
Summary: After an incident on a routine patrol Arthur gets into trouble that he wasn't expecting.
The villages surrounding Camelot were practically identical to the less discerning eye. Once you had ridden through one, you had ridden through them all. Sadly, however, that was not considered a good enough excuse for cutting short your patrol duties - even if you were crown prince.
It was freezing cold and a bitter wind was blowing from the east as Arthur led his party of knights to the fifth village of the day. His hands felt as though they were frozen to his reins and the chain links of his armour felt like icicles on his skin, even through the padding. The first frost of the year had crept up a few weeks ago and, ever since then, the weather had been getting more and more dreary. He loved his country, but sometimes he did wish that the winters were not so bitterly cruel.
He resisted the urge to release the reins and breathe hot air into his palms as the knight beside him did. There could be no weakness in a leader, not even the weather could cause him to pause. So his hands remained where they were and he hoped, idly, that it would not take him too long to break them away from the leather when they finally returned to Camelot. He flexed his fingers cautiously, ignoring the dull ache. The tingling sensation dissipated slightly and he allowed himself a mental sigh of relief. They should be fine as long as they got back to the castle before nightfall.
A wolf howled from a hillside across the valley, causing one of the villagers on the track ahead of them to look up in alarm and hurry onwards. The colder the weather the more likely it was that the wolves would venture down from the hills looking for food. Despite the chilling noise, Arthur and his knights kept their horses at a steady stride.
Like all such villages, it was little more than a collection of huts and slightly larger buildings clutched around a well in the middle. Unlike the other villages, the well sat next to a building which claimed, by its crudely painted sign, to be an inn. Arthur had seen more accommodating looking places in the gutters of Camelot, but he refrained from comment. It was not like he would have to stay there and anyone who did was probably be beyond caring anyway.
As they proceeded along the single street the people parted before them, small children staring in awe, adults bowing their heads deferentially. The patrols themselves were common enough, particularly in the winter when living became more difficult. But to be visited by royalty was another matter entirely.
Arthur nodded politely in acknowledgement of the most richly dressed man there, correctly identifying him as the head of the community. The man bowed low to the ground with an unctuous ‘sire’. His sycophantic actions held no interest or pleasure for the young prince though and Arthur swiftly glanced away in distaste. If the man had kept his address merely functional, he would have probably paid more attention to the place, but grovelling - while a common side effect of being in his presence - was more irritating than anything else.
The short passage through the village gave little else of note. There were houses; there were people; there was livestock. A group of pigs were herded inexpertly out of his way as they were leaving, and their company was forced to halt for a couple of minutes while an embarrassed farmer hurried them off.
All in all it was very routine: nothing out of the ordinary happened, no one drew attention to themselves. Nothing strange happened at all until they were out the other side, and a good five minutes ride away.
A young man, who could have been no older than Arthur himself, was wandering back to the village, his arms full with a load of fire wood. He looked just like any other country villager - dirty, unkempt and a little stupid. Arthur barely gave him another thought, just kept on riding.
Except the damn fool didn’t get out of the way: he just carried on walking forwards, in the middle of the track, calmly and unconcerned about the couple of tons of horse and rider bearing down on him, let alone the swords hanging from their belts.
Arthur didn’t stop… he couldn’t stop, not for a peasant. It was unheard of and impossible. They were supposed to get out of his way - that was how it worked. They jumped to the side and bowed while he continued onwards. Pigs were an annoyance, it was true, but that was hardly the poor man’s fault. This however, was a blatant disregard of protocol. He wondered for a moment whether the young man was related to Merlin: something about the way he ignored him completely was reminiscent of his manservant.
The soldier riding next to him was beginning to fidget, looking nervously between Arthur and the approaching idiot. He was clearly foreseeing just how bad this situation could get. There was no way Arthur would pause, no one would expect him to, but the boy was still coming. He had noticed them. He was looking right at Arthur and he still walked towards them, right down the middle of the road.
Arthur drew in a deep breath, gritting his teeth, before glaring down the other young man. The fool was brave, that much was certain. He held Arthur’s gaze look for look, his back was ramrod straight despite his heavy load and the look on his face, under the smears of dirt, was every bit as though he were the Prince and Arthur the wayward peasant. Arthur smirked slightly at that. It was rare that anyone managed to earn his respect with a mere look, but there was a quality to the young man that was familiar and he was not sure that it was still Merlin he was thinking about.
He held up a hand to his men, signalling them to stop and, barely a foot from the young man, they all halted. But he did not move them out of the road. It was more of a compromise than his men had expected and some of the horses pawed at the ground impatiently.
“I need to get to the village,” the young man said bluntly, still staring at Arthur.
“And we need to get past,” Arthur replied, signalling to the soldiers that they should remain where they were despite their disbelieving looks.
“Why should I get out of the way?” The boy asked petulantly. “This is just as much my road as it is yours. You don’t scare me.” Arthur smirked slightly, amused by the words and the peasant’s self-confidence.
“Really?”
“Really,” he tilted his chin up stubbornly as he spoke. Arthur could hear the soldier next to him mutter oaths under his breath, and he was well aware that most of the men with him were staring at him rather than the boy, wondering what he would do.
“What’s your name?” he asked. The tension in the air was palpable, and he knew that the soldiers thought that the boy’s life was hanging in the balance. They didn’t know that Arthur was equally as amused by the encounter as insulted at the moment. Laughing would not be terribly regal though, so he suppressed the urge, channelling it into one of his best glares.
“Percival.” He said his name with pride, clearly it meant a lot to him.
“Aren’t you interested in who I am?” Arthur continued. Percival just shrugged nonchalantly.
“Should I be?”
“That depends on how much you value your freedom.” Arthur said, sitting up straighter in his saddle. He had been riding for so long today that the desire to slouch had been growing constantly, but he now adjusted himself to a more regal bearing. His back protested slightly as he dragged it upright, and the cold was biting into his fingers still. Novelty or not, this meeting had better not go on much longer. His name should clear up the problem though.
“My name is Arthur Pendragon,” he said, regarding the peasant with the look he usually reserved for the servants who cleaned out the garderobes.
“Who’s that then?” Arthur could feel his patience beginning to wear thin. It was freezing cold, he wanted to get back to Camelot and the castle so he could sit in front of the fire in his chambers and thaw out while drinking an inadvisable amount of ale and telling Merlin how much of an idiot he was. Unlike this witless boy, his manservant had a way of answering back that amused rather than angered Arthur, he wondered how he could have ever thought that they were anything alike.
“Son of Uther Pendragon…” he prompted. The boy - Percival - still looked at him with a clueless blank stare. “King Uther Pendragon.” Finally, finally, there was dawning comprehension on the boys face. But rather than dodging out of the way and bowing his apologies for his ignorance and insolence, his chin stuck out further and he set his jaw. The breeze from the East blew harder, making Arthur’s ears ache and echo and his tolerance for imbeciles was at breaking point. “So actually this road does belong to me, and I suggest you get out of my way before I have my men arrest you and throw you into the castle jail.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong…” Percival protested, but his eyes flickered away and Arthur could see that he knew he had lost this argument.
“It’s a very cold jail cell,” Arthur told him, conveniently neglecting to mention that he knew from personal experience. He could only imagine how hellish it would be in the current weather.
Reluctantly, Percival shuffled off the road. He did not speak any further, but there were oaths in his eyes and that, at least, Arthur was used to. Most people in Camelot had wanted to kill him at some point, and most people in the outside world still did. Morgana always teased him that it was his winning personality and charm; his father just called it a side effect of being royal that he would have to get used to, so he had.
He nudged his horse into movement, urging it out a little faster than necessary because he was damned if he was not going to put on a show for the brat, and if the fool happened to get a little dirt kicked up at him what would that matter? It would be in good company.
***
Back in Camelot everything was just as he had left it. The stable boy, as he hurried to take care of his horse first, avoided his eye contact and struggled to remain as unnoticeable as possible whilst still being useful. He barely came up to Arthur’s elbow and the Prince remembered to give him a nod of thanks, which made him flush with pleasure, as he led the beast away.
Now off the horse, the cold seemed even deeper, cutting into his legs as well. He had not noticed just how much heat his mount was giving off until it was removed and he was standing in icy cold metal in the middle of a building that smelt of sweat and horse and dung.
Merlin was late, as usual. The boy arrived huffing and out of breath to help him out of the armour.
“This is freezing,” his manservant hissed as he detached the shoulder plates.
“Really?” the Prince asked, his voice laden with sarcasm. “I hadn’t noticed.” Merlin did not answer him, just shot a half-smile in his direction with a shrug that told him that his humour and bad-temper was noticed and appreciated.
“So, how was the patrol?” Merlin asked.
“Same as every other,” Arthur responded with a shrug as Merlin undid the buckles of his neckguard.
“That interesting?” Arthur had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being laughed at. He shot Merlin a hard glance, but there was nothing on the other man’s face other than concentration as he tried to ease the leather straps through.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. Merlin looked up, all innocence, and shrugged. Arthur gave up, turning away again and trying to maintain his look of disinterest as he tensed against his body’s endeavours to shudder and shiver with the cold that was soaking through into his bones. “Get on with it, won’t you.” He bit out, trying to sound exasperated at his manservant’s slowness rather than affected by the cold. Merlin didn’t say anything, but from then on his fingers moved faster and it was less than a minute before the Prince was out of the cold metal and, without him even having to ask, his warmest coat was held out and he gratefully stepped into it.
He balled his hands into fists to keep them as far into the sleeves as possible without seeming uncontrolled.
“Your father wishes to see you…” another servant told him as he walked out of the stable area, Merlin walking his usual pace behind. He was unsurprised, it was usual for the King to receive updates immediately after a patrol, that didn’t mean he wasn’t cursing the fact that he could not retire to his room and his fire immediately.
“I’ll see you in my chambers afterwards,” he told Merlin firmly before stalking off to give his report.
***
Uther had found his report lacking. After over half an hour of interrogation, Arthur had found that all the villages blended into one another. The one which seemed to be suffering from a poor harvest - was that the second or the third? - and he had no idea which village had complained of wolves getting at their livestock. But he nodded along to his father’s comments and absentmindedly rubbed his hands together until Uther looked at them, unimpressed. He had stilled them immediately and concentrated all his efforts on what his father was saying.
As soon as he was permitted, he left the room, heading as fast as he reasonably could for his bedroom. Running was below the dignity of a Prince, so he maintained a steady stride, cursing under his breath. Several servants hurried out of his way, knowing from experience that this was not a good time to get in his way.
He opened the door to his chambers and was hit with a longed for wall of warmth. Merlin was sitting, unconcerned, at the table, eating a hunk of bread from what looked like an entire banquet spread out before him. The heat came from the fire dancing merrily in the hearth and Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, ignoring the smug smile that spread across Merlin’s face.
“Are you eating my food?” he asked. Merlin shook his head, indicating a small plate in front of him.
“No, sire. I’m eating my food.” He nodded towards the rest of the table. “That’s yours.” He looked at it idly. “I told the chefs you might be hungry and they seemed to take that as an invitation to make as much as they possibly could…” Arthur nodded and grabbed the goblet from the table as he made his way to the seat in front of the fire, aware suddenly that his feet were practically ice blocks.
“I wouldn’t advise you to eat too much of it though,” Merlin said, with the curious lilt to his voice which meant he was about to attempt to be funny. “You do want to fit into your armour.”
Arthur ignored him for a moment, sinking into the chair and stretching out his feet towards the flames. He sighed deeply and allowed his shoulders to relax.
“Was the patrol really that dull?” Merlin asked suddenly. Arthur heard the scrape of his boots against the floor as he crossed over to him and plonked a plate of meat and bread down on the arm of the chair.
“You know how it is…” Arthur said with feeling, grabbing a piece of cold meat with his hands, not even thinking of standing on ceremony. “There’s not exactly a lot of variation. It all looks the same.”
“No it doesn’t…” Merlin commented, sitting down on the floor, cross-legged. Arthur risked a glance at him and saw that his eyes were fixed on the fire, reflecting the twisting orange light.
“Trees, hills, fields, broken by the occasional cluster of malformed huts…” he described, “how is that not all the same.” Merlin turned to look at him incredulously.
“It’s all different,” he said. “No two places are the same, and no one place is ever the same again. It all changes.” Arthur looked thoughtful, his eyebrows drawing together. “It’s your country, isn’t it? Or it will be one day - surely that should be enough reason to find it interesting, even if you do find the scenery repetitive.”
Arthur had no reply for that and the pair of them ate in silence for a moment.
After a few more minutes of silence, Merlin stood up.
“Gaius asked if I could help him with some deliveries this evening,” he said. Typically for their relationship it was both a request for permission and not a request for permission. Arthur nodded, distracted.
“Fine,” he agreed, although he knew that, even had he demanded that Merlin stay, the other young man would have found a way to escape. “But be back here early tomorrow morning. I need to talk to you about what is going to happen with the feast tomorrow night.” Merlin bowed slightly - not quite as low as he should, but it was more than enough for the pair of them and hurried away, leaving Arthur to melt by the fire.
***
The wolves howled from beyond the hill as Percival walked out into the forest again. The owner of the local inn, his master, had sent him out to the forest again in search of fire wood, although he had only gathered some the day before. The man had been a thorn in his side since he had first found work there. Percival was the general dogsbody and gofer of the inn, running around to do odd jobs for anybody at all no matter who they were.
He glared at the trees above him with feeling. There had been enough firewood in the last batch to last three days at least, but here he was again. Do this Percival, do that Percival, why don’t you just die in a hole Percival. He threw one of the logs he had already gathered hard at a tree ahead of him. It missed and flew past its target. He followed its path with his eyes until it thudded to the ground just in front of a dark four-legged shape.
His breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of the wolf looking at him. It was not scared by his presence, but instead stared at him with haughty disdain - almost like the Prince who had forced him off the road earlier.
He gulped nervously, trying to remember what he had been told about the wolves in the forest. Children’s tales of men going missing flashed to his mind, only to have their bloody bones found days later. The howl going up in the night and a wandering child found absent in the morning. Images of throats ripped out and claws ripping at chests forced him to take a step backwards.
They only took livestock, he reminded himself, unless the winter was particularly harsh, they would not dare to go for human prey.
Somehow, in the cold of the forest, with the sun almost setting and a wolf staring fixedly at him from mere yards away, the reassurances did not seem so comforting.
He looked into its eyes, and noticed, to his dismay, that they were not the usual shade of amber. They were a clear, brilliant blue. He held up a hand to make the sign against enchantment and the wolf’s mouth spread into a grin, almost as though it could read his mind.
The eyes bit into him, as though they could see right through him. He looked around, hoping for some sort of weapon, or maybe some company, but there was nothing. He drew himself up instead, and hefted the largest of the logs in his hands, discarding the others and steadied himself on his feet, waiting for the wolf to pounce.
The attack never came. The wolf stared at him again for another few moments before turning and heading deeper into the forest. Without understanding quite how, Percival knew he was meant to follow. Despite his fear, he did not even give it a second thought before he did so, leaving the firewood strewn across the undergrowth as he pursued.
He was not sure how long he followed the animal, but the sun had long set by the time they arrived at a clearing near the mouth of a cave, giving way to deep blue sky and the eerie silver of moonlight.
A woman stood in front of the cave-mouth, her back to him. Even from the back of her head, he could tell that she was beautiful. Her hair, long and dark, hung down her back, parts of it braided together intricately. Her figure was slender and she was dressed in rich cloth: a noble woman no doubt, although the hem of her robes hung in rags. The wolf went up to her calmly and nudged its head against her leg. She did not look down as her hand drifted to its head and stroked it gently, almost as though it was her pet.
“Uh…” he began, mentally cursing the lack of eloquence. She turned with a smile and he started when he saw that her eyes were of the exact shade as the wolf’s.
“Hello Percival,” he voice was melodious, and flowed like water into his ears. He did not question how she knew his name, it was clear to him that she must know everything. Sorceress his brain identified, but the word no longer held any fear for him because there was nothing ugly or evil about this place. Even the wolf now seemed friendly and gentle. “Would you like something to drink?” She lifted a hand to a goblet that stood in front of her, and he could see that the thing she had been looking at before he disturbed her was a basin of water.
“Thank you,” he said. She lifted the goblet and scooped out a cup of water before offering it to him. He lifted it to his lips; his eyes still glued to hers and took a sip. It tasted sweeter than any water he had ever tasted before. Far more palatable than the swill they kept in the inn.
“You’re welcome,” He blinked as, for a second the moonlight hit her vivid blue eyes and the warmth seemed to leave them, making them appear as cold as ice shards, but the strange effect disappeared immediately.
“You have a hard life, Percival.” She said, and he could feel that she sympathised with him. She knew how his back ached from carrying the wood, and how his knees were bruised from lighting fires and how tired he was all the time. He nodded and stepped closer to her, drawn forwards.
She lifted a hand and touched his face gently, her touch was cold, no doubt from the weather and being forced to live out there in secret.
“I’d like to make your life better, Percival,” she smiled and he found himself smiling with her. “I think we could make each other’s lives better… don’t you?”
He did not know what she was talking about, but he nodded in agreement anyway.
“Good…” she paused and trailed her fingers in the water. Although there was frost forming on the ground, and the air from their mouths formed clouds of steam, the water seemed unaffected by the temperature. No ice was forming on its surface, and it rippled gently as she dipped her fingers into it. “I believe you have met Prince Arthur.”
He nodded with a scowl. There was no reason for her to bring up the prattish Prince, he had no place there, where everything was peaceful and pleasant. She smiled, and her hand came back to his cheek.
“I see you feel, as I do, that he is not suited to the position which he holds,” Percival nodded, bleakly. “A prince should be able to understand the common people, not eager to distance himself from them. He should be regal, not arrogant. He should be willing to do anything that is for the good of his people. He should know what it is to be hungry and tired and over worked, so he can better understand those people. He should not look down on them, but up to them as the people who make his kingdom what it is.” Her voice was a low lilting whisper now, and her eyes still held his fixedly. He wondered if sorceresses needed to blink, because as far as he could tell, she had not since she had first looked at him.
“I can help you show Prince Arthur what it really is to be a Prince… if you help me out with a small problem I have in the court of Camelot.”
“Anything,” he said, without thinking. She smiled, her grin reminding him of the wolf that sat by her side.
“Good boy… there is someone in Camelot that I would very much like to talk to. I will give you his name later, when we have completed the first part of our deal.” Her hand fell down between them and grasped hold of his, tugging it slowly to hang over the water. “So, Percival - how would you like to be a Prince?” He blinked in confusion. “All I need is a drop of your blood… she lifted a pin he had not noticed before from her other side and quickly jabbed it into his palm. He did not even flinch from the pain as a large drop of blood welled up. She twisted his wrist over so that it fell into the water, making smoke like patterns in the basin.
He watched, mesmerised as the blood and water mingled and she dropped a short blond hair into the mix as well, muttering what sounded like nonsense under her breath. Her hand dropped his, and then held rigidly over the basin, her fingers splayed as wide as they could.
Percival stared down at the tiny hole in his palm and marvelled as his hand seemed to grow and change in front of him. His fingers elongated slightly and there was a dusting of light hair that spread, across its back. There was a small scar that blossomed on the ball of his thumb and the calluses he had earned scrubbing boots and chopping wood were replaced by others similar to those he had seen on old soldiers that drifted through the village every now and then.
“What happened?” he asked and his hand-that-was-not-his-hand went to his throat as his voice came out lower and more precise than it ever had before. His tongue licked across teeth that were not his teeth, making the shape of his mouth taste wrong.
“I made you a Prince,” she told him, her blue eyes smiling over at him as he patted himself down, feeling new muscles with new fingers. “Now, I think it’s probably time you got to Camelot, don’t you… Prince Arthur.”
He took a step closer and looked down into the still surface of the water in the basin and saw a face that was not his face staring back at him. Blond hair fell over his forehead, where wavy red hair had hung before and he watched as the face stared back at him with the astonishment he was feeling. He looked like an exact replica of the man who had forced him off the road the day before.
He smiled to himself, drawing Arthur’s body up to its full height and feeling the easy strength in all his muscles.
“Thank you,” he said. The woman smiled serenely, looking him up and down.
“You’re welcome, just remember - I will be wanting your help in return.” He nodded.
“And you will get it.”
***
On to Chapter 2
-
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: G-PG for eventual light romance
Word Count: This part - 4740
Pairing/Characters: Ensemble, eventual Merlin/Arthur, plus male OC sort of (he's from the original legends but hasn't turned up in the show... yet)
Disclaimer: The characters and concept of Merlin do not belong to me. I merely kidnap them and play with them sometimes.
Warnings: Uhm... I twisted Arthurian legend for my own nefarious purposes.
Spoilers: Up to The Gates of Avalon I think, whatever number that was. I can't remember
Author’s Note: This was originally written for merlin_the_elf but it grew a life of its own and, despite a supreme beta job by wrennette, I didn't have it edited in time. It was completed before the finale however, and most of it was done before the last three episodes. The finale did make it AU, though, to my displeasure.
For those of you who know Arthurian legend or who have at least read the works of Chretien de Troyes, I apologise in advance for the corruption of his story. I thought that Percival would work best for this role, and I'm rubbish at thinking of names.
Also - the title is rubbish because I couldn't really think of one. bah, humbug. I got a plot but no title. I suppose this is to balance out all those times I got a title and no plot.
Summary: After an incident on a routine patrol Arthur gets into trouble that he wasn't expecting.
The villages surrounding Camelot were practically identical to the less discerning eye. Once you had ridden through one, you had ridden through them all. Sadly, however, that was not considered a good enough excuse for cutting short your patrol duties - even if you were crown prince.
It was freezing cold and a bitter wind was blowing from the east as Arthur led his party of knights to the fifth village of the day. His hands felt as though they were frozen to his reins and the chain links of his armour felt like icicles on his skin, even through the padding. The first frost of the year had crept up a few weeks ago and, ever since then, the weather had been getting more and more dreary. He loved his country, but sometimes he did wish that the winters were not so bitterly cruel.
He resisted the urge to release the reins and breathe hot air into his palms as the knight beside him did. There could be no weakness in a leader, not even the weather could cause him to pause. So his hands remained where they were and he hoped, idly, that it would not take him too long to break them away from the leather when they finally returned to Camelot. He flexed his fingers cautiously, ignoring the dull ache. The tingling sensation dissipated slightly and he allowed himself a mental sigh of relief. They should be fine as long as they got back to the castle before nightfall.
A wolf howled from a hillside across the valley, causing one of the villagers on the track ahead of them to look up in alarm and hurry onwards. The colder the weather the more likely it was that the wolves would venture down from the hills looking for food. Despite the chilling noise, Arthur and his knights kept their horses at a steady stride.
Like all such villages, it was little more than a collection of huts and slightly larger buildings clutched around a well in the middle. Unlike the other villages, the well sat next to a building which claimed, by its crudely painted sign, to be an inn. Arthur had seen more accommodating looking places in the gutters of Camelot, but he refrained from comment. It was not like he would have to stay there and anyone who did was probably be beyond caring anyway.
As they proceeded along the single street the people parted before them, small children staring in awe, adults bowing their heads deferentially. The patrols themselves were common enough, particularly in the winter when living became more difficult. But to be visited by royalty was another matter entirely.
Arthur nodded politely in acknowledgement of the most richly dressed man there, correctly identifying him as the head of the community. The man bowed low to the ground with an unctuous ‘sire’. His sycophantic actions held no interest or pleasure for the young prince though and Arthur swiftly glanced away in distaste. If the man had kept his address merely functional, he would have probably paid more attention to the place, but grovelling - while a common side effect of being in his presence - was more irritating than anything else.
The short passage through the village gave little else of note. There were houses; there were people; there was livestock. A group of pigs were herded inexpertly out of his way as they were leaving, and their company was forced to halt for a couple of minutes while an embarrassed farmer hurried them off.
All in all it was very routine: nothing out of the ordinary happened, no one drew attention to themselves. Nothing strange happened at all until they were out the other side, and a good five minutes ride away.
A young man, who could have been no older than Arthur himself, was wandering back to the village, his arms full with a load of fire wood. He looked just like any other country villager - dirty, unkempt and a little stupid. Arthur barely gave him another thought, just kept on riding.
Except the damn fool didn’t get out of the way: he just carried on walking forwards, in the middle of the track, calmly and unconcerned about the couple of tons of horse and rider bearing down on him, let alone the swords hanging from their belts.
Arthur didn’t stop… he couldn’t stop, not for a peasant. It was unheard of and impossible. They were supposed to get out of his way - that was how it worked. They jumped to the side and bowed while he continued onwards. Pigs were an annoyance, it was true, but that was hardly the poor man’s fault. This however, was a blatant disregard of protocol. He wondered for a moment whether the young man was related to Merlin: something about the way he ignored him completely was reminiscent of his manservant.
The soldier riding next to him was beginning to fidget, looking nervously between Arthur and the approaching idiot. He was clearly foreseeing just how bad this situation could get. There was no way Arthur would pause, no one would expect him to, but the boy was still coming. He had noticed them. He was looking right at Arthur and he still walked towards them, right down the middle of the road.
Arthur drew in a deep breath, gritting his teeth, before glaring down the other young man. The fool was brave, that much was certain. He held Arthur’s gaze look for look, his back was ramrod straight despite his heavy load and the look on his face, under the smears of dirt, was every bit as though he were the Prince and Arthur the wayward peasant. Arthur smirked slightly at that. It was rare that anyone managed to earn his respect with a mere look, but there was a quality to the young man that was familiar and he was not sure that it was still Merlin he was thinking about.
He held up a hand to his men, signalling them to stop and, barely a foot from the young man, they all halted. But he did not move them out of the road. It was more of a compromise than his men had expected and some of the horses pawed at the ground impatiently.
“I need to get to the village,” the young man said bluntly, still staring at Arthur.
“And we need to get past,” Arthur replied, signalling to the soldiers that they should remain where they were despite their disbelieving looks.
“Why should I get out of the way?” The boy asked petulantly. “This is just as much my road as it is yours. You don’t scare me.” Arthur smirked slightly, amused by the words and the peasant’s self-confidence.
“Really?”
“Really,” he tilted his chin up stubbornly as he spoke. Arthur could hear the soldier next to him mutter oaths under his breath, and he was well aware that most of the men with him were staring at him rather than the boy, wondering what he would do.
“What’s your name?” he asked. The tension in the air was palpable, and he knew that the soldiers thought that the boy’s life was hanging in the balance. They didn’t know that Arthur was equally as amused by the encounter as insulted at the moment. Laughing would not be terribly regal though, so he suppressed the urge, channelling it into one of his best glares.
“Percival.” He said his name with pride, clearly it meant a lot to him.
“Aren’t you interested in who I am?” Arthur continued. Percival just shrugged nonchalantly.
“Should I be?”
“That depends on how much you value your freedom.” Arthur said, sitting up straighter in his saddle. He had been riding for so long today that the desire to slouch had been growing constantly, but he now adjusted himself to a more regal bearing. His back protested slightly as he dragged it upright, and the cold was biting into his fingers still. Novelty or not, this meeting had better not go on much longer. His name should clear up the problem though.
“My name is Arthur Pendragon,” he said, regarding the peasant with the look he usually reserved for the servants who cleaned out the garderobes.
“Who’s that then?” Arthur could feel his patience beginning to wear thin. It was freezing cold, he wanted to get back to Camelot and the castle so he could sit in front of the fire in his chambers and thaw out while drinking an inadvisable amount of ale and telling Merlin how much of an idiot he was. Unlike this witless boy, his manservant had a way of answering back that amused rather than angered Arthur, he wondered how he could have ever thought that they were anything alike.
“Son of Uther Pendragon…” he prompted. The boy - Percival - still looked at him with a clueless blank stare. “King Uther Pendragon.” Finally, finally, there was dawning comprehension on the boys face. But rather than dodging out of the way and bowing his apologies for his ignorance and insolence, his chin stuck out further and he set his jaw. The breeze from the East blew harder, making Arthur’s ears ache and echo and his tolerance for imbeciles was at breaking point. “So actually this road does belong to me, and I suggest you get out of my way before I have my men arrest you and throw you into the castle jail.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong…” Percival protested, but his eyes flickered away and Arthur could see that he knew he had lost this argument.
“It’s a very cold jail cell,” Arthur told him, conveniently neglecting to mention that he knew from personal experience. He could only imagine how hellish it would be in the current weather.
Reluctantly, Percival shuffled off the road. He did not speak any further, but there were oaths in his eyes and that, at least, Arthur was used to. Most people in Camelot had wanted to kill him at some point, and most people in the outside world still did. Morgana always teased him that it was his winning personality and charm; his father just called it a side effect of being royal that he would have to get used to, so he had.
He nudged his horse into movement, urging it out a little faster than necessary because he was damned if he was not going to put on a show for the brat, and if the fool happened to get a little dirt kicked up at him what would that matter? It would be in good company.
***
Back in Camelot everything was just as he had left it. The stable boy, as he hurried to take care of his horse first, avoided his eye contact and struggled to remain as unnoticeable as possible whilst still being useful. He barely came up to Arthur’s elbow and the Prince remembered to give him a nod of thanks, which made him flush with pleasure, as he led the beast away.
Now off the horse, the cold seemed even deeper, cutting into his legs as well. He had not noticed just how much heat his mount was giving off until it was removed and he was standing in icy cold metal in the middle of a building that smelt of sweat and horse and dung.
Merlin was late, as usual. The boy arrived huffing and out of breath to help him out of the armour.
“This is freezing,” his manservant hissed as he detached the shoulder plates.
“Really?” the Prince asked, his voice laden with sarcasm. “I hadn’t noticed.” Merlin did not answer him, just shot a half-smile in his direction with a shrug that told him that his humour and bad-temper was noticed and appreciated.
“So, how was the patrol?” Merlin asked.
“Same as every other,” Arthur responded with a shrug as Merlin undid the buckles of his neckguard.
“That interesting?” Arthur had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being laughed at. He shot Merlin a hard glance, but there was nothing on the other man’s face other than concentration as he tried to ease the leather straps through.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. Merlin looked up, all innocence, and shrugged. Arthur gave up, turning away again and trying to maintain his look of disinterest as he tensed against his body’s endeavours to shudder and shiver with the cold that was soaking through into his bones. “Get on with it, won’t you.” He bit out, trying to sound exasperated at his manservant’s slowness rather than affected by the cold. Merlin didn’t say anything, but from then on his fingers moved faster and it was less than a minute before the Prince was out of the cold metal and, without him even having to ask, his warmest coat was held out and he gratefully stepped into it.
He balled his hands into fists to keep them as far into the sleeves as possible without seeming uncontrolled.
“Your father wishes to see you…” another servant told him as he walked out of the stable area, Merlin walking his usual pace behind. He was unsurprised, it was usual for the King to receive updates immediately after a patrol, that didn’t mean he wasn’t cursing the fact that he could not retire to his room and his fire immediately.
“I’ll see you in my chambers afterwards,” he told Merlin firmly before stalking off to give his report.
***
Uther had found his report lacking. After over half an hour of interrogation, Arthur had found that all the villages blended into one another. The one which seemed to be suffering from a poor harvest - was that the second or the third? - and he had no idea which village had complained of wolves getting at their livestock. But he nodded along to his father’s comments and absentmindedly rubbed his hands together until Uther looked at them, unimpressed. He had stilled them immediately and concentrated all his efforts on what his father was saying.
As soon as he was permitted, he left the room, heading as fast as he reasonably could for his bedroom. Running was below the dignity of a Prince, so he maintained a steady stride, cursing under his breath. Several servants hurried out of his way, knowing from experience that this was not a good time to get in his way.
He opened the door to his chambers and was hit with a longed for wall of warmth. Merlin was sitting, unconcerned, at the table, eating a hunk of bread from what looked like an entire banquet spread out before him. The heat came from the fire dancing merrily in the hearth and Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, ignoring the smug smile that spread across Merlin’s face.
“Are you eating my food?” he asked. Merlin shook his head, indicating a small plate in front of him.
“No, sire. I’m eating my food.” He nodded towards the rest of the table. “That’s yours.” He looked at it idly. “I told the chefs you might be hungry and they seemed to take that as an invitation to make as much as they possibly could…” Arthur nodded and grabbed the goblet from the table as he made his way to the seat in front of the fire, aware suddenly that his feet were practically ice blocks.
“I wouldn’t advise you to eat too much of it though,” Merlin said, with the curious lilt to his voice which meant he was about to attempt to be funny. “You do want to fit into your armour.”
Arthur ignored him for a moment, sinking into the chair and stretching out his feet towards the flames. He sighed deeply and allowed his shoulders to relax.
“Was the patrol really that dull?” Merlin asked suddenly. Arthur heard the scrape of his boots against the floor as he crossed over to him and plonked a plate of meat and bread down on the arm of the chair.
“You know how it is…” Arthur said with feeling, grabbing a piece of cold meat with his hands, not even thinking of standing on ceremony. “There’s not exactly a lot of variation. It all looks the same.”
“No it doesn’t…” Merlin commented, sitting down on the floor, cross-legged. Arthur risked a glance at him and saw that his eyes were fixed on the fire, reflecting the twisting orange light.
“Trees, hills, fields, broken by the occasional cluster of malformed huts…” he described, “how is that not all the same.” Merlin turned to look at him incredulously.
“It’s all different,” he said. “No two places are the same, and no one place is ever the same again. It all changes.” Arthur looked thoughtful, his eyebrows drawing together. “It’s your country, isn’t it? Or it will be one day - surely that should be enough reason to find it interesting, even if you do find the scenery repetitive.”
Arthur had no reply for that and the pair of them ate in silence for a moment.
After a few more minutes of silence, Merlin stood up.
“Gaius asked if I could help him with some deliveries this evening,” he said. Typically for their relationship it was both a request for permission and not a request for permission. Arthur nodded, distracted.
“Fine,” he agreed, although he knew that, even had he demanded that Merlin stay, the other young man would have found a way to escape. “But be back here early tomorrow morning. I need to talk to you about what is going to happen with the feast tomorrow night.” Merlin bowed slightly - not quite as low as he should, but it was more than enough for the pair of them and hurried away, leaving Arthur to melt by the fire.
***
The wolves howled from beyond the hill as Percival walked out into the forest again. The owner of the local inn, his master, had sent him out to the forest again in search of fire wood, although he had only gathered some the day before. The man had been a thorn in his side since he had first found work there. Percival was the general dogsbody and gofer of the inn, running around to do odd jobs for anybody at all no matter who they were.
He glared at the trees above him with feeling. There had been enough firewood in the last batch to last three days at least, but here he was again. Do this Percival, do that Percival, why don’t you just die in a hole Percival. He threw one of the logs he had already gathered hard at a tree ahead of him. It missed and flew past its target. He followed its path with his eyes until it thudded to the ground just in front of a dark four-legged shape.
His breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of the wolf looking at him. It was not scared by his presence, but instead stared at him with haughty disdain - almost like the Prince who had forced him off the road earlier.
He gulped nervously, trying to remember what he had been told about the wolves in the forest. Children’s tales of men going missing flashed to his mind, only to have their bloody bones found days later. The howl going up in the night and a wandering child found absent in the morning. Images of throats ripped out and claws ripping at chests forced him to take a step backwards.
They only took livestock, he reminded himself, unless the winter was particularly harsh, they would not dare to go for human prey.
Somehow, in the cold of the forest, with the sun almost setting and a wolf staring fixedly at him from mere yards away, the reassurances did not seem so comforting.
He looked into its eyes, and noticed, to his dismay, that they were not the usual shade of amber. They were a clear, brilliant blue. He held up a hand to make the sign against enchantment and the wolf’s mouth spread into a grin, almost as though it could read his mind.
The eyes bit into him, as though they could see right through him. He looked around, hoping for some sort of weapon, or maybe some company, but there was nothing. He drew himself up instead, and hefted the largest of the logs in his hands, discarding the others and steadied himself on his feet, waiting for the wolf to pounce.
The attack never came. The wolf stared at him again for another few moments before turning and heading deeper into the forest. Without understanding quite how, Percival knew he was meant to follow. Despite his fear, he did not even give it a second thought before he did so, leaving the firewood strewn across the undergrowth as he pursued.
He was not sure how long he followed the animal, but the sun had long set by the time they arrived at a clearing near the mouth of a cave, giving way to deep blue sky and the eerie silver of moonlight.
A woman stood in front of the cave-mouth, her back to him. Even from the back of her head, he could tell that she was beautiful. Her hair, long and dark, hung down her back, parts of it braided together intricately. Her figure was slender and she was dressed in rich cloth: a noble woman no doubt, although the hem of her robes hung in rags. The wolf went up to her calmly and nudged its head against her leg. She did not look down as her hand drifted to its head and stroked it gently, almost as though it was her pet.
“Uh…” he began, mentally cursing the lack of eloquence. She turned with a smile and he started when he saw that her eyes were of the exact shade as the wolf’s.
“Hello Percival,” he voice was melodious, and flowed like water into his ears. He did not question how she knew his name, it was clear to him that she must know everything. Sorceress his brain identified, but the word no longer held any fear for him because there was nothing ugly or evil about this place. Even the wolf now seemed friendly and gentle. “Would you like something to drink?” She lifted a hand to a goblet that stood in front of her, and he could see that the thing she had been looking at before he disturbed her was a basin of water.
“Thank you,” he said. She lifted the goblet and scooped out a cup of water before offering it to him. He lifted it to his lips; his eyes still glued to hers and took a sip. It tasted sweeter than any water he had ever tasted before. Far more palatable than the swill they kept in the inn.
“You’re welcome,” He blinked as, for a second the moonlight hit her vivid blue eyes and the warmth seemed to leave them, making them appear as cold as ice shards, but the strange effect disappeared immediately.
“You have a hard life, Percival.” She said, and he could feel that she sympathised with him. She knew how his back ached from carrying the wood, and how his knees were bruised from lighting fires and how tired he was all the time. He nodded and stepped closer to her, drawn forwards.
She lifted a hand and touched his face gently, her touch was cold, no doubt from the weather and being forced to live out there in secret.
“I’d like to make your life better, Percival,” she smiled and he found himself smiling with her. “I think we could make each other’s lives better… don’t you?”
He did not know what she was talking about, but he nodded in agreement anyway.
“Good…” she paused and trailed her fingers in the water. Although there was frost forming on the ground, and the air from their mouths formed clouds of steam, the water seemed unaffected by the temperature. No ice was forming on its surface, and it rippled gently as she dipped her fingers into it. “I believe you have met Prince Arthur.”
He nodded with a scowl. There was no reason for her to bring up the prattish Prince, he had no place there, where everything was peaceful and pleasant. She smiled, and her hand came back to his cheek.
“I see you feel, as I do, that he is not suited to the position which he holds,” Percival nodded, bleakly. “A prince should be able to understand the common people, not eager to distance himself from them. He should be regal, not arrogant. He should be willing to do anything that is for the good of his people. He should know what it is to be hungry and tired and over worked, so he can better understand those people. He should not look down on them, but up to them as the people who make his kingdom what it is.” Her voice was a low lilting whisper now, and her eyes still held his fixedly. He wondered if sorceresses needed to blink, because as far as he could tell, she had not since she had first looked at him.
“I can help you show Prince Arthur what it really is to be a Prince… if you help me out with a small problem I have in the court of Camelot.”
“Anything,” he said, without thinking. She smiled, her grin reminding him of the wolf that sat by her side.
“Good boy… there is someone in Camelot that I would very much like to talk to. I will give you his name later, when we have completed the first part of our deal.” Her hand fell down between them and grasped hold of his, tugging it slowly to hang over the water. “So, Percival - how would you like to be a Prince?” He blinked in confusion. “All I need is a drop of your blood… she lifted a pin he had not noticed before from her other side and quickly jabbed it into his palm. He did not even flinch from the pain as a large drop of blood welled up. She twisted his wrist over so that it fell into the water, making smoke like patterns in the basin.
He watched, mesmerised as the blood and water mingled and she dropped a short blond hair into the mix as well, muttering what sounded like nonsense under her breath. Her hand dropped his, and then held rigidly over the basin, her fingers splayed as wide as they could.
Percival stared down at the tiny hole in his palm and marvelled as his hand seemed to grow and change in front of him. His fingers elongated slightly and there was a dusting of light hair that spread, across its back. There was a small scar that blossomed on the ball of his thumb and the calluses he had earned scrubbing boots and chopping wood were replaced by others similar to those he had seen on old soldiers that drifted through the village every now and then.
“What happened?” he asked and his hand-that-was-not-his-hand went to his throat as his voice came out lower and more precise than it ever had before. His tongue licked across teeth that were not his teeth, making the shape of his mouth taste wrong.
“I made you a Prince,” she told him, her blue eyes smiling over at him as he patted himself down, feeling new muscles with new fingers. “Now, I think it’s probably time you got to Camelot, don’t you… Prince Arthur.”
He took a step closer and looked down into the still surface of the water in the basin and saw a face that was not his face staring back at him. Blond hair fell over his forehead, where wavy red hair had hung before and he watched as the face stared back at him with the astonishment he was feeling. He looked like an exact replica of the man who had forced him off the road the day before.
He smiled to himself, drawing Arthur’s body up to its full height and feeling the easy strength in all his muscles.
“Thank you,” he said. The woman smiled serenely, looking him up and down.
“You’re welcome, just remember - I will be wanting your help in return.” He nodded.
“And you will get it.”
***
On to Chapter 2
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