The Sorcerer and the Champion - Heroes - Mohinder/Sylar
Title: The Sorcerer and the Champion
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 3831
Rating: PG-13
A/N: This is for takhallus's prompt for the ABC meme, "knight". It grew rather beyond my control! Also using for a_to_z_prompts. Totally AU: this is what happens to me when I watch too much Merlin!
Summary: In return for peace within the kingdom, the Petrellis made a deal to sacrifice a champion once every one hundred years. Unfortunately for Mohinder, he's up next.
Mohinder stared out at the rain-slick courtyard. Water droplets bounced from the cobblestones as they thrashed down and the sky was so dark and heavy with clouds that even the full moon was obscured. No creature but one that had lost its mind would venture out into this darkness, but Mohinder couldn't fight the unease that rested heavily upon his shoulders as he looked out upon the night: something wasn't right, he could feel that in his bones and in his very soul.
"Mohinder," he heard Peter say behind him, and it took him no time at all to turn and bow to his prince. The gesture received little more than a shy and lop-sized smile. "It's fine. It's just me."
He was without his brother in tow for once, it would appear. Strange: Mohinder very rarely saw Peter unless he was hiding in his older brother's shadow. Such loyalty between regal siblings was a rare thing to see, but Peter seemed to have no aspirations for the throne. His affection for his brother appeared real as far as Mohinder could see.
"Is everything okay? You seem tense," Peter observed, as he moved to sit against the thick, heavy-set table in the centre of Mohinder's chambers. It took his weight without strain: Mohinder thought that it would take the strength of God himself to make such a piece of furniture falter. "Worried about the tournament?"
"Far from it," Mohinder answered with warm confidence. He had been the champion of the kingdom's annual tournament since he was first knighted years ago: for him, there was little that came more naturally than fighting with a sword in his hand. He'd been taught by his father since childhood. No, he could say with certainty that the upcoming tournament had nothing to do with the uncomfortable tension that had settled within his belly. "I can't sleep, my lord. That's all."
"It's the storm," Peter said knowledgably. "I can't sleep either."
It wasn't the storm, but Mohinder didn't care to contradict royalty. Peter may not have enforced his status too often, but that did not mean that Mohinder did not respect it. He knew his place as a knight and his deference was not faked. The Petrellis were a wise ruling family, albeit brutal in their administering of justice. He would be reluctant to see them replaced by any of the other families jostling for power at court - and for that reason Mohinder could always be counted upon to watch his lord's back.
"I'll leave," Peter said. He glanced haphazardly at Mohinder's unmade bed and offered another warm but shy smile. "Try and get some rest. You'll need your strength, right?"
"Undoubtedly," Mohinder agreed; he'd heard that the majority of the challengers for his title as the kingdom's champion were weak, fresh recruits, but there were some serious contenders as well. With a smile he bade Peter good night and retreated to his bed once the door of his chambers closed firmly behind the prince. Though he knew that the sleep would do him a world of good, he remained awake and staring at the ceiling above him for a long time before he could slip into a fitful sleep.
*
The storm had passed by the time the sun rose, but the ground was still soft and muddy beneath the feet of the knights. Mohinder's armour felt heavy and hot, and his breath pushed against the front of his helmet as he stared out from behind his visor, his sword gripped in his hand as he fought his opponent. Swords clashed: he felt the impact all along the bones of his arm but that couldn't be allowed to stop him. Nothing could.
With a grunt he used his strength to push the other knight back, a movement that caused the older knight to lose his footing and stumble backwards. Mohinder didn't give him the opportunity to recover, closing in with thrashing blows that only stopped when the knight fell to his knees, helmet lost in the struggle and Mohinder's sword against his neck.
His opponent yielded and Mohinder stepped backwards, flipping his visor back as he heard the applause of the crowd: Ted was the fifth man he'd defeated that day. His muscles ached and he knew that his body would only hurt more before the tournament ended, but as he soaked in the cheering sounds of the spectators he didn't mind. In the royal box he could see the Petrellis applauding, with several of the other nobles flanking them.
Three days later, the tournament was over and Mohinder had managed to retain his title for another year. The king's hand patted proudly against his shoulder and King Arthur said, "Well done, son," warmly. He'd lived in the kingdom at the royal family's side for years now, but the only time that Arthur ever talked to him directly was at times like this: in the heat of victory with the audience in the stalls around them. "Your champion," Arthur said to the crowd, his voice booming enough to be heard over the cheering masses: the noise grew louder.
On the ground behind them was the other finalist, being tended to by the physician: Mohinder didn't think that he'd managed to hurt him too badly, though the young man would do well to rest and allow his injuries time to heal. Mohinder's muscles ached and he had cuts and bruises of his own to tend to: no one came out of a sword fight unscathed, not even him.
"There will be a feast and a ball tonight," Arthur told him as they stood side-by-side, basking in the good cheer all around them. "You will be expected to attend and wear your colours. We'll see you there."
"Yes, your majesty," Mohinder responded stiffly: there had never been any doubt that he would attend, but the instruction from the king made him dread the prospect. His king ought to inspire loyalty, but Mohinder found that his loyalties lay with the other members of the family. Nathan would be a great king one day; he would be all that Arthur had failed to be.
He spent the rest of his day being congratulated repeatedly and he was glad when he made it back to his chambers. His servant had already prepared a bath for him before the fire with screens put up for his privacy, and Mohinder sighed in pleasure as he caught sight of it. The opportunity to soak the blood, sweat and dirt from his skin was one to be relished. The heated water helped to caress the stiffness from his muscles in a way that not even the most skilled hands would have been able to do, but he was unable to remain in the clasp of his bath for as long as he would have liked: there was a ball that he had to make an appearance at and he had to make sure that he was ready in time. There was no doubt that the king would be highly unimpressed if Mohinder managed to be late even to his own celebrations.
In red robes he made his way to the great hall that evening. There were long tables flanking the sides of the room, heavy with rich food and strong drink. The room was busy and the air was hot and stale. From the looks of things, every noble from this kingdom and a few others had managed to attend. As large and regal as the castle's banquet hall was, even it struggled to accommodate the huge amount of people that had amassed for the celebrations. He struggled to quirk a smile as he felt a hand clap on his back and he heard another congratulations be offered to him. It was a wonder he'd ever been knighted at all and he was reasonably certain that he would not have been at all if it weren't for his father's reputation and Peter's charitable words in his favour: he was hardly an expert at networking, personally.
He grabbed a goblet of wine as soon as he was able, clutching the gold tightly in his hand. His clothes felt itchy, the red material rarely worn as it had to be hidden at the back of his closet and only drawn out on such special occasions. Without his sword hanging by his side he felt oddly naked, but he knew that to bring a sword to such an event would be madness, especially once everyone had drank enough that tempers began to rise.
"Enjoying the festivities?" Prince Peter asked once he'd been there for an hour, slouching beside him at the wall as Mohinder tried his hardest to pretend that he wasn't there.
"I'm having the time of my life," Mohinder answered, completely deadpan. "Can't you tell?"
"Yeah, you look thrilled," Peter responded. He smiled, something a little like a smirk, and it was when he looked like that that Mohinder thought that he could very plainly see the Petrelli in him. "And we've still got my father's speech to look forward to."
"I can hardly wait," Mohinder murmured, with the twitch of a wry smile he couldn't quite manage to maintain.
The two friends stood beside each other, avoiding socialising for as long as they could, but even they couldn't ignore the commotion as the heavy set doors of the hall burst open with a crashing sound as the wood hit against the stone walls of the castle. A cold gust of wind hurried inside to destroy the cold and Mohinder couldn't help but shiver from the sudden drop in temperature.
The sight of the stranger standing in the doorway made him long to have his sword in his grasp once more. With a murderous look in his eyes and a dark cloak masking his body, there was no doubting what this man was: a sorcerer of the blackest stock. The sudden silence in the hall said that he was not the only one to know this. Fear crackled through the air like electricity.
Any fear from the king was plastered over firmly as he stepped forward to face the intruder, his cold-faced queen watching from behind them. "Sylar," he said, his booming voice disapproving and cold. "You know you're banned from my kingdom."
Sylar…
The name could cut through stone and as Mohinder heard it come from the king's mouth his mind flashed to all the stories he'd heard about the most dangerous man on the planet, someone with the power of a god in his hands and a vicious will to use it against those who angered him.
"I heard there was a celebration," Sylar said. His voice was nothing like Mohinder had expected: it didn't cackle and growl with each word. It sounded like the voice of an ordinary, mortal man. "I'd hate to miss out on something like this."
The torches flickered unhappily as he stepped further into the room as if they too wished to escape from the magician's presence. At their stations the guards shifted from side to side as they grasped their spears, but none made a move to attack and the king did not order them to attempt it. "It's been decades, witch. Why are you here now?" the queen asked, her voice ice-cold in a way that gave no indication of whether or not she was truly afraid of the powerful man who stood in her castle.
His dark eyes, almost black, settled upon her with a curling smirk. "I came to meet your new champion, Angela," he answered. "It's been one hundred years."
The muscle of her jaw clenched and when Mohinder shifted, ready to walk forward, Peter's hand grasped his arm to stop him.
"No," she answered, clipped out before her husband could respond.
Arthur looked at her with a hint of disapproval and Mohinder felt that perhaps taking on Angela was far more foolhardy than taking on Sylar. "Let him have him," Arthur urged, quiet and amused. "It's no loss to us."
"We had a deal," Sylar reminded the room, though Mohinder didn't know what he meant and he felt his heart spread up with the pulse of adrenaline like he felt when he was about to go out onto the battlefield. "Once you found your greatest warrior, he was mine; in return your kingdom remains safe. Are you going to back out now?"
The smile on the warlock's face almost challenged them to do so, yearning for a reason to unleash his wrath upon their people. Angela remained silent, sizing them up, but Mohinder pulled his arm free from Peter's grasp and strode forward. "I believe it's me you're looking for," he said, words filled with hostility despite his desire not to anger Sylar more than was strictly necessary.
On the way forward he took a spear from the passive hands of one of the guards. The wood was smooth and tough in his hands but even he knew that it was unlikely to be a strong enough force to take on sorcery. Looking over at him, Sylar's smile stayed upon his face, mocking and cruel. "You must be Sir Mohinder, am I right?"
Mohinder nodded his head. As he moved to pass the queen she nodded at her son: Nathan took hold of his arm with a much stronger grip than Peter had possessed.
"Tell me: did they let you know what your fate would be when you started to compete?" Sylar asked. "When you trained, did your fair king and queen tell you that your life would be forfeit?"
"I am not afraid to die for my king," Mohinder answered firmly, though he'd always envisioned his death to be placed upon the battlefield against the king's enemies: not like this. Not as a sacrifice or bargaining chip for a sorcerer.
"I didn't say anything about death, knight," Sylar said. "Your life is mine but I have not yet decided if I will end it. Come forward."
Nathan's hand tightened upon his arm but with a jerk Mohinder managed to free himself. All his life he'd trained to be a knight worthy of serving the royal family: he couldn't falter now. What use was prowess in a tournament if he hid from true danger?
He walked until he found himself right in front of Sylar, staring into eyes that spoke in amusement of pain and death: he didn't bow. He had no reason to do so.
Sylar's hand rose to brush along the side of his jaw and it took all the reserves of Mohinder's bravery not to flinch away from the gentle touch. The hand stayed there, soft as downy feathers against his skin, as Sylar's gaze slipped away from him to the royal family behind. "Beautiful, brave and pure of heart," he said. "You've found me a treasure, Angela."
"We won't let you take him, Sylar," Angela said. Mohinder had never previously thought that she'd had any great amount of affection for him; he imagined that her firm stance on this matter had more to do with the principle of standing up to the sorcerer's demands than any true concern for his well-being.
Sylar's hand fell from his face and he stepped backwards. "I won't take what's mine by force," he declared, "but remember your bargain, your highness. Unless I receive what you promised to me, this kingdom will end in ruins."
Wind roared through the hall, loud enough to drown out any further conversation and strong enough to knock over the tables with what food remained there. Mohinder stumbled backwards, the spear falling from his hand and clattering to the ground. Stinging, his eyes watered from the force of the wind and he could hear thunder rumbling and see the flash of lightning, a contained storm within a single room.
It stopped as abruptly as it had started: the room was a mess and several of the women had fallen over in their long, elaborate gowns, but the most vital difference to be noted was that the sorcerer had vanished.
"Search the castle," Nathan ordered the guards. "If you find him, kill him on sight." A ridiculous order if ever Mohinder had heard one, but he was not in a position to argue with the prince's demands. His mind buzzed with the rush of the encounter and what it could mean. "Everyone else should retire to their chambers for the night. Now."
Power and authority crackled through his voice and the people obeyed as if he were already a king barking orders. Mohinder wished to stay and question him but instead found Peter at his side, ready to come with him to his bedroom: they could talk there between themselves, and Mohinder knew that he was far more likely to receive honest answers from Peter than from the other royals.
*
Yet Peter had no answers to give him, only genuine confusion, and when Mohinder tried to leave his room the following day he found two guards positioned outside with orders not to allow him to leave. While he knew that he could outfight them and move freely through the castle if necessary, he smiled awkwardly and retreated back inside, a prisoner in his own home.
His hours were spent among his thoughts, mulling over the events from the celebration. In his mind's eye Sylar taunted him: his cruel smile, dark eyes and soft touch. With a sinking heart, Mohinder wondered if this was truly the fate that his father had envisioned for him when he'd pressured his son to follow in his footsteps. It hardly mattered now. His father had been dead for several years.
As he stood before the window on the second day of his imprisonment, in the castle's courtyard down below he could see peasants beginning to approach, masses of them in a long and winding line that led towards the castle's gates. With his hand on the windowsill he tried to establish what was going on out there, but it was all far too distant and confusing.
When Peter appeared to visit him, he gained awkward answers from the prince's lips. "They're, ah, they're here for help?" Peter answered when he asked. "There's been some problems in the kingdom."
"Problems?"
"Yeah. It's not anything you should worry about."
"It's to do with Sylar, isn't it?" He'd said that if he didn't receive what he'd asked for then the kingdom would suffer for it: Peter did not have to give Mohinder details of this suffering. He could imagine it himself, incurable illnesses and widespread starvation. It was all because of him, all because the royal family wouldn't hand him over.
He didn't wish to be passed as an offering to this sorcerer; the very thought of what fate might await him sent a chill through his bones, but when Peter wouldn't answer him to confirm that it was Sylar Mohinder knew that he couldn't allow himself to hide behind the king and queen. "Where do you think I ought to go?" he asked, looking out of the window. How did one track down a sorcerer? The guards and the other knights had so far had no success in their hunts for Sylar - but something told Mohinder that that would not be a problem for him. Sylar wanted him to find him.
"You can't go," Peter said. "You know you can't."
"It is my duty as a knight to protect the people of the kingdom." It was simply wrong to expect countless people to suffer in his place. He paced restlessly and knew that he had to do something - and soon. "You should leave, Peter," he advised quietly. He'd hate to have to injure his prince on the way out.
Peter squared his jaw but Mohinder looked away from him, staring out of the window at the distress in the courtyard. People were dying because of him, because of the queen, because of the king. As afraid as he might be, he knew that hiding was not an option.
It took too long for Peter to leave, but he did so eventually. The door closed with a click behind him and Mohinder was left with only his thoughts and the pounding of his heart. He couldn't put off what had to be done for much longer, and he took a deep breath and turned around, ready to do what had to be done.
When he turned, he immediately came face to face with the dark-eyed sorcerer he'd been about to go searching for. Sylar stood inside his bedroom. With his long black cloak he looked like a shadow sprung to life, a monster from folklore, a bogeyman.
"Sylar," Mohinder said. His voice wrapped around the name with all the viciousness he could summon. He wielded his rage like a weapon. "Is it you that is responsible for the suffering of our people?"
"No," Sylar answered, soft and reasonable. "Your king and queen reneged on their agreement with me. I was promised a champion."
"And I'm here," Mohinder urged. He wanted to be far from here, living in the memories of his childhood; he didn't want to face a monster. "I am here."
Sylar nodded his head in recognition and he looked past Mohinder to the courtyard outside. "If you agree to come with me then their suffering will end; the kingdom will be safe for one hundred more years."
"What happens then?"
"I'm immortal, Mohinder. While I can extend that gift to you temporarily, it won't last forever. I'll need a new champion." One hundred years in the monster's immortal company and then he would be replaced by another. Mohinder wondered who the last knight Sylar had taken had been; he wondered what had happened to that poor soul.
He should have felt disgust when Sylar reached for him, a gentle hand at the side of his face once more.
"Do you consent?" the warlock asked. "I can give you so much more than you could ever have in this world. Anything you desire." His thumb traced the line of Mohinder's cheekbone then curved to follow his jaw to his chin. "Everything you deserve. Say you'll come with me and it will be at your fingertips."
"I'll come," Mohinder whispered. It felt as if those two words cost him his very soul. He met Sylar's eyes. "For the sake of my king and country, I will come with you."
When Sylar smiled in response, it was a warmer smile than Mohinder had seen from him so far. He tried to imagine a century with this man but the time stretched out too far in front of him; it was impossible to imagine. The warlock's hand didn't move from his face and when Sylar bowed his head and their lips touched to finish the fragile deal Mohinder did not pull away. Sylar's kiss was soft but demanding, fuelled with the experience of eternity. Together they faded from the kingdom and from history, the sorcerer and his champion.
The kingdom would prosper for one final century more.
Pairing: Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: 3831
Rating: PG-13
A/N: This is for takhallus's prompt for the ABC meme, "knight". It grew rather beyond my control! Also using for a_to_z_prompts. Totally AU: this is what happens to me when I watch too much Merlin!
Summary: In return for peace within the kingdom, the Petrellis made a deal to sacrifice a champion once every one hundred years. Unfortunately for Mohinder, he's up next.
Mohinder stared out at the rain-slick courtyard. Water droplets bounced from the cobblestones as they thrashed down and the sky was so dark and heavy with clouds that even the full moon was obscured. No creature but one that had lost its mind would venture out into this darkness, but Mohinder couldn't fight the unease that rested heavily upon his shoulders as he looked out upon the night: something wasn't right, he could feel that in his bones and in his very soul.
"Mohinder," he heard Peter say behind him, and it took him no time at all to turn and bow to his prince. The gesture received little more than a shy and lop-sized smile. "It's fine. It's just me."
He was without his brother in tow for once, it would appear. Strange: Mohinder very rarely saw Peter unless he was hiding in his older brother's shadow. Such loyalty between regal siblings was a rare thing to see, but Peter seemed to have no aspirations for the throne. His affection for his brother appeared real as far as Mohinder could see.
"Is everything okay? You seem tense," Peter observed, as he moved to sit against the thick, heavy-set table in the centre of Mohinder's chambers. It took his weight without strain: Mohinder thought that it would take the strength of God himself to make such a piece of furniture falter. "Worried about the tournament?"
"Far from it," Mohinder answered with warm confidence. He had been the champion of the kingdom's annual tournament since he was first knighted years ago: for him, there was little that came more naturally than fighting with a sword in his hand. He'd been taught by his father since childhood. No, he could say with certainty that the upcoming tournament had nothing to do with the uncomfortable tension that had settled within his belly. "I can't sleep, my lord. That's all."
"It's the storm," Peter said knowledgably. "I can't sleep either."
It wasn't the storm, but Mohinder didn't care to contradict royalty. Peter may not have enforced his status too often, but that did not mean that Mohinder did not respect it. He knew his place as a knight and his deference was not faked. The Petrellis were a wise ruling family, albeit brutal in their administering of justice. He would be reluctant to see them replaced by any of the other families jostling for power at court - and for that reason Mohinder could always be counted upon to watch his lord's back.
"I'll leave," Peter said. He glanced haphazardly at Mohinder's unmade bed and offered another warm but shy smile. "Try and get some rest. You'll need your strength, right?"
"Undoubtedly," Mohinder agreed; he'd heard that the majority of the challengers for his title as the kingdom's champion were weak, fresh recruits, but there were some serious contenders as well. With a smile he bade Peter good night and retreated to his bed once the door of his chambers closed firmly behind the prince. Though he knew that the sleep would do him a world of good, he remained awake and staring at the ceiling above him for a long time before he could slip into a fitful sleep.
*
The storm had passed by the time the sun rose, but the ground was still soft and muddy beneath the feet of the knights. Mohinder's armour felt heavy and hot, and his breath pushed against the front of his helmet as he stared out from behind his visor, his sword gripped in his hand as he fought his opponent. Swords clashed: he felt the impact all along the bones of his arm but that couldn't be allowed to stop him. Nothing could.
With a grunt he used his strength to push the other knight back, a movement that caused the older knight to lose his footing and stumble backwards. Mohinder didn't give him the opportunity to recover, closing in with thrashing blows that only stopped when the knight fell to his knees, helmet lost in the struggle and Mohinder's sword against his neck.
His opponent yielded and Mohinder stepped backwards, flipping his visor back as he heard the applause of the crowd: Ted was the fifth man he'd defeated that day. His muscles ached and he knew that his body would only hurt more before the tournament ended, but as he soaked in the cheering sounds of the spectators he didn't mind. In the royal box he could see the Petrellis applauding, with several of the other nobles flanking them.
Three days later, the tournament was over and Mohinder had managed to retain his title for another year. The king's hand patted proudly against his shoulder and King Arthur said, "Well done, son," warmly. He'd lived in the kingdom at the royal family's side for years now, but the only time that Arthur ever talked to him directly was at times like this: in the heat of victory with the audience in the stalls around them. "Your champion," Arthur said to the crowd, his voice booming enough to be heard over the cheering masses: the noise grew louder.
On the ground behind them was the other finalist, being tended to by the physician: Mohinder didn't think that he'd managed to hurt him too badly, though the young man would do well to rest and allow his injuries time to heal. Mohinder's muscles ached and he had cuts and bruises of his own to tend to: no one came out of a sword fight unscathed, not even him.
"There will be a feast and a ball tonight," Arthur told him as they stood side-by-side, basking in the good cheer all around them. "You will be expected to attend and wear your colours. We'll see you there."
"Yes, your majesty," Mohinder responded stiffly: there had never been any doubt that he would attend, but the instruction from the king made him dread the prospect. His king ought to inspire loyalty, but Mohinder found that his loyalties lay with the other members of the family. Nathan would be a great king one day; he would be all that Arthur had failed to be.
He spent the rest of his day being congratulated repeatedly and he was glad when he made it back to his chambers. His servant had already prepared a bath for him before the fire with screens put up for his privacy, and Mohinder sighed in pleasure as he caught sight of it. The opportunity to soak the blood, sweat and dirt from his skin was one to be relished. The heated water helped to caress the stiffness from his muscles in a way that not even the most skilled hands would have been able to do, but he was unable to remain in the clasp of his bath for as long as he would have liked: there was a ball that he had to make an appearance at and he had to make sure that he was ready in time. There was no doubt that the king would be highly unimpressed if Mohinder managed to be late even to his own celebrations.
In red robes he made his way to the great hall that evening. There were long tables flanking the sides of the room, heavy with rich food and strong drink. The room was busy and the air was hot and stale. From the looks of things, every noble from this kingdom and a few others had managed to attend. As large and regal as the castle's banquet hall was, even it struggled to accommodate the huge amount of people that had amassed for the celebrations. He struggled to quirk a smile as he felt a hand clap on his back and he heard another congratulations be offered to him. It was a wonder he'd ever been knighted at all and he was reasonably certain that he would not have been at all if it weren't for his father's reputation and Peter's charitable words in his favour: he was hardly an expert at networking, personally.
He grabbed a goblet of wine as soon as he was able, clutching the gold tightly in his hand. His clothes felt itchy, the red material rarely worn as it had to be hidden at the back of his closet and only drawn out on such special occasions. Without his sword hanging by his side he felt oddly naked, but he knew that to bring a sword to such an event would be madness, especially once everyone had drank enough that tempers began to rise.
"Enjoying the festivities?" Prince Peter asked once he'd been there for an hour, slouching beside him at the wall as Mohinder tried his hardest to pretend that he wasn't there.
"I'm having the time of my life," Mohinder answered, completely deadpan. "Can't you tell?"
"Yeah, you look thrilled," Peter responded. He smiled, something a little like a smirk, and it was when he looked like that that Mohinder thought that he could very plainly see the Petrelli in him. "And we've still got my father's speech to look forward to."
"I can hardly wait," Mohinder murmured, with the twitch of a wry smile he couldn't quite manage to maintain.
The two friends stood beside each other, avoiding socialising for as long as they could, but even they couldn't ignore the commotion as the heavy set doors of the hall burst open with a crashing sound as the wood hit against the stone walls of the castle. A cold gust of wind hurried inside to destroy the cold and Mohinder couldn't help but shiver from the sudden drop in temperature.
The sight of the stranger standing in the doorway made him long to have his sword in his grasp once more. With a murderous look in his eyes and a dark cloak masking his body, there was no doubting what this man was: a sorcerer of the blackest stock. The sudden silence in the hall said that he was not the only one to know this. Fear crackled through the air like electricity.
Any fear from the king was plastered over firmly as he stepped forward to face the intruder, his cold-faced queen watching from behind them. "Sylar," he said, his booming voice disapproving and cold. "You know you're banned from my kingdom."
Sylar…
The name could cut through stone and as Mohinder heard it come from the king's mouth his mind flashed to all the stories he'd heard about the most dangerous man on the planet, someone with the power of a god in his hands and a vicious will to use it against those who angered him.
"I heard there was a celebration," Sylar said. His voice was nothing like Mohinder had expected: it didn't cackle and growl with each word. It sounded like the voice of an ordinary, mortal man. "I'd hate to miss out on something like this."
The torches flickered unhappily as he stepped further into the room as if they too wished to escape from the magician's presence. At their stations the guards shifted from side to side as they grasped their spears, but none made a move to attack and the king did not order them to attempt it. "It's been decades, witch. Why are you here now?" the queen asked, her voice ice-cold in a way that gave no indication of whether or not she was truly afraid of the powerful man who stood in her castle.
His dark eyes, almost black, settled upon her with a curling smirk. "I came to meet your new champion, Angela," he answered. "It's been one hundred years."
The muscle of her jaw clenched and when Mohinder shifted, ready to walk forward, Peter's hand grasped his arm to stop him.
"No," she answered, clipped out before her husband could respond.
Arthur looked at her with a hint of disapproval and Mohinder felt that perhaps taking on Angela was far more foolhardy than taking on Sylar. "Let him have him," Arthur urged, quiet and amused. "It's no loss to us."
"We had a deal," Sylar reminded the room, though Mohinder didn't know what he meant and he felt his heart spread up with the pulse of adrenaline like he felt when he was about to go out onto the battlefield. "Once you found your greatest warrior, he was mine; in return your kingdom remains safe. Are you going to back out now?"
The smile on the warlock's face almost challenged them to do so, yearning for a reason to unleash his wrath upon their people. Angela remained silent, sizing them up, but Mohinder pulled his arm free from Peter's grasp and strode forward. "I believe it's me you're looking for," he said, words filled with hostility despite his desire not to anger Sylar more than was strictly necessary.
On the way forward he took a spear from the passive hands of one of the guards. The wood was smooth and tough in his hands but even he knew that it was unlikely to be a strong enough force to take on sorcery. Looking over at him, Sylar's smile stayed upon his face, mocking and cruel. "You must be Sir Mohinder, am I right?"
Mohinder nodded his head. As he moved to pass the queen she nodded at her son: Nathan took hold of his arm with a much stronger grip than Peter had possessed.
"Tell me: did they let you know what your fate would be when you started to compete?" Sylar asked. "When you trained, did your fair king and queen tell you that your life would be forfeit?"
"I am not afraid to die for my king," Mohinder answered firmly, though he'd always envisioned his death to be placed upon the battlefield against the king's enemies: not like this. Not as a sacrifice or bargaining chip for a sorcerer.
"I didn't say anything about death, knight," Sylar said. "Your life is mine but I have not yet decided if I will end it. Come forward."
Nathan's hand tightened upon his arm but with a jerk Mohinder managed to free himself. All his life he'd trained to be a knight worthy of serving the royal family: he couldn't falter now. What use was prowess in a tournament if he hid from true danger?
He walked until he found himself right in front of Sylar, staring into eyes that spoke in amusement of pain and death: he didn't bow. He had no reason to do so.
Sylar's hand rose to brush along the side of his jaw and it took all the reserves of Mohinder's bravery not to flinch away from the gentle touch. The hand stayed there, soft as downy feathers against his skin, as Sylar's gaze slipped away from him to the royal family behind. "Beautiful, brave and pure of heart," he said. "You've found me a treasure, Angela."
"We won't let you take him, Sylar," Angela said. Mohinder had never previously thought that she'd had any great amount of affection for him; he imagined that her firm stance on this matter had more to do with the principle of standing up to the sorcerer's demands than any true concern for his well-being.
Sylar's hand fell from his face and he stepped backwards. "I won't take what's mine by force," he declared, "but remember your bargain, your highness. Unless I receive what you promised to me, this kingdom will end in ruins."
Wind roared through the hall, loud enough to drown out any further conversation and strong enough to knock over the tables with what food remained there. Mohinder stumbled backwards, the spear falling from his hand and clattering to the ground. Stinging, his eyes watered from the force of the wind and he could hear thunder rumbling and see the flash of lightning, a contained storm within a single room.
It stopped as abruptly as it had started: the room was a mess and several of the women had fallen over in their long, elaborate gowns, but the most vital difference to be noted was that the sorcerer had vanished.
"Search the castle," Nathan ordered the guards. "If you find him, kill him on sight." A ridiculous order if ever Mohinder had heard one, but he was not in a position to argue with the prince's demands. His mind buzzed with the rush of the encounter and what it could mean. "Everyone else should retire to their chambers for the night. Now."
Power and authority crackled through his voice and the people obeyed as if he were already a king barking orders. Mohinder wished to stay and question him but instead found Peter at his side, ready to come with him to his bedroom: they could talk there between themselves, and Mohinder knew that he was far more likely to receive honest answers from Peter than from the other royals.
*
Yet Peter had no answers to give him, only genuine confusion, and when Mohinder tried to leave his room the following day he found two guards positioned outside with orders not to allow him to leave. While he knew that he could outfight them and move freely through the castle if necessary, he smiled awkwardly and retreated back inside, a prisoner in his own home.
His hours were spent among his thoughts, mulling over the events from the celebration. In his mind's eye Sylar taunted him: his cruel smile, dark eyes and soft touch. With a sinking heart, Mohinder wondered if this was truly the fate that his father had envisioned for him when he'd pressured his son to follow in his footsteps. It hardly mattered now. His father had been dead for several years.
As he stood before the window on the second day of his imprisonment, in the castle's courtyard down below he could see peasants beginning to approach, masses of them in a long and winding line that led towards the castle's gates. With his hand on the windowsill he tried to establish what was going on out there, but it was all far too distant and confusing.
When Peter appeared to visit him, he gained awkward answers from the prince's lips. "They're, ah, they're here for help?" Peter answered when he asked. "There's been some problems in the kingdom."
"Problems?"
"Yeah. It's not anything you should worry about."
"It's to do with Sylar, isn't it?" He'd said that if he didn't receive what he'd asked for then the kingdom would suffer for it: Peter did not have to give Mohinder details of this suffering. He could imagine it himself, incurable illnesses and widespread starvation. It was all because of him, all because the royal family wouldn't hand him over.
He didn't wish to be passed as an offering to this sorcerer; the very thought of what fate might await him sent a chill through his bones, but when Peter wouldn't answer him to confirm that it was Sylar Mohinder knew that he couldn't allow himself to hide behind the king and queen. "Where do you think I ought to go?" he asked, looking out of the window. How did one track down a sorcerer? The guards and the other knights had so far had no success in their hunts for Sylar - but something told Mohinder that that would not be a problem for him. Sylar wanted him to find him.
"You can't go," Peter said. "You know you can't."
"It is my duty as a knight to protect the people of the kingdom." It was simply wrong to expect countless people to suffer in his place. He paced restlessly and knew that he had to do something - and soon. "You should leave, Peter," he advised quietly. He'd hate to have to injure his prince on the way out.
Peter squared his jaw but Mohinder looked away from him, staring out of the window at the distress in the courtyard. People were dying because of him, because of the queen, because of the king. As afraid as he might be, he knew that hiding was not an option.
It took too long for Peter to leave, but he did so eventually. The door closed with a click behind him and Mohinder was left with only his thoughts and the pounding of his heart. He couldn't put off what had to be done for much longer, and he took a deep breath and turned around, ready to do what had to be done.
When he turned, he immediately came face to face with the dark-eyed sorcerer he'd been about to go searching for. Sylar stood inside his bedroom. With his long black cloak he looked like a shadow sprung to life, a monster from folklore, a bogeyman.
"Sylar," Mohinder said. His voice wrapped around the name with all the viciousness he could summon. He wielded his rage like a weapon. "Is it you that is responsible for the suffering of our people?"
"No," Sylar answered, soft and reasonable. "Your king and queen reneged on their agreement with me. I was promised a champion."
"And I'm here," Mohinder urged. He wanted to be far from here, living in the memories of his childhood; he didn't want to face a monster. "I am here."
Sylar nodded his head in recognition and he looked past Mohinder to the courtyard outside. "If you agree to come with me then their suffering will end; the kingdom will be safe for one hundred more years."
"What happens then?"
"I'm immortal, Mohinder. While I can extend that gift to you temporarily, it won't last forever. I'll need a new champion." One hundred years in the monster's immortal company and then he would be replaced by another. Mohinder wondered who the last knight Sylar had taken had been; he wondered what had happened to that poor soul.
He should have felt disgust when Sylar reached for him, a gentle hand at the side of his face once more.
"Do you consent?" the warlock asked. "I can give you so much more than you could ever have in this world. Anything you desire." His thumb traced the line of Mohinder's cheekbone then curved to follow his jaw to his chin. "Everything you deserve. Say you'll come with me and it will be at your fingertips."
"I'll come," Mohinder whispered. It felt as if those two words cost him his very soul. He met Sylar's eyes. "For the sake of my king and country, I will come with you."
When Sylar smiled in response, it was a warmer smile than Mohinder had seen from him so far. He tried to imagine a century with this man but the time stretched out too far in front of him; it was impossible to imagine. The warlock's hand didn't move from his face and when Sylar bowed his head and their lips touched to finish the fragile deal Mohinder did not pull away. Sylar's kiss was soft but demanding, fuelled with the experience of eternity. Together they faded from the kingdom and from history, the sorcerer and his champion.
The kingdom would prosper for one final century more.