Paperlegends: Stop my heart, Start your pulse (Part One)
Title: Stop My Heart, Start Your Pulse (Part 1 of 3)
Author: janesgravity
Artist: xsilverdreamsx
Pairings/characters: Percival/OMC (Owen) very background Merlin/Arthur; Lance/Gwen; Gwaine/various
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~31,000
Warnings: Implied dub-con; violence
Summary: Based very loosely on this kinkme_merlin prompt:
Percival/other (where other is prostitute) Arthur/Merlin pre-slash, warnings for physical and sexual assault. As the new knights settle into the castle post-season-3, a gruesome discovery is made. Sir Percival's chambers are in a shambles, a boy (16,17-ish) is found in his bed, brutally attacked, sexually assaulted and near-death. And Percival is no-where to be seen. Uther is gleeful and vindictive, and sets Arthur to hunting down the perpetrator (assuming it to be Percival) with guards and hounds. Arthur is torn between loyalty to his new knights, and the apparent evidence trying to seek justice for the boy. Merlin is not so sure. Putting together forensic clues with Gaius, and testimony from other knights, (Gwaine admits he recognizes the boy from the local whore-house, and suspects he's been a much-cherished long-time lover of Percival's) (Someone else knows the whore-house is harrassed by brigands and money-lenders.) (Merlin eventually heals the boy enough to take testimony and he accuses the brigands and defends Percival - but is he hiding something?) Meanwhile, a VERY sheltered Arthur is faced with a possibly innocent knight, with the VERY touchy taboo subject of a knight taking a lover, and male/male sexuality. He is processing this crime, versus the crime of the assault, and wrestling with deeply repressed feelings for Merlin, and the awakening possiblity that there may be no dishonour in this kind of union. Meanwhile, a hunted, devastated Percival believes his lover to be dead, and is seeking vengeance.
Author's notes: First of all, I have to thank my fandom soul-mate, i_bleed_magenta for her patient beta-ing work, her tireless support and cheerleading, and for being #teamknights. Literally, this story would not exist without her, and there’s no way I can thank her enough. Special thanks to xsilverdreamsx for her amazing art, and for giving Owen a face and form that fit perfectly with the character. And thanks also for the patient betaing and the hand-holding when I would freak out over this on my twitter feed. Thanks also to the llama, etharei for betaing and hand-holding, and having that special knack to know how to get me going when I was stuck. Ugh, I’ll be thanking god and the academy in a minute, but I have to give it up also to the paperpushers weekly chat. You guys were supportive and pushed me to keep going when I wasn’t sure if I could. This story is really a collaborative effort. I wrote the words, but it never would have been finished without the help of the people I listed.
It’s a bit AU, and is set vaguely between seasons 3 and 4. There’s no Morgana in this story, but Uther is still hale and hearty. The Round Table has already been formed.
Find xsilverdreamsx art here!
“Tell me again.”
Percy laughs and pushes a hand through the thick brown curls growing in a riot on Owen’s head.
“By now you could tell me,” he says as Owen pushes his head against Percy’s hand, looking like nothing so much as a satisfied cat.
“Please.” Owen pouts and tangles their legs together under the rumpled sheet. The room is too warm and close; heavy with the smell of sweat and sex. Percy glances at the window and frowns at the sky.
“It’ll be light soon,” he says. “And I’ve stayed all night again …”
“I like it when you stay,” Owen says softly, pressing his lips to Percy’s cheek. “I like it when you tell me about your home …”
Owen rests his chin on Percy’s chest and peers up at him from under his unruly fringe.
It’s an appealing picture, Percy admits to himself, smiling as he runs his hand down Owen’s back, tracing each round bone of his spine before resting his hand in the curve, his fingers nearly spanning the whole width of Owen’s back.
Owen’s eyes are big and shadowed in the near-grey light, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His mouth is swollen and red and there are dark marks on his neck.
“I wish I could, but - “ Percy’s cut off when Owen moves, sliding far enough up to look Percy in the eye, smiling. Percy stops talking and swallows, still caught by Owen’s sheer, clear beauty even after six months of … this. Owen kisses him then, his mouth soft and open.
He nips lightly at Percy’s bottom lip as he shifts until he’s straddling Percy’s hips, pressing down. Percy laughs because he could flip Owen’s slight form over in an instant - has done, many times. Now he lies back, enjoying the feeling of Owen’s body sliding over him, resting his hands on Owen’s hips.
They kiss slowly for a while, as though it’s the start of the night and not the grey start of the next day. Percy weighs his options as best he can as Owen goes to work on his neck, seeking out the spots with his tongue and teeth that are most likely to make Percy’s resolve waver.
Percy groans, his hands tightening on Owen’s hips as he feels himself growing hard again.
Owen laughs against his neck and rolls his own hips down, an unconscious graceful movement that has Percy’s eyes fixed and his heart racing.
“Please,” Owen whispers in his ear. “Just a bit longer …” Percy opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Owen’s rocking his hips again, and he’s somehow managed to slick his fingers from the nearly empty vial of oil on the bed and his fingers … he groans, soft and low as he works his fingers inside himself, bracing his other hand on Percy’s shoulder.
“Gods, Owen, I, “
Owen just lowers his head and bites his lower lip as slips his fingers out and eases himself onto Percival’s hard, aching cock. He’s slick, still and open from before but oh gods still so tight.
Percy digs his fingers into Owen’s skin, biting back groans and curses as they move together, a sheen of sweat making their skin damp and hot. He draws Owen in tight as the heat coils low in his belly and he comes apart, feeling Owen’s release spill over both of them.
They lie quiet and tangled for a few minutes, unwilling to separate.
Finally, Percy shifts reluctantly, sighing.
“I really have to get back.”
Owen rests his forehead against Percy’s for a moment, sighing. “I know. I just, I wish -”
“Soon,” Percival says quietly, with as much sincerity as he can manage. He bites his lip because he wants to say: I promise or I swear but he knows Owen won’t trust such vows - has too many broken promises in his past already.
“Soon,” he says again instead, pulling Owen to him and kissing him, long and sweet and deep.
Owen winds his arms around Percival’s neck, pressing as close as he can opening up to Percival’s mouth and tongue and touch. Percival groans quietly into Owen’s mouth before reluctantly pulling back, disentangling himself from the boy’s arms.
He pushes off the bed, stretching out his tired muscles, grinning when he feels a warm hand sneak up his arm, tracing the outline of his bicep.
He seeks out his clothes, dropped in haste many hours ago on the floor. Owen falls back on to the messy tangled sheets and watches him from underneath his unfairly long lashes. Percival leans forward, plants a gentle, chaste kiss at the corner of Owen’s mouth.
“I’ll see you next week.”
Owen sighs and bites his lip, pushing and pulling at the blankets until he’s underneath.
Percival can feel the weight of all the unsaid words on his tongue, and he lingers for a moment, letting his eyes roam over Owens prone form on the bed. His eyes are half-closing and he’s pulled the blankets up to his chin.
“Owen - “
“I know, Percy. It’s all right. See you …”
Owen’s asleep before he can finish his sentence. Percival drinks in the sight for a moment, his eyes travelling over the lines and planes of Owen’s face and arms, cast wide on the bed as he sleeps.
He smiles to himself as he finishes buckling his belt. He lets himself out of the room as quietly as he can and starts down the stairs.
He meets Gwaine on the ground floor, coming out of a room, a grumbling sleepy boy wound up in a sheet behind him. “That’s extra, you prick. You cost me customers by falling asleep.”
Gwaine rolls his eyes at Percival but digs into the pouch hanging from his belt anyway, dropping a few silver coins in the boy’s - Kay is his name, Percival remembers - hand. “If you didn’t have such a wicked bloody mouth, boy, you wouldn’t have worn me out.”
Kay raises an eyebrow, unimpressed as he curls his fingers around the coins. “Flattery gets you nowhere. Next time, I’m throwing a jug of water over your head.”
Gwaine makes an extravagant bow, and Percival has to put his hand over his mouth to stop himself laughing out loud.
“And they say romance is dead!” Gwaine swoops on Kay, bending him backwards and landing a loud, sloppy kiss on his mouth before gently pushing him back into his room.
“Get some sleep, darlin. I’ll be back for you.” Gwaine’s grin is wolfish but Kay’s laughing even as he shuts his door.
Gwaine turns and claps Percival on his shoulder. “C’mon big guy. We’d better get back to the castle before the night watch finishes or we’ll be scaling the walls.”
Percival nods and sighs, letting Gwaine’s chatter carry them both out into the quiet streets.
He hmmms and nods in what he assumes are the right places as Gwaine keeps up a steady stream of chatter as they make their way through the quiet pre-dawn streets back to the castle.
He’s preoccupied; thinking about Owen, about how much longer before he can get him out of that brothel and make him … mine Percival thinks, half-sighing. Some nights it seems like it’s going to be easy, getting Owen out of the brothel and into Percival’s bed alone; and sometimes it seems like an insurmountable task.
Every time he considers it, his brain throws up a thousand problems. What if the brothel won’t let him go? What if he doesn’t have enough coin? What if … what if the other knights turned on him when they found out?
Not Gwaine, of course, Percival thinks, glancing sideways at his friend. Gwaine had brought him to the brothel in the first place, months ago. Percival had been … shy at first but immediately struck by Owen’s laughing brown eyes and generous smile. It had been - it still is - irrelevant to Percival where Owen earns his money. All he knows is that he wants Owen to be his and - honestly - damn the consequences.
He’s so absorbed in his own thoughts and making the occasional vague noises to show Gwaine that he’s still listening that he’s surprised when they reach the castle, just as the night watch is going off-duty. One of the guards recognises them and makes a crude joke about where they’ve been all night. Gwaine laughs easily, returning the guard’s banter, even as he keeps his hand tight on Percival’s massive bicep.
The guard doesn’t mean anything by it and as far as Gwaine knows, he’s the only one who knows that Percival’s paramour is a young man, but it does make him rather over-sensitive to off-hand, off-colour comments.
He pushes Percival gently when they’re inside the castle walls. “Go get some beauty sleep, big guy. We’ve training in a few hours.”
Percival blinks and frowns at Gwaine, like he’s just realised where they are.
“Oh. Er, right. See you later Gwaine.” He slaps Gwaine on the shoulder, nearly sending him into a wall, and sighs wearily as he makes his way through the silent corridors to his room.
Percival pushes open his door and closes it behind him as quietly as he can. He breathes in and out, rolling his shoulders as he moves towards his bed, carelessly discarding his clothes as he goes, too tired to pick them up and fold them like he normally would; not wanting to burden his squire with needless tasks.
But with the grey of dawn pushing through his heavy drapes, all Percival can do is pull off his boots before collapsing on the bed and letting the oblivion of sleep take him.
Owen curls up on Kay’s bed, leaning against the wooden headboard. He watches his friend as he readies for the evening: peering into a shard of silvered glass as he applies kohl.
“You don’t have to come with me,” Kay says, not taking his eyes off the mirror. “I”m sure I could -”
Owen’s already shaking his head. “No. We made a deal that if one of us is going out for a job, the other goes with. I’m going with you.”
Kay sighs and steps back, squinting at his handiwork. It will have to do. He comes over to the bed and runs an affectionate hand through Owen’s hair, absently patting down loose strands.
“It’s just …”
Owen reaches out and tugs at Kay’s free hand until he collapses on the bed.
“If you’re worried about Percival, don’t. I was working here when I met him, it’s not like he doesn’t know what I do for a living. He’s … fine with it.”
Kay rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He can’t meet Owen’s eyes right now. “Yes, yes. But these men … they’re thugs, Owen. You’re used to being treated so well here and I just, I don’t know …” he trails off as Owen lies down beside him. He’s protected Owen as best as he could over the past year - ever since he nearly tripped over him, starving and snarling in the depths of winter, trying to keep warm in a stinking alleway.
I can show you a better life than this. Come with me.
Since then, Owen’s been … petted for want of a better word. Spoiled; by Kay, by Agatha and the girls. They all give him the pick of the clients: the ones with the gentlest hands and the most regard for the whores as people, as opposed to a means for relief.
And then. Enter Percival and Owen’s life is on the verge of changing.
“I’ll be with you,” Owen says, tangling their fingers together on top of the bedcovers. “Of course I’ll be all right.”
Kay sighs but swallows the rest of his misgivings. They made the pact when Owen first started working - right after he turned sixteen, as near as he could figure it out, about a month after Kay had brought him here - all wide eyes and too-long arms and legs, that sometimes Kay forgets about it.
This is only the second time in the past year that they’ve left the brothel for a job and the stakes are so much higher this time. Mentally Kay curses the man who’s led them to this: himself and Owen offered up as partial payment for the weakness of someone else.
But, he rationalises as he lets Owen pull him up from the bed, this is what they do. This is what they’re paid for. They are, after all, whores, no matter how nicely you might dress it up and try and give it some kind of noble slant.
He lets Owen slip his hand through his arm as they walk through the quiet streets to the moneylender’s house, where they’re to be the, ah, guests, of two of his closest men for the evening.
It will cut the debt owed to the man by Agatha’s brother by a third and - hopefully - stop the moneylender’s men from hanging around the brothel. They’re nothing but the lowest thugs and they always make the back of Kay’s neck prickle unpleasantly.
There’s nothing that will stop Bran from haunting Camelot’s lowest taverns and gambling away money he can ill afford to lose and Kay has the sinking feeling that this may not be his and Owen’s last visit to the moneylender’s house.
The house is at the outer reaches of the Lower Town, a mean, three-storied wooden building that gives Kay a shiver deep in his guts. He fights an overwhelming urge to turn to Owen, to tell him to run, get away from all of them as fast as he can; from the moneylender, the thugs, even Kay himself who brought Owen into this life in the first place.
He wants to tell Owen to go to Percy now; to leave all of it behind, that his knight will take him in without hesitation even though he’d agreed to buy Owen out of his place in the brothel. Agatha was a good woman as far as madams went but she was also a businesswoman.
Kay shakes his head and sighs. All he can really do tonight is keep as good an eye on Owen as he can and make sure they both get back to the brothel in one piece.
Later, much later, Kay will ask himself if he could have done more. Stopped it from happening. Worked harder to convince Owen to stay back. Anything.
Some things stay sharp in his mind. Being let into the house. Meeting the thugs. Sweaty hand on the back of his neck; a sharp glance sideways to see Owen already on his knees his eyes wide and streaming. He’s able to flick his eyes sideways to Kay for a moment, give him a wink that later on Kay will see in his worst dreams, even as the thug digs his fingers into the back of Owen’s neck and grunts something, making Owen turn his gaze back and down, redoubling his efforts to get the brute off as fast as he can.
Everything else flickers like a torch guttering in a draft, making shadows and confusion.
He can’t remember why or how it started but somehow Owen ended up with the man who’s always given Kay an unpleasant shudder. His remaining eye is dead and cold and there’s thick scar tissue where his other one should be. He’s a murderer, a thief and the lowest of the low, and the very last person Kay would want anywhere near Owen. Kay’s heard stories around the brothel about him from a couple of the girls who have been there long enough to finally be able to pick and choose who they went with. Or - they had been able to until Agatha’s brother had showed up one night, bleeding and bruised; begging her to help him.
Agatha is a tough woman. An ex-whore who had taken over the brothel years ago in a legendary coup that now only a couple of the others remember, she has a blind spot where her brother is concerned. Unfortunately that blind spot Kay thinks as he feels himself shoved to his knees and begins unlacing his own thug’s breeches, working on automatic pilot - is quite possibly going to get one of them badly hurt.
Or worse.
The room they’re sharing - a low bedroom under the steep eaves of the house - is quiet apart from the usual noises; nothing out of the ordinary, nothing Kay hasn’t heard in five years of working at the brothel.
The sharp, sudden crack, like a branch snapping suddenly, is loud and shocking. Kay stumbles as the thug he’s with pushes him back and then, he sees blood and Owen crumpled in the corner and oh gods that’s just... wrong.
“Hold that one. I don’t like my lessons to be interrupted.”
Hands like iron around his arms. Owen crying out as he’s beaten with a belt and kicked repeatedly, his cries tapering off to whimpers and finally silence.
Kay sags in his captor’s grip, not realising he’d been struggling till then.
Bile clogs his throat but he swallows, hard and his stomach roils but nothing happens.
“He dead?”
An indifferent shrug. “Don’t know. You, boy …”
The thug turns his cold eye on Kay.“What’s the name of that knight? The one that’s been mooning over this one? I heard your madam talking to Bors about him. His name, boy. I won’t ask again.”
Later, it’s this that Kay regrets the most. That at the very end, he can’t protect his friend, can’t save him; can’t save Percival who’s been nothing but good to Owen.
“S-Sir Percival.” His voice is barely a croak and he wonders, distantly, if he’s been screaming. Not that there’s anyone in this godforsaken part of town that would come to his aid.
He’s let go, suddenly, and collapses to the floor, struggling to pull himself up. “Right. You know where his room is in the castle?”
Kay pulls himself to his feet and staggers, dizzy for a moment, but stays upright.
“I - yes.”
“Then you’re coming with me. I ain’t swinging for no whore. And if you know what’s good for you boy you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
Kay nods, unable to speak.
The other thug sighs and scratches his hand through his hair. “Boss won’t like this. That boy’s a good earner. Or he was.”
“I don’t give a fuck what he was. He bit me. You go break the news, me and this lad here are going for a little walk to the castle.”
“So are you coming with us or not?”
Percival looks up from his bed, blinking in confusion. Gwaine is lounging in the open doorway, one arm propped on the jamb, his red cloak somehow flaring dramatically even though he’s standing still.
“Er, coming where?” Percival asks, feeling as though he’s missed half the conversation which, with Gwaine, really isn’t all that unusual.
“To the tavern. You, me, Leon, Elyan … even Lance is coming. He’s been driving Gwen nuts, all overprotective over the baby and her, and she’s happy to see the back of him for a night. Plus, we haven’t celebrated the happy couple’s excellent news yet.”
Percival rolls his eyes and just shakes his head. “I can’t … I need to save my coin, Gwaine. You know that. I can’t just go off to the tavern because you want me to.”
“As to that,” Gwaine says cheerfully, coming all the way into Percival’s room and holding out his hand, “I beat Leon at cards earlier today. He’s paying. And Lance and Gwen adding to the population - well in a few months - has put him in a generous and sentimental mood. Your coin is perfectly safe.”
Percival sighs but holds out his hand and lets Gwaine pull him to his feet.
“Now we’re talking. Also, I may or may not have made a bet with Leon and Elyan that we could out-drink them. Lance is going to referee …”
Percival sighs and shakes his head, as he follows Gwaine out of the castle and through the streets to the tavern. The others are already there, having taken over a large table in the corner.
There are large, foaming tankards on the table and the last time Percival saw that look in Leon’s eyes, six bandits lay dead around him five minutes later.
“Why do I let you talk me into these things? This is not going to end well.”
“Yes, my friend,” Gwaine says, sitting astride one of the long benches at the table, “but the question is who is it going to end badly for?”
Percival laughs at that, pulling one of the overfull tankards towards himself. He drains half of it right off, feeling the steel band around his chest ease somewhat in the company of his fellow knights.
Growing up in a small village, Percival had never really made friends easily. He’d come into his full growth early and so had been put to work in the fields, Cenred’s taxes making life hard for everyone, until the raid that had ended everything; the village left no more than a smoking wreck and Percival fleeing for Camelot, his parents’ faces as soldiers put them to the sword forever etched on his memory. He had wanted to stay, wanted to fight but his father had made him promise:
“You get out of here, Percival. You run. I know you want to fight but I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose my only son to a man like Cenred. Head to Camelot. Don’t look back, and don’t stop.”
He’d taken his father’s advice but couldn’t stop himself - a scared, grieving boy already on the run - from looking back. The last thing he saw of his village was the smoke rising to the sky.
He’d stumbled through wilderness after wilderness with only his heavy heart, a stolen sword and a battered map for company. The fact that he’d gone from that terrified boy to now a knight … Percival shakes his head and drinks deep from his tankard again.
“All right there big guy? We lost you for a moment.”
Percival shakes off his memories and gives Gwaine a wide smile. “I’m fine. Just … thinking.”
Elyan slaps him on the back and slams down another tankard. Leon grumbles into his own, before sighing and wiping foam off his beard. “I can’t believe you talked me into playing cards with you. You’re nothing but a charlatan.”
Gwaine grins, unrepentant as he snares his own drink. “Right. Less talking. More drinking. Lots more drinking.”
Percival has no idea what time it is when he staggers out of the tavern, Gwaine a heavy weight against his side. He’s dragging them both and suspects that he might have to pick Gwaine up and carry him because he seems to basically be passed out.
The sky is changing slowly from black to grey and Percival sighs, wincing in advance at the long, torturous day of training that’s bound to be ahead of them once Arthur finds out they’ve all spent the whole night in the tavern.
Percival sighs and shoots a grateful glance at Leon who drops back to take Gwaine’s other arm. Lance and Elyan are well ahead of them, talking quietly together as they all head towards the castle.
Gwaine mutters something and leans heavily on Leon’s arm, making him laugh. “Come on, you. You’re going to need your rest for tomorrow. Er, today,” he amends, glancing at the sky.
“Leon,” Percival says, hesitant. “Once we’ve dropped Gwaine off, can I … talk to you?”
Leon glances at Percival over Gwaine’s head and searches his face for a moment. “Yes, of course. Let’s get madam here tucked away safely first and then I’m all yours.”
They bid good night (or good morning to Lance and Elyan,) settle Gwaine in his room, stripping off his boots and lying him down on his bed. Percival thoughtfully nudges the empty chamberpot to the bedside and takes a deep breath as the first light of day starts lightening the horizon.
He smiles as he gazes at what he can see of the town; out there Owen is curled up in his bed; sleep-warm and waiting. Percival sighs and thinks of the coins he has hidden in his room: so close to being able to buy Owen out of that place and have him only in Percival’s bed.
He shifts his shoulders and glances at Leon, who’s watching him with a raised eyebrow.
“You know what,” he says, quietly. “It’s not important. It’ll keep.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. I’m also a little bit drunk and a lot tired.”
Leon claps him on the shoulder at that, glancing back at the bed as Gwaine mutters but doesn’t shift.
“We all are, my friend. I’ll see you on the training grounds tomorrow. I’m sure Arthur has something special planned for us all.”
Percival nods at that, pulling a face at the thought of a long, painful day sparring and training, Arthur’s commands and sarcastic asides already drumming in his ears, and turns towards his own room, his thoughts a tangle of training, his home village and always at the back of his mind, Owen.
He rubs his hand over his head, pausing to get his bearings when the hallway spins a little bit and makes his way carefully in the dark.
Merlin turns over and mutters low curses into his pillow as the sun pierces the thin gap of his window, shining right on to his face. He curses again before dragging himself out of the bed and pulling on his breeches, muttering to himself the whole time.
He’s never been big on this whole morning deal, something that hasn’t changed in his years of service to Arthur, prince of pra - of Camelot.
Gaius is sitting at the table in his workroom, eating something steaming out of a bowl. He looks at Merlin and gently pushes a cup across. Merlin sits down and inhales the scent of herbs before taking a cautious sip.
“Mm. Still hot.” His voice is rough but the fog in his head is clearing and he manages to muster up a smile. “Thanks, Gaius.” He snags a piece of bread and an apple before twisting off the bench.
“I’d better get going. Training today, if you need me.”
Gaius nods, offering his own warm smile in return before he turns back to the ancient, battered book of herblore he’s studying.
“Try and stay out of trouble today, Merlin.”
Merlin mutters something as he bites into the apple, heading for Arthur’s rooms.
Staying out of trouble shouldn’t be hard today, surely. The kingdom is quiet. No random magical attacks for oh … weeks now.
It’s a training day, which always puts Arthur in a good mood because it means he’s outside with his knights, engaging in extended physical activity, and not stuck in council meetings with his father all day.
Those are the days that Merlin really needs to be alert to avoid flying objects.
He’s finished both apple and bread before he reaches Arthur’s room. He pushes open the door and pauses, just watching quietly for a moment, waiting for the small, quiet ache in his chest to settle down.
Arthur might be his destiny - and sometimes his curse - but the thing that really trips Merlin up every single day is the fact that he’s silently, pointlessly, desperately in love with the prince of pra - of Camelot.
He tells himself that he just needs time to get over it, for the feeling to pass; that he’s confused duty and loyalty with love and lust, but deep inside, where his baser instincts twist up with his higher feelings, Merlin knows better. He’s done for, turn the spit and roast his heart …. he shakes his head of the foolish notion and manages to refocus his attention on his very own destiny - and maybe his doom.
Arthur’s up and about, wearing nothing but the worn breeches he sleeps in, standing at the window. He looks golden and eternal, the early morning sun washing over his solid, muscular form and Merlin’s helpless before it for a moment, staring.
Then, thankfully, the spell is broken.
“Merlin! There you are! Stop gathering wool like an idiot and get me something to eat! Something substantial. It’s going to be a good day.”
Arthur’s grin is nearly feral and Merlin merely snorts and shakes his head before heading down to the kitchen, charming as much food as possible out of the recalcitrant cook.
He moves about Arthur’s chambers quietly, tidying up, getting Arthur’s favoured training garb ready for the day, checking his sword. Occasionally Arthur throws a sarcastic barb in his direction, something that Merlin easily deflects.
He relaxes as they banter back and forth, managing to mostly keep his hands to appropriate places while he helps Arthur into his training armor. (Mostly. And if he slips once in a while and his hand slides over Arthur’s arm, or on the small of his back for just a second, well, Merlin is naturally clumsy after all.)
Arthur and Merlin are first to the training ground and Merlin stands at the side, watching as Arthur warms up with his sword, his arm weaving back and forth and up and down in a complicated, mesmerising arc.
Leon is first down of the knights, like always, looking a little worse for wear. Arthur’s grin when he sees the state of him turns positively evil and even Merlin has to stifle a laugh.
“Rough night, Sir Leon,” Arthur calls, mocking. Leon turns and sighs, gathering a training sword from the pile beside Merlin at the side of the field and heads out, his jaw clenched. “Yes, highness. We were, ah, celebrating Lance and Gwen’s good news. I looked for you to ask you along but you were still with your father …”
Arthur merely rolls his eyes and grins as he directs Leon to pick up a heavy training shield, swinging his own practice sword with ease. Leon bears up bravely, but still can’t hide the first flinch as Arthur’s sword clashes noisily against the shield.
Merlin nearly stumbles when Gwaine somehow sneaks up and nudges him in the shoulder.
“Should’ve come with us, Merlin. It was a great night out.”
Merlin just shakes his head and eyes Leon, grimly holding his own against a determined Arthur.
“No, thanks. I know better than to go drinking with you. What I can’t understand is how the others haven’t learned that lesson yet.”
Gwaine grins, wide and bright and completely unrepentant. “Because, Merlin, unlike you, and your precious princess over there, they have a sense of adventure.”
Merlin sticks his tongue out at Gwaine’s retreating back as he heads onto the field to pair off with Elyan, who seems to be slightly better off than the others.
Lance is patiently putting his squire through his paces and Percival … Merlin frowns and scans the training ground again. Even after a hard night out, Percival is usually one of the first knights out for training. Merlin turns to look at Arthur who’s also looking around the field, frowning.
“Merlin! Go and see what’s keeping Percival. Dump a bucket of water from the well on his head if you have to.”
Merlin sighs and nods, not looking forward to the prospect of dragging the human equivalent - the hungover human equivalent of an oak tree out to training.
However, he keeps that to himself and just nods, before darting back into the castle, heading for Percival’s quarters.
Percival runs. He runs, and runs, his lungs tearing as he pushes them past endurance. His face is wet and his throat is raw. He’s not sure whether he’s been yelling or not. He needs to wake up, because he has to be dreaming he has to - he stops running when he trips over a tree root, stumbling and falling hard on the unforgiving forest floor.
He rolls to his back and stares up at the canopy of branches and leaves and sky, waiting for his heart to slow down, waiting to wake up. He doesn’t know how long he lies there, but he can feel the sun passing across the sky - the track of the shadows making their silent way over the ground and the trees.
When the first chill of the evening makes Percival shiver, he realises that he’s not dreaming. And that he’s … he sits up, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes until they water.
Owen.
He’s … he’s … Percival’s mind shies away from the word, but stubbornly substitutes gone in its place, as though Owen’s just gone out the door and will be back any moment.
Nonsense. Percival shakes his head and finally studies his surroundings. He’d been aware of falling over a tree, of lying on the forest floor …. he turns his gaze towards Camelot and realises he’s run further from the city than he had thought possible. The battlements of the castle are distant and hazy in the treacherous evening light and Percival blinks and rubs his eyes, his heart a heavy weight in his chest.
He sets his feet towards the citadel, but something makes him pause. If … if Owen is … dead and he’s been … attacked … Percival’s shoulders slump and it’s all he can do not to lie down again. He’ll be blamed. Accused of, of murder and thrown into Camelot’s dungeons. Stripped of his knighthood, his friends, everything …. and - his jaw sets as he straightens up.
If he’s in Camelot’s dungeons accused of Owen’s murder, the real killers will walk around free with Owen’s blood on their hands.
No. He won’t let that happen. He can’t. Running like a coward is no way to honour Owen’s memory but neither is being thrown in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. He closes his eyes and conjures up Owen’s face - his laughing brown eyes, and his messy hair, the feel of his hands sliding over Percival’s skin …
Percival’s vision is blurry with tears when he opens his eyes again but his resolve is steel. He will have justice for Owen, and find some kind of peace for his own shattered heart.
He turns away from Camelot and searching for a path through the woods, slips as quietly as he can into the trees.
At first, Merlin can’t process what he’s seeing. Percival’s room is as sparse and tidy as always, and his bed looks like it hasn’t been slept in, but … there’s … a body. On Percival’s bed. His heart gives a sickening lurch before he realises that whoever it is, it’s too short to be Percival.
On closer inspection, Merlin sees that it’s a young boy, no more than 17, and he’s been beaten very badly. Immediately the mystery of who the boy is and what he’s doing here falls away as Merlin moves to deal with the most immediate concern: treatment.
He dashes out of Percival’s room and almost crashes into George.
“George! Please - it’s urgent. Go and fetch Gaius and bring him to Sir Percival’s room. I have to go and get the king.”
To George’s credit all he does is nod before turning and running off and Merlin is thankful he doesn’t have to waste time.
He heads for the training field as fast as he can and shouts for Arthur when he gets there.
There’s a flurry of noise after that - more shouting, the clashing of swords being dropped and then, suddenly - all of them crowded into Percival’s room - silence.
Merlin takes one look at Arthur’s face and goes and busies himself with the body on the bed. Might as well make himself - “Oh my god,” he says quietly. “Gwaine - give me your dagger, quick!”
Merlin holds the small steel blade under the boy’s nose and there -
“He’s still alive.”
Arthur frowns at that, and folds his arms. “Gaius - “
“Already on his way,” Merlin says, distracted, as he carefully examines the boy’s limbs.
“Right. So - who is he? And what’s he doing in Percival’s room?”
They’re distracted by Gaius’ arrival who, upon seeing the boy and hearing that he still lives, immediately starts issuing orders.
It falls to Lance to lift the boy from Percival’s bed once Gaius determines he can be safely moved.
“Take him to my chambers, Lance. Merlin, run ahead and prepare a pallet for him. Gwaine - run down to the laundry. I need boiling water, towels and strips of linen. No delaying!”
Gwaine glances at the boy again, and then at Arthur, his expression shuttered. “I’ll be right back,” he says, tapping Elyan on the shoulder to help.
Gaius and Merlin work quickly and quietly on the boy, carefully bandaging and washing his more serious wounds when Gwaine and Elyan return.
Merlin’s vaguely aware, then, of Arthur and the knights in the background, shifting occasionally, but not leaving.
“Does anyone know his name? Anything that might help? Why he might have been in Percival’s room?” Gaius asks eventually, when he and Merlin have cleaned and bandaged as much of the boy as possible. He has a head wound but Gaius probes the skull carefully with gentle fingers and smiles. “Nothing broken there. Now he just needs to rest, and heal.”
“I know him,” Gwaine says, after a short silence. “I … he … works - worked at Agatha’s.”
Leon and Elyan exchange glances, eyebrows rising high.
“The brothel? He’s a …” Leon makes a vague gesture with his hand as Gwaine rolls his eyes.
“Yes, Leon. He’s a whore. Or at least - he was.”
“But - how did he end up in Percival’s room? And not, say, yours? And where is Percival?”
Everyone turns to look at Arthur, who has folded his arms again and is now frowning at Merlin, as if the appearance of badly beaten boys in the castle is somehow his fault.
Merlin just rolls his eyes and goes back to binding the boy’s ribs.
“His name is Owen,” Gwaine says. “And he and Percival were, are.... lovers. I mean, it didn’t start out that way but Percival fell for him pretty hard. He’s been working on getting him out of there. He wouldn’t do this. He’d rather cut off his own arm than hurt Owen, I swear.”
“Then where is he?” Arthur’s tone is pre-emptory and demanding, which strikes Gwaine like flint sparking against tinder.
“Well I don’t know, princess! I’m guessing that he saw Owen on his bed like that, thought he was dead and - “
“Panicked and ran,” Leon finishes, his voice soft.
Arthur closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He opens them and automatically seeks out Merlin, still quietly working over the boy - the wh - Owen’ body. Merlin looks up, and gives Arthur a small private smile that shouldn’t make Arthur feel better and more in control of himself, but it does.
He sighs and runs one gloved hand through his hair. “I’ll have to tell my father,” he says, reluctantly.
Uther had been dead against knighting commoners and it had led to some spectacular rows, but Arthur had held his ground. He trusted all of his knights but his round table knights … no man above the other. He sighs and studies the boy again.
Indeed.
“Merlin, with me,” he says, his voice sharper than he means.
He looks to Gaius, even as Merlin tucks the covers around the boy’s prone frame and straightens, ready to follow Arthur into the lion’s den.
“He’ll be fine, sire. I just need someone to watch him while he’s still unconscious. I can do it but …”
“We’ll help,” Leon says suddenly. “He was important to Percival, which means that now he’s important to us.” He looks around at the other knights who all nod. Gwaine drags a chair across from the table and settles on it by the pallet, waving the others away.
“I’ll send for someone else when I get tired.”
The others nod, and Lance says something about fetching Gwen. “She’ll want to help, too. And to know what’s happened.”
Arthur nods and breathes out a sigh, feeling obscurely relieved at the - at his knights’ show of support for Percival, even though … he reaches out, tugging on Merlin’s sleeve. “Come on Merlin. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”
Gwaine stares down at the pale unconscious boy on the pallet and replays the last time he saw him. Shaking his head, Gwaine reaches out and pushes back Owen’s hair. He looks young - too young to have been doing what he was doing, but from what Kay told him of Owen’s story, Agatha’s is a far better option than starving on the streets.
“Kay!” Gwaine exclaims, turning rapidly to Gaius who’s grinding something with a mortar and pestle. He raises an eyebrow in silent enquiry as Gwaine waves his hand and pushes his own hair back from his head.
“Kay - he … works with Owen. I uh … know him.”
Gaius snorts softly and shakes his head. “And you think he might know something about what’s happened?”
“Yeah, I think so. Kay and Owen are close. If anyone can shed some light, it’s Kay.”
“Will he come to the castle? I mean, he might be deeper in whatever this is than you realise.”
Gwaine finds a grin somewhere, even as his heart turns over. “I know, but I also know that he’ll do anything for Owen. I’ll get Elyan to sit with Owen and go to Agatha’s. Plus … to be honest, Gaius, I’d be happier if he were under our protection right now. I don’t want - “
Gaius waves a hand and brings whatever he’s been mixing over to Owen’s pallet. “Go. Bring the boy back here and then tell Arthur, when he’s done with his father.”
Gwaine nods, but lingers for a moment.
“Something else, Gwaine?”
“I just … Percival really loves Owen. I mean - he was saving money to get him out of the brothel, he was making plans - I know it’s hard to believe because I’m the only one who saw them together, but I can’t believe that Percival could have done this, Gaius. He - “
Gaius rests a hand on Gwaine’s arm, giving it a reassuring pat. “I’m sure the truth - whatever it is - will come out. For what it’s worth, Gwaine, I don’t believe Percival to be capable of this kind of violence. Especially not against someone you say he cares so deeply for.”
Gwaine nods and sighs as he pushes a hand through his hair in confusion.
“What I can’t understand - where is he? I know he wouldn’t have done this, if he knew Owen was hurt …”
“Well, it’s only speculation on my part,” Gaius says as he moves slowly around Owen, checking his bandages and carefully unwinding one that’s stained a dark red. Gwaine waits as Gaius carefully replaces the bandage with the paste of herbs and winds the linen again “ - but if Percival thought Owen was dead when he saw him … well, he might have -”
“Run,” Gwaine says softly, his eyes on Owen. “If he thought he was going to be accused … and let’s face it, Uther has no love for Arthur’s Round Table, so it’s not that much of a stretch …”
Gwaine sighs and rolls his shoulders, feeling some tension leach out. “All I know is that Percival is incapable of hurting Owen. He couldn’t have done this, Gaius.”
Gaius nods, distracted again as Owen moves on the pallet, but doesn’t wake up.
“Go and talk to this Kay of yours. I’ll examine the boy again and talk to Merlin when he comes back. We’ll get to the bottom of it Gwaine.”
Arthur strides along the castle corridors, feeling a headache forming at the base of his skull. He can hear Merlin behind him, his breath puffing out as he scrambles to keep up. They’re of a height but Merlin is a natural ambler, so when Arthur is inclined to put on speed, he tends to get left behind.
He stops and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve some of the pressure in his head.
Merlin stops beside him and Arthur turns, leaning against the wall.
“Headache?” Merlin asks, reaching out to touch Arthur’s forehead, like he can soothe it away.
Arthur remembers just in time that there’s a stone wall behind him, so he doesn’t jerk back and hit his head. He does raise his eyebrows, and waits. “Did you mistake me for one of the stable cats, or a girl, Merlin? I don’t need you petting me!”
Merlin jerks away then, like his hand is on fire. “I - sorry. It’s just you look so - “
Arthur sighs and rakes a hand through his hair.
“It may have escaped your notice, Merlin but I have a lot on my mind at the moment!”
He feels vaguely guilty for snapping but Merlin just steps back and spreads out his hands in a placating gesture. “I know. I know what’s at stake for you, Arthur. I’m - sorry.”
“Just. Keep your distance, Merlin, all right? Please.”
Arthur waits until Merlin nods before striding down the corridor again. The sooner he gets this over with, the better.
It goes about as well as he expects it to. There’s shouting at first, and Arthur can’t miss the fleeting gleeful expression on Uther’s face.
“It just proves, Arthur, that you cannot trust something as important as a knighthood to mere commoners. This is the risk you run! What of your precious … round table now?”
Arthur clenches his teeth and grinds them together, trying to find the best way to word it. “Father … that round table that you … dismiss … any one of those men would die for Camelot. Would die for me. Or for you. I know you have issues with not all of them being nobles but to be honest - they are the most noble men that I have ever met. I’ve fought beside them, and with them, and I cannot reward such loyalty to Camelot by dismissing them out of hand!”
He takes a deep breath when he realises his voice is spiralling upwards and nearly out of control. Shouting at this juncture won’t help anyone - it certainly won’t help Percival at all. Arthur resists the urge to pinch his nose again, the headache now roaring through his skull and making it hard for him to think.
Uther stares at him for a long, weighted minute. “You will not give them up? Even with all this … “ he makes a wide gesture with one hand.
“It would take a lot more than this for me to give them up,” Arthur says, surprised to find his voice so steady. “They are my knights. I’ve trained them, I’ve fought with them, I’m the one who invested them with knighthoods. I will not turn my back on - on any of them.”
“Very well,” Uther says, returning his attention to the parchments on the table. “That … Percival, however, Arthur - he’s a danger to you and your precious round table. Find him, and have him executed,” Uther says then, almost off hand, turning his attention back to the papers covering the table
“Father - “
“No, Arthur! He’s a murderer and he consorts with - men. We cannot have men like that running loose and making Camelot looking weak. Take the dogs. Find him, and bring him back to meet his fate.”
Arthur stirs, wanting to say something, aware of Merlin right behind him, so close that Arthur can feel the drift of breath on the back of his neck. He looks at his father’s face, sees nothing but steel resolve, and sighs.
“Yes, father. Of course.” He turns and tilts his head at Merlin who follows him out of the chamber silently, but still close on his heels. He expects Merlin to start bombarding him with questions and arguments as soon as they leave Uther’s presence, but he’s abnormally, unnaturally quiet.
Eventually Arthur can’t take it and stops, twirling on his heel. “All right, Merlin. Out with it. I expected you to be shouting at me or lecturing me by now. What is it?”
Merlin frowns and chews briefly on his bottom lip. “It’s just - there’s something not right. Not just that I don’t think Percival’s a cold-blooded murderer, because I don’t, and that there’s nothing wrong with, you know, men being with other men - it’s just … something’s not right, Arthur.”
Arthur blinks as he processes Merlin’s words, filtering through what he considers to just be Merlin-chatter to get to the point of what he’s saying.
“Merlin whatever it is, make it quick. Because if I don’t leave soon, my father will want to know why.”
“I know! I know, Arthur, I just … I need to talk to Gaius. We need to examine Owen again. Something isn’t right.”
“There’s a lot about this that isn’t right, Merlin. I’m going to the kennels to get the dogs. If you see Sir Leon, tell him to meet me there. We’ll move faster if there’s only two of us.”
“But I should - “
Arthur reaches out slowly, resting a hand on Merlin’s arm. “No. Not this time. We’ll be all right, Merlin. You stay here, work with Gaius. If you’re right, I’d rather not condemn an innocent man to the gallows - regardless of who he sleeps with.”
Merlin sighs, and lingers, reluctant to leave Arthur’s side. “I - all right. Well done, by the way,” Merlin says, almost shy. “Back there with Uther - I was… proud of you for standing up for the knights like that. I know it can’t have been easy.”
Arthur just gives a tight nod, and turns sharply, heading down the corridor towards the stables, doing his best to ignore the warm feeling spreading through his chest. Whatever it is, now is not the time.
Owen is dreaming. He is four years old and is sitting on a rickety wooden stool, laughing as he helps his mother roll out bread dough. She has streaks of flour on her face as she guides Owen’s small hands through the dough, her voice a rising and falling cadence.
Mummy Owen asks, looking out the window, who’s that man?
In Gaius’ room, Owen stirs and mutters as the shadow of one of his tormentors appears at his mother’s window in his dream. He stills and shifts, reaching out to something unseen.
Merlin makes his way back to Gaius’ room as fast as he can, meeting Leon’s squire on the way, dispatching him with Arthur’s message. He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions. He can feel his thoughts unravelling - spinning out in all directions and he stops to take a breath. It’s not going to help anyone - especially not Percival - if Merlin can’t gather his thoughts enough to articulate what he thinks might have happened to the boy in Gaius’ room.
Merlin frowns as he starts walking again, his pace slightly slower. If Percival had … hurt Owen, as unlikely as Gwaine said it was, and if it had happened in his own room … why wasn’t there more damage? Chairs turned over, bowls broken - something. But the room was as orderly as Merlin had ever seen it, and according to Gwaine, the knights had all gone out the night before to the tavern and so …
“The bruises!” Merlin exclaims out loud, breaking into a sudden run.
He makes his way to Gaius’ chambers as fast as he can, and he’s out of breath by the time he bursts through the door.
Gaius raises both eyebrows in shock and Gwaine - who has to step back as Merlin bursts through the door - blinks in surprise at Merlin’s sudden appearance.
“What the hell, Merlin?”
Merlin waves a hand as he bends over, winded from his headlong race through the castle.
“Sorry. Thought. Of. Something. That. Could. Help. Percival.”
“Here, my boy - drink this. Slow breaths, that’s it.”
Merlin accepts the cup gratefully from Gaius’ hand and takes a long, slow drink of water.
“Better?
He flashes Gaius a quick, bright smile. “Yes, much. Thanks, Gaius.”
Gwaine watches the exchange between Merlin and Gaius with barely concealed impatience.
“You were saying ..”
“Oh right! Owen! The bruises!”
It’s Gwaine’s turn to raise his eyebrows but he waits for Merlin to explain.
“You all went out last night, yes? To the tavern.”
“Yeees but - “
“When did you get back to the castle?”
Gwaine frowns as Owen stirs and mutters on the pallet, causing Gaius to lean over him, checking him over carefully.
“He’s just dreaming. Means he’s sleeping normally. Go on, Gwaine.”
“Uh … close to dawn, I think. Yeah - the sky was getting light.”
“Which means that Percival wouldn’t even have seen Owen until then if he was with you all night. And if he … attacked Owen then - Percival’s room isn’t that isolated. Someone would have heard something. But Percival’s room looks exactly the same as it always does.”
Gaius and Gwaine frown, and exchange a cautious, weighted look.
Gwaine studies his friend’s face closely. “There’s something else, isn’t there? There has to be, because that’s just …. circumstances that can be explained away.”
Merlin nods and makes his way carefully to the edge of the bed.
“There is. The bruises.”
Gaius exclaims loudly enough to make Merlin and Gwaine jump, and for Owen to shift on the bed, frown lines on his face. They all wait but he settles and sleeps on, though the frown remains.
“Of course. I should have thought of that myself. Well done, Merlin,” Gaius says, missing the pleased flush of red on Merlin’s ears as he turns back to the bed to re-examine Owen’s body, frowning and muttering over the dark purple marks on his arms.
“Can someone enlighten me, then?” Gwaine asks, his tone irritated as he shifts restlessly on his feet, like he wants desperately to be somewhere else.
“You were all at the tavern that night until nearly dawn,” Merlin explains.
“Arthur had you all out on the training field, what, two or three hours later?”
Gwaine nods, not taking his eyes off Merlin’s face.
“Well. If. If - Percival had … done this. His room would be a huge mess because even with Percival being so much bigger, Owen would have fought back, would have shouted … and then I thought of the bruises.”
“Indeed,” Gaius says, his voice distracted. “You are quite right Merlin. These bruises on his arms and his ribs are too old to have been made by Percival. See here where they’re already fading … and here. I’ve seen many kinds of injuries over the years. Really should have seen this myself. Well done my boy!”
Merlin flushes under Gaius’ praise but then bites his lip. “That clears Percival but … Arthur and Leon - they’ll already be out of the city - Uther sent them to find Percival and bring him back to Camelot. To, to be executed.”
“They can’t find him,” Gwaine says decisively. “The woods are big and there are places a man can get absolutely lost, right?”
Merlin sighs and pushes a hand through his hair suddenly feeling old beyond his years. “Yes, but Arthur and Leon are the best trackers in Camelot. And Percival doesn’t exactly have a lot of woodscraft …”
“He needs a diversion,” Gaius says unexpectedly from Owen’s bedside. “Something that will distract Arthur and Leon and give Percival long enough to hide for a while. Long enough that we can absolutely clear his name, anyway.”
Merlin pushes his mouth out in a frustrated moue and frowns. “If he were here I could show him Owen’s bruises, he’d understand that. But now he’ll be intent on the hunt …”
Merlin shivers as his own words prickle over his skin.
“Percival needs more time. He’s going to need more evidence than a tidy room and some fading bruises.”
“Right now, Merlin, what he needs is a diversion. May I suggest that you … go and see what you can …. come up with?”
Merlin states blankly at Gaius for a moment before his gaze swings back to Gwaine.
“I. Er. Right. Yes. I’ll … go and um. See what I can do.”
Gwaine says nothing but shakes his head and snorts softly as Merlin goes racing out of Gaius’ rooms and hurtles himself up spiralling stone steps, heading for the battlements of the castle.
He has to stop Arthur and Leon before they reach Percival’s trail, otherwise there’s nothing he can do to shift Percival’s fate.
Continue to Part Two
Author: janesgravity
Artist: xsilverdreamsx
Pairings/characters: Percival/OMC (Owen) very background Merlin/Arthur; Lance/Gwen; Gwaine/various
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~31,000
Warnings: Implied dub-con; violence
Summary: Based very loosely on this kinkme_merlin prompt:
Percival/other (where other is prostitute) Arthur/Merlin pre-slash, warnings for physical and sexual assault. As the new knights settle into the castle post-season-3, a gruesome discovery is made. Sir Percival's chambers are in a shambles, a boy (16,17-ish) is found in his bed, brutally attacked, sexually assaulted and near-death. And Percival is no-where to be seen. Uther is gleeful and vindictive, and sets Arthur to hunting down the perpetrator (assuming it to be Percival) with guards and hounds. Arthur is torn between loyalty to his new knights, and the apparent evidence trying to seek justice for the boy. Merlin is not so sure. Putting together forensic clues with Gaius, and testimony from other knights, (Gwaine admits he recognizes the boy from the local whore-house, and suspects he's been a much-cherished long-time lover of Percival's) (Someone else knows the whore-house is harrassed by brigands and money-lenders.) (Merlin eventually heals the boy enough to take testimony and he accuses the brigands and defends Percival - but is he hiding something?) Meanwhile, a VERY sheltered Arthur is faced with a possibly innocent knight, with the VERY touchy taboo subject of a knight taking a lover, and male/male sexuality. He is processing this crime, versus the crime of the assault, and wrestling with deeply repressed feelings for Merlin, and the awakening possiblity that there may be no dishonour in this kind of union. Meanwhile, a hunted, devastated Percival believes his lover to be dead, and is seeking vengeance.
Author's notes: First of all, I have to thank my fandom soul-mate, i_bleed_magenta for her patient beta-ing work, her tireless support and cheerleading, and for being #teamknights. Literally, this story would not exist without her, and there’s no way I can thank her enough. Special thanks to xsilverdreamsx for her amazing art, and for giving Owen a face and form that fit perfectly with the character. And thanks also for the patient betaing and the hand-holding when I would freak out over this on my twitter feed. Thanks also to the llama, etharei for betaing and hand-holding, and having that special knack to know how to get me going when I was stuck. Ugh, I’ll be thanking god and the academy in a minute, but I have to give it up also to the paperpushers weekly chat. You guys were supportive and pushed me to keep going when I wasn’t sure if I could. This story is really a collaborative effort. I wrote the words, but it never would have been finished without the help of the people I listed.
It’s a bit AU, and is set vaguely between seasons 3 and 4. There’s no Morgana in this story, but Uther is still hale and hearty. The Round Table has already been formed.
Find xsilverdreamsx art here!
“Tell me again.”
Percy laughs and pushes a hand through the thick brown curls growing in a riot on Owen’s head.
“By now you could tell me,” he says as Owen pushes his head against Percy’s hand, looking like nothing so much as a satisfied cat.
“Please.” Owen pouts and tangles their legs together under the rumpled sheet. The room is too warm and close; heavy with the smell of sweat and sex. Percy glances at the window and frowns at the sky.
“It’ll be light soon,” he says. “And I’ve stayed all night again …”
“I like it when you stay,” Owen says softly, pressing his lips to Percy’s cheek. “I like it when you tell me about your home …”
Owen rests his chin on Percy’s chest and peers up at him from under his unruly fringe.
It’s an appealing picture, Percy admits to himself, smiling as he runs his hand down Owen’s back, tracing each round bone of his spine before resting his hand in the curve, his fingers nearly spanning the whole width of Owen’s back.
Owen’s eyes are big and shadowed in the near-grey light, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His mouth is swollen and red and there are dark marks on his neck.
“I wish I could, but - “ Percy’s cut off when Owen moves, sliding far enough up to look Percy in the eye, smiling. Percy stops talking and swallows, still caught by Owen’s sheer, clear beauty even after six months of … this. Owen kisses him then, his mouth soft and open.
He nips lightly at Percy’s bottom lip as he shifts until he’s straddling Percy’s hips, pressing down. Percy laughs because he could flip Owen’s slight form over in an instant - has done, many times. Now he lies back, enjoying the feeling of Owen’s body sliding over him, resting his hands on Owen’s hips.
They kiss slowly for a while, as though it’s the start of the night and not the grey start of the next day. Percy weighs his options as best he can as Owen goes to work on his neck, seeking out the spots with his tongue and teeth that are most likely to make Percy’s resolve waver.
Percy groans, his hands tightening on Owen’s hips as he feels himself growing hard again.
Owen laughs against his neck and rolls his own hips down, an unconscious graceful movement that has Percy’s eyes fixed and his heart racing.
“Please,” Owen whispers in his ear. “Just a bit longer …” Percy opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Owen’s rocking his hips again, and he’s somehow managed to slick his fingers from the nearly empty vial of oil on the bed and his fingers … he groans, soft and low as he works his fingers inside himself, bracing his other hand on Percy’s shoulder.
“Gods, Owen, I, “
Owen just lowers his head and bites his lower lip as slips his fingers out and eases himself onto Percival’s hard, aching cock. He’s slick, still and open from before but oh gods still so tight.
Percy digs his fingers into Owen’s skin, biting back groans and curses as they move together, a sheen of sweat making their skin damp and hot. He draws Owen in tight as the heat coils low in his belly and he comes apart, feeling Owen’s release spill over both of them.
They lie quiet and tangled for a few minutes, unwilling to separate.
Finally, Percy shifts reluctantly, sighing.
“I really have to get back.”
Owen rests his forehead against Percy’s for a moment, sighing. “I know. I just, I wish -”
“Soon,” Percival says quietly, with as much sincerity as he can manage. He bites his lip because he wants to say: I promise or I swear but he knows Owen won’t trust such vows - has too many broken promises in his past already.
“Soon,” he says again instead, pulling Owen to him and kissing him, long and sweet and deep.
Owen winds his arms around Percival’s neck, pressing as close as he can opening up to Percival’s mouth and tongue and touch. Percival groans quietly into Owen’s mouth before reluctantly pulling back, disentangling himself from the boy’s arms.
He pushes off the bed, stretching out his tired muscles, grinning when he feels a warm hand sneak up his arm, tracing the outline of his bicep.
He seeks out his clothes, dropped in haste many hours ago on the floor. Owen falls back on to the messy tangled sheets and watches him from underneath his unfairly long lashes. Percival leans forward, plants a gentle, chaste kiss at the corner of Owen’s mouth.
“I’ll see you next week.”
Owen sighs and bites his lip, pushing and pulling at the blankets until he’s underneath.
Percival can feel the weight of all the unsaid words on his tongue, and he lingers for a moment, letting his eyes roam over Owens prone form on the bed. His eyes are half-closing and he’s pulled the blankets up to his chin.
“Owen - “
“I know, Percy. It’s all right. See you …”
Owen’s asleep before he can finish his sentence. Percival drinks in the sight for a moment, his eyes travelling over the lines and planes of Owen’s face and arms, cast wide on the bed as he sleeps.
He smiles to himself as he finishes buckling his belt. He lets himself out of the room as quietly as he can and starts down the stairs.
He meets Gwaine on the ground floor, coming out of a room, a grumbling sleepy boy wound up in a sheet behind him. “That’s extra, you prick. You cost me customers by falling asleep.”
Gwaine rolls his eyes at Percival but digs into the pouch hanging from his belt anyway, dropping a few silver coins in the boy’s - Kay is his name, Percival remembers - hand. “If you didn’t have such a wicked bloody mouth, boy, you wouldn’t have worn me out.”
Kay raises an eyebrow, unimpressed as he curls his fingers around the coins. “Flattery gets you nowhere. Next time, I’m throwing a jug of water over your head.”
Gwaine makes an extravagant bow, and Percival has to put his hand over his mouth to stop himself laughing out loud.
“And they say romance is dead!” Gwaine swoops on Kay, bending him backwards and landing a loud, sloppy kiss on his mouth before gently pushing him back into his room.
“Get some sleep, darlin. I’ll be back for you.” Gwaine’s grin is wolfish but Kay’s laughing even as he shuts his door.
Gwaine turns and claps Percival on his shoulder. “C’mon big guy. We’d better get back to the castle before the night watch finishes or we’ll be scaling the walls.”
Percival nods and sighs, letting Gwaine’s chatter carry them both out into the quiet streets.
He hmmms and nods in what he assumes are the right places as Gwaine keeps up a steady stream of chatter as they make their way through the quiet pre-dawn streets back to the castle.
He’s preoccupied; thinking about Owen, about how much longer before he can get him out of that brothel and make him … mine Percival thinks, half-sighing. Some nights it seems like it’s going to be easy, getting Owen out of the brothel and into Percival’s bed alone; and sometimes it seems like an insurmountable task.
Every time he considers it, his brain throws up a thousand problems. What if the brothel won’t let him go? What if he doesn’t have enough coin? What if … what if the other knights turned on him when they found out?
Not Gwaine, of course, Percival thinks, glancing sideways at his friend. Gwaine had brought him to the brothel in the first place, months ago. Percival had been … shy at first but immediately struck by Owen’s laughing brown eyes and generous smile. It had been - it still is - irrelevant to Percival where Owen earns his money. All he knows is that he wants Owen to be his and - honestly - damn the consequences.
He’s so absorbed in his own thoughts and making the occasional vague noises to show Gwaine that he’s still listening that he’s surprised when they reach the castle, just as the night watch is going off-duty. One of the guards recognises them and makes a crude joke about where they’ve been all night. Gwaine laughs easily, returning the guard’s banter, even as he keeps his hand tight on Percival’s massive bicep.
The guard doesn’t mean anything by it and as far as Gwaine knows, he’s the only one who knows that Percival’s paramour is a young man, but it does make him rather over-sensitive to off-hand, off-colour comments.
He pushes Percival gently when they’re inside the castle walls. “Go get some beauty sleep, big guy. We’ve training in a few hours.”
Percival blinks and frowns at Gwaine, like he’s just realised where they are.
“Oh. Er, right. See you later Gwaine.” He slaps Gwaine on the shoulder, nearly sending him into a wall, and sighs wearily as he makes his way through the silent corridors to his room.
Percival pushes open his door and closes it behind him as quietly as he can. He breathes in and out, rolling his shoulders as he moves towards his bed, carelessly discarding his clothes as he goes, too tired to pick them up and fold them like he normally would; not wanting to burden his squire with needless tasks.
But with the grey of dawn pushing through his heavy drapes, all Percival can do is pull off his boots before collapsing on the bed and letting the oblivion of sleep take him.
Owen curls up on Kay’s bed, leaning against the wooden headboard. He watches his friend as he readies for the evening: peering into a shard of silvered glass as he applies kohl.
“You don’t have to come with me,” Kay says, not taking his eyes off the mirror. “I”m sure I could -”
Owen’s already shaking his head. “No. We made a deal that if one of us is going out for a job, the other goes with. I’m going with you.”
Kay sighs and steps back, squinting at his handiwork. It will have to do. He comes over to the bed and runs an affectionate hand through Owen’s hair, absently patting down loose strands.
“It’s just …”
Owen reaches out and tugs at Kay’s free hand until he collapses on the bed.
“If you’re worried about Percival, don’t. I was working here when I met him, it’s not like he doesn’t know what I do for a living. He’s … fine with it.”
Kay rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He can’t meet Owen’s eyes right now. “Yes, yes. But these men … they’re thugs, Owen. You’re used to being treated so well here and I just, I don’t know …” he trails off as Owen lies down beside him. He’s protected Owen as best as he could over the past year - ever since he nearly tripped over him, starving and snarling in the depths of winter, trying to keep warm in a stinking alleway.
I can show you a better life than this. Come with me.
Since then, Owen’s been … petted for want of a better word. Spoiled; by Kay, by Agatha and the girls. They all give him the pick of the clients: the ones with the gentlest hands and the most regard for the whores as people, as opposed to a means for relief.
And then. Enter Percival and Owen’s life is on the verge of changing.
“I’ll be with you,” Owen says, tangling their fingers together on top of the bedcovers. “Of course I’ll be all right.”
Kay sighs but swallows the rest of his misgivings. They made the pact when Owen first started working - right after he turned sixteen, as near as he could figure it out, about a month after Kay had brought him here - all wide eyes and too-long arms and legs, that sometimes Kay forgets about it.
This is only the second time in the past year that they’ve left the brothel for a job and the stakes are so much higher this time. Mentally Kay curses the man who’s led them to this: himself and Owen offered up as partial payment for the weakness of someone else.
But, he rationalises as he lets Owen pull him up from the bed, this is what they do. This is what they’re paid for. They are, after all, whores, no matter how nicely you might dress it up and try and give it some kind of noble slant.
He lets Owen slip his hand through his arm as they walk through the quiet streets to the moneylender’s house, where they’re to be the, ah, guests, of two of his closest men for the evening.
It will cut the debt owed to the man by Agatha’s brother by a third and - hopefully - stop the moneylender’s men from hanging around the brothel. They’re nothing but the lowest thugs and they always make the back of Kay’s neck prickle unpleasantly.
There’s nothing that will stop Bran from haunting Camelot’s lowest taverns and gambling away money he can ill afford to lose and Kay has the sinking feeling that this may not be his and Owen’s last visit to the moneylender’s house.
The house is at the outer reaches of the Lower Town, a mean, three-storied wooden building that gives Kay a shiver deep in his guts. He fights an overwhelming urge to turn to Owen, to tell him to run, get away from all of them as fast as he can; from the moneylender, the thugs, even Kay himself who brought Owen into this life in the first place.
He wants to tell Owen to go to Percy now; to leave all of it behind, that his knight will take him in without hesitation even though he’d agreed to buy Owen out of his place in the brothel. Agatha was a good woman as far as madams went but she was also a businesswoman.
Kay shakes his head and sighs. All he can really do tonight is keep as good an eye on Owen as he can and make sure they both get back to the brothel in one piece.
Later, much later, Kay will ask himself if he could have done more. Stopped it from happening. Worked harder to convince Owen to stay back. Anything.
Some things stay sharp in his mind. Being let into the house. Meeting the thugs. Sweaty hand on the back of his neck; a sharp glance sideways to see Owen already on his knees his eyes wide and streaming. He’s able to flick his eyes sideways to Kay for a moment, give him a wink that later on Kay will see in his worst dreams, even as the thug digs his fingers into the back of Owen’s neck and grunts something, making Owen turn his gaze back and down, redoubling his efforts to get the brute off as fast as he can.
Everything else flickers like a torch guttering in a draft, making shadows and confusion.
He can’t remember why or how it started but somehow Owen ended up with the man who’s always given Kay an unpleasant shudder. His remaining eye is dead and cold and there’s thick scar tissue where his other one should be. He’s a murderer, a thief and the lowest of the low, and the very last person Kay would want anywhere near Owen. Kay’s heard stories around the brothel about him from a couple of the girls who have been there long enough to finally be able to pick and choose who they went with. Or - they had been able to until Agatha’s brother had showed up one night, bleeding and bruised; begging her to help him.
Agatha is a tough woman. An ex-whore who had taken over the brothel years ago in a legendary coup that now only a couple of the others remember, she has a blind spot where her brother is concerned. Unfortunately that blind spot Kay thinks as he feels himself shoved to his knees and begins unlacing his own thug’s breeches, working on automatic pilot - is quite possibly going to get one of them badly hurt.
Or worse.
The room they’re sharing - a low bedroom under the steep eaves of the house - is quiet apart from the usual noises; nothing out of the ordinary, nothing Kay hasn’t heard in five years of working at the brothel.
The sharp, sudden crack, like a branch snapping suddenly, is loud and shocking. Kay stumbles as the thug he’s with pushes him back and then, he sees blood and Owen crumpled in the corner and oh gods that’s just... wrong.
“Hold that one. I don’t like my lessons to be interrupted.”
Hands like iron around his arms. Owen crying out as he’s beaten with a belt and kicked repeatedly, his cries tapering off to whimpers and finally silence.
Kay sags in his captor’s grip, not realising he’d been struggling till then.
Bile clogs his throat but he swallows, hard and his stomach roils but nothing happens.
“He dead?”
An indifferent shrug. “Don’t know. You, boy …”
The thug turns his cold eye on Kay.“What’s the name of that knight? The one that’s been mooning over this one? I heard your madam talking to Bors about him. His name, boy. I won’t ask again.”
Later, it’s this that Kay regrets the most. That at the very end, he can’t protect his friend, can’t save him; can’t save Percival who’s been nothing but good to Owen.
“S-Sir Percival.” His voice is barely a croak and he wonders, distantly, if he’s been screaming. Not that there’s anyone in this godforsaken part of town that would come to his aid.
He’s let go, suddenly, and collapses to the floor, struggling to pull himself up. “Right. You know where his room is in the castle?”
Kay pulls himself to his feet and staggers, dizzy for a moment, but stays upright.
“I - yes.”
“Then you’re coming with me. I ain’t swinging for no whore. And if you know what’s good for you boy you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
Kay nods, unable to speak.
The other thug sighs and scratches his hand through his hair. “Boss won’t like this. That boy’s a good earner. Or he was.”
“I don’t give a fuck what he was. He bit me. You go break the news, me and this lad here are going for a little walk to the castle.”
“So are you coming with us or not?”
Percival looks up from his bed, blinking in confusion. Gwaine is lounging in the open doorway, one arm propped on the jamb, his red cloak somehow flaring dramatically even though he’s standing still.
“Er, coming where?” Percival asks, feeling as though he’s missed half the conversation which, with Gwaine, really isn’t all that unusual.
“To the tavern. You, me, Leon, Elyan … even Lance is coming. He’s been driving Gwen nuts, all overprotective over the baby and her, and she’s happy to see the back of him for a night. Plus, we haven’t celebrated the happy couple’s excellent news yet.”
Percival rolls his eyes and just shakes his head. “I can’t … I need to save my coin, Gwaine. You know that. I can’t just go off to the tavern because you want me to.”
“As to that,” Gwaine says cheerfully, coming all the way into Percival’s room and holding out his hand, “I beat Leon at cards earlier today. He’s paying. And Lance and Gwen adding to the population - well in a few months - has put him in a generous and sentimental mood. Your coin is perfectly safe.”
Percival sighs but holds out his hand and lets Gwaine pull him to his feet.
“Now we’re talking. Also, I may or may not have made a bet with Leon and Elyan that we could out-drink them. Lance is going to referee …”
Percival sighs and shakes his head, as he follows Gwaine out of the castle and through the streets to the tavern. The others are already there, having taken over a large table in the corner.
There are large, foaming tankards on the table and the last time Percival saw that look in Leon’s eyes, six bandits lay dead around him five minutes later.
“Why do I let you talk me into these things? This is not going to end well.”
“Yes, my friend,” Gwaine says, sitting astride one of the long benches at the table, “but the question is who is it going to end badly for?”
Percival laughs at that, pulling one of the overfull tankards towards himself. He drains half of it right off, feeling the steel band around his chest ease somewhat in the company of his fellow knights.
Growing up in a small village, Percival had never really made friends easily. He’d come into his full growth early and so had been put to work in the fields, Cenred’s taxes making life hard for everyone, until the raid that had ended everything; the village left no more than a smoking wreck and Percival fleeing for Camelot, his parents’ faces as soldiers put them to the sword forever etched on his memory. He had wanted to stay, wanted to fight but his father had made him promise:
“You get out of here, Percival. You run. I know you want to fight but I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose my only son to a man like Cenred. Head to Camelot. Don’t look back, and don’t stop.”
He’d taken his father’s advice but couldn’t stop himself - a scared, grieving boy already on the run - from looking back. The last thing he saw of his village was the smoke rising to the sky.
He’d stumbled through wilderness after wilderness with only his heavy heart, a stolen sword and a battered map for company. The fact that he’d gone from that terrified boy to now a knight … Percival shakes his head and drinks deep from his tankard again.
“All right there big guy? We lost you for a moment.”
Percival shakes off his memories and gives Gwaine a wide smile. “I’m fine. Just … thinking.”
Elyan slaps him on the back and slams down another tankard. Leon grumbles into his own, before sighing and wiping foam off his beard. “I can’t believe you talked me into playing cards with you. You’re nothing but a charlatan.”
Gwaine grins, unrepentant as he snares his own drink. “Right. Less talking. More drinking. Lots more drinking.”
Percival has no idea what time it is when he staggers out of the tavern, Gwaine a heavy weight against his side. He’s dragging them both and suspects that he might have to pick Gwaine up and carry him because he seems to basically be passed out.
The sky is changing slowly from black to grey and Percival sighs, wincing in advance at the long, torturous day of training that’s bound to be ahead of them once Arthur finds out they’ve all spent the whole night in the tavern.
Percival sighs and shoots a grateful glance at Leon who drops back to take Gwaine’s other arm. Lance and Elyan are well ahead of them, talking quietly together as they all head towards the castle.
Gwaine mutters something and leans heavily on Leon’s arm, making him laugh. “Come on, you. You’re going to need your rest for tomorrow. Er, today,” he amends, glancing at the sky.
“Leon,” Percival says, hesitant. “Once we’ve dropped Gwaine off, can I … talk to you?”
Leon glances at Percival over Gwaine’s head and searches his face for a moment. “Yes, of course. Let’s get madam here tucked away safely first and then I’m all yours.”
They bid good night (or good morning to Lance and Elyan,) settle Gwaine in his room, stripping off his boots and lying him down on his bed. Percival thoughtfully nudges the empty chamberpot to the bedside and takes a deep breath as the first light of day starts lightening the horizon.
He smiles as he gazes at what he can see of the town; out there Owen is curled up in his bed; sleep-warm and waiting. Percival sighs and thinks of the coins he has hidden in his room: so close to being able to buy Owen out of that place and have him only in Percival’s bed.
He shifts his shoulders and glances at Leon, who’s watching him with a raised eyebrow.
“You know what,” he says, quietly. “It’s not important. It’ll keep.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. I’m also a little bit drunk and a lot tired.”
Leon claps him on the shoulder at that, glancing back at the bed as Gwaine mutters but doesn’t shift.
“We all are, my friend. I’ll see you on the training grounds tomorrow. I’m sure Arthur has something special planned for us all.”
Percival nods at that, pulling a face at the thought of a long, painful day sparring and training, Arthur’s commands and sarcastic asides already drumming in his ears, and turns towards his own room, his thoughts a tangle of training, his home village and always at the back of his mind, Owen.
He rubs his hand over his head, pausing to get his bearings when the hallway spins a little bit and makes his way carefully in the dark.
Merlin turns over and mutters low curses into his pillow as the sun pierces the thin gap of his window, shining right on to his face. He curses again before dragging himself out of the bed and pulling on his breeches, muttering to himself the whole time.
He’s never been big on this whole morning deal, something that hasn’t changed in his years of service to Arthur, prince of pra - of Camelot.
Gaius is sitting at the table in his workroom, eating something steaming out of a bowl. He looks at Merlin and gently pushes a cup across. Merlin sits down and inhales the scent of herbs before taking a cautious sip.
“Mm. Still hot.” His voice is rough but the fog in his head is clearing and he manages to muster up a smile. “Thanks, Gaius.” He snags a piece of bread and an apple before twisting off the bench.
“I’d better get going. Training today, if you need me.”
Gaius nods, offering his own warm smile in return before he turns back to the ancient, battered book of herblore he’s studying.
“Try and stay out of trouble today, Merlin.”
Merlin mutters something as he bites into the apple, heading for Arthur’s rooms.
Staying out of trouble shouldn’t be hard today, surely. The kingdom is quiet. No random magical attacks for oh … weeks now.
It’s a training day, which always puts Arthur in a good mood because it means he’s outside with his knights, engaging in extended physical activity, and not stuck in council meetings with his father all day.
Those are the days that Merlin really needs to be alert to avoid flying objects.
He’s finished both apple and bread before he reaches Arthur’s room. He pushes open the door and pauses, just watching quietly for a moment, waiting for the small, quiet ache in his chest to settle down.
Arthur might be his destiny - and sometimes his curse - but the thing that really trips Merlin up every single day is the fact that he’s silently, pointlessly, desperately in love with the prince of pra - of Camelot.
He tells himself that he just needs time to get over it, for the feeling to pass; that he’s confused duty and loyalty with love and lust, but deep inside, where his baser instincts twist up with his higher feelings, Merlin knows better. He’s done for, turn the spit and roast his heart …. he shakes his head of the foolish notion and manages to refocus his attention on his very own destiny - and maybe his doom.
Arthur’s up and about, wearing nothing but the worn breeches he sleeps in, standing at the window. He looks golden and eternal, the early morning sun washing over his solid, muscular form and Merlin’s helpless before it for a moment, staring.
Then, thankfully, the spell is broken.
“Merlin! There you are! Stop gathering wool like an idiot and get me something to eat! Something substantial. It’s going to be a good day.”
Arthur’s grin is nearly feral and Merlin merely snorts and shakes his head before heading down to the kitchen, charming as much food as possible out of the recalcitrant cook.
He moves about Arthur’s chambers quietly, tidying up, getting Arthur’s favoured training garb ready for the day, checking his sword. Occasionally Arthur throws a sarcastic barb in his direction, something that Merlin easily deflects.
He relaxes as they banter back and forth, managing to mostly keep his hands to appropriate places while he helps Arthur into his training armor. (Mostly. And if he slips once in a while and his hand slides over Arthur’s arm, or on the small of his back for just a second, well, Merlin is naturally clumsy after all.)
Arthur and Merlin are first to the training ground and Merlin stands at the side, watching as Arthur warms up with his sword, his arm weaving back and forth and up and down in a complicated, mesmerising arc.
Leon is first down of the knights, like always, looking a little worse for wear. Arthur’s grin when he sees the state of him turns positively evil and even Merlin has to stifle a laugh.
“Rough night, Sir Leon,” Arthur calls, mocking. Leon turns and sighs, gathering a training sword from the pile beside Merlin at the side of the field and heads out, his jaw clenched. “Yes, highness. We were, ah, celebrating Lance and Gwen’s good news. I looked for you to ask you along but you were still with your father …”
Arthur merely rolls his eyes and grins as he directs Leon to pick up a heavy training shield, swinging his own practice sword with ease. Leon bears up bravely, but still can’t hide the first flinch as Arthur’s sword clashes noisily against the shield.
Merlin nearly stumbles when Gwaine somehow sneaks up and nudges him in the shoulder.
“Should’ve come with us, Merlin. It was a great night out.”
Merlin just shakes his head and eyes Leon, grimly holding his own against a determined Arthur.
“No, thanks. I know better than to go drinking with you. What I can’t understand is how the others haven’t learned that lesson yet.”
Gwaine grins, wide and bright and completely unrepentant. “Because, Merlin, unlike you, and your precious princess over there, they have a sense of adventure.”
Merlin sticks his tongue out at Gwaine’s retreating back as he heads onto the field to pair off with Elyan, who seems to be slightly better off than the others.
Lance is patiently putting his squire through his paces and Percival … Merlin frowns and scans the training ground again. Even after a hard night out, Percival is usually one of the first knights out for training. Merlin turns to look at Arthur who’s also looking around the field, frowning.
“Merlin! Go and see what’s keeping Percival. Dump a bucket of water from the well on his head if you have to.”
Merlin sighs and nods, not looking forward to the prospect of dragging the human equivalent - the hungover human equivalent of an oak tree out to training.
However, he keeps that to himself and just nods, before darting back into the castle, heading for Percival’s quarters.
Percival runs. He runs, and runs, his lungs tearing as he pushes them past endurance. His face is wet and his throat is raw. He’s not sure whether he’s been yelling or not. He needs to wake up, because he has to be dreaming he has to - he stops running when he trips over a tree root, stumbling and falling hard on the unforgiving forest floor.
He rolls to his back and stares up at the canopy of branches and leaves and sky, waiting for his heart to slow down, waiting to wake up. He doesn’t know how long he lies there, but he can feel the sun passing across the sky - the track of the shadows making their silent way over the ground and the trees.
When the first chill of the evening makes Percival shiver, he realises that he’s not dreaming. And that he’s … he sits up, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes until they water.
Owen.
He’s … he’s … Percival’s mind shies away from the word, but stubbornly substitutes gone in its place, as though Owen’s just gone out the door and will be back any moment.
Nonsense. Percival shakes his head and finally studies his surroundings. He’d been aware of falling over a tree, of lying on the forest floor …. he turns his gaze towards Camelot and realises he’s run further from the city than he had thought possible. The battlements of the castle are distant and hazy in the treacherous evening light and Percival blinks and rubs his eyes, his heart a heavy weight in his chest.
He sets his feet towards the citadel, but something makes him pause. If … if Owen is … dead and he’s been … attacked … Percival’s shoulders slump and it’s all he can do not to lie down again. He’ll be blamed. Accused of, of murder and thrown into Camelot’s dungeons. Stripped of his knighthood, his friends, everything …. and - his jaw sets as he straightens up.
If he’s in Camelot’s dungeons accused of Owen’s murder, the real killers will walk around free with Owen’s blood on their hands.
No. He won’t let that happen. He can’t. Running like a coward is no way to honour Owen’s memory but neither is being thrown in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. He closes his eyes and conjures up Owen’s face - his laughing brown eyes, and his messy hair, the feel of his hands sliding over Percival’s skin …
Percival’s vision is blurry with tears when he opens his eyes again but his resolve is steel. He will have justice for Owen, and find some kind of peace for his own shattered heart.
He turns away from Camelot and searching for a path through the woods, slips as quietly as he can into the trees.
At first, Merlin can’t process what he’s seeing. Percival’s room is as sparse and tidy as always, and his bed looks like it hasn’t been slept in, but … there’s … a body. On Percival’s bed. His heart gives a sickening lurch before he realises that whoever it is, it’s too short to be Percival.
On closer inspection, Merlin sees that it’s a young boy, no more than 17, and he’s been beaten very badly. Immediately the mystery of who the boy is and what he’s doing here falls away as Merlin moves to deal with the most immediate concern: treatment.
He dashes out of Percival’s room and almost crashes into George.
“George! Please - it’s urgent. Go and fetch Gaius and bring him to Sir Percival’s room. I have to go and get the king.”
To George’s credit all he does is nod before turning and running off and Merlin is thankful he doesn’t have to waste time.
He heads for the training field as fast as he can and shouts for Arthur when he gets there.
There’s a flurry of noise after that - more shouting, the clashing of swords being dropped and then, suddenly - all of them crowded into Percival’s room - silence.
Merlin takes one look at Arthur’s face and goes and busies himself with the body on the bed. Might as well make himself - “Oh my god,” he says quietly. “Gwaine - give me your dagger, quick!”
Merlin holds the small steel blade under the boy’s nose and there -
“He’s still alive.”
Arthur frowns at that, and folds his arms. “Gaius - “
“Already on his way,” Merlin says, distracted, as he carefully examines the boy’s limbs.
“Right. So - who is he? And what’s he doing in Percival’s room?”
They’re distracted by Gaius’ arrival who, upon seeing the boy and hearing that he still lives, immediately starts issuing orders.
It falls to Lance to lift the boy from Percival’s bed once Gaius determines he can be safely moved.
“Take him to my chambers, Lance. Merlin, run ahead and prepare a pallet for him. Gwaine - run down to the laundry. I need boiling water, towels and strips of linen. No delaying!”
Gwaine glances at the boy again, and then at Arthur, his expression shuttered. “I’ll be right back,” he says, tapping Elyan on the shoulder to help.
Gaius and Merlin work quickly and quietly on the boy, carefully bandaging and washing his more serious wounds when Gwaine and Elyan return.
Merlin’s vaguely aware, then, of Arthur and the knights in the background, shifting occasionally, but not leaving.
“Does anyone know his name? Anything that might help? Why he might have been in Percival’s room?” Gaius asks eventually, when he and Merlin have cleaned and bandaged as much of the boy as possible. He has a head wound but Gaius probes the skull carefully with gentle fingers and smiles. “Nothing broken there. Now he just needs to rest, and heal.”
“I know him,” Gwaine says, after a short silence. “I … he … works - worked at Agatha’s.”
Leon and Elyan exchange glances, eyebrows rising high.
“The brothel? He’s a …” Leon makes a vague gesture with his hand as Gwaine rolls his eyes.
“Yes, Leon. He’s a whore. Or at least - he was.”
“But - how did he end up in Percival’s room? And not, say, yours? And where is Percival?”
Everyone turns to look at Arthur, who has folded his arms again and is now frowning at Merlin, as if the appearance of badly beaten boys in the castle is somehow his fault.
Merlin just rolls his eyes and goes back to binding the boy’s ribs.
“His name is Owen,” Gwaine says. “And he and Percival were, are.... lovers. I mean, it didn’t start out that way but Percival fell for him pretty hard. He’s been working on getting him out of there. He wouldn’t do this. He’d rather cut off his own arm than hurt Owen, I swear.”
“Then where is he?” Arthur’s tone is pre-emptory and demanding, which strikes Gwaine like flint sparking against tinder.
“Well I don’t know, princess! I’m guessing that he saw Owen on his bed like that, thought he was dead and - “
“Panicked and ran,” Leon finishes, his voice soft.
Arthur closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He opens them and automatically seeks out Merlin, still quietly working over the boy - the wh - Owen’ body. Merlin looks up, and gives Arthur a small private smile that shouldn’t make Arthur feel better and more in control of himself, but it does.
He sighs and runs one gloved hand through his hair. “I’ll have to tell my father,” he says, reluctantly.
Uther had been dead against knighting commoners and it had led to some spectacular rows, but Arthur had held his ground. He trusted all of his knights but his round table knights … no man above the other. He sighs and studies the boy again.
Indeed.
“Merlin, with me,” he says, his voice sharper than he means.
He looks to Gaius, even as Merlin tucks the covers around the boy’s prone frame and straightens, ready to follow Arthur into the lion’s den.
“He’ll be fine, sire. I just need someone to watch him while he’s still unconscious. I can do it but …”
“We’ll help,” Leon says suddenly. “He was important to Percival, which means that now he’s important to us.” He looks around at the other knights who all nod. Gwaine drags a chair across from the table and settles on it by the pallet, waving the others away.
“I’ll send for someone else when I get tired.”
The others nod, and Lance says something about fetching Gwen. “She’ll want to help, too. And to know what’s happened.”
Arthur nods and breathes out a sigh, feeling obscurely relieved at the - at his knights’ show of support for Percival, even though … he reaches out, tugging on Merlin’s sleeve. “Come on Merlin. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”
Gwaine stares down at the pale unconscious boy on the pallet and replays the last time he saw him. Shaking his head, Gwaine reaches out and pushes back Owen’s hair. He looks young - too young to have been doing what he was doing, but from what Kay told him of Owen’s story, Agatha’s is a far better option than starving on the streets.
“Kay!” Gwaine exclaims, turning rapidly to Gaius who’s grinding something with a mortar and pestle. He raises an eyebrow in silent enquiry as Gwaine waves his hand and pushes his own hair back from his head.
“Kay - he … works with Owen. I uh … know him.”
Gaius snorts softly and shakes his head. “And you think he might know something about what’s happened?”
“Yeah, I think so. Kay and Owen are close. If anyone can shed some light, it’s Kay.”
“Will he come to the castle? I mean, he might be deeper in whatever this is than you realise.”
Gwaine finds a grin somewhere, even as his heart turns over. “I know, but I also know that he’ll do anything for Owen. I’ll get Elyan to sit with Owen and go to Agatha’s. Plus … to be honest, Gaius, I’d be happier if he were under our protection right now. I don’t want - “
Gaius waves a hand and brings whatever he’s been mixing over to Owen’s pallet. “Go. Bring the boy back here and then tell Arthur, when he’s done with his father.”
Gwaine nods, but lingers for a moment.
“Something else, Gwaine?”
“I just … Percival really loves Owen. I mean - he was saving money to get him out of the brothel, he was making plans - I know it’s hard to believe because I’m the only one who saw them together, but I can’t believe that Percival could have done this, Gaius. He - “
Gaius rests a hand on Gwaine’s arm, giving it a reassuring pat. “I’m sure the truth - whatever it is - will come out. For what it’s worth, Gwaine, I don’t believe Percival to be capable of this kind of violence. Especially not against someone you say he cares so deeply for.”
Gwaine nods and sighs as he pushes a hand through his hair in confusion.
“What I can’t understand - where is he? I know he wouldn’t have done this, if he knew Owen was hurt …”
“Well, it’s only speculation on my part,” Gaius says as he moves slowly around Owen, checking his bandages and carefully unwinding one that’s stained a dark red. Gwaine waits as Gaius carefully replaces the bandage with the paste of herbs and winds the linen again “ - but if Percival thought Owen was dead when he saw him … well, he might have -”
“Run,” Gwaine says softly, his eyes on Owen. “If he thought he was going to be accused … and let’s face it, Uther has no love for Arthur’s Round Table, so it’s not that much of a stretch …”
Gwaine sighs and rolls his shoulders, feeling some tension leach out. “All I know is that Percival is incapable of hurting Owen. He couldn’t have done this, Gaius.”
Gaius nods, distracted again as Owen moves on the pallet, but doesn’t wake up.
“Go and talk to this Kay of yours. I’ll examine the boy again and talk to Merlin when he comes back. We’ll get to the bottom of it Gwaine.”
Arthur strides along the castle corridors, feeling a headache forming at the base of his skull. He can hear Merlin behind him, his breath puffing out as he scrambles to keep up. They’re of a height but Merlin is a natural ambler, so when Arthur is inclined to put on speed, he tends to get left behind.
He stops and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve some of the pressure in his head.
Merlin stops beside him and Arthur turns, leaning against the wall.
“Headache?” Merlin asks, reaching out to touch Arthur’s forehead, like he can soothe it away.
Arthur remembers just in time that there’s a stone wall behind him, so he doesn’t jerk back and hit his head. He does raise his eyebrows, and waits. “Did you mistake me for one of the stable cats, or a girl, Merlin? I don’t need you petting me!”
Merlin jerks away then, like his hand is on fire. “I - sorry. It’s just you look so - “
Arthur sighs and rakes a hand through his hair.
“It may have escaped your notice, Merlin but I have a lot on my mind at the moment!”
He feels vaguely guilty for snapping but Merlin just steps back and spreads out his hands in a placating gesture. “I know. I know what’s at stake for you, Arthur. I’m - sorry.”
“Just. Keep your distance, Merlin, all right? Please.”
Arthur waits until Merlin nods before striding down the corridor again. The sooner he gets this over with, the better.
It goes about as well as he expects it to. There’s shouting at first, and Arthur can’t miss the fleeting gleeful expression on Uther’s face.
“It just proves, Arthur, that you cannot trust something as important as a knighthood to mere commoners. This is the risk you run! What of your precious … round table now?”
Arthur clenches his teeth and grinds them together, trying to find the best way to word it. “Father … that round table that you … dismiss … any one of those men would die for Camelot. Would die for me. Or for you. I know you have issues with not all of them being nobles but to be honest - they are the most noble men that I have ever met. I’ve fought beside them, and with them, and I cannot reward such loyalty to Camelot by dismissing them out of hand!”
He takes a deep breath when he realises his voice is spiralling upwards and nearly out of control. Shouting at this juncture won’t help anyone - it certainly won’t help Percival at all. Arthur resists the urge to pinch his nose again, the headache now roaring through his skull and making it hard for him to think.
Uther stares at him for a long, weighted minute. “You will not give them up? Even with all this … “ he makes a wide gesture with one hand.
“It would take a lot more than this for me to give them up,” Arthur says, surprised to find his voice so steady. “They are my knights. I’ve trained them, I’ve fought with them, I’m the one who invested them with knighthoods. I will not turn my back on - on any of them.”
“Very well,” Uther says, returning his attention to the parchments on the table. “That … Percival, however, Arthur - he’s a danger to you and your precious round table. Find him, and have him executed,” Uther says then, almost off hand, turning his attention back to the papers covering the table
“Father - “
“No, Arthur! He’s a murderer and he consorts with - men. We cannot have men like that running loose and making Camelot looking weak. Take the dogs. Find him, and bring him back to meet his fate.”
Arthur stirs, wanting to say something, aware of Merlin right behind him, so close that Arthur can feel the drift of breath on the back of his neck. He looks at his father’s face, sees nothing but steel resolve, and sighs.
“Yes, father. Of course.” He turns and tilts his head at Merlin who follows him out of the chamber silently, but still close on his heels. He expects Merlin to start bombarding him with questions and arguments as soon as they leave Uther’s presence, but he’s abnormally, unnaturally quiet.
Eventually Arthur can’t take it and stops, twirling on his heel. “All right, Merlin. Out with it. I expected you to be shouting at me or lecturing me by now. What is it?”
Merlin frowns and chews briefly on his bottom lip. “It’s just - there’s something not right. Not just that I don’t think Percival’s a cold-blooded murderer, because I don’t, and that there’s nothing wrong with, you know, men being with other men - it’s just … something’s not right, Arthur.”
Arthur blinks as he processes Merlin’s words, filtering through what he considers to just be Merlin-chatter to get to the point of what he’s saying.
“Merlin whatever it is, make it quick. Because if I don’t leave soon, my father will want to know why.”
“I know! I know, Arthur, I just … I need to talk to Gaius. We need to examine Owen again. Something isn’t right.”
“There’s a lot about this that isn’t right, Merlin. I’m going to the kennels to get the dogs. If you see Sir Leon, tell him to meet me there. We’ll move faster if there’s only two of us.”
“But I should - “
Arthur reaches out slowly, resting a hand on Merlin’s arm. “No. Not this time. We’ll be all right, Merlin. You stay here, work with Gaius. If you’re right, I’d rather not condemn an innocent man to the gallows - regardless of who he sleeps with.”
Merlin sighs, and lingers, reluctant to leave Arthur’s side. “I - all right. Well done, by the way,” Merlin says, almost shy. “Back there with Uther - I was… proud of you for standing up for the knights like that. I know it can’t have been easy.”
Arthur just gives a tight nod, and turns sharply, heading down the corridor towards the stables, doing his best to ignore the warm feeling spreading through his chest. Whatever it is, now is not the time.
Owen is dreaming. He is four years old and is sitting on a rickety wooden stool, laughing as he helps his mother roll out bread dough. She has streaks of flour on her face as she guides Owen’s small hands through the dough, her voice a rising and falling cadence.
Mummy Owen asks, looking out the window, who’s that man?
In Gaius’ room, Owen stirs and mutters as the shadow of one of his tormentors appears at his mother’s window in his dream. He stills and shifts, reaching out to something unseen.
Merlin makes his way back to Gaius’ room as fast as he can, meeting Leon’s squire on the way, dispatching him with Arthur’s message. He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions. He can feel his thoughts unravelling - spinning out in all directions and he stops to take a breath. It’s not going to help anyone - especially not Percival - if Merlin can’t gather his thoughts enough to articulate what he thinks might have happened to the boy in Gaius’ room.
Merlin frowns as he starts walking again, his pace slightly slower. If Percival had … hurt Owen, as unlikely as Gwaine said it was, and if it had happened in his own room … why wasn’t there more damage? Chairs turned over, bowls broken - something. But the room was as orderly as Merlin had ever seen it, and according to Gwaine, the knights had all gone out the night before to the tavern and so …
“The bruises!” Merlin exclaims out loud, breaking into a sudden run.
He makes his way to Gaius’ chambers as fast as he can, and he’s out of breath by the time he bursts through the door.
Gaius raises both eyebrows in shock and Gwaine - who has to step back as Merlin bursts through the door - blinks in surprise at Merlin’s sudden appearance.
“What the hell, Merlin?”
Merlin waves a hand as he bends over, winded from his headlong race through the castle.
“Sorry. Thought. Of. Something. That. Could. Help. Percival.”
“Here, my boy - drink this. Slow breaths, that’s it.”
Merlin accepts the cup gratefully from Gaius’ hand and takes a long, slow drink of water.
“Better?
He flashes Gaius a quick, bright smile. “Yes, much. Thanks, Gaius.”
Gwaine watches the exchange between Merlin and Gaius with barely concealed impatience.
“You were saying ..”
“Oh right! Owen! The bruises!”
It’s Gwaine’s turn to raise his eyebrows but he waits for Merlin to explain.
“You all went out last night, yes? To the tavern.”
“Yeees but - “
“When did you get back to the castle?”
Gwaine frowns as Owen stirs and mutters on the pallet, causing Gaius to lean over him, checking him over carefully.
“He’s just dreaming. Means he’s sleeping normally. Go on, Gwaine.”
“Uh … close to dawn, I think. Yeah - the sky was getting light.”
“Which means that Percival wouldn’t even have seen Owen until then if he was with you all night. And if he … attacked Owen then - Percival’s room isn’t that isolated. Someone would have heard something. But Percival’s room looks exactly the same as it always does.”
Gaius and Gwaine frown, and exchange a cautious, weighted look.
Gwaine studies his friend’s face closely. “There’s something else, isn’t there? There has to be, because that’s just …. circumstances that can be explained away.”
Merlin nods and makes his way carefully to the edge of the bed.
“There is. The bruises.”
Gaius exclaims loudly enough to make Merlin and Gwaine jump, and for Owen to shift on the bed, frown lines on his face. They all wait but he settles and sleeps on, though the frown remains.
“Of course. I should have thought of that myself. Well done, Merlin,” Gaius says, missing the pleased flush of red on Merlin’s ears as he turns back to the bed to re-examine Owen’s body, frowning and muttering over the dark purple marks on his arms.
“Can someone enlighten me, then?” Gwaine asks, his tone irritated as he shifts restlessly on his feet, like he wants desperately to be somewhere else.
“You were all at the tavern that night until nearly dawn,” Merlin explains.
“Arthur had you all out on the training field, what, two or three hours later?”
Gwaine nods, not taking his eyes off Merlin’s face.
“Well. If. If - Percival had … done this. His room would be a huge mess because even with Percival being so much bigger, Owen would have fought back, would have shouted … and then I thought of the bruises.”
“Indeed,” Gaius says, his voice distracted. “You are quite right Merlin. These bruises on his arms and his ribs are too old to have been made by Percival. See here where they’re already fading … and here. I’ve seen many kinds of injuries over the years. Really should have seen this myself. Well done my boy!”
Merlin flushes under Gaius’ praise but then bites his lip. “That clears Percival but … Arthur and Leon - they’ll already be out of the city - Uther sent them to find Percival and bring him back to Camelot. To, to be executed.”
“They can’t find him,” Gwaine says decisively. “The woods are big and there are places a man can get absolutely lost, right?”
Merlin sighs and pushes a hand through his hair suddenly feeling old beyond his years. “Yes, but Arthur and Leon are the best trackers in Camelot. And Percival doesn’t exactly have a lot of woodscraft …”
“He needs a diversion,” Gaius says unexpectedly from Owen’s bedside. “Something that will distract Arthur and Leon and give Percival long enough to hide for a while. Long enough that we can absolutely clear his name, anyway.”
Merlin pushes his mouth out in a frustrated moue and frowns. “If he were here I could show him Owen’s bruises, he’d understand that. But now he’ll be intent on the hunt …”
Merlin shivers as his own words prickle over his skin.
“Percival needs more time. He’s going to need more evidence than a tidy room and some fading bruises.”
“Right now, Merlin, what he needs is a diversion. May I suggest that you … go and see what you can …. come up with?”
Merlin states blankly at Gaius for a moment before his gaze swings back to Gwaine.
“I. Er. Right. Yes. I’ll … go and um. See what I can do.”
Gwaine says nothing but shakes his head and snorts softly as Merlin goes racing out of Gaius’ rooms and hurtles himself up spiralling stone steps, heading for the battlements of the castle.
He has to stop Arthur and Leon before they reach Percival’s trail, otherwise there’s nothing he can do to shift Percival’s fate.
Continue to Part Two