Title: Barter, Beg, Renege (Secrets challenge) by fadagaski
Title: Barter, Beg, Renege
Fandom: Merlin
Characters: Uther/Igraine, Gaius, baby!Arthur
Rating: PG (for language)
Spoilers: 1x09
Summary: Nimueh is gone, and so is Igraine, and there will be no rest now or ever for Uther. Pre-series.
Wordcount: 1110
There's a sheet over the body, pristine white and flawless. Dips and valleys, flickering shadows, are the only memory of deep blue eyes, a proud nose, pouting lips. The shroud is like a statue in reverse; where one must hew the likeness of humanity from stone, the other clouds it, distorts once familiar and well-loved features. Like both, Uther cannot breathe.
He stumbles as he flees from the room, heedless of the crash of shattering glass as the door slams against the castle wall. He braces his hands against the balustrade of the exterior balcony, and watches the plumes of white breath that stream unerringly from his mouth. No servants come to sweep away the shards shivering in the pale torchlight; none dare enter the room where the Queen rests forever without permission from the King. Below Uther stretches Camelot as he fashioned it, the upper quarters just beneath his nose. It takes several sharp gasps of crisp winter air to stem the urge to vomit over the snow-dusted roofs of knights and traders.
Uther rests his forehead to the cool, rough stone, bent double and uncaring that his position is so vulnerable. Behind him is the love of his life, the one shining blessing in the daily grind of turmoil and duty, now gone forever. In front, his kingdom slumbers, unaware of the greatest tragedy of their time. The Queen is dead, flesh stiff and as cold as the snow-heavy clouds on the distant horizon. Igraine is dead, and she-
She! She! That bitch, that whore who twisted the world on her whim and snuffed the candle at the heart of Camelot. The Sorceress, locked in his dungeons, no spellbooks or trinkets to aid her, nothing but the clothes on her back. She is the first amongst magic-wielders, the most powerful, most outspoken, most insidious. Nimueh.
She will be the first to die.
Uther is racked by a sudden chill, skin prickling in the frosty air. Wearily he returns to the candle-lit room, the bed occupied by a shroud and the bassinet beside it. He stares at the baby contained there, his son and heir, thin cap of golden hair the only legacy of the woman who sacrificed everything for his birth. The infant stirs in sleep. Uther closes his eyes to better feel his heart break. The thought, the satisfaction, of Nimueh's imminent death is cold comfort at best.
They are both disturbed when the warning bells suddenly sound, their toll booming through the bones of the castle. The boy shivers and wakes, myopic blue eyes startled in the second before he begins to cry. Uther flinches more at the shrieks and wails than he had at the bells, and balls his hands into fists. His arms are trembling. He won't touch it, not even to comfort. Before anyone thinks to inform him, Uther knows that his one chance at revenge, at peace, is gone.
The door creaks open, granting passage to the wet nurse, Gaius in tow. With a quick curtsey, eyes averted, the woman lifts the squalling baby, carrying him to the chair by the fireplace. His heartbroken cries are stopped, exchanged for the intimate suckling sounds of nursing.
Uther glances at Gaius in despair, and receives a pitying look in return. His friend can no more help him than anyone else. Nimueh is gone - yes, confirmed in the quick visit of a knight hurrying to deploy with his fellows - and so is Igraine, and there will be no rest now or ever for Uther. A sob builds in his chest, logs there somewhere where his heart should be, and as he bows his head he almost, almost lets it free. He flinches when Gaius lays a hand on his shoulder, and like that the feeling is gone, blown away like ash in the wind.
"What now, sire?" Gaius asks, folding his hands neatly in front of him.
"Now -" Uther is interrupted by the baby. It releases the nipple with a wet slurp, and whimpers. The wet nurse glances up at her king through her lashes, hushes the baby and rocks it. "We find her. Anyone caught helping her, hiding her, anyone found practicing any magic whatsoever will suffer my wrath."
"Sire," Gaius says, shifting awkwardly, "she really only did as you asked, though the price was high. Are you sure it wise to -"
"Are you questioning me, Gaius? Here and now?"
"I only meant -"
"There is no space in this castle for men who sympathise with my enemy." Uther's tone is a death knell in itself, and his eyes glow with the light of an endless rage. "Choose carefully your words, my friend. You stand on dangerous ground." After a pregnant pause, Gaius bows low and says nothing. Uther releases a hissing breath between his teeth.
Behind them, the baby mewls, and despite the frantic hushing of the nurse it begins to cry again. Turning, Uther observes the woman and the boy - his son, he has to remind himself - with as much apathy as he can muster. It should be Igraine there, cradling their child to her breast, a sweet, tired smile on her beautiful face. Not this stranger, this peasant woman, the nearest to be found with milk to spare for a newborn boy bereft of his mother.
"He needs a father," Gaius murmurs in Uther's ear. The King winces, takes a physical step away. He glares accusingly at Gaius, and then in the direction of the baby and nurse. "You wished for a son, sire. There he is." Uther's jaw hardens, against the rage or the bile, he isn't sure. At the corner of his vision is the white shroud, fluttering in an unlucky breeze from the open balcony door and given the phantom of life.
It's Uther's curse, his dark secret not to be revealed even to one such as Gaius, who has proven his mettle time over in the past day. When Uther looks at the baby, the boy, his son, the prince and heir to Camelot, all he can think - screaming, railing, raging - is 'take him back'.
Take him back take him back take him back.
Fandom: Merlin
Characters: Uther/Igraine, Gaius, baby!Arthur
Rating: PG (for language)
Spoilers: 1x09
Summary: Nimueh is gone, and so is Igraine, and there will be no rest now or ever for Uther. Pre-series.
Wordcount: 1110
There's a sheet over the body, pristine white and flawless. Dips and valleys, flickering shadows, are the only memory of deep blue eyes, a proud nose, pouting lips. The shroud is like a statue in reverse; where one must hew the likeness of humanity from stone, the other clouds it, distorts once familiar and well-loved features. Like both, Uther cannot breathe.
He stumbles as he flees from the room, heedless of the crash of shattering glass as the door slams against the castle wall. He braces his hands against the balustrade of the exterior balcony, and watches the plumes of white breath that stream unerringly from his mouth. No servants come to sweep away the shards shivering in the pale torchlight; none dare enter the room where the Queen rests forever without permission from the King. Below Uther stretches Camelot as he fashioned it, the upper quarters just beneath his nose. It takes several sharp gasps of crisp winter air to stem the urge to vomit over the snow-dusted roofs of knights and traders.
Uther rests his forehead to the cool, rough stone, bent double and uncaring that his position is so vulnerable. Behind him is the love of his life, the one shining blessing in the daily grind of turmoil and duty, now gone forever. In front, his kingdom slumbers, unaware of the greatest tragedy of their time. The Queen is dead, flesh stiff and as cold as the snow-heavy clouds on the distant horizon. Igraine is dead, and she-
She! She! That bitch, that whore who twisted the world on her whim and snuffed the candle at the heart of Camelot. The Sorceress, locked in his dungeons, no spellbooks or trinkets to aid her, nothing but the clothes on her back. She is the first amongst magic-wielders, the most powerful, most outspoken, most insidious. Nimueh.
She will be the first to die.
Uther is racked by a sudden chill, skin prickling in the frosty air. Wearily he returns to the candle-lit room, the bed occupied by a shroud and the bassinet beside it. He stares at the baby contained there, his son and heir, thin cap of golden hair the only legacy of the woman who sacrificed everything for his birth. The infant stirs in sleep. Uther closes his eyes to better feel his heart break. The thought, the satisfaction, of Nimueh's imminent death is cold comfort at best.
They are both disturbed when the warning bells suddenly sound, their toll booming through the bones of the castle. The boy shivers and wakes, myopic blue eyes startled in the second before he begins to cry. Uther flinches more at the shrieks and wails than he had at the bells, and balls his hands into fists. His arms are trembling. He won't touch it, not even to comfort. Before anyone thinks to inform him, Uther knows that his one chance at revenge, at peace, is gone.
The door creaks open, granting passage to the wet nurse, Gaius in tow. With a quick curtsey, eyes averted, the woman lifts the squalling baby, carrying him to the chair by the fireplace. His heartbroken cries are stopped, exchanged for the intimate suckling sounds of nursing.
Uther glances at Gaius in despair, and receives a pitying look in return. His friend can no more help him than anyone else. Nimueh is gone - yes, confirmed in the quick visit of a knight hurrying to deploy with his fellows - and so is Igraine, and there will be no rest now or ever for Uther. A sob builds in his chest, logs there somewhere where his heart should be, and as he bows his head he almost, almost lets it free. He flinches when Gaius lays a hand on his shoulder, and like that the feeling is gone, blown away like ash in the wind.
"What now, sire?" Gaius asks, folding his hands neatly in front of him.
"Now -" Uther is interrupted by the baby. It releases the nipple with a wet slurp, and whimpers. The wet nurse glances up at her king through her lashes, hushes the baby and rocks it. "We find her. Anyone caught helping her, hiding her, anyone found practicing any magic whatsoever will suffer my wrath."
"Sire," Gaius says, shifting awkwardly, "she really only did as you asked, though the price was high. Are you sure it wise to -"
"Are you questioning me, Gaius? Here and now?"
"I only meant -"
"There is no space in this castle for men who sympathise with my enemy." Uther's tone is a death knell in itself, and his eyes glow with the light of an endless rage. "Choose carefully your words, my friend. You stand on dangerous ground." After a pregnant pause, Gaius bows low and says nothing. Uther releases a hissing breath between his teeth.
Behind them, the baby mewls, and despite the frantic hushing of the nurse it begins to cry again. Turning, Uther observes the woman and the boy - his son, he has to remind himself - with as much apathy as he can muster. It should be Igraine there, cradling their child to her breast, a sweet, tired smile on her beautiful face. Not this stranger, this peasant woman, the nearest to be found with milk to spare for a newborn boy bereft of his mother.
"He needs a father," Gaius murmurs in Uther's ear. The King winces, takes a physical step away. He glares accusingly at Gaius, and then in the direction of the baby and nurse. "You wished for a son, sire. There he is." Uther's jaw hardens, against the rage or the bile, he isn't sure. At the corner of his vision is the white shroud, fluttering in an unlucky breeze from the open balcony door and given the phantom of life.
It's Uther's curse, his dark secret not to be revealed even to one such as Gaius, who has proven his mettle time over in the past day. When Uther looks at the baby, the boy, his son, the prince and heir to Camelot, all he can think - screaming, railing, raging - is 'take him back'.
Take him back take him back take him back.