Merlin Fanfiction: Love As Thou Wilt | Part 2b
Merlin stands before the mirror, staring at his reflection. Ever since Gwen had given him his midwinter gift before he had left, he had taken to wearing her neckerchief and others around his neck. It seems Kilgharrah has decided to incorporate it into his outfit.
Fitted breeches cling to his legs, a dark blue that is almost black. The breeches tuck into knee high boots, a dark brown that have been polished within an inch of their life, buckles crossing up and down their length, the metal clasps shining silvery in the light of his lamp.
A white shirt hangs loosely around his frame covered with a doublet that is a lighter shade of blue. Around its collar and sleeves, gold embroidery is sewn into the cloth. A belt encircles his waist, cinched tight around his thin figure and around his long, pale neck, a bronze colored neckerchief rests, the only bit of Kilgharrah’s colors. It proclaims to whose house he is bound.
His door opens and Merlin looks up in his mirror, watching Freya walk in. She is resplendent in velvet and silk. Her dress hangs low off of her shoulders, accenting the smooth slope of her neck and shoulders and the soft curve of her breast. It is the rich brown of seasoned wood, the color bringing out the hue of her skin and accenting her eyes.
She only has a thin line of kohl around her eyes and a pale pink accents her lips, drawing the eye to the subtle beauty of her face. She will never be one of the great beauties that are sung of in tales, but hers is the kind of beauty that will fade gracefully. A thin golden chain dangles from her neck, a small brown pearl resting in the hollow of her collarbones.
“You look beautiful,” Merlin whispers, turning away from the mirror to look at the young woman he considers as a sister. She smiles, a flush riding on her checks, a soft pink.
“So do you,” she says back, looking him over with an assessing eye, like a general inspecting his troops.
“It’s the clothing, not me,” Merlin says, grinning at her. “They could make anyone look good.”
“No, it is you Merlin, now stop being overly modest and escort me to the carriage like a proper gentleman would,” she tells him, elbowing him gently in the ribs.
Holding out his arm, he leads her down the stairs to where Kilgharrah is waiting expectantly for them. He is dressed similarly to Merlin, sans the neckerchief. But where Merlin is dressed in blue, Kilgharrah is dressed in bronze and black. His doublet, when it moves, seems to shimmer in the light and gives the illusion of scales as the light shifts over the subtle pattern woven into the fine cloth.
Donning their cloaks, Kilgharrah’s black, Merlin’s a dark brown, and Freya’s a light shade of grey, they climb into the carriage. Light still streaks the sky as the sun starts to set, the air starting to cool off the closer the sun gets to the horizon.
The procession will start at the northern most point of the city and work its way down until it reaches the courtyard of the castle. Alice had informed them that it would pass right by her home and that they would be able to view it from her balcony.
Alice is already waiting at the door, ever the proper hostess, as their carriage comes to a stop. Climbing out, they stand before her, under her inspection. They have been under her tutelage for nearly three years now and she has come to feel like family.
Finally she nods, liking what she sees. Adjusting the trailing sleeve on Freya’s dress, Kilgharrah’s belt knife, and fussing with Merlin’s wild hair, she finally lets them by, giving them a kind smile. For a second, Merlin is nervous. For so many years, he has always been the one left behind, or forced to remain hidden. Now he will be in the public, he won’t be Kilgharrah’s secret anymore.
He starts when a warm hand wraps around his own, and looks to see Freya giving him a small knowing smile. Smiling back, he takes her hand and wraps it around his arm, escorting her to her party and the start of a new path in life.
Some of the guests are people Merlin has seen at Kilgharrah’s own entertainments; some like Uriens de Escetia are friends, a few acquaintances and even a few adversaries, of the more scholarly battlefield. Some though, are people Merlin has not seen before and has no names to put with faces.
Kilgharrah leaves them a few minutes later, drawn away by someone wishing to speak with him. Merlin offers to grab a goblet for Freya and she smiles and nods. As he slips through the gathered people, he can hear people murmuring “…a sorceress”, “…has come of age.” Already Freya is making a splendid first impression.
Feeling like this party has Kilgharrah’s claws all over it; Merlin quickly grabs a goblet of watered wine from a passing servant. Handing off the drink to Freya, who is deep in conversation with another woman, he slips away again. Standing on the fringe, Merlin watches and listens to those around him.
“The old dragon certainly has interesting bait to dangle in front of people,” a deep voice says near Merlin’s position. Turning, Merlin glances at the man who spoke out of the corner of his eye. Tale, with sun kissed skin, Breunor d’Cote is an intimidating man for those easily taken in by aura of awareness around him. His eyes, a dark grey-green, flick around the room, seeing everything, the eyes of a warrior looking for danger. Silvering, dark brown hair is cut short and a raised scar runs from his temple into his hair line.
“You are interested in the girl?” his companion asks.
D’Cote shakes his head, “She is comely, but I prefer something…stronger.” Making a note of this, Merlin slips away before either man can notice him standing so close and eavesdropping. Merlin is searching for a servant to get a refill on his drink when someone shouts, saying the parade is coming.
Following the crowd, Merlin looks for Kilgharrah or Freya, but can’t see either. Wiggling through people, he tries to get a view of the street outside. Someone seeing his plight, steps to the side a bit and he can finally get through to the balcony edge to look over the street.
The procession has just started at the top of the street, people gathering down below to watch. At its head rides Uther de la Pendragon himself, resplendent in chainmail and armor, his crimson cloak and doublet bright against the grey steel. His hair is steel colored, his face void of emotion. Next to him rides his heir. This is the first time Merlin has seen Morgana de la Pendragon and the stories about her are true. She is beauty personified. Her raven locks fall in rippling rivulets down her back. Pale, porcelain skin is accented by red painted lips, finely arched brows, a noble nose and shining blue eyes. She wears a flowing red dress, gems winking amongst its folds. A crimson cloak of velvet flows behind her and off of her horses hindquarters. Around them ride their guards, two knights ride beside their charges, easily identifiable in their black tunics.
Above the two, the Pendragon flag flies, a golden dragon rampant on a crimson field.
Behind the Pendragons comes a second procession, Valiant d’Alene, Duc d’Alene and his men ride proudly, swords raised to cheers and yells. Mixed in are the men of Escetia and riding next to Valiant is Dillon de la Escetia, prince of Escetia. Rising above them, two flags fly side by side: three green twining snakes on a yellow field and a single black waving snake on a field of pale grey-green.
It takes Merlin moment to realize there is one other person riding with the two men. Nimueh flies no flag, but her placement next to the young prince of Escetia is enough of a proclamation for those there, watching. It is only the second time Merlin has seen Nimueh, but he can feel the tug of her magic even from here.
“The young Duc has certainly proved himself now,” someone says behind Merlin, but he can’t look without giving himself away, so he listens.
“Would you rather he have failed?” someone else asks.
“No, but it seems our Duc has befriended a prince. Now there’s someone who has certainly made a name for himself and it seems the young prince has fallen for Nimueh, poor sod. It’ll kill him surely.” The two stop talking, but Merlin still stares at the three as the procession continues up the street.
The crowd is dispersing, but Merlin doesn’t leave the balcony, watching the last light fade from the sky. “You are Kilgharrah’s student, are you not?” someone asks behind him.
Turning, Merlin looks at the older man standing before him. He has gray hair, his deep brown eyes shadowed by bushy brows. Laugh lines fan his face and a twinkle is in his eyes. “Yes,” Merlin says, nodding.
“I am Plaine de Bawes, a wandering historian and old acquaintance of Kilgharrah’s.” Plaine holds out a hand to Merlin which Merlin takes.
“Merlin,” he says back.
“Come inside with me and tell me how my old friend is fairing these days. Is he still called the dragon?” Putting a hand under Merlin’s elbow, he leads Merlin from the balcony back inside.
“Oh, yes, though never to his face,” Merlin says, grinning. “How did you meet with Kilgharrah?”
“I met with him many years ago, when I was younger. You see, I -,” Plaine starts to say.
“Ah, my dear friend, I didn’t know Alice had invited you,” Kilgharrah booms behind them, making Merlin jump.
“Kilgharrah, good to see you as always; I was just talking with your student here,” Plaine says to him.
“Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to ask you something…,” Kilgharrah says, steering the man away from Merlin. Merlin sighs in annoyance at the obvious attempt by Kilgharrah to keep him in the dark about his past.
Merlin is milling about the edge again, listening when Kilgharrah finds him again. “There is someone I would like you to meet.” Merlin follows him through the crowd until they reach a less populated area.
“Gaius,” Kilgharrah calls out and an older man turns at his name. Gaius Beau, Alice’s husband and royal physician, is much older than Merlin was expecting. His hair is receding and falls in white waves around his face. One eyebrow seems permanently arched. Lines surround his eyes and lips. Solemn blue eyes stare out at the world with all the things he has seen.
“Ah, Kilgharrah,” Gaius says, smiling a little at the man.
“This is my other student, Merlin.” Gaius runs his eyes over Merlin, staring longest at his eyes.
“A warlock,” Gaius says, surprise coloring his voice as his brow seems to reach for his hairline.
“Indeed, Merlin this is Gaius, Royal Physician to the Pendragon family,” Kilgharrah says.
“Hello,” Merlin replies, bowing slightly to the man.
“Please, my boy, no bowing needed, I am no noble, though I do have land.” Someone calls out his name. “I’m sorry but needs must.” Nodding in their direction, Gaius slips away.
“Was there a reason for that?” Merlin asks as he and Kilgharrah stand still for a moment, just listening.
“Hmm, one cannot know when an acquaintance of his skills might become necessary or useful, besides, I thought you might like to speak with him. He knows a great many things about warlocks. A bit of a hobby of his when he was younger.” With that, Kilgharrah slips away as well and Merlin is left once again on his own.
Deciding it is time to mingle, he slips into the crowds. There are a many interesting people here as companions. Two are from the Court. One is a hired companion from the Wind Branch in Acestir with a bubbling laugh and a slight of hand that even has Merlin hard pressed to see it. The other is an ex-member, like Alice. Melissa nó Wæter was originally from the Water Branch in Tintagel. Her magic seems to flow over him just like the water she takes her name from.
Most of the people though, have their eyes on Freya. Merlin makes notes of which these people are, though only one sticks out the most. Reynold Gunter is a merchant of many trades and Merlin has noted him a few times at Kilgharrah’s entertainments. He is wealthy, mostly due to an exclusive contract with the Bois royal family of Tintagel. His eyes as they follow Freya seem to burn with a sick desire that has the hair on the back of Merlin’s neck standing on end.
With night truly on them, Alice calls the guests to dinner. Merlin can only stare in amazement as course after course is served. Having lived with Kilgharrah for almost seven years now, he has seen many kinds of food, but the sheer amount that is being served; he doesn’t know how he will be able to eat it all. Eyeing the platter that a servant holds up to him, he takes only a small amount. If he is going to survive this feast without exploding, he needs to tread lightly.
By the end, he’s literally stuffed. He stars down at his goblet of water, glad he shifted to water instead of staying with the wine. He’s already seen the other guests drowning the liquid down. Shaking his head, he looks up as Alice calls everyone’s attention. Gaius is seated beside her, smiling indulgently.
“Here’s to the safety of our borders.” There are cheers and roars of approval. Alice waits until they quiet before continuing, “Also, here is to Freya nó Emrys on her seventeenth day of birth. May this be a happy year to you my dear.”
Freya smiles and down the table, Juliana de Listinoise, the Royal Poet, stands. She is a handsome woman; her dark hair pulled back into a braid and her eyes a clear blue. A proud nose adorns her face and a wide mouth settles under it. She opens her mouth and pure magic seems to tumble out of it, each note sweet and clear. Her song tells of life and death and the balance and how all are interlocked.
As the last notes die and Juliana sits back down, the rest stir as if from slumber. Slowly, someone starts to clap and then another until the whole group is applauding the poet. Alice stands once more. “And now, my friends, onwards to the games!”
The night seems to drag on as everyone gathers around. It is a simple game. A series of five circles are drawn in chalk and in their centers are bowls. Someone stands at one end near the largest circle and takes a cherry from the bowl. Eating the cherry, they take the pit and spit it out trying to get the farthest and smallest circle. The winner is whoever gets it in the last bowl in the line.
They all try. Freya goes first and gets the pit into the bowl in the second circle. Merlin makes the third circle but misses the bowl. D’Cote makes it into the fourth bowl to cheers from all around. Somehow, Kilgharrah ends up last. With a great huff, he sends his pit soaring and it lands with a ping in the bowl of the fifth and smallest circle.
There are groans from all around but everyone smiles good-naturedly. “Winner!” Alice cries. “What is your prize, my dear?” she asks.
“Why, my dear Alice, a kiss from one so lovely,” he bows over her hand and she smacks his arm good-naturedly, “as well as a boon.” He asks something of her lowly and she smiles and nods.
Kilgharrah nods in thanks and turns to the rest. “Ladies and Gentlemen, as you know my ward and student Freya nó Emrys has turned seventeen and has come of age. As is the custom of one taking her Rites, an auction shall be held for her virgin-price. With Alice’s permission, we shall hold it here. If this is agreeable, the bidding shall start when the great bell chimes the midnight hour.”
As if on cue, and it is because Kilgharrah does not plan anything lightly, the bell chimes, the sound reverberating through the air. Alice steps forward, “The bidding is now open.”
Breunor d’Cote raises his goblet. “One hundred and fifty gold pieces,” he says aloud. Merlin stares at the man, remembering his words from earlier. He can see a gleam of mischief in his eyes and realizes it has nothing to do with Freya and all about watching the people fall over themselves to outbid him.
A woman raises her own hand, snorting at d’Cote’s words, “Two hundred gold pieces.”
Reynold Gunter glares at the woman and raises his hand, “Two hundred fifty.” He sends a leering smile at Freya.
“Oh, Alice, you sly ol’ girl, three hundred,” Melissa nó Wæter says, smiling at Freya.
“Three Fifty!” Reynold shouts. Someone else bided higher but Merlin couldn’t see who from his vantage point. By then though, it has gotten heated and most stop bidding as the price rises.
D’Cote cedes with a shrug, not interested in actually winning. The last two standing are Reynold and Melissa and the price has reached over a thousand gold pieces. Merlin shares a bemused look with Freya. They both know this has been Kilgharrah’s plan all along and just go with it.
In the end though, Melissa backs out, going over her figures and seeing she can’t win against twelve thousand five hundred gold pieces, more than Merlin has ever heard of a virgin-price reaching in all his time amongst the Court. Reynold sends a gloating grin around the room as Alice ushers in an advocate who has drawn up a contract.
Kilgharrah goes aside with the man and Reynold and the contract is finished. Reynold signs it with a harried flourish, while Freya and Kilgharrah sign it slowly with care. “Come,” Reynold growls out; he looks to Kilgharrah, “My carriage will return her in the morning.” Kilgharrah just nods.
Freya looks to Kilgharrah and he gives a slight nod. Curtsying to Reynold, the two make their way out of the room. Merlin dances, though his mind isn’t completely there as he worries a little over Freya, but he dances and the wine from earlier makes him a little tipsy. He meets Juliana de Listinoise and she sees his eyes and knows him for what he is as well.
~*~
Merlin waits at least until after Freya has been home for most of the day before cornering her in her room to ask about what happened. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, worried about that the most.
“No, he was gentle and he was satisfied with me. He told me he wishes to contract me again once he returns from Tintagel.” She smiles and Merlin can see it in her eyes that she is fine and the slight tension he has been feeling since last night lifts.
“Did he give you anything towards your Mearcung?” The money from the contracts went to whoever owned their bond, in this case Kilgharrah. Only gifts from patrons went towards their Mearcung and their freedom.
She shook her head, “Not after what he paid to be my first. He said he might bring me something back from Tintagel though.”
“I’m sure Kilgharrah knew who would bid highest, so why him? What could he possibly have that Kilgharrah could want?” Merlin asks as she sits down in front of him. His fingers are deft as he works them through her long locks, quickly braiding them into a single thick plait down her back.
“Poison,” she says softly and Merlin’s fingers still in her hair as he thinks it over. “They are one of the biggest exporters of poison, though it’s mostly in back alleys and behind the scenes. The late queen’s brothers rule there and not three months after her death, Reynold was awarded his contract with the Bois royal family.”
“I thought the queen died in child birth,” Merlin said, renewing his braiding and tying the end off with a leather thong.
“That’s the story, but it was after Arthur was born stillborn that she died. No one knew why, but it was assumed that the birth and loss of her son was too much. Kilgharrah and Gaius believed differently, but they didn’t have any proof to back it up. Except that there were rumors of how Tristan and Agravaine, her brothers, poisoned their father to claim the throne. No one knows for sure and there was no proof,” Freya tells him, turning around to look at him.
“Did he tell you anything then?” Merlin asks, settling back against her headboard.
“He said that anything can be bought if the right price is met, even life and death. He may have said more, but…” she trails off, a flush staining her cheeks.
“It’s hard to concentrate,” Merlin finishes for her with a grin. Merlin sobered, “But he didn’t hurt you?”
“Merlin,” she sighs, “There are worse things I could do in milord Emrys’s name that I would do gladly out of love.”
Merlin stares at her. Love of Kilgharrah? He’s not sure he loves the man, respects him and is grateful to Kilgharrah for taking him in, but love? Maybe one day. “Why?” he asks instead of going with his train of thought further.
“You don’t know?” Freya asks, looking at him in confusion. Merlin shakes his head no. “I was born a Druid. I was the only child with my mother, my father and my great grandmother on my mother’s side. When I was five, our camp was attacked by a sorcerer. He cast a curse and it hit me. My grandmother, who was skilled in many arts, was able to freeze the curse, but not rid me of it. As is custom, one who is cursed is cast out to protect the camp. Kilgharrah was the one who found me wandering in the forest. He took me in and with help, found a cure for the curse. He saved my life and took me in and I owe him everything.”
“And your family?” Merlin asks, holding her hand.
“I haven’t seen them since. And I don’t want to,” she says with emphases.
“Do you know why Kilgharrah was in the forest at that time?” Merlin asks.
“I never asked and he hasn’t said, but whatever it was, I’m glad he was there.” She stands, pulling him to his feet. “Come on, dinner should be ready soon.”
~*~
“What do you know about the queen’s brothers?” Merlin asks Gwaine a few days later. They’re in the tavern at their usual table.
“Brothers? Tristan and Agravaine? I know the rumors. Many say that the two poisoned their father to get to the throne. Agravaine married Maria Tintagel, daughter of one of the oldest noble families in Tintagel. They have two daughters Ariel and Elizabeth who both married into the Kenshire family, two cousins. Tristan hasn’t married, though they say there might be a few bastard children of his floating around. There’s also the rumor that Tristan and Uther hate each other and that he never forgave Ygraine for marrying Uther,” Gwaine lists off, never taking his eyes off the crowd.
“Do you think he hated Uther enough to kill his own sister?” Merlin asks quietly.
“Maybe, it’s hard to say with nobles; what with all that honor and chivalry crap they’re so fond of spewing to cover up the fact that they’re human just like us,” Gwaine answers him.
“You say that and yet you’re a noble,” Merlin reminded his friend. He’d only found out about Gwaine’s father a few years before. About how he’d fought in Escetia’s army and when he died, Gwaine’s mother had gone to Cenred’s father, who had been king at the time, asking for help. The man had refused and left the two to starve on the street, soon after they had come to Camelot to start over.
“Yes, but it’s not a title that makes a man, but their actions and words.” Not wanting to antagonize his friend any more, Merlin switches to other topics. They talk until he sees Will standing by the door. Giving his friend a hug, he runs off, pulling his hood up as he goes.
~*~
Two things happen at the same time a few weeks later. The first is the Frumgar of Hibernia making a visit to Camelot. This is a big occurrence for the people of Albion for few have ever been able to cross the stretch of water between Albion and Hibernia which is ruled over by the Fisher King.
For as long as anyone can remember, the Fisher King has ruled over these straits from his island. Few actually believe in his power to command the seas, but the Picts have been unable to raid the upper coast line with their long boats because of the Fisher King and Albion has yet to make a trade route to Hibernia. Which has led to many wondering what the Hibernian delegation paid in order to cross the Fisher King’s waters?
Of course, few actually speak Hibernian and so Kilgharrah is called in as translator. Just before this, Gaius calls on the Emrys household. Kilgharrah had asked if the old physician could teach Merlin of warlocks and all that comes with being one. Merlin thought that Kilgharrah might cancel, but Gaius assures him that it would not be necessary. So Kilgharrah and Freya leave for the castle, Freya to ‘play’ at being a scribe only while in reality she speaks, writes, and reads Hibernian just as well as Kilgharrah and Merlin.
Merlin for his part is too caught up in learning about himself to really pay the visit any attention. The day arrives and Gaius’s carriage pulls up just as Kilgharrah and Freya’s does. They bid each other good day, Merlin asking Freya to fill him in when they get back. Settled into Gaius’s carriage, they ride in silence, the city disappearing and the surrounding forest closing up around them.
They ride for about an hour, the trees getting taller and thicker, the road becoming rougher. Eventually, they slow and stop, the driver coming around to open the door and help Gaius down from his seat. Jumping out after him, Merlin stares around in wonder.
This section of the forest is something he’s never seen, untamed and wild. Few people have come here. It takes Merlin a moment to sense the tickling sensation at the back of his head. Opening up his mind, he’s flooded by wild magic, natural earth magic, all around him.
He staggers, a harsh breath ripping through his lungs as he tries to separate from the magic. “Easy, my boy,” Gaius says, holding his arm to steady him. “I should have warned you beforehand. Just focus on me, on my voice…”
Merlin does and slowly, the bit that is him starts to emerge from the magic. Taking a gasping breath, he feels the rest of the magic leave and he just feels rung out and about to collapse. Gaius wisely leads him to a stump nearby and lowers him to the ground.
“What was that?” Merlin asks later once he’s feeling better.
“This place is a sacred place, where wild magic pools. It is a place where warlocks are buried.” Standing shakily, Merlin follows Gaius further into the trees. It takes him a moment to notices the headstones, buried and hidden by the forest as it slowly takes over.
There are so few, only a couple dozen, scattered around them. “This is the last recorded warlock in our history,” Gaius says standing before a headstone that looks a little clearer than the rest: Ambrosia Antonius.
“How long ago?” Merlin asks.
“Two hundred years ago,” Gaius says and Merlin shivers in the cool breeze. The first warlock in two hundred years, that’s a long time for someone to compete against.
“As far as I can tell, this is the first one ever buried here, just before the creation of the five kingdoms.” He points to a headstone some distance away. It is crumbling stone, vines and lichen growing over it and rain and weather eroding it leave only one part of the stone visible and legible: Emrius.
Gaius leads him away to a small hillock. A slab of granite juts out from its base, the top of it flat. The wind and rain have shaped it into an almost bench like projection. They sit down, staring out into the forest.
“What are warlocks for?” Merlin finally asks.
“That is a broad question, my boy,” Gaius says, but continues before Merlin can say more. “Mostly, they prophesied change, not for good or bad, but for change in the balance. A warlock is a link between the balance and everything else. The balance works through the warlock to see that what it wants happens.”
“That…that’s a lot for one person,” Merlin finally whispers; panic welling up slightly in his gut.
“My boy, do you think every warlock went looking for the change? You have no control over fate, but it doesn’t mean you can’t live life to its fullest until that day comes. And not all change is big,” Gaius says wisely, patting his shoulder to comfort him.
“What happened, during Ambrosia Antonius’s time?” Merlin asks.
“The last of the dragons died and the last Dragonlord disappeared into the northern mountains to live the life of a hermit,” Gaius admits.
“What if I screw up, don’t do what the balance wants me to? What then?” Merlin asks.
“Now you’re just being stupid. Use your head, boy. The balance works through many things. If it wants something to happen, it will.” Gaius’ eyebrow is kind of scary and Merlin smiles sheepishly at his words.
“So, what now?” he asks.
“Now, I teach you all I can and hope it will be enough,” Gaius says. They spend the next two hours going over every piece of knowledge Gaius has collected through his years. From myths and feats they supposedly did, to their connection to wild magic and the balance. By the end, Merlin’s mind is buzzing with all that Gaius has told him.
They’re quiet on the walk back to the carriage where the driver is dozing as he waits for their return. “Thank you,” Merlin says, turning to Gaius.
“I was my pleasure, my boy,” Gaius says as they climb back into the carriage. They’ve started the ride back when Gaius speaks up again. “And remember, that place isn’t just a burial ground. It can be a place of healing and meditation when you need it.”
“I will,” Merlin says. He thanks Gaius again as he gets out of the carriage back at the household. Waving once as the carriage pulls away, he goes inside. Kilgharrah and Freya are still at the castle so Merlin goes into the library and spends his time until their return immersed in a book of history from two hundred years ago.
~*~
They return with friends in tow, plans for a small party already being made, despite Merlin’s desire to tell Freya all he’s learned while away. Talk that night is about nothing but the Frumgar’s visit to Albion.
That night, Kilgharrah beckons Merlin out into the courtyard, his usual smirk in place. “I believe you are old enough now to merit a seat amongst your peers. You know the Comte de Isidore,” he says, motioning to Uriens. “As well as Juliana, our dear poetess. This is Petit Fils, the Royal Admiral of Camelot’s finest ships. And finally, we have Pellinore de Dieu, the Comte de Dieu, and our Royal Commander of Camelot’s army.”
Merlin knows the first two to a certain degree, but the Admiral and Commander are new to him. The Admiral is a robust man, his face weathered; dark green eyes stare out from under bushy brows and a dark beard adorning his chin. His shoulders are broad and he is barrel-chested with a thin waist and muscled thighs.
The Commander on the other hand is almost polar opposite. His skin is clean shaven, though he is tanned. His sun bleached hair is pulled back into a tight braid and his grey eyes are ever watchful under fine brows. He is tall, his build wiry and he is thin in comparison to the Admiral. Merlin stammers something in greeting, too awed by their stories and legends to be comfortable around them.
“So you’re Kilgharrah’s little secret. A warlock, ya old dragon? Only you would be bold enough to take in one of them,” Petit barks out with a guffaw and a knee slap. He beckons Merlin over to his couch and looks him over. “Not much too you lad, but you’ve some years to go,” he jokes, slapping Merlin on the shoulder soundly and sending him staggering some. As Merlin straightens himself, Petit speaks again, ‘So, you’re this old leather hide’s pupil, why do you think the Fisher King allowed the Frumgar through?”
Merlin takes a moment to answer, “If I knew that my lord, I would not need to be here.” Merlin grins cheekily at the Admiral and Petit roars with laughter, thumping his knee again. Freya’s tinkling laugh joins in and the others as well.
“If anyone would know why, it would be you Admiral…or perhaps you might know my dear muse?” Kilgharrah says, turning to look at Juliana. That was a tale from Merlin’s childhood, of how Juliana de Listinoise had been banished from Albion and in her grief, had decided to cross the Fisher King’s strait to get to Hibernia. She had stayed in exile for two years before a messenger bird had drawn her back to Albion to news of the Queen’s death along with the prince.
Juliana shook her head. “I do not know what the Fisher King might have asked of the Frumgar to allow passage. I was asked for a song there and a song back to get passage. He seems to go on desire alone.”
Freya shifts loudly and the group turns to look at her. “They spoke of a vision,” she admits. “I was close enough to hear. Apparently, the Frumgar’s sister is a Seer and she had a vision of a golden dragon and a red hart.”
“But did you see Morgause seemed to take to the man’s wife. I almost felt compelled to warn her to beware the fangs on that woman. Tis not a good thing to become involved with that viper,” Uriens says ignoring the fact they he was related to Morgause by marriage.
“Morgause le Fey de la Escetia would be wise to beware of Vela. She is under the protection of the Blæc Beran, the Black Bear. Morgause should beware of claws herself,” Juliana says softly.
“Her boys are big though. Did you see the eldest; he was not pleased to be skipped over in favor of a cripple,” Petit says drinking deeply from his goblet.
“You refer to the Prince?” Pellinore asks with a good-natured brow lift at the Admiral. “Tiny little thing compared to that boy, but fair beneath all that blue. Shame about his leg. What was his name again?”
“Driant and don’t even think about it,” Kilgharrah tells him with a touch of warning in his voice.
“I am not stupid, not when I’m in politics,” Pellinore jokes.
“Are they really tattooed in blue?” Merlin asks in a lull of the conversation, sipping at his wine.
“As truly as you will soon wear your Mearcung, warlock,” Juliana tells him. “They wear the marks as a story, telling of their deeds and accomplishments, who their family is and where their alliances stand. People may pity the prince, but do not mistake him for weak. His markings attest to his victories in battle. He has won his place, despite his foot.”
“And yet we still do not know what they want,” Uriens says aloud. “Is it trade, following some cryptic vision, protection from the Picts who have tried to raid from the north?”
“I have heard that Acestir has also tried for a southern trade route to Hibernia, but that the Frumgar and Wigend made landing impossible, so it seems protection and trade are not on their list,” Petit admits, running a hand through his short locks.
“We say they want our protection and yet we must still defend our borders from the north and the south. The Picts desire our rich lands and the lands to the south of us desire our riches. Tis no wonder we must defend ourselves,” Kilgharrah reminds them.
“And we will be there to defend them,” Petit says, raising his glass in salute to Pellinore who nods back. The rest raise their glasses as well.
“Yet, the Fisher King desires none of these things. So we still do not know what it is he seeks nor do we know what he asked of the Frumgar,” Freya says, her quick mind connecting things that were not seen by others. Even Kilgharrah seems to be surprised by her words, but he composes himself before anyone else can see it, but Merlin sees his eyes and knows that Kilgharrah has filed her words away for later perusal.
“It matters not. Tonight, Uther dines with the Hibernians and Morgana shall teach the cripple prince to dance properly.” Kilgharrah takes up his pipe, lights it and takes a drag. “Juliana, perhaps you would do us the honor of a song?”
Juliana shoots Kilgharrah a knowing glance but obliges, singing in her magical voice. Uriens leaves sober that night with a nod to the three of them while the Admiral drinks deep into his cups and is assisted by two manservants into one of the guest rooms to sleep his drink off.
Merlin didn’t hear the conversation, but he saw Freya leave with Pellinore, Kilgharrah nodding to the Commander and speaking a few words to him. As far as Merlin knows, no contract is signed, but the next day, Freya returns and an appointment is made with the tattooist to start her Mearcung at the base of her spine where it curves smoothly into her buttocks.
~*~
Kilgharrah goes twice more to the castle, alone, during the Frumgar’s visit. Uther and the ambassadors of the other kingdoms exchange gifts and pleasantries and soon the Hibernian party leaves, sailing back across the strait, not stopped by the Fisher King. If Kilgharrah has learned anything since the party, he has not said, keeping tight lipped.
No longer needed in the capital, the Comte de Dieu soon heads back for the north and his troops to guard the mountain passes. Petit leaves as well, sobered after his sleep, and heads for his fleet, heading south to guard Albion’s southern shores. Word of his victory against a raiding party from the mainland arrives sometime later, to many cheers.
The Frumgar’s visit fades into the back ground, and only a few actually think on it, for life goes on and Hibernia is far across the strait.
Merlin stews impatiently, wanting life to go by fast. Freya’s accomplishment of her auction and virgin-price soon spread and daily requests come asking for her service. Kilgharrah screens them thoroughly and only the ones he deems suitable pass by Freya, for her choosing. They have say in that much at least.
Freya’s third patron is Melissa nó Wæter, bestowed by Alice to the ex-Water Court member for her birthday. Freya doesn’t tell him much, but she returns with an easy smile, her gaze farseeing and unfocused, as if she is remembering something.
That day, Kilgharrah calls Merlin into his study. His pipe is lit and rests on a stand on the table, smoke curling from its bowl. Merlin sits and waits for Kilgharrah to get to the reason he was called here. He doesn’t have to wait long. Kilgharrah shifts, as if waking from sleep. He blinks slowly and turns to look at Merlin. “You are aware, that I have received requests…for you.”
“I…no, my lord,” Merlin says. He had heard of no such request despite his birthday having been some weeks before.
Kilgharrah stood, grabbing up his pipe and taking a puff from it. “Indeed, ever since Freya’s debut.” He stops pacing and turns to look fully at Merlin. “Do you wish to accept one of these offers?”
Merlin’s breathe stops for a second and then Kilgharrah’s word sink in. “My lord…I would be willing to accept one of these requests,” Merlin says, trying to keep the impatience from his voice. He has been waiting for so long now.
“I thought you might say something along those lines,” he says with his usual smirk. His face turns serious a second later. “You must first choose a signal.”
“What?” Merlin asks, confused.
“Ah, I’d forgotten that this was not covered in your learning. It is not often practiced. A signal is a word that stops all things. It is used when you feel unsafe. It is a safe guard against harm and should a patron not abide by it, they are punishable under the full force of the law. It is something that will not be mistaken as play. Choose your word wisely, young warlock. This is one of my ways of safeguarding you two, should things not go as planned.”
Merlin nods and stares into space for a moment, a word forming in his mind. It is fitting, that he uses it: “Gwaine,” the name of his childhood friend and his first taste of freedom.
Kilgharrah blinks, taken aback momentarily, and finally he nods, “It will be added to your contract.”
“Who is it that you have in mind?” Merlin asks and for a second, Nimueh’s face appears in his mind and he shivers.
“There are several, passed through discreet channels, except for one. Breunor d’Cote seems to love the direct approach since he came forward himself to place his request.” He draws from his pipe again and absentmindedly blows a smoke ring.
Merlin tries to remember D’Cote’s face, but all he can come up with is a hard-faced man with a scar and short hair. “Why would he do that? He knows the game you play, so why go for the bait anyways?” Merlin asks.
“He believes he can best me in my own game. He is a hunter and thinks he can avoid the hook and flush out his true prey through you. He is too arrogant to let this pass,” Kilgharrah says with another smirk.
“What do you wish me to get from him?” Merlin asks, feeling acceptance seep into his very bones. He has waited patiently for this day and it has finally come. He will do what he must and more, so long as he is allowed for once.
“Whatever he may give away. He has influence in many places in court and is high ranked himself. He knows what happens in court before most. He will know who is posted where and who profits from what,” Kilgharrah tells him.
“Like who profited from Ygraine de la Pendragon’s death?” Merlin asks cautiously, hoping Kilgharrah might slip for once.
“No one benefited from Ygraine’s death except Reynold Gunter and he is within our reach through Freya. But D’Cote stands alone, but who pulls his strings. Find this for me, and I will owe you greatly, young warlock.”
Merlin sits there for a second, mulling his words. Finally, he nods. “I will do my best.”
“Then you agree to his request?”
“How much is it?” Merlin says instead of answering.
Kilgharrah throws his head back and roars his laughter to the ceiling. “Oh, ever one of the Moonlight Court.” Catching his breath he answers, “Nine Hundred and Seventy-Five.” Merlin must have shown something on his face for Kilgharrah continues. “Freya’s price only went that high because of the people invited and the auction. The ones who will ask for you are a select group who like to have those with power and those who are rare. It will rise as your prestige rises with you. Do not fret,” he says with a chortle.
“Alright, I will accept his request,” Merlin answers.
Kilgharrah sits, face serious once more. “I want you to be careful. Do not push too hard and ask nothing. Let him think he has won, but do not do anything that will put you in danger. Patience is not a weakness, risk nothing until the time is right. Do you understand?”
Merlin nods. “And should it go wrong?”
“Then half of what he paid for you will go to your Mearcung and you will never have to see him again. Just promise me, that should it become too much, you will use your signal.”
“I will…Gwaine,” Merlin says softly, letting his friend’s name fall off of his tongue.
“And do not let on to your learning. For all he knows, you are just an empty-headed pawn in my game with skills from the Moonlight Court,” Kilgharrah cautions.
“Then why did you take Freya with you to the castle?” Merlin asks.
“I said she wrote a fair hand as a scribe and with exception of Uther, none were disillusioned. Remember Merlin, image is everything sometimes and Freya had the airheaded female down pat years before,” Kilgharrah says with a snort.
Merlin nods. “I will be wary,” he says, already impatient for the day to come.
Kilgharrah nods back. “I will see to the arrangements.” He dismisses Merlin from his study.
~*~
Merlin brushes Freya’s hands away and turns to look at himself in the mirror. Someone else look out of the reflective surface. A young man stands there, dressed in tightfitting black hose tucked into shiny black boots. Buckles washed in gold wink in the candle light. A black tunic settles over a deep blue, long sleeved shirt, the ends gathered at his wrists. Gold embroidery and small golden beads are sewn into the cloth, hidden by folds of cloth until the light touches them.
His hair has been artfully arranged, wild looking against his clean, pale skin. Blue, gold flecked eyes stare back at him, kohl outlining them, making them seem deeper and brighter. Freya stands behind him and she stares at him in the mirror as well.
“You are ethereal,” she says with a small smile.
Merlin turns away from the mirror to look at her, his sister and friend, “You think so?” She nods. Merlin smiles cheekily. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, come home safe,” she says softly, hugging him close. He holds her as well, taking in her comfort, his nerves settling down. They both leave the room, descending the stairs where Kilgharrah is waiting with Will.
Kilgharrah looks him over and nods, handing him a pile of cloth. As Merlin takes it, the silky cloth unfolds, rippling like water until the beautiful cloak hangs from his hands. It is black and yet when the light strikes it, the brilliant blue of magic springs forth as if summoned by a spell. Merlin swallows through the lump in his throat, petting the beautiful garment reverently. “As I suspected, it suits you,” Kilgharrah says.
“Thank you,” Merlin says hoarsely and clears his throat.
“I spoke with Gaius about it and he told me that it is tradition to bestow this upon a warlock before their Rites. Only a warlock is allowed to bear this color. I had to send to the elders in the dyers Guild far to the north to find someone who knew how to recreate this color.”
Kilgharrah steps forward, placing a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, “A safe journey and a safe return, young warlock.” Kilgharrah lets go and steps back. “The carriage is waiting. Will will ride with you as escort. Be safe.”
Inside the carriage, it is dark and quiet, the only sounds his and Will’s breathing and the sound of the horse’s hooves striking the cobblestones. Merlin hugs the beautiful cloak around himself, taking courage from its soft folds.
D’Cote’s home is some distance from Kilgharrah’s, but closer to the castle. He apparently also has room in the castle itself, but prefers to use this residence for assignations like this. A servant opens the door on them, surprised by his companion. Taking it in stride, the man sniffs loudly and lets them in. “You will reside in the servant’s quarters until he sends for you,” the servant says to Will. He takes Merlin’s cloak, settling the heavy cloth over his arm.
“This way my lord,” he says and shows Merlin through the halls to where D’Cote waits for him. D’Cote is in a room off to the right of the long hall. The door is made of thick, heavy oak, bands of iron running across, adding support to the wood.
“My lord, Merlin nó Emrys to see you.” Inside is a dim chamber, a low fire flickering in the great hearth along the opposite wall. Merlin can make out animal heads, trophies of the great hunter, weapons and D’Cote’s coat-of-arms decorating the walls as well.
D’Cote is stood to the right of the door and as the large door is shut behind Merlin, he feels his nerves start up again, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as the tension mounts up. Breunor d’Cote is still the imposing figure he recalls from Alice’s party, maybe even more so now that it is only the two of them. His hair is still shaved close to the skull; sharp grey-green eyes bore into Merlin, predatory eyes.
Before Merlin can blink, D’Cote strides across the room, his hand not holding his goblet, coming up to strike Merlin across the face, sending him staggering and falling to his knees. Merlin’s ears ring and a bead of blood rises up from his slightly split lips. Merlin licks it away.
“You will kneel in my presence, whore” he says lowly, taking a small sip from his goblet, not a drop spilled.
Merlin shifts, falling properly onto his knees, head bowed before this man, arms relaxed in his lap. “Why does Kilgharrah send you to tempt me?” D’Cote asks, circling Merlin. His hand slides into Merlin’s short locks and yanks back, pulling his throat taut in a pale stretch of skin.
“I don’t know, my lord,” Merlin whispers, swallowing noisily.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, running the edge of the base of his goblet down Merlin’s throat in a mocking caress. “Tell me why he sent you? What is it he thinks you could get from me?” He dug the edge of metal slightly into his throat. “Does he think I will just spill all of my secrets in pillow talk to some whore?” He presses a little harder.
“I don’t know,” Merlin gets out past the pressure, breathing shallowly.
Merlin shifts and can feel D’Cote’s muscled thigh pressing against his head and neck. Merlin gasps as his magic starts to awaken, worming through his veins hot and heavy, like he’s drunken too much mead. He knows D’Cote must see the magic sparking in his eyes.
D’Cote gives a soft breathy sound, staring at the play of power inside Merlin’s body; lifting the goblet up and releasing his hold on Merlin’s hair, he takes a drink. “We shall see, warlock.” Stepping back, he tossed the empty goblet away with a clang of metal. “Prove to me you are not here for your master alone. Please me.”
Merlin turns around, still kneeling and reaches for the ties to D’Cote’s hose. He is already hard, his cock straining against the cloth and the tip wet. As the final knot comes undone, he springs forward, curling towards the man’s stomach. Merlin doesn’t wait, taking the thick red shaft into his mouth, letting the heavy scent and taste wash over him.
Merlin can hear D’Cote groan above him as he takes him in deep, swallowing around his cock and sucking messily, noisily, no finesse or grace, despite all of his teaching. But D’Cote does not care and if Merlin can tell one thing, it is what his patron wants. Instead, he takes him deep, lets him thrust and use his mouth and throat.
Merlin’s jaw aches, his throat is sore and his lips are starting to go numb. Saliva runs down his chin, but he doesn’t stop, lets D’Cote use him until the man stops with a deep groan, pressed as deep as he can be down Merlin’s throat. Merlin feels every twitch and pulse as he comes down his throat, his vision starting to go black from lack of air.
D’Cote pushes him away and Merlin falls to the hard stone floor, gasping for breath. A booted foot kicks him onto his back, “Whore!” D’Cote yells. “On your feet and take you clothes off.”
Merlin rises shakily. His fingers tremble slightly as he starts to undress, undoing his belt and slipping his tunic over his head. His under shirt comes next. Kneeling, he quickly undoes the buckles of his boots, slipping out of them. His hose and smalls are last and as they pool in a heap at his feet, he stands naked before D’Cote. D’Cote stares, eyes hooded as he takes in Merlin.
“There,” he pointed to a pile of furs and blankets in front of the fire. “On your stomach,” he says. As Merlin makes his way towards the pile, D’Cote stalks up behind him; shedding clothing like a dog does water until he looms naked behind Merlin.
Kneeling, Merlin lies down on his stomach, feeling the warmth of the fire on his face and the tickle of fur on his stomach. He holds himself still as D’Cote readies. Merlin doesn’t even have time to start before two blunt fingers are pressed against his entrance and press through. Merlin cries out, tears springing to his eyes his virgin muscles are stretched to accommodate D’Cote’s thick fingers.
Breathing shallowly, he clutches at the cloth beneath his fingers, willing his body to relax. D’Cote knows at least to not move as Merlin become accustomed to the intrusion. Slowly, the vice of his muscles release and he can breathe a little easier.
D’Cote pulls back and Merlin feels him pour more oil onto his fingers. By the time D’Cote adds a third finger, Merlin’s breath is hitching for a different reason, his magic awakening even more now. He can feel it just beneath his skin, like ants are crawling all over him. It itches and tingles and all he can do is press back onto the fingers impaling him.
D’Cote pulls his fingers out, broad hands grabbing at Merlin’s hips and dragging him up onto his hands and knees. Merlin only has a second to breathe before D’Cote presses forward, blunt head nudging at his ring of muscle and presses through.
A whine escapes from Merlin’s throat as D’Cote doesn’t stop and just presses forward slowly and steadily until he is in as far as he can go. They are both breathing harshly, D’Cote’s fingers digging severely into Merlin’s hips. He pulls out slowly and presses in faster the next time and the next until he is thrusting, pounding into Merlin’s willing body.
Below, Merlin cries out, sweat beading on his skin, his breath coming shallowly as he gasp, riding the pleasure. His magic seems to be whirling around him, in him, through him. His arms start to shake and he collapses onto his elbows. As the angle changes, D’Cote seems to hit something inside him that has him seeing stars and a cry is torn from his throat.
D’Cote just growls over him, pounding harder still, taking his pleasure from Merlin’s body. As his thrusts start to stutter, D’Cote’s arms curl around Merlin’s shoulders and he hauls him up onto his lap, Merlin’s own weight forcing D’Cote in deeper than ever. Arching against him, Merlin cries out.
Still thrusting, D’Cote lets out a low roar, hips stuttering, coming inside Merlin. Merlin feels it all and as the man starts to come, his magic goes wild and spikes. Merlin’s sight goes golden and then he’s coming as well, arching and writhing in D’Cote’s grip, obscene noises falling from his lips as he climaxes.
Merlin comes to still draped over D’Cote, trembling still and breathing heavily. “You are something indeed,” he says softly into Merlin’s ear, turning Merlin’s head to the side. It is then that Merlin notices the fire roaring in its hearth, far higher and brighter than it had been, the flames taking on a blue hue.
“Tell me what Kilgharrah wants,” he asks, stroking idle fingers along Merlin’s skin, making it twitch.
“I don’t know,” Merlin bites out.
“Truly?” His hand circles around to Merlin’s back. Merlin arches as he wiggles a finger in alongside his cock still firmly impaled inside him.
“I swear it!”
His other hand comes around and takes his cock in hand and starts to stroke it, drawing a hoarse cry from Merlin as the oversensitive flesh is brought back into hardness. “I paid Kilgharrah for your virgin-price and I plan to take my due.” He does.
~*~
Part 3
Fitted breeches cling to his legs, a dark blue that is almost black. The breeches tuck into knee high boots, a dark brown that have been polished within an inch of their life, buckles crossing up and down their length, the metal clasps shining silvery in the light of his lamp.
A white shirt hangs loosely around his frame covered with a doublet that is a lighter shade of blue. Around its collar and sleeves, gold embroidery is sewn into the cloth. A belt encircles his waist, cinched tight around his thin figure and around his long, pale neck, a bronze colored neckerchief rests, the only bit of Kilgharrah’s colors. It proclaims to whose house he is bound.
His door opens and Merlin looks up in his mirror, watching Freya walk in. She is resplendent in velvet and silk. Her dress hangs low off of her shoulders, accenting the smooth slope of her neck and shoulders and the soft curve of her breast. It is the rich brown of seasoned wood, the color bringing out the hue of her skin and accenting her eyes.
She only has a thin line of kohl around her eyes and a pale pink accents her lips, drawing the eye to the subtle beauty of her face. She will never be one of the great beauties that are sung of in tales, but hers is the kind of beauty that will fade gracefully. A thin golden chain dangles from her neck, a small brown pearl resting in the hollow of her collarbones.
“You look beautiful,” Merlin whispers, turning away from the mirror to look at the young woman he considers as a sister. She smiles, a flush riding on her checks, a soft pink.
“So do you,” she says back, looking him over with an assessing eye, like a general inspecting his troops.
“It’s the clothing, not me,” Merlin says, grinning at her. “They could make anyone look good.”
“No, it is you Merlin, now stop being overly modest and escort me to the carriage like a proper gentleman would,” she tells him, elbowing him gently in the ribs.
Holding out his arm, he leads her down the stairs to where Kilgharrah is waiting expectantly for them. He is dressed similarly to Merlin, sans the neckerchief. But where Merlin is dressed in blue, Kilgharrah is dressed in bronze and black. His doublet, when it moves, seems to shimmer in the light and gives the illusion of scales as the light shifts over the subtle pattern woven into the fine cloth.
Donning their cloaks, Kilgharrah’s black, Merlin’s a dark brown, and Freya’s a light shade of grey, they climb into the carriage. Light still streaks the sky as the sun starts to set, the air starting to cool off the closer the sun gets to the horizon.
The procession will start at the northern most point of the city and work its way down until it reaches the courtyard of the castle. Alice had informed them that it would pass right by her home and that they would be able to view it from her balcony.
Alice is already waiting at the door, ever the proper hostess, as their carriage comes to a stop. Climbing out, they stand before her, under her inspection. They have been under her tutelage for nearly three years now and she has come to feel like family.
Finally she nods, liking what she sees. Adjusting the trailing sleeve on Freya’s dress, Kilgharrah’s belt knife, and fussing with Merlin’s wild hair, she finally lets them by, giving them a kind smile. For a second, Merlin is nervous. For so many years, he has always been the one left behind, or forced to remain hidden. Now he will be in the public, he won’t be Kilgharrah’s secret anymore.
He starts when a warm hand wraps around his own, and looks to see Freya giving him a small knowing smile. Smiling back, he takes her hand and wraps it around his arm, escorting her to her party and the start of a new path in life.
Some of the guests are people Merlin has seen at Kilgharrah’s own entertainments; some like Uriens de Escetia are friends, a few acquaintances and even a few adversaries, of the more scholarly battlefield. Some though, are people Merlin has not seen before and has no names to put with faces.
Kilgharrah leaves them a few minutes later, drawn away by someone wishing to speak with him. Merlin offers to grab a goblet for Freya and she smiles and nods. As he slips through the gathered people, he can hear people murmuring “…a sorceress”, “…has come of age.” Already Freya is making a splendid first impression.
Feeling like this party has Kilgharrah’s claws all over it; Merlin quickly grabs a goblet of watered wine from a passing servant. Handing off the drink to Freya, who is deep in conversation with another woman, he slips away again. Standing on the fringe, Merlin watches and listens to those around him.
“The old dragon certainly has interesting bait to dangle in front of people,” a deep voice says near Merlin’s position. Turning, Merlin glances at the man who spoke out of the corner of his eye. Tale, with sun kissed skin, Breunor d’Cote is an intimidating man for those easily taken in by aura of awareness around him. His eyes, a dark grey-green, flick around the room, seeing everything, the eyes of a warrior looking for danger. Silvering, dark brown hair is cut short and a raised scar runs from his temple into his hair line.
“You are interested in the girl?” his companion asks.
D’Cote shakes his head, “She is comely, but I prefer something…stronger.” Making a note of this, Merlin slips away before either man can notice him standing so close and eavesdropping. Merlin is searching for a servant to get a refill on his drink when someone shouts, saying the parade is coming.
Following the crowd, Merlin looks for Kilgharrah or Freya, but can’t see either. Wiggling through people, he tries to get a view of the street outside. Someone seeing his plight, steps to the side a bit and he can finally get through to the balcony edge to look over the street.
The procession has just started at the top of the street, people gathering down below to watch. At its head rides Uther de la Pendragon himself, resplendent in chainmail and armor, his crimson cloak and doublet bright against the grey steel. His hair is steel colored, his face void of emotion. Next to him rides his heir. This is the first time Merlin has seen Morgana de la Pendragon and the stories about her are true. She is beauty personified. Her raven locks fall in rippling rivulets down her back. Pale, porcelain skin is accented by red painted lips, finely arched brows, a noble nose and shining blue eyes. She wears a flowing red dress, gems winking amongst its folds. A crimson cloak of velvet flows behind her and off of her horses hindquarters. Around them ride their guards, two knights ride beside their charges, easily identifiable in their black tunics.
Above the two, the Pendragon flag flies, a golden dragon rampant on a crimson field.
Behind the Pendragons comes a second procession, Valiant d’Alene, Duc d’Alene and his men ride proudly, swords raised to cheers and yells. Mixed in are the men of Escetia and riding next to Valiant is Dillon de la Escetia, prince of Escetia. Rising above them, two flags fly side by side: three green twining snakes on a yellow field and a single black waving snake on a field of pale grey-green.
It takes Merlin moment to realize there is one other person riding with the two men. Nimueh flies no flag, but her placement next to the young prince of Escetia is enough of a proclamation for those there, watching. It is only the second time Merlin has seen Nimueh, but he can feel the tug of her magic even from here.
“The young Duc has certainly proved himself now,” someone says behind Merlin, but he can’t look without giving himself away, so he listens.
“Would you rather he have failed?” someone else asks.
“No, but it seems our Duc has befriended a prince. Now there’s someone who has certainly made a name for himself and it seems the young prince has fallen for Nimueh, poor sod. It’ll kill him surely.” The two stop talking, but Merlin still stares at the three as the procession continues up the street.
The crowd is dispersing, but Merlin doesn’t leave the balcony, watching the last light fade from the sky. “You are Kilgharrah’s student, are you not?” someone asks behind him.
Turning, Merlin looks at the older man standing before him. He has gray hair, his deep brown eyes shadowed by bushy brows. Laugh lines fan his face and a twinkle is in his eyes. “Yes,” Merlin says, nodding.
“I am Plaine de Bawes, a wandering historian and old acquaintance of Kilgharrah’s.” Plaine holds out a hand to Merlin which Merlin takes.
“Merlin,” he says back.
“Come inside with me and tell me how my old friend is fairing these days. Is he still called the dragon?” Putting a hand under Merlin’s elbow, he leads Merlin from the balcony back inside.
“Oh, yes, though never to his face,” Merlin says, grinning. “How did you meet with Kilgharrah?”
“I met with him many years ago, when I was younger. You see, I -,” Plaine starts to say.
“Ah, my dear friend, I didn’t know Alice had invited you,” Kilgharrah booms behind them, making Merlin jump.
“Kilgharrah, good to see you as always; I was just talking with your student here,” Plaine says to him.
“Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to ask you something…,” Kilgharrah says, steering the man away from Merlin. Merlin sighs in annoyance at the obvious attempt by Kilgharrah to keep him in the dark about his past.
Merlin is milling about the edge again, listening when Kilgharrah finds him again. “There is someone I would like you to meet.” Merlin follows him through the crowd until they reach a less populated area.
“Gaius,” Kilgharrah calls out and an older man turns at his name. Gaius Beau, Alice’s husband and royal physician, is much older than Merlin was expecting. His hair is receding and falls in white waves around his face. One eyebrow seems permanently arched. Lines surround his eyes and lips. Solemn blue eyes stare out at the world with all the things he has seen.
“Ah, Kilgharrah,” Gaius says, smiling a little at the man.
“This is my other student, Merlin.” Gaius runs his eyes over Merlin, staring longest at his eyes.
“A warlock,” Gaius says, surprise coloring his voice as his brow seems to reach for his hairline.
“Indeed, Merlin this is Gaius, Royal Physician to the Pendragon family,” Kilgharrah says.
“Hello,” Merlin replies, bowing slightly to the man.
“Please, my boy, no bowing needed, I am no noble, though I do have land.” Someone calls out his name. “I’m sorry but needs must.” Nodding in their direction, Gaius slips away.
“Was there a reason for that?” Merlin asks as he and Kilgharrah stand still for a moment, just listening.
“Hmm, one cannot know when an acquaintance of his skills might become necessary or useful, besides, I thought you might like to speak with him. He knows a great many things about warlocks. A bit of a hobby of his when he was younger.” With that, Kilgharrah slips away as well and Merlin is left once again on his own.
Deciding it is time to mingle, he slips into the crowds. There are a many interesting people here as companions. Two are from the Court. One is a hired companion from the Wind Branch in Acestir with a bubbling laugh and a slight of hand that even has Merlin hard pressed to see it. The other is an ex-member, like Alice. Melissa nó Wæter was originally from the Water Branch in Tintagel. Her magic seems to flow over him just like the water she takes her name from.
Most of the people though, have their eyes on Freya. Merlin makes notes of which these people are, though only one sticks out the most. Reynold Gunter is a merchant of many trades and Merlin has noted him a few times at Kilgharrah’s entertainments. He is wealthy, mostly due to an exclusive contract with the Bois royal family of Tintagel. His eyes as they follow Freya seem to burn with a sick desire that has the hair on the back of Merlin’s neck standing on end.
With night truly on them, Alice calls the guests to dinner. Merlin can only stare in amazement as course after course is served. Having lived with Kilgharrah for almost seven years now, he has seen many kinds of food, but the sheer amount that is being served; he doesn’t know how he will be able to eat it all. Eyeing the platter that a servant holds up to him, he takes only a small amount. If he is going to survive this feast without exploding, he needs to tread lightly.
By the end, he’s literally stuffed. He stars down at his goblet of water, glad he shifted to water instead of staying with the wine. He’s already seen the other guests drowning the liquid down. Shaking his head, he looks up as Alice calls everyone’s attention. Gaius is seated beside her, smiling indulgently.
“Here’s to the safety of our borders.” There are cheers and roars of approval. Alice waits until they quiet before continuing, “Also, here is to Freya nó Emrys on her seventeenth day of birth. May this be a happy year to you my dear.”
Freya smiles and down the table, Juliana de Listinoise, the Royal Poet, stands. She is a handsome woman; her dark hair pulled back into a braid and her eyes a clear blue. A proud nose adorns her face and a wide mouth settles under it. She opens her mouth and pure magic seems to tumble out of it, each note sweet and clear. Her song tells of life and death and the balance and how all are interlocked.
As the last notes die and Juliana sits back down, the rest stir as if from slumber. Slowly, someone starts to clap and then another until the whole group is applauding the poet. Alice stands once more. “And now, my friends, onwards to the games!”
The night seems to drag on as everyone gathers around. It is a simple game. A series of five circles are drawn in chalk and in their centers are bowls. Someone stands at one end near the largest circle and takes a cherry from the bowl. Eating the cherry, they take the pit and spit it out trying to get the farthest and smallest circle. The winner is whoever gets it in the last bowl in the line.
They all try. Freya goes first and gets the pit into the bowl in the second circle. Merlin makes the third circle but misses the bowl. D’Cote makes it into the fourth bowl to cheers from all around. Somehow, Kilgharrah ends up last. With a great huff, he sends his pit soaring and it lands with a ping in the bowl of the fifth and smallest circle.
There are groans from all around but everyone smiles good-naturedly. “Winner!” Alice cries. “What is your prize, my dear?” she asks.
“Why, my dear Alice, a kiss from one so lovely,” he bows over her hand and she smacks his arm good-naturedly, “as well as a boon.” He asks something of her lowly and she smiles and nods.
Kilgharrah nods in thanks and turns to the rest. “Ladies and Gentlemen, as you know my ward and student Freya nó Emrys has turned seventeen and has come of age. As is the custom of one taking her Rites, an auction shall be held for her virgin-price. With Alice’s permission, we shall hold it here. If this is agreeable, the bidding shall start when the great bell chimes the midnight hour.”
As if on cue, and it is because Kilgharrah does not plan anything lightly, the bell chimes, the sound reverberating through the air. Alice steps forward, “The bidding is now open.”
Breunor d’Cote raises his goblet. “One hundred and fifty gold pieces,” he says aloud. Merlin stares at the man, remembering his words from earlier. He can see a gleam of mischief in his eyes and realizes it has nothing to do with Freya and all about watching the people fall over themselves to outbid him.
A woman raises her own hand, snorting at d’Cote’s words, “Two hundred gold pieces.”
Reynold Gunter glares at the woman and raises his hand, “Two hundred fifty.” He sends a leering smile at Freya.
“Oh, Alice, you sly ol’ girl, three hundred,” Melissa nó Wæter says, smiling at Freya.
“Three Fifty!” Reynold shouts. Someone else bided higher but Merlin couldn’t see who from his vantage point. By then though, it has gotten heated and most stop bidding as the price rises.
D’Cote cedes with a shrug, not interested in actually winning. The last two standing are Reynold and Melissa and the price has reached over a thousand gold pieces. Merlin shares a bemused look with Freya. They both know this has been Kilgharrah’s plan all along and just go with it.
In the end though, Melissa backs out, going over her figures and seeing she can’t win against twelve thousand five hundred gold pieces, more than Merlin has ever heard of a virgin-price reaching in all his time amongst the Court. Reynold sends a gloating grin around the room as Alice ushers in an advocate who has drawn up a contract.
Kilgharrah goes aside with the man and Reynold and the contract is finished. Reynold signs it with a harried flourish, while Freya and Kilgharrah sign it slowly with care. “Come,” Reynold growls out; he looks to Kilgharrah, “My carriage will return her in the morning.” Kilgharrah just nods.
Freya looks to Kilgharrah and he gives a slight nod. Curtsying to Reynold, the two make their way out of the room. Merlin dances, though his mind isn’t completely there as he worries a little over Freya, but he dances and the wine from earlier makes him a little tipsy. He meets Juliana de Listinoise and she sees his eyes and knows him for what he is as well.
~*~
Merlin waits at least until after Freya has been home for most of the day before cornering her in her room to ask about what happened. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, worried about that the most.
“No, he was gentle and he was satisfied with me. He told me he wishes to contract me again once he returns from Tintagel.” She smiles and Merlin can see it in her eyes that she is fine and the slight tension he has been feeling since last night lifts.
“Did he give you anything towards your Mearcung?” The money from the contracts went to whoever owned their bond, in this case Kilgharrah. Only gifts from patrons went towards their Mearcung and their freedom.
She shook her head, “Not after what he paid to be my first. He said he might bring me something back from Tintagel though.”
“I’m sure Kilgharrah knew who would bid highest, so why him? What could he possibly have that Kilgharrah could want?” Merlin asks as she sits down in front of him. His fingers are deft as he works them through her long locks, quickly braiding them into a single thick plait down her back.
“Poison,” she says softly and Merlin’s fingers still in her hair as he thinks it over. “They are one of the biggest exporters of poison, though it’s mostly in back alleys and behind the scenes. The late queen’s brothers rule there and not three months after her death, Reynold was awarded his contract with the Bois royal family.”
“I thought the queen died in child birth,” Merlin said, renewing his braiding and tying the end off with a leather thong.
“That’s the story, but it was after Arthur was born stillborn that she died. No one knew why, but it was assumed that the birth and loss of her son was too much. Kilgharrah and Gaius believed differently, but they didn’t have any proof to back it up. Except that there were rumors of how Tristan and Agravaine, her brothers, poisoned their father to claim the throne. No one knows for sure and there was no proof,” Freya tells him, turning around to look at him.
“Did he tell you anything then?” Merlin asks, settling back against her headboard.
“He said that anything can be bought if the right price is met, even life and death. He may have said more, but…” she trails off, a flush staining her cheeks.
“It’s hard to concentrate,” Merlin finishes for her with a grin. Merlin sobered, “But he didn’t hurt you?”
“Merlin,” she sighs, “There are worse things I could do in milord Emrys’s name that I would do gladly out of love.”
Merlin stares at her. Love of Kilgharrah? He’s not sure he loves the man, respects him and is grateful to Kilgharrah for taking him in, but love? Maybe one day. “Why?” he asks instead of going with his train of thought further.
“You don’t know?” Freya asks, looking at him in confusion. Merlin shakes his head no. “I was born a Druid. I was the only child with my mother, my father and my great grandmother on my mother’s side. When I was five, our camp was attacked by a sorcerer. He cast a curse and it hit me. My grandmother, who was skilled in many arts, was able to freeze the curse, but not rid me of it. As is custom, one who is cursed is cast out to protect the camp. Kilgharrah was the one who found me wandering in the forest. He took me in and with help, found a cure for the curse. He saved my life and took me in and I owe him everything.”
“And your family?” Merlin asks, holding her hand.
“I haven’t seen them since. And I don’t want to,” she says with emphases.
“Do you know why Kilgharrah was in the forest at that time?” Merlin asks.
“I never asked and he hasn’t said, but whatever it was, I’m glad he was there.” She stands, pulling him to his feet. “Come on, dinner should be ready soon.”
~*~
“What do you know about the queen’s brothers?” Merlin asks Gwaine a few days later. They’re in the tavern at their usual table.
“Brothers? Tristan and Agravaine? I know the rumors. Many say that the two poisoned their father to get to the throne. Agravaine married Maria Tintagel, daughter of one of the oldest noble families in Tintagel. They have two daughters Ariel and Elizabeth who both married into the Kenshire family, two cousins. Tristan hasn’t married, though they say there might be a few bastard children of his floating around. There’s also the rumor that Tristan and Uther hate each other and that he never forgave Ygraine for marrying Uther,” Gwaine lists off, never taking his eyes off the crowd.
“Do you think he hated Uther enough to kill his own sister?” Merlin asks quietly.
“Maybe, it’s hard to say with nobles; what with all that honor and chivalry crap they’re so fond of spewing to cover up the fact that they’re human just like us,” Gwaine answers him.
“You say that and yet you’re a noble,” Merlin reminded his friend. He’d only found out about Gwaine’s father a few years before. About how he’d fought in Escetia’s army and when he died, Gwaine’s mother had gone to Cenred’s father, who had been king at the time, asking for help. The man had refused and left the two to starve on the street, soon after they had come to Camelot to start over.
“Yes, but it’s not a title that makes a man, but their actions and words.” Not wanting to antagonize his friend any more, Merlin switches to other topics. They talk until he sees Will standing by the door. Giving his friend a hug, he runs off, pulling his hood up as he goes.
~*~
Two things happen at the same time a few weeks later. The first is the Frumgar of Hibernia making a visit to Camelot. This is a big occurrence for the people of Albion for few have ever been able to cross the stretch of water between Albion and Hibernia which is ruled over by the Fisher King.
For as long as anyone can remember, the Fisher King has ruled over these straits from his island. Few actually believe in his power to command the seas, but the Picts have been unable to raid the upper coast line with their long boats because of the Fisher King and Albion has yet to make a trade route to Hibernia. Which has led to many wondering what the Hibernian delegation paid in order to cross the Fisher King’s waters?
Of course, few actually speak Hibernian and so Kilgharrah is called in as translator. Just before this, Gaius calls on the Emrys household. Kilgharrah had asked if the old physician could teach Merlin of warlocks and all that comes with being one. Merlin thought that Kilgharrah might cancel, but Gaius assures him that it would not be necessary. So Kilgharrah and Freya leave for the castle, Freya to ‘play’ at being a scribe only while in reality she speaks, writes, and reads Hibernian just as well as Kilgharrah and Merlin.
Merlin for his part is too caught up in learning about himself to really pay the visit any attention. The day arrives and Gaius’s carriage pulls up just as Kilgharrah and Freya’s does. They bid each other good day, Merlin asking Freya to fill him in when they get back. Settled into Gaius’s carriage, they ride in silence, the city disappearing and the surrounding forest closing up around them.
They ride for about an hour, the trees getting taller and thicker, the road becoming rougher. Eventually, they slow and stop, the driver coming around to open the door and help Gaius down from his seat. Jumping out after him, Merlin stares around in wonder.
This section of the forest is something he’s never seen, untamed and wild. Few people have come here. It takes Merlin a moment to sense the tickling sensation at the back of his head. Opening up his mind, he’s flooded by wild magic, natural earth magic, all around him.
He staggers, a harsh breath ripping through his lungs as he tries to separate from the magic. “Easy, my boy,” Gaius says, holding his arm to steady him. “I should have warned you beforehand. Just focus on me, on my voice…”
Merlin does and slowly, the bit that is him starts to emerge from the magic. Taking a gasping breath, he feels the rest of the magic leave and he just feels rung out and about to collapse. Gaius wisely leads him to a stump nearby and lowers him to the ground.
“What was that?” Merlin asks later once he’s feeling better.
“This place is a sacred place, where wild magic pools. It is a place where warlocks are buried.” Standing shakily, Merlin follows Gaius further into the trees. It takes him a moment to notices the headstones, buried and hidden by the forest as it slowly takes over.
There are so few, only a couple dozen, scattered around them. “This is the last recorded warlock in our history,” Gaius says standing before a headstone that looks a little clearer than the rest: Ambrosia Antonius.
“How long ago?” Merlin asks.
“Two hundred years ago,” Gaius says and Merlin shivers in the cool breeze. The first warlock in two hundred years, that’s a long time for someone to compete against.
“As far as I can tell, this is the first one ever buried here, just before the creation of the five kingdoms.” He points to a headstone some distance away. It is crumbling stone, vines and lichen growing over it and rain and weather eroding it leave only one part of the stone visible and legible: Emrius.
Gaius leads him away to a small hillock. A slab of granite juts out from its base, the top of it flat. The wind and rain have shaped it into an almost bench like projection. They sit down, staring out into the forest.
“What are warlocks for?” Merlin finally asks.
“That is a broad question, my boy,” Gaius says, but continues before Merlin can say more. “Mostly, they prophesied change, not for good or bad, but for change in the balance. A warlock is a link between the balance and everything else. The balance works through the warlock to see that what it wants happens.”
“That…that’s a lot for one person,” Merlin finally whispers; panic welling up slightly in his gut.
“My boy, do you think every warlock went looking for the change? You have no control over fate, but it doesn’t mean you can’t live life to its fullest until that day comes. And not all change is big,” Gaius says wisely, patting his shoulder to comfort him.
“What happened, during Ambrosia Antonius’s time?” Merlin asks.
“The last of the dragons died and the last Dragonlord disappeared into the northern mountains to live the life of a hermit,” Gaius admits.
“What if I screw up, don’t do what the balance wants me to? What then?” Merlin asks.
“Now you’re just being stupid. Use your head, boy. The balance works through many things. If it wants something to happen, it will.” Gaius’ eyebrow is kind of scary and Merlin smiles sheepishly at his words.
“So, what now?” he asks.
“Now, I teach you all I can and hope it will be enough,” Gaius says. They spend the next two hours going over every piece of knowledge Gaius has collected through his years. From myths and feats they supposedly did, to their connection to wild magic and the balance. By the end, Merlin’s mind is buzzing with all that Gaius has told him.
They’re quiet on the walk back to the carriage where the driver is dozing as he waits for their return. “Thank you,” Merlin says, turning to Gaius.
“I was my pleasure, my boy,” Gaius says as they climb back into the carriage. They’ve started the ride back when Gaius speaks up again. “And remember, that place isn’t just a burial ground. It can be a place of healing and meditation when you need it.”
“I will,” Merlin says. He thanks Gaius again as he gets out of the carriage back at the household. Waving once as the carriage pulls away, he goes inside. Kilgharrah and Freya are still at the castle so Merlin goes into the library and spends his time until their return immersed in a book of history from two hundred years ago.
~*~
They return with friends in tow, plans for a small party already being made, despite Merlin’s desire to tell Freya all he’s learned while away. Talk that night is about nothing but the Frumgar’s visit to Albion.
That night, Kilgharrah beckons Merlin out into the courtyard, his usual smirk in place. “I believe you are old enough now to merit a seat amongst your peers. You know the Comte de Isidore,” he says, motioning to Uriens. “As well as Juliana, our dear poetess. This is Petit Fils, the Royal Admiral of Camelot’s finest ships. And finally, we have Pellinore de Dieu, the Comte de Dieu, and our Royal Commander of Camelot’s army.”
Merlin knows the first two to a certain degree, but the Admiral and Commander are new to him. The Admiral is a robust man, his face weathered; dark green eyes stare out from under bushy brows and a dark beard adorning his chin. His shoulders are broad and he is barrel-chested with a thin waist and muscled thighs.
The Commander on the other hand is almost polar opposite. His skin is clean shaven, though he is tanned. His sun bleached hair is pulled back into a tight braid and his grey eyes are ever watchful under fine brows. He is tall, his build wiry and he is thin in comparison to the Admiral. Merlin stammers something in greeting, too awed by their stories and legends to be comfortable around them.
“So you’re Kilgharrah’s little secret. A warlock, ya old dragon? Only you would be bold enough to take in one of them,” Petit barks out with a guffaw and a knee slap. He beckons Merlin over to his couch and looks him over. “Not much too you lad, but you’ve some years to go,” he jokes, slapping Merlin on the shoulder soundly and sending him staggering some. As Merlin straightens himself, Petit speaks again, ‘So, you’re this old leather hide’s pupil, why do you think the Fisher King allowed the Frumgar through?”
Merlin takes a moment to answer, “If I knew that my lord, I would not need to be here.” Merlin grins cheekily at the Admiral and Petit roars with laughter, thumping his knee again. Freya’s tinkling laugh joins in and the others as well.
“If anyone would know why, it would be you Admiral…or perhaps you might know my dear muse?” Kilgharrah says, turning to look at Juliana. That was a tale from Merlin’s childhood, of how Juliana de Listinoise had been banished from Albion and in her grief, had decided to cross the Fisher King’s strait to get to Hibernia. She had stayed in exile for two years before a messenger bird had drawn her back to Albion to news of the Queen’s death along with the prince.
Juliana shook her head. “I do not know what the Fisher King might have asked of the Frumgar to allow passage. I was asked for a song there and a song back to get passage. He seems to go on desire alone.”
Freya shifts loudly and the group turns to look at her. “They spoke of a vision,” she admits. “I was close enough to hear. Apparently, the Frumgar’s sister is a Seer and she had a vision of a golden dragon and a red hart.”
“But did you see Morgause seemed to take to the man’s wife. I almost felt compelled to warn her to beware the fangs on that woman. Tis not a good thing to become involved with that viper,” Uriens says ignoring the fact they he was related to Morgause by marriage.
“Morgause le Fey de la Escetia would be wise to beware of Vela. She is under the protection of the Blæc Beran, the Black Bear. Morgause should beware of claws herself,” Juliana says softly.
“Her boys are big though. Did you see the eldest; he was not pleased to be skipped over in favor of a cripple,” Petit says drinking deeply from his goblet.
“You refer to the Prince?” Pellinore asks with a good-natured brow lift at the Admiral. “Tiny little thing compared to that boy, but fair beneath all that blue. Shame about his leg. What was his name again?”
“Driant and don’t even think about it,” Kilgharrah tells him with a touch of warning in his voice.
“I am not stupid, not when I’m in politics,” Pellinore jokes.
“Are they really tattooed in blue?” Merlin asks in a lull of the conversation, sipping at his wine.
“As truly as you will soon wear your Mearcung, warlock,” Juliana tells him. “They wear the marks as a story, telling of their deeds and accomplishments, who their family is and where their alliances stand. People may pity the prince, but do not mistake him for weak. His markings attest to his victories in battle. He has won his place, despite his foot.”
“And yet we still do not know what they want,” Uriens says aloud. “Is it trade, following some cryptic vision, protection from the Picts who have tried to raid from the north?”
“I have heard that Acestir has also tried for a southern trade route to Hibernia, but that the Frumgar and Wigend made landing impossible, so it seems protection and trade are not on their list,” Petit admits, running a hand through his short locks.
“We say they want our protection and yet we must still defend our borders from the north and the south. The Picts desire our rich lands and the lands to the south of us desire our riches. Tis no wonder we must defend ourselves,” Kilgharrah reminds them.
“And we will be there to defend them,” Petit says, raising his glass in salute to Pellinore who nods back. The rest raise their glasses as well.
“Yet, the Fisher King desires none of these things. So we still do not know what it is he seeks nor do we know what he asked of the Frumgar,” Freya says, her quick mind connecting things that were not seen by others. Even Kilgharrah seems to be surprised by her words, but he composes himself before anyone else can see it, but Merlin sees his eyes and knows that Kilgharrah has filed her words away for later perusal.
“It matters not. Tonight, Uther dines with the Hibernians and Morgana shall teach the cripple prince to dance properly.” Kilgharrah takes up his pipe, lights it and takes a drag. “Juliana, perhaps you would do us the honor of a song?”
Juliana shoots Kilgharrah a knowing glance but obliges, singing in her magical voice. Uriens leaves sober that night with a nod to the three of them while the Admiral drinks deep into his cups and is assisted by two manservants into one of the guest rooms to sleep his drink off.
Merlin didn’t hear the conversation, but he saw Freya leave with Pellinore, Kilgharrah nodding to the Commander and speaking a few words to him. As far as Merlin knows, no contract is signed, but the next day, Freya returns and an appointment is made with the tattooist to start her Mearcung at the base of her spine where it curves smoothly into her buttocks.
~*~
Kilgharrah goes twice more to the castle, alone, during the Frumgar’s visit. Uther and the ambassadors of the other kingdoms exchange gifts and pleasantries and soon the Hibernian party leaves, sailing back across the strait, not stopped by the Fisher King. If Kilgharrah has learned anything since the party, he has not said, keeping tight lipped.
No longer needed in the capital, the Comte de Dieu soon heads back for the north and his troops to guard the mountain passes. Petit leaves as well, sobered after his sleep, and heads for his fleet, heading south to guard Albion’s southern shores. Word of his victory against a raiding party from the mainland arrives sometime later, to many cheers.
The Frumgar’s visit fades into the back ground, and only a few actually think on it, for life goes on and Hibernia is far across the strait.
Merlin stews impatiently, wanting life to go by fast. Freya’s accomplishment of her auction and virgin-price soon spread and daily requests come asking for her service. Kilgharrah screens them thoroughly and only the ones he deems suitable pass by Freya, for her choosing. They have say in that much at least.
Freya’s third patron is Melissa nó Wæter, bestowed by Alice to the ex-Water Court member for her birthday. Freya doesn’t tell him much, but she returns with an easy smile, her gaze farseeing and unfocused, as if she is remembering something.
That day, Kilgharrah calls Merlin into his study. His pipe is lit and rests on a stand on the table, smoke curling from its bowl. Merlin sits and waits for Kilgharrah to get to the reason he was called here. He doesn’t have to wait long. Kilgharrah shifts, as if waking from sleep. He blinks slowly and turns to look at Merlin. “You are aware, that I have received requests…for you.”
“I…no, my lord,” Merlin says. He had heard of no such request despite his birthday having been some weeks before.
Kilgharrah stood, grabbing up his pipe and taking a puff from it. “Indeed, ever since Freya’s debut.” He stops pacing and turns to look fully at Merlin. “Do you wish to accept one of these offers?”
Merlin’s breathe stops for a second and then Kilgharrah’s word sink in. “My lord…I would be willing to accept one of these requests,” Merlin says, trying to keep the impatience from his voice. He has been waiting for so long now.
“I thought you might say something along those lines,” he says with his usual smirk. His face turns serious a second later. “You must first choose a signal.”
“What?” Merlin asks, confused.
“Ah, I’d forgotten that this was not covered in your learning. It is not often practiced. A signal is a word that stops all things. It is used when you feel unsafe. It is a safe guard against harm and should a patron not abide by it, they are punishable under the full force of the law. It is something that will not be mistaken as play. Choose your word wisely, young warlock. This is one of my ways of safeguarding you two, should things not go as planned.”
Merlin nods and stares into space for a moment, a word forming in his mind. It is fitting, that he uses it: “Gwaine,” the name of his childhood friend and his first taste of freedom.
Kilgharrah blinks, taken aback momentarily, and finally he nods, “It will be added to your contract.”
“Who is it that you have in mind?” Merlin asks and for a second, Nimueh’s face appears in his mind and he shivers.
“There are several, passed through discreet channels, except for one. Breunor d’Cote seems to love the direct approach since he came forward himself to place his request.” He draws from his pipe again and absentmindedly blows a smoke ring.
Merlin tries to remember D’Cote’s face, but all he can come up with is a hard-faced man with a scar and short hair. “Why would he do that? He knows the game you play, so why go for the bait anyways?” Merlin asks.
“He believes he can best me in my own game. He is a hunter and thinks he can avoid the hook and flush out his true prey through you. He is too arrogant to let this pass,” Kilgharrah says with another smirk.
“What do you wish me to get from him?” Merlin asks, feeling acceptance seep into his very bones. He has waited patiently for this day and it has finally come. He will do what he must and more, so long as he is allowed for once.
“Whatever he may give away. He has influence in many places in court and is high ranked himself. He knows what happens in court before most. He will know who is posted where and who profits from what,” Kilgharrah tells him.
“Like who profited from Ygraine de la Pendragon’s death?” Merlin asks cautiously, hoping Kilgharrah might slip for once.
“No one benefited from Ygraine’s death except Reynold Gunter and he is within our reach through Freya. But D’Cote stands alone, but who pulls his strings. Find this for me, and I will owe you greatly, young warlock.”
Merlin sits there for a second, mulling his words. Finally, he nods. “I will do my best.”
“Then you agree to his request?”
“How much is it?” Merlin says instead of answering.
Kilgharrah throws his head back and roars his laughter to the ceiling. “Oh, ever one of the Moonlight Court.” Catching his breath he answers, “Nine Hundred and Seventy-Five.” Merlin must have shown something on his face for Kilgharrah continues. “Freya’s price only went that high because of the people invited and the auction. The ones who will ask for you are a select group who like to have those with power and those who are rare. It will rise as your prestige rises with you. Do not fret,” he says with a chortle.
“Alright, I will accept his request,” Merlin answers.
Kilgharrah sits, face serious once more. “I want you to be careful. Do not push too hard and ask nothing. Let him think he has won, but do not do anything that will put you in danger. Patience is not a weakness, risk nothing until the time is right. Do you understand?”
Merlin nods. “And should it go wrong?”
“Then half of what he paid for you will go to your Mearcung and you will never have to see him again. Just promise me, that should it become too much, you will use your signal.”
“I will…Gwaine,” Merlin says softly, letting his friend’s name fall off of his tongue.
“And do not let on to your learning. For all he knows, you are just an empty-headed pawn in my game with skills from the Moonlight Court,” Kilgharrah cautions.
“Then why did you take Freya with you to the castle?” Merlin asks.
“I said she wrote a fair hand as a scribe and with exception of Uther, none were disillusioned. Remember Merlin, image is everything sometimes and Freya had the airheaded female down pat years before,” Kilgharrah says with a snort.
Merlin nods. “I will be wary,” he says, already impatient for the day to come.
Kilgharrah nods back. “I will see to the arrangements.” He dismisses Merlin from his study.
~*~
Merlin brushes Freya’s hands away and turns to look at himself in the mirror. Someone else look out of the reflective surface. A young man stands there, dressed in tightfitting black hose tucked into shiny black boots. Buckles washed in gold wink in the candle light. A black tunic settles over a deep blue, long sleeved shirt, the ends gathered at his wrists. Gold embroidery and small golden beads are sewn into the cloth, hidden by folds of cloth until the light touches them.
His hair has been artfully arranged, wild looking against his clean, pale skin. Blue, gold flecked eyes stare back at him, kohl outlining them, making them seem deeper and brighter. Freya stands behind him and she stares at him in the mirror as well.
“You are ethereal,” she says with a small smile.
Merlin turns away from the mirror to look at her, his sister and friend, “You think so?” She nods. Merlin smiles cheekily. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, come home safe,” she says softly, hugging him close. He holds her as well, taking in her comfort, his nerves settling down. They both leave the room, descending the stairs where Kilgharrah is waiting with Will.
Kilgharrah looks him over and nods, handing him a pile of cloth. As Merlin takes it, the silky cloth unfolds, rippling like water until the beautiful cloak hangs from his hands. It is black and yet when the light strikes it, the brilliant blue of magic springs forth as if summoned by a spell. Merlin swallows through the lump in his throat, petting the beautiful garment reverently. “As I suspected, it suits you,” Kilgharrah says.
“Thank you,” Merlin says hoarsely and clears his throat.
“I spoke with Gaius about it and he told me that it is tradition to bestow this upon a warlock before their Rites. Only a warlock is allowed to bear this color. I had to send to the elders in the dyers Guild far to the north to find someone who knew how to recreate this color.”
Kilgharrah steps forward, placing a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, “A safe journey and a safe return, young warlock.” Kilgharrah lets go and steps back. “The carriage is waiting. Will will ride with you as escort. Be safe.”
Inside the carriage, it is dark and quiet, the only sounds his and Will’s breathing and the sound of the horse’s hooves striking the cobblestones. Merlin hugs the beautiful cloak around himself, taking courage from its soft folds.
D’Cote’s home is some distance from Kilgharrah’s, but closer to the castle. He apparently also has room in the castle itself, but prefers to use this residence for assignations like this. A servant opens the door on them, surprised by his companion. Taking it in stride, the man sniffs loudly and lets them in. “You will reside in the servant’s quarters until he sends for you,” the servant says to Will. He takes Merlin’s cloak, settling the heavy cloth over his arm.
“This way my lord,” he says and shows Merlin through the halls to where D’Cote waits for him. D’Cote is in a room off to the right of the long hall. The door is made of thick, heavy oak, bands of iron running across, adding support to the wood.
“My lord, Merlin nó Emrys to see you.” Inside is a dim chamber, a low fire flickering in the great hearth along the opposite wall. Merlin can make out animal heads, trophies of the great hunter, weapons and D’Cote’s coat-of-arms decorating the walls as well.
D’Cote is stood to the right of the door and as the large door is shut behind Merlin, he feels his nerves start up again, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as the tension mounts up. Breunor d’Cote is still the imposing figure he recalls from Alice’s party, maybe even more so now that it is only the two of them. His hair is still shaved close to the skull; sharp grey-green eyes bore into Merlin, predatory eyes.
Before Merlin can blink, D’Cote strides across the room, his hand not holding his goblet, coming up to strike Merlin across the face, sending him staggering and falling to his knees. Merlin’s ears ring and a bead of blood rises up from his slightly split lips. Merlin licks it away.
“You will kneel in my presence, whore” he says lowly, taking a small sip from his goblet, not a drop spilled.
Merlin shifts, falling properly onto his knees, head bowed before this man, arms relaxed in his lap. “Why does Kilgharrah send you to tempt me?” D’Cote asks, circling Merlin. His hand slides into Merlin’s short locks and yanks back, pulling his throat taut in a pale stretch of skin.
“I don’t know, my lord,” Merlin whispers, swallowing noisily.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, running the edge of the base of his goblet down Merlin’s throat in a mocking caress. “Tell me why he sent you? What is it he thinks you could get from me?” He dug the edge of metal slightly into his throat. “Does he think I will just spill all of my secrets in pillow talk to some whore?” He presses a little harder.
“I don’t know,” Merlin gets out past the pressure, breathing shallowly.
Merlin shifts and can feel D’Cote’s muscled thigh pressing against his head and neck. Merlin gasps as his magic starts to awaken, worming through his veins hot and heavy, like he’s drunken too much mead. He knows D’Cote must see the magic sparking in his eyes.
D’Cote gives a soft breathy sound, staring at the play of power inside Merlin’s body; lifting the goblet up and releasing his hold on Merlin’s hair, he takes a drink. “We shall see, warlock.” Stepping back, he tossed the empty goblet away with a clang of metal. “Prove to me you are not here for your master alone. Please me.”
Merlin turns around, still kneeling and reaches for the ties to D’Cote’s hose. He is already hard, his cock straining against the cloth and the tip wet. As the final knot comes undone, he springs forward, curling towards the man’s stomach. Merlin doesn’t wait, taking the thick red shaft into his mouth, letting the heavy scent and taste wash over him.
Merlin can hear D’Cote groan above him as he takes him in deep, swallowing around his cock and sucking messily, noisily, no finesse or grace, despite all of his teaching. But D’Cote does not care and if Merlin can tell one thing, it is what his patron wants. Instead, he takes him deep, lets him thrust and use his mouth and throat.
Merlin’s jaw aches, his throat is sore and his lips are starting to go numb. Saliva runs down his chin, but he doesn’t stop, lets D’Cote use him until the man stops with a deep groan, pressed as deep as he can be down Merlin’s throat. Merlin feels every twitch and pulse as he comes down his throat, his vision starting to go black from lack of air.
D’Cote pushes him away and Merlin falls to the hard stone floor, gasping for breath. A booted foot kicks him onto his back, “Whore!” D’Cote yells. “On your feet and take you clothes off.”
Merlin rises shakily. His fingers tremble slightly as he starts to undress, undoing his belt and slipping his tunic over his head. His under shirt comes next. Kneeling, he quickly undoes the buckles of his boots, slipping out of them. His hose and smalls are last and as they pool in a heap at his feet, he stands naked before D’Cote. D’Cote stares, eyes hooded as he takes in Merlin.
“There,” he pointed to a pile of furs and blankets in front of the fire. “On your stomach,” he says. As Merlin makes his way towards the pile, D’Cote stalks up behind him; shedding clothing like a dog does water until he looms naked behind Merlin.
Kneeling, Merlin lies down on his stomach, feeling the warmth of the fire on his face and the tickle of fur on his stomach. He holds himself still as D’Cote readies. Merlin doesn’t even have time to start before two blunt fingers are pressed against his entrance and press through. Merlin cries out, tears springing to his eyes his virgin muscles are stretched to accommodate D’Cote’s thick fingers.
Breathing shallowly, he clutches at the cloth beneath his fingers, willing his body to relax. D’Cote knows at least to not move as Merlin become accustomed to the intrusion. Slowly, the vice of his muscles release and he can breathe a little easier.
D’Cote pulls back and Merlin feels him pour more oil onto his fingers. By the time D’Cote adds a third finger, Merlin’s breath is hitching for a different reason, his magic awakening even more now. He can feel it just beneath his skin, like ants are crawling all over him. It itches and tingles and all he can do is press back onto the fingers impaling him.
D’Cote pulls his fingers out, broad hands grabbing at Merlin’s hips and dragging him up onto his hands and knees. Merlin only has a second to breathe before D’Cote presses forward, blunt head nudging at his ring of muscle and presses through.
A whine escapes from Merlin’s throat as D’Cote doesn’t stop and just presses forward slowly and steadily until he is in as far as he can go. They are both breathing harshly, D’Cote’s fingers digging severely into Merlin’s hips. He pulls out slowly and presses in faster the next time and the next until he is thrusting, pounding into Merlin’s willing body.
Below, Merlin cries out, sweat beading on his skin, his breath coming shallowly as he gasp, riding the pleasure. His magic seems to be whirling around him, in him, through him. His arms start to shake and he collapses onto his elbows. As the angle changes, D’Cote seems to hit something inside him that has him seeing stars and a cry is torn from his throat.
D’Cote just growls over him, pounding harder still, taking his pleasure from Merlin’s body. As his thrusts start to stutter, D’Cote’s arms curl around Merlin’s shoulders and he hauls him up onto his lap, Merlin’s own weight forcing D’Cote in deeper than ever. Arching against him, Merlin cries out.
Still thrusting, D’Cote lets out a low roar, hips stuttering, coming inside Merlin. Merlin feels it all and as the man starts to come, his magic goes wild and spikes. Merlin’s sight goes golden and then he’s coming as well, arching and writhing in D’Cote’s grip, obscene noises falling from his lips as he climaxes.
Merlin comes to still draped over D’Cote, trembling still and breathing heavily. “You are something indeed,” he says softly into Merlin’s ear, turning Merlin’s head to the side. It is then that Merlin notices the fire roaring in its hearth, far higher and brighter than it had been, the flames taking on a blue hue.
“Tell me what Kilgharrah wants,” he asks, stroking idle fingers along Merlin’s skin, making it twitch.
“I don’t know,” Merlin bites out.
“Truly?” His hand circles around to Merlin’s back. Merlin arches as he wiggles a finger in alongside his cock still firmly impaled inside him.
“I swear it!”
His other hand comes around and takes his cock in hand and starts to stroke it, drawing a hoarse cry from Merlin as the oversensitive flesh is brought back into hardness. “I paid Kilgharrah for your virgin-price and I plan to take my due.” He does.
~*~
Part 3