Chapter 1: Prologue
Summary:
Balinor makes a choice
Notes:
So I was going to seed this out further in the story but I realized there was no real natural way to do that for reasons that will probably be fairly obvious by the end. Also its absence was making my summary a bit misleading. Therefore, I think this is better? Hopefully you agree lol.
Anyway, enjoy!
Warning: be emotionally prepared, I’m not sorry.
Chapter Text
Balinor clutched his fur cloak tighter as the wind bit at him. It was especially fierce tonight and he tried not to take it as an ill omen. What he was doing was fine. It had been ten years since Uther had run him out of Camelot; there was no chance that the bloodthirsty King would still be looking for him. Besides, he wasn't even in Camelot.
There was nothing left for him there.
Nothing.
He pushed thoughts of his old friend to the back of his mind. There wasn’t anything he could do anything for Kilgharrah now; in fact, his presence in the dragon's prison would only endanger them both more. The dragon understood his choice and Balinor could only hope that, by some stroke of fate, he would someday be free to roam the skies once more.
No, Balinor was here, in this sleepy little village, for an entirely different reason; a reason that resided in the worn little cottage at the bottom of the hill, the light of a candle flame flickering in its window despite the late hour. He had told Hunith that he could not stay despite the kindness she had shown him and the brief, aching love they had shared. He only wished he had met her sooner, back when Camelot was a place for all men. He couldn't take her with him now; a dreary cave, far from any sort of civilization, was no place for a woman and he would not subject her to such poverty.
Yet, she had remained on his mind, constant, like the beat of his heart. The thought of her soft affection and the understanding in her face, that Balinor did not deserve, had haunted him and steadied him in equal measure. In the end, he had been weak and now he was here, staring at her flickering window and trying to convince himself it was alright to visit. He wouldn't linger long, just enough to make sure she was doing alright, maybe help with a harvest or two. As long as he didn't make a pattern of his visits, this much would be alright, surely.
His breath steamed the air as he sighed, bracing himself against the wind that clawed at him, almost seeming desperate to make him turn back. Step by step he approached, oscillating his hope for both a warm welcome and a cold one; the former would heal the part of his soul that felt ripped open in her absence, while the latter would give him peace of mind in his self-imposed exile.
At long last he reached the tattered door of her cottage, noting that the gaps around its seams ensured that the chill of the air found its way in even as Balinor was sure Hunith's very smile kept the house warm. The wind swirled around him in a chaotic dance, whistling in the night like a long mournful howl as he bunched his cloak into one hand and rose the other to knock on the door. He hesitated for a long few moments, the pounding of his pulse beating its warning and anxiety both, but steeled himself and rapped on the door, firmly but not threateningly. There was silence from within and Balinor nearly lost his nerve until the light in the window faded back, trickling out the seams of the door as someone approached.
"Hello?" Hunith's melodic voice called out before she dared to open the door, reasonably cautious of anyone at this hour. Balinor couldn't help the smile that split his face, elated just to hear her again. Perhaps it was the long years of no one else to talk to, but he couldn't help but feel giddy at the thought of merely getting to hold her tight once more.
"Hunith? It's Balinor," He swallowed nervously, feeling much like a young man attempting to woo the attention of his first fancy back in Camelot. "I-I hope you remember me?"
There was another moment of silence, that caused the anxiety driven part of his brain to suggest digging himself a nice hole to bury himself in, and then someone was scrabbling at the lock on the door. With a final clunk of heavy metal, the door ripped back a fraction, pausing just enough for him to make out the fair face of his love peaky through, hope and wariness warring in her eyes. She looked worn and weary but no less beautiful than he remembered, dark hair framing her face and deceptively soft eyes hiding the quick mind within. She took him in in turn, furrowing her brow at the unfamiliar scars and creases he must have gained through the years, a mountaintop was not a friendly place of dwelling by any means, but eventually those lovely pale blue eyes traveled up to his own and a spark of familiarity lit.
"Balinor?" She breathed in question and Balinor felt his grin stretch even wider, shifting his feet.
"The dashing young man escaping the clutches of a tyrant?" He tried and she stared at him in wonder before snorting.
"I think you mean the sorry sod that showed up half frozen on my doorstep with a quarter of his hide missing." She corrected him and he couldn't bring himself to feel offended, not when her eyes sparkled just so.
"Well, I suppose there might be truth in that version too." He grumbled without heat and they stood there, grinning stupidly at one another for several long moments. Abruptly, Hunith's face twisted, eyes glimmering with tears, and she lifted a hand to her lips as they trembled. Balinor's heart lurched as his face fell.
"Hunith--" He was cut off as she wrenched the door the rest of the way open, throwing herself into his arms and curling fingers into the furs around his torso. He immediately drew her in, shielding her from whatever distress the world had pushed on her. They rocked gently as he shushed her hiccupping sobs, placing tender kisses to her temple.
"You're here." She whispered in wonder as her crying tapered off. "You're really here."
She pulled back to give him a suspicious glare, sniffing the last of her sudden emotion away. "You said you wouldn't be, that you couldn't." She accused.
Balinor ducked his head, bringing their brows together. "I know." He said softly. "But I just couldn't bring myself to stay away. I needed to check on you, to see how you were doing."
She laughed, a wet sound, and sniffled a final time, rubbing her eyes and nose as she pulled away, retreating into the door frame. "Well come in then, no use waiting for someone to catch sight of you."
The tight fear in his chest finally released with another steaming breath of air and stepped forward out of the last tendrils of wind clinging determinedly to his cloak, a last plea to turn away. As he expected, impossibly, the interior of the cottage was warm and cozy; it felt like finally coming home, despite how little time Balinor had spent here comparatively.
Physically, the house wasn't much, a single room for all of Hunith's needs, her bed set up on one end, while a stove with a bare few embers resided in the other, but it was loved, in every corner, every dish, jar, and pot, there was evidence of extensive use, well-worn surfaces. His gaze came to a startled stop as they met the bright blue eyes of a young boy. He was curled down by a blanket, watching Balinor with a wary gaze with only a mere flicker of curiosity. Balinor could pick out the ghost of Hunith's dimples in the boy's cheeks and the soft way her hair curved among the boy's own dark locks, and his stomach sank.
"Oh," He heard himself say distantly, looking around for a third person. "I didn't mean to intrude."
Hunith glanced at him from where she was stoking the fire with another log and followed his gaze to the boy before wringing her hands anxiously. "I wanted to talk to you about that." She said, flicking a glance between them and bracing herself for some sort of response.
Balinor swallowed, the dread consolidating into a leaden brick, "Of course, it would be unfair of me to assume you hadn't moved on." He forced levity that he didn't feel into the words, trying to ease the distress he saw on her face.
"No!" Hunith denied, overloud in the silence of the light. A light pink of embarrassment washed over her cheeks at the force of the word, but she squared her shoulders, moving forward to grip his arms, swallowing nervously as she squeezed them. "Balinor, he's yours."
Balinor blinked at her, not understanding the words as they floated against his mind. Hunith squeezed his arms again, biting her lip in fear. "Balinor?" She whispered. "Say something."
“Mine?!” He finally yelped in response, whipping his head around to stare at the boy with wide eyes. He could see his own rough expression on the boy’s face now, softened by the delicate beauty of Hunith’s features, but, surely, they hadn't had time. Their prior correspondence had been so brief before Uther's men bore down on their heads. Yet, the boy looked to be the right age, just shy of ten summers.
“In a single night?!” He asked, breathless, as he gripped Hunith’s arms back, seeing her nod hesitantly.
“You marvelous thing.” He breathed again in wonder, drawing her close and hearing her give a relieved laugh, melting into his eager embrace.
He should feel frightened for the boy, the heritage he would carry on his shoulders, but he couldn’t find it in himself to banish the joy that bubbled between his ribs. Children of all kinds were cherished by dragonlords due to the important gift they carried in their blood, but none more-so than the sons of the line. To have been given the gift of both just as he had come to peace that the legacy of his people would die with him? It was a miracle, and Balinor couldn’t bring himself to feel any different.
He had a son.
He pulled back only to immediately catch her lips in a fierce kiss, trying to convey the giddiness that consumed him. She hummed contentedly, wrapping her arms around his neck as she let him lead, just a sweet and alluring as all those nights ago. When they finally separated it was with a smirk on Hunith's lips and a low-simmering fire in Balinor's veins. However, she pulled back from his embrace, turning instead to the boy watching with wider eyes from his place on the blanket.
"Merlin," She called, "Come meet your father."
"Merlin?" Balinor laughed, "Like the bird?"
Hunith flushed, shooting him a cutting glare, "It felt right." She defended with a huff. "It wasn't like you were around to ask." and Balinor winced as guilt brushed through him.
"If I had known, I would have been." He promised and Hunith's face softened.
"I know." She assured him, patting his arm placatingly.
The boy, Merlin, gathered his long limbs underneath himself, approaching the two of them with that same wary suspicion. Balinor crouched down as he came within range, hands itching with the desire to hug the boy just as fiercely. Merlin didn't know him however, something only time and exposure would fix.
"Hello there." Balinor said gently and Merlin cocked his head, flicking a glance to Hunith for reassurance before responding with a sullen, "H'llo." and lapsing into silence once more.
"Oh come on, Merlin." Hunith chided. "You're normally far more chatty than this."
Merlin scowled at her, causing Hunith's eyes to narrow, before switching his accusatory gaze back to Balinor. "Will s'ys nobles are all bast'rds."
"Merlin!" Hunith's voice raised, scandalized, "Did he teach you that language?!"
Merlin tucked his shoulders up to his ears, "He s'ys that's what Old Man Simons is." He clarified as if that explained everything, glaring at Balinor hotly. Balinor raised his eyebrows at the ferocity of his expression.
"Are you a bast'rd?" Merlin asked bluntly, yelping and covering the back of his head as Hunith swiftly swatted him.
"Keep that up and I'll scrub that tongue clean, young man." She warned. "You need to stop hanging out with Will if that's what he's teaching you."
Balinor only laughed, deeply amused by the boy's brass. He leaned in toward Merlin, catching the boy's eye as it peaked back up. "What makes me a noble?" He asked, intrigued.
Merlin immediately pointed to the cloak around his shoulders. "No one ar'nd here has enough coin to buy something like that and Will s'ys all nobles have a whole pile of coins." He said the word pile like it was some magical measurement, sweeping his arms out wide to demonstrate, perhaps it was to a nine summer-old. Balinor chuckled, giving in to the urge to ruffle the boy's hair and listening to him squawk.
"Smart, just like your mother." He praised seeing Merlin's eyes blink up at him with surprise. The boy really was cute when that scowl didn't mar his features. "But I'm no noble." he promised "Not anymore. I made this myself."
Merlin cocked his head to the side, trying to figure Balinor out as he rocked back and forth on his heels. He nodded a minute later, apparently having passed Balinor in his assessment.
"Ok'y" He said, expression much more friendly. "Are you staying with us?"
Balinor's heart clenched, he shouldn't, he knew he shouldn't, but he had lost much of his honor-bound resolve over the years, worn away like a pebble in a rushing stream through his continuing isolation. A glance at Hunith’s hopeful face was his undoing.
“For a little while.” He promised, the vow settling on his shoulders as both their faces lit up. “I was thinking until next harvest at least.” He offered to Hunith in question.
Her shoulders sank, sagging in sharp relief “That would be wonderful.”
He could see the years long weariness that raising a son on her own had cost and the guilt twisted up his throat, threatening to make his eyes teary. It was alright, he reminded himself; he was here now. He would ease the burden while he could.
“Come,” Hunith insisted suddenly, bullying his furs off his shoulders. “We were just getting to sleep. Let’s get you something warm to drink and then you can join us.”
She seemed just as eager to hold him again as he was to hold her and he smiled, allowing her to tug the thick leather down his arms. She handed them to Merlin with the instructions, “Go set these to warm by the fire.”
The boy bundled the cloth in his arms obediently, tottering over to the stove as carefully as the too large pile of cloth would allow him. Hunith tugged Balinor by the hand, sitting him at a modest table while she fetched a glass of ale for him to drink. Balinor watched her work, a profound sense of peace settling over his skin like a cloak. He could get used to a night like this, just the three of them in the quiet.
Hunith had only just set a glass in front of him when there was a muffled roar, followed quickly by a wave of heat blasting from wall to wall. Hunith stiffened, whipping her attention to where Merlin was staring into the flames. Balinor was alarmed to see them licking the top of the stove dome, uncertain as to what would have made it rise so suddenly.
“Merlin!” She scolded, sharp and fearful, and Merlin flinched, turning wide eyes toward her. Balinor startled at the harshness of the reprimand; it was the sharpest tone Hunith had used yet. He furrowed his brow in confusion, trying to think of anything the boy would have had time to do to earn it. Belatedly the thought that Merlin had tossed one of his furs directly onto the flames crossed his mind and he pursed his lips, rising to check only for Hunith to beat him to it. She marched over to him swiftly, anger bubbling in the air around her, and Balinor frowned deeper as Merlin shrunk under her glare. “I told you not to do that!”
All at once, the fire died to nothing, embers cold in their ashes, and Balinor’s blood ran cold in time with the chill that swiftly consumed the air.
That had not been an act of nature.
Reaching Merlin, Hunith crashed to her knees, cupping his face tenderly and forcing him to meet her eyes. “Merlin, you have to listen to me.” She whispered urgently. “You cannot do things like that. You must never let anyone see. You mustn’t. You understand?”
Merlin murmured something that may have been an apology and Hunith drew him into a hug, kissing his crown as she said something just as softly into his hair. Balinor was alarmed to see the deep creases of stress pinch her face, hands trembling where they held Merlin close. They continued to converse in low, quiet tones with the occasional glance in his direction and Balinor kept quiet, sipping lightly on his ale, knowing it was not his place to intrude.
With one last kiss to Merlin’s temple, Hunith pulled away, patting his arm as she shooed him towards the beds. “Go. Make your bed.” She ordered and Merlin scampered across the room, casting a peaking glance at Balinor from under his ducked head as they passed each other. Hunith swiped a thumb quickly under her eyes as she grabbed another log and a piece of flint to restoke the fire the natural way.
He watched her fiddle with the fire, continuing to take sips of his drink, as he contemplated how to broach what he was certain he had seen. By the time she had tended the blaze down to a level unlikely to throw sparks on the floor in the middle of the night, and straightened out his furs in front, Balinor was done with his drink and she hurried over to sweep it out of his hands, grabbing a rough cloth to wipe it down with.
“Hunith.” He prodded in the resulting silence and Hunith froze, prey still for only a second before she resumed her fiddling.
“Balinor.” She returned with false nonchalance.
Balinor waited, allowing the silence to sit, silently willing Hunith to trust him with the knowledge they both knew. He didn’t have to wait long before her shoulders sagged in defeat.
"He has magic." She whispered fearfully, barely able to bring herself to admit the word, hunching her shoulders and flicking her eyes around the room as if someone might hear her even in her own home.
Balinor nodded, having suspected as much. "You taught him?" He couldn’t decide if he was angry or not and the indecision made his tone flat. Surely Hunith wouldn’t have encouraged something so dangerous in the boy, not without good reason? He didn’t want to be cross with her, especially so soon after reuniting but the thought of what Uther would do if he found such a child made him shudder in horror.
But Hunith was already shaking her head in denial, "No, gods no, I would never, not with Uther and Cenred... " She worried her lip, the circles around her eyes appearing to darken even further. "Not even three days old and he was picking up the rattle, floating it above his crib. Not a word needed." Fear and awe fought for space on her face as she murmured the words. "I've never seen anything like it." The fear won and her features crumpled. He was moving before he realized it, reaching out to steady her. "He's in so much danger, if Cenred gets word--"
He did not know Cenred's policy in regard to magic but Hunith's expression assured him it would not be pleasant for the young boy.
His son.
Hunith looked up as he took her shaking hands in his own, rubbing his thumb over the back of them soothingly. "I don't know what to do." She admitted. "I'm so scared for him. He's so strong that he doesn't know how to hide it. He doesn't understand why he should.” A small desperate noise pulsed out of her throat. “How do you explain to a child that they can't make the rain go away just because they want to play outside?” She gestured fretfully to the stove. “That they can't banish the cold just because you're shivering?" Her eyes desperately flinted over Balinor’s face, looking for any sort of answer, but he had none to give.
Instead, his breath caught in his throat and he looked at Merlin, watching them from the other side of the room, with new appreciation. A mage of that caliber was unheard of. There were those born with magic, rare though they were, technically even those who had to learn it, hone it, were born with the potential, but to have a literal babe able to master a levitation spell without words. He had never heard of such a feat. His attention returned back to Hunith as she repeated her plea. "I don't know what to do, Balinor."
He gathered her up once more, resting his chin on the top of her head as she took reprieve in the security of his embrace. "It will be okay." He promised, locking eyes with the boy. "It will all be okay."
"They've already tried to drown him." She confided and Balinor couldn't help how he tightened his grip on her, fury licking through his blood. "Some of the older boys in the village, they know he's different and the other villagers do nothing to protect him. They think he's an ill omen. He escaped but... " She trailed off, leaning against him a bit more. "He's so sweet, I don't want him to lose that, but I don't know how to protect him."
"It will be okay." Balinor repeated, firm, a resolution slotting into place in his mind. Power on the scale that Hunith described would absolutely be a target. When one considered the gift carried in Balinor‘s blood on top of that…
Outside, the wind rattled the shutters with its ferocity.
"I'll teach him to defend himself." He would not receive the power of the dragonlords until Balinor himself had passed, something Balinor was newly determined to prevent, but the least he could do was prepare the boy. He lowered his lips to place a kiss to Hunith’s crown. "I'm sorry you had to deal with this alone."
Hunith sniffed again, raising a hand to rub at her eyes as she shook her head. "I don't care." She said with affection. "I wouldn't change him for the world.“ Her eyes shone with wonder as she turned to look at Merlin, resting her head on Balinor’s chest. “The way he uses magic is beautiful; it’s as natural as breathing for him." She sighed. "I just wish the world was more willing to accept him in return."
Balinor hummed in agreement, pity for his son a dull ache in his chest. The boy’s life would not be easy at any point in his life, no matter where he wound up.
“Come,” Balinor parroted Hunith’s earlier statement with one last kiss. “I was promised a bed. These are things we can face tomorrow, once we’re well rested.”
Hunith smiled as she allowed him to tug her in the direction of her bed, pausing only to give Merlin a good night kiss as he settled on his own pallet. They collapsed among the threadbare blankets covering the collected straw of her pallet, curling up together as easily as a lock and its key. There was no urgency for intimacy, not only because of Merlin’s presence but also because they were more than happy to simply hold one another, to have another person to share the brunt of life’s burdens with. As Hunith tucked herself carefully into his chest, humming contentedly and collapsing her bones as if she no longer had reason to fear anything outside of Balinor’s arms, Balinor felt his heart truly start to beat once more, the ache of isolation fading into a time-worn bruise. He closed his eyes, pressing his nose to her hair, and ignored the wind’s threats as a feeling of home settled under his skin.
The next harvest came and went much faster than Balinor would have liked. With each day that passed, he was more reluctant to leave. Even as the hard stares of the villagers, suspicious and wary of an outsider so well practiced with a sword, warned him that he was overstaying his welcome. He couldn’t bring himself to leave Merlin and Hunith alone, terrified that something would happen to either of them in his absence. Merlin was warming up to him, albeit slowly, learning to lean on his presence in their lives. Hunith was right; he really was a sweet boy, and a bleeding heart, often found releasing hares from the traps they got caught in and leaving it to Balinor to go hunting in order to soothe the sparked tempers it caused.
Not that the villagers thanked him for the work any, simply annoyed that Merlin had caused any trouble at all.
He tried to impress upon Merlin as much dragonlord history as he could, not knowing when or if his time to do so would run out, but Merlin seemed less interested in the rituals and more interested in the tales of the different dragons Balinor had met, the battles they had fought, as any young boy would. Still, Merlin was a quick study, mind as sharp as Hunith’s, and his natural charm and enthusiasm quickly roped the notorious scowling Will into their more mundane lessons of swordship and combat. Merlin was hopeless with anything outside of his magic, that he wasn’t supposed to use, but Will showed a great deal of promise, taking to the blade like he was always meant to wield it. Between the two of them, Balinor’s bones often ached by the end of the day, a pleasant burn that brought back memories of his own father complaining about a young Balinor’s endless reserve of energy.
It was perfect.
Ultimately it was the fast approaching winter and a rumor from a passing merchant that gave him reason to leave.
As the autumn months rolled to a close, the fall harvest having completed, a merchant wagon rattled its way through town on its way to Longstead having traveled from Howden. It brought a variety of necessary supplies to the small town in trade for a few extra rations for the less rural villages in preparation for winter as well as valuable word of the state of Kingdoms. Camelot military presence had increased along the border particularly in Brighton, the village closest to Cenred’s border and, more importantly, Ealdor. It didn’t have to mean anything, but the accusing stares from the villagers increased and Balinor’s gut roared its warning.
It was time to leave. He needed to retrieve something important from his cave anyway, something that would protect Hunith and Merlin even if he wasn’t around to help. It had been a budding idea in his head for a while now, ever since sharing that first fraught winter with his family only to have to run off starving bandits immediately upon thaw. He never wanted them to worry about warmth or protection ever again and what he was going to retrieve would ensure they didn’t.
He kissed the back of Hunith’s hand in goodbye as the merchant waited impatiently for him to board the wagon. It had cost him a good pelt for the journey, but it would be worth it to reduce his travel time significantly.
“You really have to go?” Hunith asked quietly, but the resignation in her eyes told him she already knew the answer. Merlin wasn’t speaking to him at all, pointedly turned away while lingering in the doorway, anger written over every inch of his new ten-summers-sized arms which crossed over his chest in rebellion. He was hurt that Balinor was leaving so soon after he had finally accepted his father’s presence as permanent.
“I have to.” He told affirmed, regret coloring his words as he rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand tenderly, “Just long enough to throw them off the scent, if they are here for me. Besides, I have a gift I need to retrieve, one that will help you survive here, even if I have to hide for a time.”
She searched his face but found only grim resolve and her shoulders slumped in defeat. Leaning forward, she captured his lips in a lingering kiss, pulling back only to cup his face, eyes flicking over every detail as she committed it to memory. “Be careful?” She implored quietly.
Balinor covered her hand with his own, turning to place a gentle kiss on the inside of her wrist. “I will.” he vowed, “and I will be back, I promise. You have all my furs for the winter and I’ll make it before the freeze thaws to deal with the bandits.” He didn’t know how exactly, but he would. He was determined to.
The horses tied to the merchant’s cart stamped their feet in irritation and he swore he could feel the man’s eyes boring into his back. With one last peck on her lips, he released her hands, turning to look at the sullen young man in the doorway.
“Remember Merlin: you’re the man of the house while I’m gone. Look after your mother alright?” Merlin continued to ignore him, but Balinor hadn’t expected anything else. He was confident he could make it up to the boy, especially if he brought his gift.
Then he was climbing up beside the driver, receiving only a grunt of acknowledgment before the reins cracked to begin their departure. He turned as they shambled out of town watching two pairs of blue eyes getting smaller and smaller in the distance. It was only once he could no longer even see the highest point of Hunith’s roof that he reluctantly turned around to look towards his destination instead, heart already aching at the distance.
He would be back as soon as he could.
The journey took him almost all winter to complete, but the end found him on the same hill he looked over Hunith’s cottage with all that time ago, watching the same flicker of candle light in its depths. On his hip rested a delicate warmth that made his absence worth the grief. He pressed a palm against the well padded bag it was placed in and felt a tiny, delicate heartbeat pulse back.
When he had originally fled to his cave up on the Feorre Mountains, he had only the thought to guard the last fragment of his heritage, never once daring to hope that it would ever see the light of day, that he would have someone to pass anything on to. Now that had changed, in a single glorious stroke of fate, he had a son, a family. Tonight, he would add to it.
He began his slow trek down the slope, mindful of the frost that cracked and slipped beneath his boots. The ice clung between the hairs of his new furs and he looked forward to the slightly insulated walls of Hunith’s cottage. Though the darkness painted an illusion of being deep into the night, it wasn’t all that late and Balinor could see the flickers of light in some of the other cottages, trying to create a blanket of warmth to see them through the coldest hours before covering the fire for safety. By the time he reached the door, he was breathless from the exertion of walking through the chill and excitement at reaching home both. He wasted no time in rapping his knuckles against the frozen wood, pleased to see that his patching last visit had held up against the elements, shoring up the previous gaps in the frame.
This time he was able to recognize the curious, wary press of Merlin’s magic against him before it retreated and the sound of someone hurrying to the door cut through the quiet of the night. Hunith pulled open the door with force, hopeful eyes searching the doorstep until they settled on his face. He grinned as her face lit up, catching her as she reached for him.
“I told you I’d be back.” He said, leaning down to bring their lips together.
She pressed back eagerly, parting to snort in teasing, “Well you certainly took your time didn’t you?”
“I ran into more trouble than I expected.” He admitted with regret. In truth the traps had been more intricate than he had been prepared for and it had taken him far too long to safely map them all out. “But I’m here now. How are you two doing?”
"The winter has been difficult." She admitted, pulling back to tug him into the warmth of the cottage. "But we've managed. The furs you left were very helpful, we've given a few of them to Will's family."
Balinor felt the tension left over from his journey drain away as he stepped across the threshold, taking stock of the state of the inside of the cottage. It was much as he had left it, better protected by the patching he had done while he was here and beds much more padded with the remains of his pelts split between Hunith and Merlin. The boy sat at the table this time, a bowl containing the remains of dinner in front of him. He could smell the enticing scent of stew permeating the air and his stomach rumbled in anticipation. Hunith grinned, tugging his cloak from his shoulders to set by the fire to dry before shuffling over to the table to ladle him a bowl of soup. Merlin glared over his spoon as Balinor approached and he couldn't help but feel amused by the boy's fire.
"And how have you been?" He prodded, sitting down and accepting the bowl Hunith gave him gratefully, "Looking after your mother properly?"
Merlin sniffed, "Of course," He puffed up his chest. "We've been fine." No thanks to you, was the implication behind his derisive tone.
Balinor raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of soup and nearly sighing at the comfort it brought his empty stomach. “Well, I had quite the journey.” He baited and Merlin‘s mouth twisted angrily.
"I don't care." He snapped, turning his face petulantly.
"Oh?" He said with false neutrality, "You have no interest in what I've brought with me?" Merlin visibly perked up at the mention of a gift and Balinor could have laughed at the indecision between righteous anger and curiosity warring on his face. "I guess I'll just have to take it somewhere else than." He shrugged as if he didn't care and Merlin predictably folded.
"You brought something?" He asked eagerly, pushing his bowl away and leaning forward in anticipation.
"I did, but I thought you didn't care where I've been?" Balinor taunted.
Merlin turned his eyes to the side, smushing his lips and fidgeting his fingers. "I didn't mean it like that." He murmured morosely and Balinor took pity on him, honored that Merlin considered him important enough to miss so fiercely.
He leaned over, ruffling Merlin's hair, causing him to duck and squawk, before finally lifting the strapped pouch over his head. Merlin quieted as he set it on the table, eyes wide and he cocked as his attention was completely consumed by the strange object. Hunith joined them, absentmindedly pulling Merlin's mostly empty bowl towards her to collect it for washing. She frowned as Balinor opened the pouch carefully, revealing the rather large but pristine, white oval within.
"An egg?" She questioned, amused though her eyes narrowed in suspicion at the sheer size of it, "We have plenty of those outside."
Merlin deflated immediately, sagging disappointedly onto the table and glaring at him again. Balinor merely grinned, winking conspiratorially, and Merlin cocked his head to the other side in confusion. "Oh, but this isn't just any egg." He promised, reaching out and placing two fingers on its peak, seeing Hunith frown in the corner of his eye. He closed his eyes, reaching out with his soul for the presence held within the deceptively delicate walls. It pushed back, friendly and curious, waiting for its call, its name. It came to him quickly, consolidating into a single word.
"Aithusa." He called her, opening his eyes to find Merlin watching the egg with rapt attention. Immediately a crack formed, the egg dancing in place as the young creature within battered at its walls, pushing it one way and then the other. Merlin's eyes grew wide and he leaned in close while Hunith's frown deepened, concern dancing in her face. She turned the look to Balinor.
"Balinor!" She hissed quietly but was cut off by Merlin's shout of excitement. The shell had collapsed enough to release a tiny reptile, barely bigger than the palm of his hand. Wet, fragile wings dragged uselessly at her side and she snapped needle sharp teeth at the air, tasting her first breath into the world. Balinor sucked in a breath at the gleaming white scales of her pelt, grinning like a fool.
"She's white!" He breathed in excitement, reaching out a hand for her to shuffle towards.
"That's good?" Merlin questioned, lowering his head to look at her more closely. "What is she?" Balinor would bet he already knew, but wanted confirmation.
“She’s a dragon, a baby.” Balinor told him, grinning as Merlin’s face lit up in delight. “And white dragons are very rare. They’re considered a sign of good fortune.”
“Balinor!” Hunith called sharply, looking extremely displeased and Balinor rose to speak with her as Merlin and the newly named Aithusa, sized each other up.
“What are you doing?!” She snapped quietly, “We do not need more reason to draw attention.”
Balinor reached out, taking her palms in his own, “This is a good thing.” He reassured her, hastening to explain as she scowled. “Think about it, Hunith, no more having to fight the winter’s chill, no matter how fierce, no more having to worry about bandits coming to take all you’ve worked for, no having to worry about keeping Merlin out of trouble. She can do that, I’ll order it.” Hunith‘s ire wavered and she bit her lip, casting a dubious look at the tiny creature. He squeezed her hands to bring her attention back to him. “She’ll stay hidden.” He promised. “She’ll only come when one of us calls, her color might be a little trickier to hide, but I’ll stay until she’s big enough to fend for herself and wise enough to know how.”
He could see her resolve crumbling, mouth twisting as she trying to weigh out the risk in her mind only for her reservations to turn to dust at the sound of Merlin’s twinkling laughter. They turned to watch as Merlin danced his hand in front of Aithusa’s nipping teeth, jerking it out of range at the last second and watching the dragonette pounce after it again, mantling her rapidly drying wings and wiggling her tail. Hunith’s face continued to soften as she watched them, leaning forward to lay her head on Balinor’s chest as she sighed.
“We can try it.” She conceded. “But she has to stay out of sight.”
Balinor immediately nodded, kissing the top of her head gratefully. “You have my word.” He vowed and they lapsed into silence, watching Merlin and Aithusa play until a knock interrupted their peace, hard and heavy.
“Hold on!” Balinor called out, giving Hunith one last kiss before turning to answer it, only to stop as the banging came again, harder and heavier. Balinor frowned, unease whispering in his ear.
“Hunith.” He said warningly but she was already reaching forward, face ashen, sweeping Aithusa and her egg into Merlin‘s arms and urging him to the bed to hide. Balinor advanced toward the door, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword, but it burst open before he could get more than a few steps. Hunith flinched as it slammed against the opposite wall with force, instinctively covering Merlin with her body as she whirled around to face the intruders.
Two iron clad men stepped through the narrow entrance, one after the other, metal boots clanking against the wood, and Balinor‘s heart dropped as he caught sight of the blue and grey serpent crest on their armor. The man that entered behind them needed no introduction, Balinor would bet money that he would know Cenred’s slimy presence even if he had chance upon him alone in a tavern. His long hair was unnecessarily greasy for a royal but it fit the man’s oily demeanor. He smirked as he swept his gaze lazily around the cottage until his beady eyes stopped on Balinor.
“Why, hello.” He grinned. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”
“I’m afraid we haven’t, My Lord.” Balinor swallowed nervously, trying to play the fool. “I didn’t think a man of your standing would want to trouble yourself with a poor farmer.”
“Nonsense,” Cenred chuckled and Balinor was hard pressed to resist the resulting revolted shudder the sound produced. “I care about getting to know all my subjects.” Horseshit. Cendred couldn’t even be bothered to keep his kingdom’s bandit problem in check. “Besides, we both know you’re no poor farmer, now don’t we.”
Balinor’s blood turned to ice but Cenred kept grinning with that broken smile of his. The dragonlord swallowed, holding up his hands in surrender and hearing Hunith make a strangled noise behind him. He couldn’t put Hunith and Merlin in danger; he would have to find some other way out of this mess. “I don’t want any trouble.” He entreated only for Cenred to laugh hard enough to shake his own shoulders.
“Oh, it’s no trouble for me. It’s actually rather good fortune. Uther’s missing dragonlord is quite the bargaining chip, wouldn’t you agree?” He held out his palms as if inviting Balinor to answer but the dragonlord couldn’t bring himself to, feeling distinctly nauseous.
“How did you know I was here?” He asked instead, trying to work out what he had done wrong. The King had to have a lookout posted somewhere to have arrived so quickly. He must have been lying in wait nearby, why hadn’t Balinor seen him?
“I have my sources.” Cenred replied cryptically and someone shifting guiltily just outside the door drew Balinor’s eye.
Betrayal striped through him numbly as he spotted a familiar face watching from over Cenred's shoulder. He had known the villagers didn’t like him but had assumed none of them would be so cruel as to stoop to this. Hunith spotted the man too and snarled, her face contorting in rage.
"Simons you bastard!" She screeched, lunging forward. Balinor caught her before she could get anywhere near Cenred, shoving her behind him as his heartbeat echoed in his ears. Old man Simons remained unmoved, scowling at the proceedings with a ducked head. Balinor hoped the guilt drove him to a swift and painful grave for the horror he had enabled this night.
Unfortunately Hunith's sudden movement had both uncovered and drawn attention to Merlin, lingering against the wall, clutching Aithusa protectively to his chest. She chirped in concern, gripping his fingers with tiny delicate claws.
"And what do we have here?" Cenred drawled with interest, taking a few more steps into the room, men with dead eyes and metal collars stepped in behind him, shoving Simons out of the way and blocking the front exit. Balinor's stomach dropped further. The corrupted King turned cruel eyes to him, something hungry waiting in their depths. "Is he yours?"
"No." Balinor denied immediately, too quickly, but it was too late to take it back; the word had already ripped itself free. "I only came for Hunith, I don't know who his father is." Merlin gave him an unreadable look, confused as to why Balinor was denying him, but thankfully didn't say anything, able to feel the threat hanging over the room.
"Please," Balinor begged, stepping away from Hunith's warmth at his back and hearing the frightened noise she made as she reached forward to snatch him back. "I'll go willingly, just leave them here. They have nothing to offer you."
"No!" Hunith cried, wrapping around his arm and tugging. "Balinor, no!"
For a moment he thought it had worked, that Cenred was too focused on him and had overlooked anything he had heard about Merlin, but the King's savage smile stretched from cheek to cheek, showing off broken yellow teeth in the flickering flame light. "Oh, I don't think so." He hissed. "We've heard about the boy's talents as well."
Balinor's heart stopped completely as he failed to draw air into his lungs, icy dread numbing him from head to toe. Hunith made another desperate noise, darting over to Merlin instead to stand in front of him, looking every inch the cornered wolf she was. The sight drove fire back into his blood and he unsheathed his sword, the one thing he had kept from Camelot. Aithusa would be no help to him right now, but he would be damned if he let that fact stop him from defending his family.
"Hunith, run." He said firmly and her face wrenched, but she knew better than to argue, grabbing hold of Merlin's hand and yanking him towards the back door as he cast concerned fearful looks between her and Balinor. Cenred laughed again, throwing his entire head back with the effort, and there was a scream as Hunith crumpled to the ground, crossbow bolt embedded in her calf.
"Hunith!""Mum!" Balinor and Merlin screamed at the same time, the warlock dropping to his knees to hover his hands over the wound as a bright crimson river contrasted against Hunith's pale skin.
"Did you honestly think we wouldn't be prepared?" Cenred taunted. Balinor leapt at him with a war cry, slashing down, but the knight in front of Cenred battered him back, keeping his attention until the other knight could slice his upper thigh open. He screamed as pain exploded up his nerves, dropping to a knee and allowing the first knight to slam a knee into his nose, sending him careening back into the grip of the second. He struggled against the hold, glaring daggers at Cenred's victorious smirk. There was a tiny high-pitched screech as Aithusa launched herself into the leg of the knight holding him, having been dropped by Merlin in his haste to tend to Hunith. The dragonette bit down with determination only for the burly man to kick out, impacting her with force and sending her body skittering underneath the abandoned blankets of Merlin’s pallet.
Balinor looked up as he heard Hunith whimper in response to Merlin pressing down on the injury, trying desperately to staunch the flow. She grabbed Merlin's face, leaving bloody fingerprints on his cheek as she forced him to look at her. "Merlin, you have to leave." She begged him. "Run, and don't look back."
"Oh, I don't think so." Cenred crooned, drawing every eye to him as he advanced another few steps. Balinor increased his struggles but he was helpless to stop the King as he raised his sword towards Hunith. "I would watch myself if I were you. Of everyone here, you are the only of no value." Both Balinor's and Merlin's faces twisted in rage at the insult, darkening as Cenred leered, "At least in the long term."
To Balinor's horror, Hunith merely spat at him, hissing the word, "Pig." between her bared teeth.
Cenred's smirk dropped, wiping a dot off his cheek in disgust, but he merely shrugged. "Suit yourself." He said coldly, raising his sword to strike even as Balinor howled at him from his confines on the floor.
Merlin leapt to his feet instead as his eyes lit up, bright rings of molten gold, and Cenred was launched into the wall of the house, rattling the shelves with the force of it and sending several clay bowls and glass bottles shattering to the ground. The warm feeling of his magic swept through the air, tossing the guards off of Balinor as if they were weightless. Balinor could feel the force of it thrum with fury; it pooled in Merlin's hands, thrusting forward to strike a fatal blow to Cenred and his men, only for one of the collared men to step forward instead.
"Bendan!" The word cleaved through Merlin's focus, tossing the attack to the side where it busted the stove, allowing small embers to eat into the fur in front. The second mage stepped forward immediately after.
"ymbhabban ðês ðr¯æstan, heaðorian his of hê lâc" The chant sent Merlin to his knees, clutching his head with clawed fingers as he screamed in pain.
Balinor struggled to his feet, reaching for the sword he had dropped and managing to pull it into his grasp just as Cenred was picking himself off the ground. With effort and pure determination, Balinor dragged himself into a defensive stance, determined to defend his family to his very last breath. The unoccupied sorcerer turned towards him, stretching out an empty open palm. There was no joy in the man's eyes, there was no emotion at all; he was a puppet, bound to obey Cenred's every whim. Hell would take him before Balinor allowed that to happen to Merlin. He heard one of the guards stir once more as the sorcerer's eyes lit up golden and Balinor charged with a war cry. He had no memory of being struck, or of the fight that followed, he could not see what happened to Merlin and Hunith. All he could feel was the firm boundary of the floor as he fell, distantly aware of the screams of his loved ones admist the chaos.
Outside, the wind echoed its grief through the trees as the night ran red and destiny went up in flames.
Chapter 2: A Gift of Scale Part 1
Summary:
And now enter Arthur.
Notes:
I am such a baby to the world of court etiquette, please be gentle 😭. I really tried to figure it out.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Rise and shine, Your Majesty!"
Arthur groaned long and low as his manservant's chipper voice grated through his dreams, throwing a pillow over his head by rote just as the man eased open the curtains to let in the morning sun. He heard feet shuffle over to the side of his bed before the presence of a body politely loomed over his prone form.
"It's time to brass up and greet the day, Your Highness!"
Arthur physically flinched at the pun, feeling a deep-seated emotional pain born from too much exposure to his manservant's obsession with brass. It wasn't even the first time he had heard that specific phrase, more like the hundredth. Honestly, how many jokes about brass could one make?
Simultaneously far too many and far too few, Arthur had found out over the years.
If the man hadn't been immaculate about every other duty assigned to him, Arthur would have sacked the servant years ago. As it was, he let out another groan and reluctantly yanked the pillow off his head, slamming it down on the sheets beside him. The sunlight breached the seams of his gummy eyelids and he cranked them open to see his manservant standing stiffly, blue vest neatly pressed over his dull red tunic, near a bursting assortment of fruits and cheeses. Arthur let out a sigh of exasperation, sinking back into his sheets, already exhausted.
"George, we've talked about this." He scolded, voice muffled by the ridiculously plush blankets of his bed. "I don't need this much food this early in the morning."
"But how are you to know what you would prefer this morning if you cannot see all the options?" George sounded honestly baffled and Arthur sighed again. The servant took his silence as permission to list out all that he brought, "We have apples straight from Astle's orchid down the street, eggs laid fresh this morning, and not to play my own horn, but.... "
Arthur let the noise wash over him, slipping back into the state between dream and reality. He had been having a good one about besting a man in the marketplace, some insolent fool who had dared to challenge the Prince of Camelot's honor. He had defeated the idiot easily and earned the respect of both the villagers and his knights who had gathered to watch, cheering loudly at his success. It was something he might have done in his youth, before the responsibility of the crown weighed heavy on his head. Now he couldn't afford to be seen galivanting around without reason, couldn't instigate any amount of horseplay with every eye in court scrutinizing his every move. His reign was young and, most importantly, he was young, far too young to have been handed the crown outright; he wouldn't make Camelot seem weak and vulnerable with his own immaturity.
"Is there anything that might wet your whistle this fine morning, Your Majesty?" George's question jerked Arthur back to the land of the living and he blinked at the spread, honestly not having heard a word of what the servant said.
"Just sausages and bread, George." He said eventually, the same as he ate every morning.
"Of course! A rather fan-brass-tic choice, if I do say so myself. Though I must insist upon an apple for balance, Your Highness." George replied already piling the requested items high onto a small plate. Arthur sighed once more before pushing himself up onto his elbows. George obediently reached over to reposition his pillows, deftly fluffing them, so that he could lean against them as he ate. He handed Arthur the plate of food once the King was settled, tying a bib loosely around his neck.
As Arthur ate, George prepped him for his daily schedule, moving to his wardrobe to determine something for the King to wear for the day. "You have the review of approved recruits this morning, right after breakfast, once that's finished you'll need to review Sir Loratch's reports in the time before lunch so that you are ready to meet King Lot this evening, you were supposed to meet Lady Morgana for lunch, but she may be indisposed, which would leave you with mo--"
"What is wrong with Morgana?" Arthur cut him off sharply, setting his plate aside to give the servant his full attention. It had nearly been three years since he had recovered the woman he considered to be a sister from the bottom of a well, but he had yet to shake the fiercely protective streak her distress brought out of him. It likely had to do with how obviously broken she had been by the experience, reduced down to a child terrified by her memories and nightmares instead of the strong, outspoken woman of her youth, the one that had relentlessly challenged Arthur when he was younger. It had been a long road to recovery, and every day that passed brought her closer to the woman she used to be, but there were still days that Arthur's heart ached to see her afraid to set foot outside her chamber doors.
George paused, sensing Arthur's attention. He gave the King a bow, face twisted in apology, "I am not certain. I merely heard that she had had a nightmare last night and might not recover for the rest of the day." Arthur grimaced and gave George a nod to continue selecting his outfit, picking his plate up once more. It was not unusual for Morgana to suffer from bitter nightmares. Though the bracelet her sister, Morgause, had given her kept her chaotic visions at bay, for the most part. Her trauma at the hand of King Sarrum had left wounds deep in her psyche, leaving it fractured enough to let in all sorts of unwanted dreams. Still Arthur hated to see her hurt and resolved to stop by before visiting the recruits. George might have a heart attack at the change of schedule, but Arthur was King and there was little the servant could do to stop him.
"You'll have a council meeting before King Lot arrives to make sure everyone is agreed on how Camelot wishes to receive him and then you will host dinner for him and his party tonight." George finished, deciding on the bright red jacket that showed off Arthur's shape for visitors and a pair of brown trousers. Arthur shook his head as he turned around.
"No, get me the shirt with the deeper neck, the red one to the left. I need to be able to move properly if I am to review the recruits." George bowed and immediately swapped the shirts, laying the chosen clothes on the privacy screen in the corner of the room before returning to clear Arthur's plate and assist him with the laces on his night shirt. Once the night shirt was loose Arthur meandered over to the screen to pull on the rest of the clothes, informing his manservant of the change of plans. "I will be stopping to see Morgana before we go to the training field. Is she with Gaius?"
Predictably, he saw George frown deeply in his mirror before he turned to swap out the garments on his person. However, the servant wisely didn't protest, neutrally relaying his knowledge for the monarch. "No, Your Highness, I believe she is still in her chambers."
"Very well." Arthur intoned, stepping back around the screen to allow George to finish lacing his clothes. "We will stop by her chambers then."
It would undoubtedly insight all sorts of gossip from people who speculated Morgana may yet be his queen one day, only fueling the thriving rumor mill further, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to care in the face of Morgana's potential suffering. He had worked hard to regain her trust after Uther ran her out of the castle and slaughtered the druids she had found refuge with. It was how she had ended up in Sarrum's clutches in the first place, terrified that she would be burned if she returned home with the magic that ran in her veins.
That too had been a difficult decision for Arthur to face, steeped in Uther's hatred as he was. However, his father's death from an assassin strike, while tragic and shocking, had brought a cascade of clarity for the young king. He had asked Gaius about the validity of Morgause's claims when she had challenged him for his honor, the one time they had met, the ones that said Uther's purge was no more than a child's tantrum at the steep price of his deal with the devil, where Arthur was the result. He hadn’t wanted to believe it at the time, words from both a sorcerer and his adopted sister’s proclaimed kidnapper, but the claim had never truly been dismissed, simmering in the back of Arthur’s mind like snakes waiting to strike.
It had been a deep blow to learn the true roots of his father's war against magic and an even greater shock to hear that his sister might have fled for her affinity with it. Gaius had suspected for years that her nightmares were not nightmares at all, but didn't dare bring it up under Uther's Camelot. The aftermath of that conversation left Arthur thinking long into sleepless nights about how his life had progressed up to its current point. Unmoored from his foundations and left with no one to claim connection to, he couldn't bring himself to abandon the only family he had left and had launched a Kingdom wide search for Morgana, begging her to meet with him at least once. He had found her nearly 6 months later with the arrival of his uncle, Agravaine, who had heard news of her fate as he traveled to offer assistance in the form of advice to the new King. She had not been free and strong like he had expected, had hoped, but chained like an animal, stuffed down a well, given only the barest of exposure to light, to the sky, for years at the hands of a monster.
King Sarrum had refused to release her at first, demanding concessions Camelot was not in the position to make, not with a King as young and untried as Arthur. The resulting battle, at Agravaine's insistence, had been brutal and bloody, costing Camelot a significant portion of her forces, but Arthur had been victorious, not that he had felt so when they shoved the thick boulder off the entrance and he caught his first glimpse of the consequences of Morgana's imprisonment, guant and pale enough to be practically translucent.
She hadn't wanted to return to Camelot even then, terrified of retribution for something she could not control, but she had been too weak to run and it had given Arthur the time he needed to press promises into her heart, ones he would gladly die before breaking. Seeing Morgana brought so low as a result of his father's persecution had opened Arthur's eyes for the final time. He had done research, compiled the remaining texts of Geoffery's secret, and illegal, collection, and had consulted with the more peaceful druid tribes to understand the fallacies of his upbringing. Morgana had seen his efforts and together they had worked to help her understand the purpose of her visions as well as the place of magic within the world. Still, she had only truly believed Arthur's promise that she would be safe within the castle when he had repealed the ban a year later, separating the tool of magic from the crime of the criminal. Every day Arthur could see her soul strengthening and her trust in Arthur solidifying. He was proud of it, proud of her, and strove to be worthy of that faith, to be the King Camelot had needed back when Arthur was born.
His musings had last him the length of his trip down the halls, George following swiftly in his wake, until they reached the intricately carved doors of Morgana's chambers. Nodding in greeting to the guards bracketing the doors, he reached up and tapped firmly, but not harshly, against them.
“Morgana?” He called, knowing better than to barge in and invoke the wards she had set on the boundaries of her chambers. “It’s Arthur, may I come in?”
There was a beat of silence before the lock on the door clicked open and an intangible hum in the air disappeared. Arthur wasted no further time pushing open the heavy door, though he did not shove it as not to startle Morgana so soon after her nightmare. George knew better than to follow as Arthur slipped inside, joining the guards in their silent vigil. The King took stock of his adopted sister, as the door thumped shut behind him. The soft glow of the morning sun outside her open window gave Morgana an almost wraithlike appearance, lighting up her snow-like skin and drawing stark attention to the heavy dark circles around her eyes. She sat, listless, though Arthur took heart in the fact he had been let in at all, staring at the rising sun and running her hand absentmindedly down the blanket of white scale that nearly covered her completely.
Said ‘blanket’ raised its head from Morgana’s chest as he approached, appraising him and his intentions. He took it as a win that Aithusa didn’t snap or snarl at the sight of him, as she used to, though they could hardly be considered friends. The dragonette only seemed to care for him at all because he was important to Morgana, though he supposed fair was fair when he wasn’t entirely comfortable with her presence either. He had learned a great many things about the magical world over the years but he had yet to shake his wariness of magical beasts, particularly predators, especially those that lived within his castle walls. He thought it was rather reasonable to be concerned about a beast that could roast him at will with barely a thought.
Unfortunately, the dragon was important to Morgana, having been her cell mate during her imprisonment. The limited room in the well they had both been shoved into had warped Aithusa and stunted her growth, though they could not know exactly how much considering they had nothing to compare her to. The dragons and their dragonlords, men capable of communicating with and even bending a dragon to their will, if legends were to be believed, had been Uther’s first target as they had been his greatest threat in the war against magic. All but Aithusa had been killed and any reference to either faction burned; the only evidence they had existed at all was the set of bones discovered in a cave underneath the castle. The skeleton was massive, practically a quarter of the size of the entire Camelot castle, which gave a pitiable indication of all that Aithusa was lacking.
Arthur had no clue how Morgana had happened upon the young dragon, just a baby when they first met according to the sorceress, but it had been Aithusa that was Sarrum’s true target. When Morgana had tried to free her friend, the cruel King had trapped them together as punishment, attempting to use Morgana to bend Aithusa to his will and Aithusa to bend Morgana when he realized she had magic. Thankfully, Arthur had arrived before either had broken, but the ordeal had left scars, physical and mental, on them both.
Aithusa was the most obvious, the horns on the top of her head blunted from rubbing the well walls in madness driven by forced inactivity; Morgana had done her best to occupy the dragon’s mind but it hadn’t been enough. Her tongue had been severed intentionally, though Arthur couldn’t imagine a reason as to why, not that he wanted to understand an action so twisted in the first place, leaving her unable to physically speak beyond the small twisted noises she was capable of. Finally her spine and wings had been warped by being forced to stay bent and it had taken slow treatment, both magical and physical, to straighten them to where they were now; treatment that was still ongoing, and would likely be so for years yet in an effort to improve her quality of life. The Druids had said it was only due to the presence of the bond Morgana and Aithusa had writ in blood and magic that allowed the dragon to heal at all, but she had lost crucial years of growth, meaning that she would never be taller than Morgana if she were to stand on her hind legs.
She would never match the legends of old, able to carry multiple people great distances with hardly any strain, or strike fear into vast armies by sheer size alone, but she would be able to be here, covering Morgana in her time of need and that seemed to be enough for Aithusa. Despite having been built a custom, fire proof den of her own and spending most of her recovery within it, Aithusa preferred to stay close to her bonded. Whether this was due to the physical demands of the ritual they had desperately enacted to keep each other alive in that hell or if it was merely an emotional need to reassure each other they had both survived it, Arthur was unsure. All he knew was that Morgana and her dragon were practically inseparable in blood, in bond, and in magic. Morgana could summon the dragon with a mere thought and Aithusa could communicate using the same, which was likely why the dragon was here now, having flown in through the window Morgana kept warded but open for this very purpose. Aithusa gave Arthur a suspicious once over before she lowered her head back down with a huff, beginning a gentle rumble that resembled a cat’s purr.
“How are you feeling?” Arthur prodded gently once he had passed inspection. Morgana hummed noncommittally, continuing to watch the city wake up outside her window. Arthur moved forward to join her, getting lost in the sight of servants and knights alike scampering across the courtyard, hurrying to accomplish their morning duties. He could see his first knight, Sir Leon, barking at a battalion of young knights as they completed their morning run. A part of him longed to join them as he used to, but there was now distance between him and his men in the shape of a decorated crown. He no longer had time to waste training and testing new knights, no longer had a place joining them in blowing off steam at the tavern and building comradery. That was Leon’s job now.
“I was back in the well.” Morgana began suddenly, drawing Arthur’s attention back inside. He held his tongue, knowing neither pressuring or interrupting her would be helpful. “But there was something with me.” She frowned, furrowing her brow. “It wasn’t Aithusa; it was black. All I could see was its eyes, broken, fractured, hurting, two cracked golden orbs in the dark.”
She fell silent and Arthur made sure she wasn’t going to continue before prodding gently, “A vision?”
Morgana frowned again, her hand stilling on Aithusa‘s back and the dragon gave a plaintive chirp at the sudden lack of petting. “I don’t know.” She said eventually, finally turning to look at Arthur properly. “It was like the nightmare and the vision mixed together and I don’t know what it means.” Arthur hummed, thinking over the information, and Aithusa made another demanding noise. He watched as Morgana looked down at the dragonette, face softening fondly as she scratched under the dragon’s chin. Aithusa warbled at her in contentment, tail sweeping lazily across the sheets, and Arthur felt a soft smile pushing at his own lips.
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” He said at length. “It is not enough to discern anything from and there is no guarantee it means anything at all.”
Morgana didn’t look convinced but she did look more present and Arthur would take what he could get.
“Will you be joining me for lunch?” He asked instead and Morgana hunched in on herself slightly. Aithusa gave a cracked whine of concern as Morgana’s hands curled into her scales.
“Forgive me; I don’t think I’ll manage it today.” She said quietly, regretfully. “Being back there, even if only in a dream, was quite taxing.”
Arthur inclined his head in acceptance. “Perhaps by tonight you will feel better? If so, I would appreciate having you at my side when I meet with King Lot. You are the only one I trust to be able to sense magical manipulation.”
Morgana blinked at him, creasing her brow in confusion. “King Lot? What kingdom does he hail from?”
“King Lot is the new King of Essetir. He recently won his coup against King Cenred, killing him and claiming the throne.” Arthur explained seeing Morgana grimace at the news.
“I can’t say he’ll be missed.” She grumbled. “The people hated him when I passed through his kingdom. He was nothing but an arrogant, bloodthirsty tyrant.”
“Perhaps so, but I know nothing of the character of King Lot. I would appreciate your particular brand of insight, magic or no.” Arthur pressed and Morgana pursed her lips. He could see the indecision wavering in her eyes but, finally, she gave him a sharp short nod.
“I will do my best.” She promised. Arthur could see determination taking root in her very stance and he gave her a proud smile.
“Thank you, but I will understand if you cannot.” He allowed. Morgana slumped in a bit of relief at the compromise, though Arthur was certain she would do all she could to rally herself for his sake. Even now her face hardened as she became determined to shake off the shadows that dogged her days through sheer will power alone. Regardless of if she managed the feat on this particular night, Arthur would be thankful for her efforts and would accept her absence with understanding and grace. He had seen first hand the hollow husk she had become in that accursed well and how hard she fought to distance herself from it.
Morgana looked up at him and smirked, the expression looked as delicate as a spider’s silk, wobbling dangerously upon her lips, but it stubbornly stitched itself to her face, the shadow of who she was determined to be once again.
“You’d best get going before George bites his nails to the quick in the hallway.” She warned and Arthur rolled his eyes with a scowl.
“George takes my schedule far too seriously for his own good.” Arthur muttered. Morgana smiled in earnest, the expression a bit more stable than the first.
“But he’s such a shining example of a servant, Arthur. If only we would all be so lucky to find a man as polished as he.” She teased with a sparkle in her eye.
Arthur groaned dramatically, only partly for show, “Don’t you start!” He warned, pointing his finger at her. “I have to endure enough of that during the day.”
Morgana cackled, the sound akin to clinking crystal and just as fragile, but it was genuine and Aithusa‘s tail thumped against the bed as she gave a happy buzz, her version of a tongueless trill. Arthur’s lips twitched upward once again and he stepped back to leave.
“Get some rest.” He ordered. “And hopefully I will see you later tonight.”
Receiving a last nod of acknowledgement, and gladly noting the way the shadows seemed less stark across Morgana’s face, Arthur pulled open her doors once more and swanned back into the hallway. George was shifting anxiously from foot to foot as he stepped out but stilled the second Arthur came into view.
“Your Majesty, we must put some wind in our sails if we are to meet Sir Leon.” He respectfully begged and Arthur took pity on the man, tilting his chin and setting a quick pace towards the practice fields. George let out a breath of relief and trotted after him as they made their way quickly through the winding hallways. Spying a familiar beige and yellow dress among the crowds of servants bustling down the halls, he caught Morgana's maidservant, Guinevere, by the arm as she paused to courtesy.
"Take Sir Lancelot with you to the bakery and procure some pastries for Lady Morgana on my coin." He instructed. "Whatever looks the best this morning."
Guinevere beamed at him, dark curls bouncing daintily as she rose, and he felt the old flutter of attraction at the way her cheeks dimpled in pride. It had been a brief fantasy, quickly squashed by the crushing weight of his new responsibilities as King. Sir Lancelot, his first common born knight, had stepped in in his absence and had quickly laid claim to her heart. Arthur did not begrudge the two; it was obvious they were beyond smitten with one another, and he would have to marry a woman the court would accept as queen anyway, but he spared a quick moment to mourn the thought of what could have been.
"Of course, Your Majesty, I'm sure she will appreciate the effort." She bowed once more before continuing on her way to Morgana's chambers. Arthur watched her go for a second more before beginning his forward march again.
"Come on, George, we shouldn't be late." He smirked as he saw George twitch in the corner of his eye, but the servant was too well mannered to say anything back. It was only a few minutes before they reached armory, the few knights lingering within bowing as he entered, and he gave nods of acknowledgment to release them from the position as George immediately set to fetching some light armor and Arthur’s preferred sword.
Arthur raised an eyebrow at a rather young man in the corner as his servant scurried around the room. His head was bowed, an unruly mob of dark hair crested upon his head and a pink tongue poking out his lips as he struggled to strap on his right vambrace. Arthur could already see that his rerebrace was too loose, leaving ample gaps for an enemy to take advantage of, potentially severing the vulnerable upper end of his bicep and rendering him useless. The rest of his armor was equally clumsily assembled, not to mention the fact that he was here, when Arthur was already late, was not a promising sign of his value. As if sensing the disappointment leveled his way, the boy jerked his head up and met the King’s gaze. He paled rapidly as Arthur raised his eyebrow even further, causing his freckles to stand in stark contrast, and stumbled over his uncoordinated limbs to give the King a hasty bow, not even waiting to be dismissed before he bolted from the room.
Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples, the boy had borne a striking resemblance to Lord Ballor, meaning he was likely the lord’s son. It was boys like that that reminded him why he had opened his ranks to the common folk, against his uncle’s, and the council’s, adamant protests. Lancelot‘s skill far surpassed anything the noble families had been able to produce for several years prior, as he had soon proven when Arthur fell for a few choice words about his honor and courage. The knight had not won, but he had offered a far greater challenge than any of the recruits of the past year. Then, when a griffin had defended on Camelot, Lancelot had once again proved his valor, saving the lives of many as he struck the killing blow. With Uther passed, there had been no one with the authority to prevent Arthur from knighting the man and Arthur hadn’t had a single regret about the decision in the years since. He only wished Lancelot had better luck teaching the recruits under him to pass on his skills, but the failure had just as much to do with the knight’s overly tolerant demeanor as it did the nobles’ lack of respect for his upbringing.
Letting out an exhale of frustration, Arthur schooled his face back to neutral, resolving to pretend like he had never seen the young man; hopefully, Leon would have him sorted before the King arrived. George returned and dressed him quickly with well-practiced fingers, bowing to hand off possession of the sword. Then Arthur was sweeping back out of the armory, stride strong and chin held high. Leon would have already sorted through the first wave of potentials, weeding out men who could barely grip a sword let alone swing it. As he approached, he could see the chosen new recruits gathered in a sloppy huddle on the far end of the field, just barely able to make out the bobbing mass of Leon’s red curls from the middle of them. To his side Sir Borrim loomed, large and stern, setting the fear of god into the young men to pay attention to the first knight’s instruction. It was he who noticed Arthur first, snapping straight and barking out a booming, “All hail the King!” before sinking to one knee in fealty.
The herd startled like deer, spinning almost comically to find him, all wide-eyed and pale faces. Yet there were a few, mostly older, Leon among them, who swept their eyes calmly until they lighted on his confident visage. Most of them had the sense to kneel, following Borrim’s example, but Leon merely bowed, deeply with a hand over his heart, and several of the younger, rougher recruits became confused, eyes switching frantically between the two, unsure of proper protocol. The young man from the armory was among them; it looked like Leon had indeed straightened out some of the boy's armor. He shifted anxiously before deciding to follow Leon’s example. His bow was shallow and he popped back up immediately. Arthur scowled at the disrespectful display.
"Rise, Sir Leon." Arthur called.
"Thank you for joining us, Your Majesty." Leon smiled as he straightened, a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. "I am pleased to be able to show off the new recruits for this year."
Both of them were well aware that it was Arthur who had asked to be included, yearning for the days when he could test each one with his one-minute trial of endurance, and Leon was the one who indulged him. Those days were long gone with how crowded his schedule had become, but this way Arthur could still connect with the men and test any he thought might need it. Arthur inclined his head in acknowledgement and swept his gaze over the men, looking for one in particular. Leon joined his side, only to twitch at the sight of the young man from before standing tall while the others maintained whatever position they had assumed, glancing at each other to see if anyone else had yet moved. Arthur arched an eyebrow, catching Leon's eye and the first knight sighed, closing his eyes in exasperation. The boy was clearly not the smartest of the bunch.
"You there." Arthur called, jerking his chin at the boy, who stiffened and paled once more. "What is your name?"
The boy fidgeted from foot to foot again, licking his lips and shifting his eyes. Arthur frowned as the he avoided the King’s eyes. "Emrys, sir." He squeaked. Arthur’s eyes narrowed at the improper title, trying to discern if the slight was intentional or if the boy really didn’t know better.
Beside him, Arthur heard Leon swear a quiet, "God have mercy."
"Not too familiar with Camelot's customs are we?" Arthur goaded, stepping forward. "In fact, many of you could stand to learn the proper etiquette of the court." He continued, catching the eye of those who bowed, several of which had kept their hands by their side and some who were smart enough to sink to a knee instead. "You will not bring offense to our nobles and visitors under Camelot's name."
He brought his gaze back to Emrys, "There are many Kings that would not be so forgiving of any slight, no matter how unintentional. You will need to remember this for the feast we are hosting tonight. Any embarrassment will be dealt with harshly." Without any idea of King Lot's demeanor, he could not afford to risk war because a new recruit had been careless.
Emrys's cheeks colored in humiliation, and he finally seemed to take note of the way everyone else had remained prostrated. However, he couldn't seem to decide if it was better or worse to attempt to do the same after so long. After a moment more of shifting, he tensed, rounding his shoulders towards his ears and averting his gaze to the dirt but maintained his stance.
"Very well." Arthur conceded with false grace, seeing Leon wince in the corner of his eye. There was nothing the knight could do for the boy now, he had dug his own grave and would need to be made an example of. "Come, I assume there was a reason you made it through inspection. I would very much like to know what it was, given your obvious lack of culture."
Emrys flinched, curling his fists at his side and clenching his jaw tight. His gaze, when it flicked up to the King had a dark hint of anger and defiance, but he wisely held his tongue. The kid had a spine, Arthur would have to give him that, even if Uther would have had him flogged for the display. As it was, Arthur preferred to prove why he should be respected rather than simply demand it. He would have taken out a few of the young knights anyway to demonstrate as such, Emrys had simply given him a more understandable reason to do so.
“George, fetch him a proper sword.” Arthur called over his shoulder. “I invite everyone else to watch.”
Sir Borrim rose, and the rest of the men took that as their cue to follow, clearing the area around the King and Emrys with expressions that varied between pity and excitement. Arthur scanned them as he waited, looking for his original quarry and was gratified to see the unusual flicker of dark skin between the bodies. He was glad that Gwen’s brother had passed the initial round of inspection and made a note to test him as well. Not because the man had done anything wrong but because Arthur was honestly curious after Gwen had spoken so highly of him.
George returned quickly, handing one of the older swords to the knight. It wasn’t quite maintained to the standard of Arthur’s or one of the more senior knight’s preferred weapon but it was sturdy and it would not break when it clashed with the King’s. Emrys took the blade with trepidation and Arthur was disappointed by how poor his grip was, hands smushed together directly under the hilt. Arthur twirled his sword superfluously in contrast, stalking forward as Emrys settled into an equally poor defensive stance. The boy took a half step back biting his lip before determination sturdied his form and he braced himself for Arthur’s strike. Arthur watched him closely, taking in every little detail, such as the way his feet were too close together to absorb any force from the side and his weight was too rigid to avoid Arthur with any amount of agility. He readjusted his grip correctly on his hilt as he reached striking range, giving a sudden testing lunge to see how the boy would react. Emrys swung down on instinct, jarring their blades together with a clang, before rapidly backing out of range. Arthur pressed forward again, aiming for weak points that the boy just barely managed to deflect, flipping his guard from his hip to his shoulder and managing a scratch across the boy’s cheek when he feinted. The ring of men around them begin to jeer in excitement and Arthur noted a few that seemed to be far too excited about the sight of blood; he would need to talk to Leon about that later.
Emrys tripped over his feet, somehow managing to avoid going to the ground entirely, as he scrambled back from the sting of the cut with a hiss, pressing a hand to his face on instinct. Arthur frowned, surely Leon would have picked someone with more aptitude. He was hardly going as fast as he could and the boy was only just keeping up, balance tottering widely; it would be literal child’s play to knock the man off his feet. Even if the boy was part of Ballor’s family, something Arthur was beginning to doubt, exceptions were not made for knighthood; he had explicitly put a stop to that particular way of thinking as soon as he had had the power to do so. Emrys brought his hand down and widened his eyes when he found red smudges on his fingertips. He clenched his jaw and lowered his head, muttering to himself. Arthur pursed his lips at the surrender, a lashing on the tip of his tongue for the boy’s lack of spirit, only to pause as the boy’s grip tightened back over his sword. He raised his head again, expression grim, and braced himself once more to defend.
Intrigued, Arthur stepped forward again, lunging for the boy’s ribs. The block should have been awkward and slow, as the improper grip prevented Emrys from twisting the blade into position with any amount of ease, yet his blade jerked into place as if yanked by some invisible force and Arthur was immediately suspicious. He jerked his gaze up to Emrys‘s eyes but only found the boy’s normal brown irises staring back at him with determination and slight relief. Arthur narrowed his own eyes and picked up his speed, forcing the boy back as he swung with force against the block. Whatever spell the boy had wrought clearly only impacted the blade itself, faithfully jerking into the proper position regardless of Emrys’s direction, though the boy certainly tried to make it seem like it was his effort alone, and left his footwork with much to be desired. He tripped over his own ankles once again as Arthur swiped at his leg and this time landed on his back with a whoosh of air. Arthur bore down on him, intending to pin him in a submission hold and could see the panic that exploded in the boy’s eyes.
The feeling of wind, cool with the threat of being sharp, ghosted across Arthur’s senses, despite there being no breeze, just before pressure squeezed down on his head, a demand to stop. Morgana’s magic, the one she had woven into a discreet earring imbedded in Arthur’s left ear, spun to life at once, bouncing the manipulation off and Arthur’s mind cleared from the split-second fog. He slammed his sword into the dirt next to the boy’s face, shoving a knee into his chest and leaning down close.
“If I were you, I would not attempt that again.” He warned coldly, expertly hiding the way the brush of magic into his mind had unnerved him. He may have accepted Morgana for all that she was, but, in truth, he did not have many positive experiences with the element. Even Morgana used it primarily for manipulation and combat, it was simply the way she was inclined. He knew of its more harmless applications in theory, but his exposure to them was limited to protection and warding charms. Emrys swallowed shallowly beneath him, face ashen and waxy as true terror shone through his very vulnerable eyes, slight golden glow rapidly fading from sight. It did not seem like the attack had been conscious, more of a reflex, and it was this realization that gave Arthur the security to stand back up, though Emrys wisely remained on the ground.
“I apologize, Your Majesty,“ Leon interjected, in the silence that surrounded them, most of the knights having sensed that the fight became more serious in the last few seconds. “He performed much better during the initial assessment, perhaps his nerves got the best of him this time.”
“I’m sure he did.” Arthur said flatly, not removing his gaze from the nervously sweating boy still on the ground. He debated explaining his suspicions about the boy’s ‘assistance’ during the assessment, but magic was no longer illegal and he had yet to explicitly banned it from the recruit inspections. No, the boy shouldn’t be punished for the mere ability, not if Arthur wanted to stay true to the reassurances he had given Morgana since her return, and he would be if Arthur revealed it to the entire group; like Arthur himself many in Camelot still regarded magic with fear and suspicion, a bias that would not reduce with anything but time and example. An idea suddenly sparked to life in Arthur’s head and he considered the boy once more. The previous determined front in his eyes was gone, given way to wariness, though he had dragged himself up to sit rather than lie at the King’s feet.
“You have much to learn.” Arthur told him eventually, seeing Leon’s eyebrows raise in surprise and Borrim’s smirk twist into a confused frown before both schooled themselves back to neutral. “You would do well to pay attention to all your peers and follow their example.”
The boy blinked, expression still uncertain, as if he expected Arthur to call for the guards at any second; it was not an unreasonable fear.
“Your stance is too narrow. It made you easy to unbalance. Your grip is too high and too close, you were not able to properly maneuver.” Arthur continued. He swept his gaze around the men once more, stopping on a head of familiar blond hair, only a shade darker than his own. “Lord Riley! I had heard you were applying this year.”
The man in question stiffened at Arthur‘s call only to scratch his head bashfully at the friendly greeting. He stepped forward and bowed deeply before straightening to respond. “Yes! Your Majesty, my father was most insistent. Not that I had intention to do anything but.”
Riley’s family had a long history of knighthood within the kingdom, having served in Uther’s first army, the one that had earned him the right to the throne in the first place. It meant that Arthur was confident in his knowledge around a sword. Moreover, Riley was a good sort, the kind Arthur had thought was a bit of a pushover when he was younger but could now appreciate his quieter temperament as opposed to his arrogant brothers that often brought in complaints from the lower towns they were sent to assist. Arthur had high hopes for his promotion through the knight ranks.
“Come, help me demonstrate proper posture.” He gestured the man forward. Riley tensed for a second, eyes wide at the request, but hurried to comply, moving up to the King. If he had the prior training Arthur expected, it would be good for him to get used to being the center of attention among the recruits, as he would progress quickly. Arthur retrieved the sword Emrys had dropped handing it to the man. Riley took it comfortably adjusting his hands properly on the hilt, much to Arthur’s relief, and obediently slid his feet apart, well balanced. Arthur turned back to Emrys, moving over to Riley so that he could point in demonstration.
“You see, here, how he holds both the top and the bottom of the hilt.” Arthur pointed towards Riley’s right hand, the one gripping just under the hilt. “His hand is tilted back as if he were about to shake my hand and his thumb is loose, pointed up the flat side of the blade, ready to apply pressure directly to the blade or additional pressure on the hilt as he requires. This allows the blade to rotate much quicker and much more fluidly.” Arthur gripped the blade gently, pulling it to one side and then the other, manually rotating Riley’s wrist and demonstrating his point. “While the hand on the pommel, provides stability so that he can adjust his front hand without worry.”
“His feet are also more balanced, though he needs to pivot his back foot out instead of in if he doesn’t want to trip.” Arthur continued with amusement and Riley flushed, quickly correcting his stance. Arthur clapped him on the shoulder in reassurance, before refocusing on his unplanned lesson. “His feet are about as far apart as his shoulders, increasing his center of balance and making him much harder to knock over,” Arthur demonstrated with a light shove to Riley’s shoulder as he walked past which the man easily absorbed. “and his weight rests on the front half of his foot, knees bent slightly, so that he can move quickly the second his opponent strikes. His back could be a bit straighter and his shoulders a bit more loose, but we’ll call that nerves today.” There was a light chuckle among the gathered recruits and Arthur turned his attention back to the still seated Emrys.
“Regardless it is a much stronger stance than the one you presented. Where your feet were narrowed and your center of balance a mere point. It is why you are currently sitting on your arse.” He said directly to Emrys and was pleased to find the boy paying close attention. His prior fear was nowhere to be found now that it was evident Arthur was not about to punish him more, and he soaked in the instruction like water to a sponge. Emrys ducked his head in acknowledgment to the criticism and wisely kept any comments he might have had behind closed lips. Maybe there was hope for him yet; Arthur doubted he would thrive much as a traditional knight, but it might be time for Camelot to grow to embrace another type of knight into her ranks.
“Thank you, Lord Riley. You have been taught well. Perhaps you will indulge me in a further test of your skill?” Arthur questioned. Riley brightened at the words but hesitated to answer Arthur’s request, nerves clear. Yet, Arthur could see a thread of curiosity and excitement in his gaze at the prospect, bolstered by the praise Arthur had just given him. In the end, Riley was likely well aware that one did not deny a monarch without reason and he allowed the curiosity to win out, bowing low once again.
“I would be honored, Your Majesty.” He said warmly and Arthur gestured for Emrys to join the crowd, giving them space. The boy was quick to rise, copying Riley’s bow hesitantly, and scurrying back into the mass of people.
It was progress.
Arthur and Riley separated, sizing each other up. To the King’s surprise, Riley was the first to move, taking a testing thrust towards Arthur’s stomach. However, it over extended his reach and Arthur slapped the man’s wrist with the flat of his blade in warning as he countered, pushing the sword to the side. Riley sank back in response, and Arthur pressed forward, striking each side quickly to test his block. To his further surprise, the man caught his second swing and twisted them both to the ground, sending whistles through their audience. Arthur quickly disengaged, stepping back on rote to avoid the responding upward swing. He needn’t have bothered however as Riley was not quick enough to have accomplished such a strike and instead also stepped back. Arthur was pleased to find that his footwork was solid, though he seemed to have a habit of over extending his strikes and did not appear to put much force behind them, something he had probably carried over from his family’s safe spars but would do him no favors in true combat.
Purposely Arthur opened the guard on his shoulder, pressing forward as if to harry the man. He could see that Riley noticed the opening but he hesitated to take it, likely because of Arthur’s rank. A stripe of irritation licked up Arthur’s spine at the treatment, honor wounded, and the crowd jeered as he picked up speed, forcing Riley back several steps. Riley once again tried to catch him on a twist but Arthur was ready this time and lunged back just as Riley swung, leaving the man caught in the momentum of the movement and Arthur’s blade free to find its place along his neck. Riley surrendered quickly, dropping his blade and raising open palms.
“Do not underestimate your opponent.” Arthur chided. “You must take advantage of every opportunity you are given.”
Riley tilted his chin in acknowledgment, wary of the blade still along his neck, and Arthur released him, stepping back and pushing is sword into the dirt. Riley relaxed as the threat pulled away, standing straight to receive Arthur’s assessment. “However, your footwork is strong and your blocks sturdy, keep refining them and you will do well.”
Riley beamed at the positive feedback, puffing his chest up proudly. A few of the gathered recruits whistled for him and he smiled at them as well. Arthur retrieved his sword from the ground and nodded Riley back into the crowd. The man bowed deeply and trotted over to the group of men that had called out, receiving friendly shoulder pats and congratulatory thumps on his back.
“I have time enough for one more bout.” A glance at George’s face at the edge of the field told him he did not, but Arthur had one more man to test. It wasn’t like anyone was waiting on him for lunch anyway. He swept his gaze over the crowd as if searching, though he was already decided, and took note of the men that shied away as well as those that stood tall, eager for the challenge. Finding Gwen’s brother amongst the bodies was easy with how unique his skin tone was, though his smaller stature threatened to drown him in the crowd of taller men.
“You.” Arthur called out, pointing with his sword. The other recruits parted to reveal the man, eyebrows raised in surprise. He gamely stepped forward, bowing respectfully as well before rising to stand firm before the King. Arthur and Elyan had only met once, briefly, and he doubted the man expected Arthur to remember. Perhaps he wouldn’t if not for the infatuation he had held for Gwen at the time, curious about all aspects of her life, though he truly understood little of it. He knew that Elyan had been gone for several years, only having returned in the past year and a half, suddenly and without warning. It had caused Gwen a great deal of stress as her father and her brother hashed out their grievances with one another. In the end, however, Tom had been more happy to have his son home once more than he had been angry that Elyan had left and they had agreed upon a truce, slowly mending their cracked relationship, much to Gwen’s relief. She too, was still terribly upset with the man, but he had been doing his best to make it up to her since his return.
It was why she had dared to approach Arthur and inform him that Tom had suggested Elyan present himself for knighthood, now that they were open to commoners, reasoning that it would give the young man valuable insight into what the knights looked for in their weapons. She hadn’t been asking for special treatment of her brother but she was hoping Arthur would keep an eye out for him in some fashion. Arthur reached down to retrieve the practice blade, holding it out for Elyan to take.
“Let’s see what you’re made of.” He goaded lightly and Elyan shot him a smirk, treading the line between confident and arrogant. He twirled the sword in his hand before he gripped it, testing the weight and balance of blade. Arthur could see that he found it unsatisfactory by the downward tilt to the corner of his lips and the faint crease in his brow, but it was the only option he was given and he settled into it with resignation. His stance was much looser than Riley’s, but Arthur was hesitant to say it was unbalanced. Elyan rested his weight further forward on his feet, allowing him to dart away from Arthur’s first lunge quick as a rabbit. It was clear that the man knew the cost and benefit of his size and reach, expertly using to try and goad Arthur into overextending his own. Arthur had to admit that Gwen had been right to declare her brother had potential; he was honestly having a bit of fun with their cat and mouse exchange, trying to pinpoint the moment when Elyan stepped an inch too far.
The crowd grew rowdy as Elyan’s bait and run tactics continued to escalate and Arthur shot him a wolfish grin as the sweat on his brow grew. However, Elyan lacked polish on his foot work and Arthur was able to toss him off balance with a hard drive towards his hip. Their swords slid together down to the hilt and Arthur used his superior height to bear down on Elyan’s guard. Elyan stature was deceptive in terms of his strength, though Arthur should have suspected as much when clashing with a blacksmith’s son. The long hours of hammering in heated metal had done him a lot of favor in terms of his muscle once he dug his heels into the ground. Therefore, Arthur twisted once again, grabbing onto Elyan’s wrist to freeze it for only a second before disengaging and bringing the pommel of his weapon down hard on the man’s wrist to disarm him. Elyan yelped and the sword hit the ground with a thud while the tip of Arthur’s blade tilted to line up with Elyan’s chest.
The two of them caught their breath as Elyan raised his hands in surrender. He seemed elated by the fight rather than sore about his loss, a trait Arthur was happy to see. An arrogant knight was either trouble or dead to a King.
“You are quite quick and clearly familiar with the balance of a blade.” Arthur praised, lowering his sword. “Work on your form and your footwork and you’ll be a formidable opponent in the future.”
Elyan smiled under the commending words and Arthur nodded him back into the crowd where he too received a few shoulder pats of congratulations, though many, who Arthur could identify as sons of nobles, still hesitated to openly welcome him. Arthur dug the tip of his sword into the ground, spinning slowly to address all the men around him. As he had hoped, several of the older recruits had softened their faces with respect at the spars, recognizing Arthur’s skill, while, conversely, several of the younger men had loosened at the sight of Arthur’s willingness to teach and jest.
“I will now leave you in the capable hands of Sirs Leon and Borrim. They are highly skilled, two of my best, and I encourage you to listen well to their instruction.“ He said seriously, tilting his chin up and pushing his shoulders back to increase his presence. “From this day forward, you will be regarded as a knight of Camelot. That means you are sworn to act with honor, integrity, chivalry, and dignity at all times, especially in regards to your new brothers-in-arms beside you.“
“You have all come from various states of life, various experiences, and various levels of knowledge, but here,” Arthur paused to emphasize, seeing every eye focused on him. “Here, you are all knights, and the success of a single man is the success of his kingdom. The man standing beside you may very well be the reason you still breathe tomorrow. As such, I trust you will treat each other with respect, help one another, and even learn from each other, because that is how we increase the strength of Camelot as a whole. Anything less will not be tolerated.”
Arthur swept his gaze around the ring one last time, catching any eye he could before he nodded to Leon, pulling his sword back out of the ground.
“Farewell, young knights, dedicate yourselves to your studies and I look forward to hearing the tales of your future feats.” He dismissed and turned to return to George’s side, much to the servant’s relief, though one would only be able to tell by the barest release of the tension in the man’s shoulders.
“All hail the King!” Sir Borrim called out behind him and there was a cacophony of clanking metal as the recruits hurried to copy his farewell bow as Arthur departed.
He had made it about halfway to his destination when he heard Leon call out for him. “Sire!” He turned to face his first knight as the man caught up. Leon gave a quick bow when he came into range, face pinched with regret. “I wanted to sincerely apologize for Emrys today. If I had known how much trouble he would be…”
Arthur waved him off, “I do not blame you for his behavior, Sir Leon. It was my decision to open the offer of knighthood to everyone, there is bound to be a rough period of adjustment.”
“Still, if the boy displeases you, I can send him on his way.” Leon offered. Arthur was quick to shake his head despite Leon’s raised eyebrows at the gesture.
“Truth be told, I do not see much potential in him as one of your knights.” Arthur admitted. “Though he seems willing to learn at least. But I have a different position for him in mind, one that will put his….. less tangible gifts to use.”
Leon’s brow furrowed in confusion as he attempted to work out Arthur’s meaning. Quite suddenly, the expression cleared with understanding and he snapped his head around to stare at Emrys with a hard look. Arthur cleared his throat to bring Leon’s attention back to him.
“He should not be punished for the gift.” Arthur clarified, “I tell you and you alone because I have faith you will find it in yourself to ignore your bias.” He said sternly.
“Of course, Your Majesty, it is just that…. “ Leon hesitated and, if it were not the fact that they had known each other since they were children and that they were on good enough terms that Arthur could tentatively label them as friends, Arthur was certain he would have not questioned the King at all. He lowered his voice. “Is it wise to allow a sorcerer among the new recruits? Is it fair?”
“There is no current law banning magic use from the assessment,“ Arthur explained, allowing his gaze to drift to where Emrys practicing wide clumsy swings with the rest of the knights, though the sorcerer seemed to have taken Arthur’s advice to heart and was actively looking between his peers to shore up his gaps in knowledge, noting what earned praise from Sir Borrim and what elicited ire. “Something I plan to rectify in the immediate future. However, he does not appear to have ill intent, though be sure to notify me if you have reason to think otherwise.”
Leon hummed but did not bring up any more protests so Arthur continued, “If he was brave enough to walk into the heart of Camelot with those talents and has a true desire to put them to use for her benefit, it would be remiss of me not to take advantage of the opportunity.” Arthur explained and could see the edge of strategy winning over Leon’s reservations as the knight nodded absentmindedly in agreement. “Still, at the moment, it is merely an idea. There is much to be done in terms of setting up said position. For now, I want you to continue to train the boy as you would normally, he will need at least familiarity with the skills regardless.” Arthur ordered; Leon dipped his head in acknowledgement.
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Leon promised with another short bow.
“And for God’s sake keep them all well contained at dinner tonight.” Arthur huffed, watching as two of the recruits got into a scuffle, trying to show off to each other, only to be split up by the stern glare of Sir Borrim.
Leon eyed him with concern, following the King’s gaze to the recruits. “That’s the third time you’ve given a warning about our manners.” He prodded pointedly, “Is there anything in particular we should be concerned about King Lot?”
Arthur shook his head, “I’ve yet to read Sir Loratch’s reports but there are only two types of men that stage a coup, particularly one that ends fatally for the monarch in charge. Those that do what they must in protection of themselves or their people and those that take advantage of a monarch’s ill reputation to gain the power they crave.” He explained seeing Leon nod in agreement.
“We are the first of the five kingdoms to meet with King Lot. Whether that is out of respect or connivence, we do not know, but it means that there are no rumors to guide us. We cannot be certain if he is the type of man who is humble and does not care about the traditions of court, if he can even recognize them, or if he is drunk on the new power he has been handed and will demand perfect etiquette.” Arthur continued and Leon hummed quietly. His lips thinning as he considered Arthur’s arguments.
“Regardless, he shares the largest stretch of our borders of any Kingdom in Albion.“ Arthur hesitated for just a moment before revealing one of the more painful points of his concern, “If my father were in power he would have already stormed Esstier and bent Lot into a treaty while he and his men were exhausted by the price of their victory.“ He said quietly, avoiding catching the look on Leon’s face. Gathering himself he lifted his chin, trying to project the confidence that everyone expected of him. “That is not the way I wish to lead, despite the council’s misgivings; I want peace on our borders, not to cultivate resentment and mistrust, and I will not be made to look the fool because some rookie didn’t watch his manners.” Leon shifted and Arthur risked a glance in his direction to find the first knight’s face Leon’s soft in understanding of Arthur’s fears.
“Of course, My Leige, we will make sure they behave.” He swore and Arthur felt some of the tension leave his spine. There was no one in the kingdom he trusted more than Leon. If Leon swore he would ensure the knights would be in line, Arthur knew it would be so. “And, if I may be so bold, the fact that you are concerned with cultivating peace where you can find it speaks well of your character, Arthur.” He reassured kindly.
Arthur’s heart warmed at the casual address, despite his demands of the knights moments earlier. The recruits were no more than strangers, as yet untried and unproven in any of the traits they had pledged to be. They expected certain behavior of him and he of them in turn. True camaraderie to the King was something rare and something Arthur secretly treasured dearly. Leon was the closest thing he had to a friend as the aura of the crown created a veritable emotional moat around his person. There were few he could trust to have pure motives and fewer still that he could risk opening up any part of his heart to. Leon was one of those rare few that Arthur felt was truly on his side, that truly wanted what was best for both the kingdom and Arthur as a person. He wanted to believe the man, wanted to take to heart that he did not need to be his father to succeed but it was difficult to shake the insecurity, especially when the members of his father’s council turned up their noses at every opposing decision. He had been trying to slowly edge them out of their seats at the table but it was slow going as he could not risk a civil war should he frighten them too badly. He needed legitimate excuses, reasons that not many would argue with, to replace them. Trickier still was finding those who Arthur would replace them with. Leon already had his seat at the table as first knight, but Arthur struggled to piece together the type of council he wanted to create, one that would drive him towards the future he wanted to bring to bear. It was a topic he was forced to continually push aside as more pressing matters demanded his attention.
He sighed heavily, “I suppose it simply unnerves me to know so little going into this meeting. Normally we have an idea of who new royals may be. All of the five kingdoms were more than aware of me and my personality when I was crowned. The only question was how I would stand up against the pressure of it. Lot has come out of literally nowhere to take Essetir in what seems like a fortnight. No one knows anything and everyone is watching to see how he greets Camelot.”
“I have faith it will work out for the best, Sire.” Leon said, and Arthur took strength from the calm certainty in his words. “You are one of the strongest diplomats I’ve seen, and there are few that will tempt the might of Camelot. King Lot is sure to desire to make a good impression on us just as much as you desire to make a good impression on them.”
Arthur took a deep breath, letting Leon’s optimism sink into the mire of his trepidation, soothing the lingering notes of stress in his bones. Politics was truly Arthur’s least favorite aspect of the crown but to let himself be tangled up in what ifs was to lose the game before it had even begun. The castle had been preparing for weeks; it would have to be enough.
It would be enough.
Leon bumped his shoulder, barely a brush to draw his attention, “And if he is fool enough to turn down your good will, the knights will stand behind you. Always.”
Arthur gave him a true smile and received the same in return. “Thank you, Sir Leon.” He said with genuine gratitude. “I believe I have some reports that need my attention before the meeting this afternoon, but your council is always most helpful. I shall leave you to the recruits for the rest of the training.”
Leon bowed a final time, “Always happy to be of service, Your Majesty.” He said warmly, before straightening and heading back to assist Sir Borrim in his instruction. Arthur caught sight of Emrys watching them curiously, but the boy quickly averted his gaze as he met the King’s eyes. Arthur snorted in amusement before squaring his shoulders and whirling back towards the armory.
“Come, George, those reports aren’t going to read themselves.” He called out wryly and heard the patter of feet behind him not a few seconds later. Reaching the empty armory, now that most of the knights had split up to morning training or their morning tasks, George once again made quick, efficient work of his armor.
“I must say, Your Majesty, that you set a rather gleaming example today. I’m sure the new knights will be most inspired.” George piped up as he lifted the chainmail carefully over Arthur’s head. Arthur sent a small prayer to the gods for fortitude.
“I should hope so, many of them have much to improve before they can hold the title of knight with any amount of pride.” He countered. “I’m positive Leon will whip them into shape though, he always does.”
“Of course.” George agreed, scurrying away to put up the last of Arthur’s armor.
“I’ll be taking lunch in my chambers.” Arthur called over his shoulder.
Finished, George hurried around to his front giving a bow before departing, “I’ll have it brought immediately.” He promised and then jogged away to do just that, leaving Arthur to make his own, more sedate, pace up to his chambers.
Notes:
Hopefully that was enjoyable and explained the state of the world this takes place in? No?
…..It was cringe wasn’t it 😅. I apologize, the spirit of George is hard to resist. Hopefully you’ll stick around for when the actual humor kicks in.Part 2 to come out REALLY soon. I am SO CLOSE.
Then maybe I can finally get started back on ADT.
Chapter 3: A Gift of Scale Part 2
Notes:
🎶My chapters have grown legs, like they always do🎶 🙃🫠 and now this has 3 parts instead of 2.
But that gives you more material to judge so I guess it works out.
I solemnly swear that this is not meant to be a political fic. I promise it is far more about the shenanigans between a dragonlord and his king. However, I needed to set the scene of the world I’m working with so things got a bit detailed. Hopefully it doesn’t turn you off too badly.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy part 2. All disclaimers from part 1 apply.
Chapter Text
The hallways were even busier with the castle in full afternoon operation. Maids and manservant’s alike dashed through the corridors with anything from ingredients to bedsheets as they prepared for the arrival of the visiting delegation. No doubt the kitchen would be absolutely chaotic, trying to juggle lunch distribution while beginning the preparations for dinner, likely to take hours of work for the meal. The servants ignored him beyond a friendly curtesy or bow to the best of their ability, too focused on their various tasks to bother with any sort of conversation. Arthur was glad for the distraction; it allowed him to walk the halls relatively unaccosted and he enjoyed the brief reprieve before he bent his mind to picking through Sir Loratch’s reports for anything that might give the council confidence in his decision to allow the rebels to stay at the castle.
He gave a sigh of relief upon entering the sanctuary of his chambers, shutting out the rest of the world temporarily. There was no time to waste however, and he moved swiftly over to his desk where George had already piled the desired papers neatly in the middle. With one last stretch, he settled in to focus, pulling the first set of sheets towards himself. The content was dry and factual but provided a needed context about Essetir’s situation. Sir Loratch had been deployed on the border for quite some time in an effort to keep an eye on King Cenred, a reluctant ally at the most generous description. He had detailed the chatter that traveled through their border towns and the rumors of bandits ravaging the late King’s similar villages, driving peasants across the borders in droves once they had lost too much to stay.
As Arthur suspected, and Morgana had eluded, the late King had not been well liked in the slightest. However, he was feared, particularly for the army of sorcerers he had attempted to enslave. There was little information about that particular rumor, much to Arthur’s irritation as he flipped through each paper, it seemed King Cendred had kept the effort under close wraps, if it was true. Had he succeeded it would have been a nasty wake up call for Camelot‘s forces. It wasn’t until Arthur had started researching in earnest that he understood how vulnerable to magic Camelot was. His father’s rage had not only irradiated any magical defense Camelot could cultivate, it had blinded her to any knowledge about its use at all, making her even more vulnerable than if magic had been left to corrupt some of her citizens as his father told him it would. They had been blind to the presence, methods, and proven defenses against magic’s bite and Arthur shuddered to think of the consequences that would have been if an entire battalion of sorcerers had staged an all out attack on Camelot’s walls. The casualties would have been devastating.
The rumors seemed to have slowed significantly several years ago, shifting to murmurs that Cenred had gotten his hands on something big, something powerful. The fact that Camelot had never recieved a notice of war from Essetir spoke to the validities of these claims; Arthur couldn’t imagine Cenred simply holding onto something so valuable and not using it to further his power. At the very least, whatever he had acquired, he hadn’t been able to control. It might account for why his efforts to conscript sorcerers had slowed, perhaps all his efforts had gone into readying this power source for war. Arthur set the papers down, freeing his hands to massage his temples. If that were true, it now meant King Lot was now in possession of said weapon, and who knew what he would do with it.
It was around this time, when he was spiraling into speculation, that a knock came from his chamber doors.
“Come in!” He called out, continuing to apply pressure to his temples.
The door clicked open quietly and George’s voice drifted around its frame, “I bring lunch, Your Majesty!” He said drifting around the door, “Unfortunately they are quite lacquered today and refused to send up more than a single plate, though I did my best to burnish their decision.”
“That’s fine.” Arthur waved him forward, only opening his eyes as a plate clanked down on the table. It was rather modest compared to spread George insisted on bringing: a few pieces of crusted caper, a few slices of turnip on top of a few pieces of lettuce, a cut of soft bread, and a cluster of grapes for something sweet to finish. Honestly, with the kicked beehive the kitchen had to be, he was impressed George had managed that much. The servant dutifully swept his documents to the side, so they wouldn’t be soiled by the liquids of his lunch, before sliding the plate and a goblet of water forward for Arthur’s enjoyment.
Having only a few reports to go, Arthur pulled one of them to the top of the pile before he began to eat, intending to read from afar. There was no use in speculating over rumors he didn’t have solid proof of, so instead he turned to the task of understanding Lot and his role in Cenred’s downfall. That was the most important matter this evening after all. Unfortunately, that cluster of knowledge was also lacking much foundation. The most Sir Loratch had been able to discern was that Lot hailed from somewhere around the Forest of Ascetir, though it was unknown if his origin came from within Essetir or without. Less still was known about his personality, much to Arthur’s dread. As he had suspected, Cenred had kept events of the coup well hidden, not wishing to appear vulnerable, and thus it had taken almost everyone by surprise when Lot claimed his throne. The tales that surrounded Lot’s victory were not promising, songs erupting about his penchant to mount the heads of his enemies on the walls for anyone to see, but Arthur tried not to take them to heart as bards were well known for their exaggeration in their craft.
All in all, Arthur was still as blind as he had been this morning to the nature of the man, but there was a least a possible case that the coup had been staged out of necessity rather than pure greed. He pushed back his empty plate and George swept forward from the corner to collect it. Arthur’s cloak was already draped over his privacy screen, and he scraped his chair back with a sigh to get ready for the meeting to come. He walked over to the wash basin in the corner first, removing the worst of the sweat in his brow and running a comb through his hair to control the damage the morning activity had wrought.
It was time to face the council and their concerns.
He debated whether or not to retrieve his crown, if only to remind his father’s council that he currently held it, but decided it would make him seem too desperate to have them fall in line, choosing to leave it within the locked drawer commissioned solely for its containment. The cloak settled heavily on his shoulders and Arthur was grounded, steadied, by its weight, comforted by its cover. He straightened his spine and inhaled slowly before beginning his march out of his chambers to the tune of careful clattering as George collected his dishes to return to the kitchen. The servant would meet him at the council meeting to make sure his goblet never ran dry; god knew he would need it today. The guards guarding the council chamber doors straightened as he approached, calling out a warning to those within.
“All rise for the entrance of His Majesty, King Arthur Pendragon!”
They pulled open the doors to a wide room, fit with the long rectangular table his father had used for council. Six servants lined the walls with jugs of either wine or water, to be seven once George returned, and there was an already filled goblet of wine to the right of his chair. All ten members of the current council were present and bowed low as he entered, striding confidently to his chair at the head of the table. To his right stood Leon, strong and steady, and to his left stood Agravaine, a bridge between the council of his father and the new age Arthur was attempting to make. Their proximity to his seat demonstrated Arthur’s favor with them and, therefore, how much sway they held over the court. The rest of council was spread out accordingly, a subtle way for Uther to warn a lord whether or not they had recently aggravated him. Arthur would have liked to swap Lord Orteir, to Agravaine’s right, with the much newer Lord Hisran, down at the end on Leon’s side, if it wouldn’t have created such an outrage. Orteir had held Leon’s seat in Uther‘s council and was as conniving as they came, willing to do anything to keep his claws in the power the position granted. Arthur might have been swayed by his honeyed words if the lord had had the proper time to wine and dine him, but Uther’s passing was far too sudden for any preparation, a small blessing when it came to seeing the true nature of those at court. It had been painfully obvious who had scrambled to hoard their own wealth and security and who had been looking out for Arthur and the kingdom admist the sudden change.
It was actually how Hisran had earned his spot on Arthur’s council. The lord he replaced, Lord Retin, had panicked upon Uther’s sudden death and immediately retreated to his land near the borders of Odin’s kingdom. The reason for the behavior had soon been revealed as Arthur requested an audit of the kingdom’s coffers and exposed an operation that skimmed the top of the kingdoms taxes to distribute between the treasurer: Lord Gareth, Retin, and two lesser noble houses within the wider court. Arthur had immediately had both of them removed from the council and all four houses thrown into disgrace. Now, he kept a close eye on the new treasurer, Lord Farley, seated two spaces down from Leon’s left, but had yet to see any signs of similar corruption.
Hisran, on the other hand, was a smaller noble house, one Uther would have immediately overlooked, but he had gone out of his way to ensure the tenants on his land would be covered while the court scrabbled to set Arthur into his place on the throne. He had made many entreaties to the court for lower taxes for his land, several even directly to Arthur himself, and had paid the difference out of his own coffers for what his wards could not afford. As a result, his house had been in the best shape when the dust had settled, people fed, happy, and working, even if Hisran’s status of wealth had been a bit precarious by that time. These were the traits Arthur wanted to cultivate across his lands, the ones he wanted to inspire in the people of Camelot. He had been moved, heartened, to see Hisran so dedicated to his cause and had immediately granted him the open chair when it became available.
The rest of the wider court, outside of council, had definitely taken note of his choices, setting Leon and Hisran into chairs on the council, and Arthur had noticed a subtle shift in their characters as of late, able to smell the scent of change on the wind and not willing to be caught unaware when the gale rolled through. However, the council still clung to the ways of old, banding together under the belief that they could guide Arthur to their way of thinking with both time and patience. It was why he couldn’t even shift Ortier down any further on the table, as he had the support of too many on the council. It would have a high chance of inditing a civil war, if not a successful coup, and then Camelot would be in the exact same position as Essetir. Arthur contained the sigh that wanted to escape his lips.
The court was a pit of vipers, the lot of them.
He just needed more time to gain the people’s trust and to weaken the council of old further. Shaking away his wandering thoughts, he reached the head of the table and stepped in front of his decorated chair as another servant quietly tucked it in behind him. Giving the table as a whole a nod of acknowledgement, he sat, and the rest of the table followed.
“Lords and Sir,“ Arthur greeted, once everyone had settled and the papers had stopped rustling. “We have gathered here today to have one last discussion about the new King Lot. I seek your valuable council on how Camelot is to regard him this evening and what our goals should be for the duration of his visit and the creation of a treaty, should all go as planned.”
There was no surprise among the gathered men, Arthur would have been concerned if there had been as this had been a source of heated debate among the last few meetings, and Agravaine was, predictably, the first to speak out.
“I still think it is more advisable to show Camelot’s strength first and foremost to deter any thoughts of attack.” Agravaine contributed from beside him. “We should take advantage of the window of weakness we have been given.” Despite his earlier resolve, Arthur felt the same thread of insecurity from earlier wind tight against his throat. He knew Agravaine did not approve of Arthur’s more lenient approach, and the older man’s wisdom along with the rumors of King Lot’s barbarity still swimming in front of his eyes, allowed doubt to creep its way over his shoulders.
What would be the consequences for his people if he had misjudged?
Leon frowned at the man from Arthur‘s other side. “Camelot is still healing from her conflict with King Sarrum. I believe it is in our best interest to cultivate allies where we can.” He countered.
“Are you saying our forces are not up to standard, Sir Knight?” Agravaine sniped back sharply, expertly laying a trap for the first knight, and Leon frowned deeper. It was his responsibility to make sure Camelot’s forces were ready for anything that may come their way, to agree with Agravaine would be to open himself up to reproach for failing in his assigned duties. On the other hand, to disagree would bring up questions as to why shouldn’t they show off if they had the strength to do so, surely it would be better to be safe rather than sorry.
Arthur took a deep sip of his wine.
“Not at all, the knights of Camelot are as skilled as ever, I am mere—“ Leon began to deny only to be cut off by Agravaine.
“Then what’s the problem?” Agravaine raised his palms to the sky as if confused, gesturing towards the first knight. “If Camelot has the strength to defend herself, it would be prudent to show King Lot as such. He only just received the throne, he will be looking to claim more land and people to make up for his losses.”
“Yet to show such hostility before we have even met the man would surely be setting a precedent for our future correspondence, would it not?” Hisran spoke up at the end of the table. Agravaine’s lips twitched into a downward sneer at the same time Lord Ortier scoffed derisively.
“Camelot has always shown her strength without shame. To refuse to do so at such a critical meeting would only give the impression that we have been somehow weakened. It would give him even more of a reason to attack.” He said patronizingly, as if he thought Hisran was particularly naive; he probably did. Hisran’s lips tightened from his seat.
Arthur took another long sip of wine.
“Camelot has never been on good terms with Essetir, I’m sure King Lot is well aware of that fact. To show open hostility and mistrust from the second he sets foot in the castle will send the message that we are not willing to change our relationship. It will likely make the treaty terms harsher and negotiations more conflicted. I think he deserves to be given a chance to show the man he wishes to be.” That was Lord Outwen half way down the table on Agravaine’s side, a more neutral lord in Uther’s court. He was level headed and Arthur wouldn’t mind if he maintained his seat in the council.
“Or it will give him more reason to believe that we haven’t because we can’t.” Ortier defended again.
“Whatever he assumes matters not in the end, no?” Lord Detrik pipped up from directly across Outwen. He was an often impassioned voice at the table, though his support swung wildly from topic to topic. “What matters is if we are actually hiding weakness that we don’t want him to see. Otherwise, if we are as strong as we say we are, then there is nothing to fear, he will not succeed regardless.”
“But it is the people that will suffer the consequences if we antagonize him.” Hisran pointed out with concern; Detrik blinked at him blankly.
“And that matters because?” Ortier prodded. When Hisran fell silent in shock, he sneered, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “The lower class exists for such a purpose: to shield us in times of crisis. In return, we defend them and provide them land to live on and cultivate.”
Arthur nearly finished his goblet only for George to appear with a jug before his cup had even reached the table, filling it back up to full.
“And if the people all fall, who will be left to grow your food, Lord Orteir?” Leon questioned with as much anger as Arthur had ever seen from him. “Surely, I won’t expect you to take on such an endeavor.”
“Well of course not all of them would be killed.” Detrik said, sounding honestly baffled. “We would rally ourselves quickly enough to save most of them, but the few that don’t make it hardly matter, they will be easy enough to replace.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” Hisran snapped incredulously and Detrik’s eyes narrowed at his tone.
Arthur’s gaze slid to the remaining four members, it was expected that Lords Farely, Russan, and Tekil, the treasurer, chancellor, and Chaplin respectively, remained quiet; they had little to contribute to the escalating argument. However, next to Outwen, Lord Nevak merely watched, eyes flicking between each talking member. Arthur had never been able to pin down the man, he said little and stood for even less, content to ride the tide in whichever way it rose, keeping his opinions and motivations close to his chest.
“Ignore him,” Ortier called out over the noise, waving his hand as if shooing a bug, causing Hisran to scowl. “I imagine it is hard for him to understand with such a small estate; the losses of his staff are likely much harder to recover from.” Hisran turned bright red in a potent combination of anger and humiliation at the insult.
He stood up abruptly, sending the legs of his chair screeching against the stone. “I’ll have you know—“
“Enough!” Arthur commanded, and the table fell silent. Hisran sank back into his seat as a servant dutifully pushed it back in, still obviously fuming. “Lord Hisran and Sir Leon are correct. Camelot’s people are what make up her heart. To forget that, is to risk disaster by severing her veins. We cannot afford to think of the lower class as disposable.” He reprimanded.
Agravaine and Ortier both scowled at the statement but neither dared to correct the King’s decree.
“However, I do agree with Lord Detrik.” He continued, ignoring Leon’s sharp look. “What King Lot assumes of us matters little as long as our strength is what it should be.“ He clarified and Leon’s expression became less severe. “Something I’m certain Sir Leon has already seen to.” Leon nodded in agreement. “That being said, I wish to spare our people the chaos of war as much as I can and therefore do not wish to cause offense before we have even met the man.”
“If I may, Your Grace?” Outwen interrupted. Arthur arched an eyebrow but gestured for him to continue.
“I have heard concerning rumors about his barbarity. Ones that state he finds pleasure in mounting the severed heads of his enemies on his walls, like hunting trophies.” A cascade of murmurs erupted around the table. Arthur was careful to keep the wince off his face; he knew the rumors would make their way to the council’s ears.
Tekil looked genuinely concerned at the prospect. "Is it wise to associate ourselves with such a figure? It would not be pleasing within the lord's eyes to sully ourselves with such vulgarity." He asked, speaking up for the first time in the meeting.
"Have you any proof to the truthfulness of these claims, Lord Outwen?" Arthur questioned. Outwen frowned.
"No, Your Majesty, but the abundance of such claims surely speaks for itself?" He countered.
"I have read Sir Loratch's reports; the claims speak for nothing but tall tales spun by bards for entertainment." Arthur denied. "If you go to any druid camp you will hear the same tales of my father drinking the blood of sorcerers for power, taking their charred bones and using them to curse the very land he stood on." he pointed out. "Bards are known for their proclivity to exaggerate and any rumors built upon their lyrics are sown on nothing but gossamer. I will not judge a man on rumor alone."
There was a disbelieving hum from Ortier and Arthur's temple twitched as he clenched his teeth before he smoothed his expression. "If there is something you would like to add, Ortier, please be my guest." He challenged, waving the lord towards the table.
Ortier looked properly cowed by the callout, though his face still twisted in irritation, and he held his silence. Arthur looked around the table, searching for any more protests to their course of action for this evening.
"If there are no other concerns to his arrival, I suggest we move on to what we would like to see out of a treaty with Essetir." He prompted.
“Peace should be the top priority, I imagine, a mutual ceasefire and respect of the current borders.” Leon opened this time and Arthur nodded at him gratefully.
“Essetir is currently exhausted by her civil war. We should press where we can.” Detrik opposed. “Every resource helps in the long run.”
Arthur frowned, he had never liked viewing the world through that lens. It was true that one never knew what would drive two kingdoms to conflict nor when it would occur, which created a natural instinct to hoard what one could given the chance. However, it made kingdoms and people bitter and mistrustful, unable to rely on the good will of anyone. That was a rather bleak existence and not one Arthur wanted to be a part of.
“They owe us reparations for the series of raids conducted on the border.” Ortier snipped snidely.
“We cannot hold King Lot responsible for the actions of King Cenred.” Russan cautioned in response.
“It wouldn’t hurt to bring it up, should there be an opportunity.” Outwen compromised.
Russan frowned clearly unhappy with the proposal in any capacity. “King Lot has no responsibility to pay for the grievances we have with King Cenred.” He reiterated firmly. “It would be different if he were Cenred’s heir, acknowledged or not, but he is a conquering King, the same as Uther when he first took the throne from King Vortigern before him. We were not expected to repent for Camelot’s actions then; therefore, it would be unreasonable of us to expect such an act from King Lot now.”
“Also, Your Majesty, I would caution against signing a multi-year agreement.” Russan continued, looking directly at Arthur. “While Camelot and Essetir feel out their future relationship, it would be inadvisable to accept anything that would bind us for several years at a time, just in case there is a problem with the terms.”
"Thank you, Lord Russan, I will take that under advisement." Arthur promised.
"We shouldn't forget about Essetir's sizable quarries either." Outwen brought up. "It would be beneficial if we could convince King Lot to maintain a trade route for us."
"He will have to clean up the bandits that plague his lands first." Hisran seemed to have regained his composure from where he had been fuming in his seat. "I heard one of his border villages, a small settlement called Ealdor was overrun and starved."
"If the rumors of his hobbies have any merit, I doubt he'll have much trouble." Detrik contributed with amusement.
"It would remain to be seen as to whether he would keep it clear, however," Leon commented with a furrow in his brow, thinking through the logistics. "I doubt he would take kindly to extensive military presence should it become necessary and a procession dragging stone is not, by any means, quick."
"Perhaps we could propose a small pay as incentive then." Outwen suggested, throwing a questioning glance at Lord Farely for financial advisement.
“Camelot is not desperate for money.” Lord Farely relayed quietly. “Of course, more is always better, but the harvests have been good the past few years. It would be acceptable to prioritize other improvements.”
"Would we offer anything in return for access to the quarries?" Russan questioned with curiosity.
Detrik snorted, "Certainly nothing that can be used as a weapon."
Ortier rolled his eyes. "I would think that would be obvious."
Arthur tuned out the ensuing argument, listening with only a single ear, as he saw a servant scurry over to George after slipping through the doors. The servant whispered something to his manservant and George gave the young man a sharp nod, sending the servant dashing out the doors once more. Immediately, George approached Arthur's shoulder, quickly and quietly, leaning down to whisper, "The meeting's duration is approaching three candlemarks, Your Majesty, and we have received word of King Lot's approach. It is estimated that he will arrive in two more candlemarks." Arthur nodded in acknowledgment and his manservant melted against the backwall once more.
"I doubt much value would be gained with a bag of grain." Outwen was saying as Arthur return his full attention once more.
"The people of Essetir have been released from an oppressive government, are overrun with bandits, and King Lot's armies have only recently finished their siege." Agravaine explained. "Additional food supplies could be very valuable indeed."
Ortier hummed, a contemplative look in his eye as he reviewed the angle. "That angle could be a significant advantage for us." He admitted. "It would allow us to gain something valuable without much cost to ourselves."
Leon frowned, "We will have to be careful about not giving too much away though." He cautioned.
"We do not know what the winter will bring." Hisran agreed.
Ortier rolled his eyes once more with a put-upon sigh. His lips pulled back to fire back something unflattering and Arthur decided it was time to end the session before another argument could break out.
"You have all given me much to consider." Arthur cut Ortier off, capturing the attention of the table once more. "You have provided many good points that I will do my best to address with King Lot over the next few days. However, we have received word of King Lot's approach. It is expected he will arrive in approximately two candlemarks. After hearing your words of caution, I will meet him in the throne room as opposed to the courtyard stairs. It will not be unusual to have more guard present in that room which should be an adequate compromise for the council without making it seem like we have increased security just for him. With any luck, King Lot may not even recognize the change in routine."
Agravaine, Ortier, Detrik, and Tekil looked skeptical at the effectiveness while Hisran seemed a bit concerned. However, Leon, Russan, Farely, and Outwen seemed to accept the compromise with grace. Nevak remained as neutral as he had been the entire meeting, beady eyes flicking back and forth between men as he watched everyone closely. Regardless, no one uttered a complaint so Arthur took what encouragement he could glean from the response.
"In summary, the primary concern is making sure the peace between us remains unbroken though I will inquire about access to the quarries should I get the chance while keeping in mind that grain may be a valuable bargaining chip. Is there anything that I missed or anything anyone would like to add before we break in preparation for King Lot's arrival?" Russan straightened in his seat and Arthur held up a hand to stop him.
"And I will keep the terms to one year before they need to be renegotiated." He assured, Russan closed his mouth and gave a nod of agreement. Arthur swept his eyes around the rest of the council but none of them offered anything more. He clapped his hands in relief, rising to stand. "Very well, I now conclude the council and will see you all in the throne room to welcome King Lot."
With a second of indecision, Arthur swept his goblet off the table and swirled his way towards the doors he had entered from.
"All rise for the departure of His Majesty, King Arthur Pendragon!" The same guard who had announced him called out and the council table rose obediently to bow as Arthur swanned out of the room, George two steps behind him. As soon as he was out of sight of the council chamber doors, Arthur downed his second goblet all at once.
“Dear god,” he groaned, holding out the empty cup for George to take as he wiped a thumb across his lips to clean them.
"Take heart, Your Highness," George spoke up as he accepted the empty goblet, "The servants have been busy all week with preparations, I'm sure you'll simply blow King Lot's delegation away."
Arthur sighed tiredly, "Speaking of which, George, the steward will need to be informed of King's Lot's eminent arrival, if he hasn't been already." He said, over his shoulder, "Make sure that all the necessary preparations have been completed to my standards."
George halted as Arthur continued forward, dipping into a low bow, "Of course, Your Highness," and then he departed, quick as a hare down the winding side hallways that ferried servants to their destinations, leaving Arthur to finish his trek alone once more.
Arthur sighed as he walked, looking out the hallway windows and trying not to feel too overwhelmed. There were days when he felt every inch of the King he was supposed to be, as if the crown had been shaped personally to fit his head, and then there were days like today, where it felt off-kilter, a size too big, a pound too heavy to be worn with any amount of grace. It left him feeling like the same young man he had been staring at his father's cooling body and not understanding how he was supposed to lead without him.
When it was his kingdom's welfare on the line, Arthur, reasonably, wasn’t fond of surprises and that's what this meeting would inevitably be. There was just not enough information about Lot to prepare with; he would have to feel out the situation as it unraveled, one step at a time. Still, he could feel the weight of the kingdom's future pressing down on his shoulders and he allowed them to slump slightly as he turned down the less occupied hallway to his chambers, already weary from the day's events.
He wanted a break.
Perhaps it was time he scheduled a hunt. Though the available prey would be stark as winter began to trap the world in her grasp, it had been far too long since he had allowed himself to breathe outside of the duties of the crown. Every moment from his father's untimely death had been spent scrambling to secure the faith of his people, his knights, and his council while simultaneously trying to figure out how accomplish his new duties with minimal error and keep an ear open for the whereabouts of Morgana. It had been and exhausting few years and Arthur could do with just a bit of reprieve, surely he could justify a few days to the council.
Leon would demand he take a guard, of course, but, at minimum, that was only four men, per Leon's own insistence. His first knight would obviously be one, and it had been a while since he had checked in on Lancelot to make sure the noble born knights weren't hassling him too much. If he invited Morgana, Gwen might be able to accompany them as well, which would give Lancelot additional incentive to ride along. Not that the loyal knight would need it, Lancelot was one of the most honorable men Arthur knew. Still, the gesture would be appreciated and Morgana could use some sun. Then, if he had both Gwen and Lancelot, he might as well include Elyan, perhaps it would be enough to temper Lancelot's more exaggerated romantic overtures. That left one more slot, but Sir Kay had always enjoyed a good hunt in Arthur's memory; he was an excellent shot with a bow.
Yes, maybe a hunt was in order in the near future.
Reaching his chamber doors, he marched past the guards bracketing them, and threw open his doors with a flourish, simply because he could, releasing the breath he had gathered as they swung shut behind him. George had already pulled out his evening outfit, the jacket he had picked earlier and a pair of dark trousers spun from high thread quality, and his crown sat gleaming on top of his dresser. He had a few minutes before George would return to help him dress and the urge to sink down into the soft sheets of his bed was very tempting. The King cast a longing look at them before heading to the wash basin instead, allowing the cool water to trickle through his fingers and admiring the golden glitters of the reflection of the fading light, before dipping a cloth in to begin cleaning. He gave himself a more thorough wash this time, running the cloth and water over his chest and the back of his neck.
A knock on his chamber doors announced George's return just as he finished, and he called out a, "Enter!" as he swept a dry rag around his damp skin.
There was a creak as George eased his way in, and the corresponding click as the doors shut again, before the servant immediately moved to unlace the King’s clothes so that Arthur could slip on the new ones. They worked in silence as Arthur’s mind continued to pick apart the reports he had read for any clue of what he could expect. George appeared at the side of the screen, though still politely out of sight, holding the pricey cloth so that they didn’t wrinkle on top of the changing screen. Arthur slipped them on with ease, stepping out to allow his servant to fuss with all the details.
He always felt like a trussed pig at the end of the process, laces tied just so, hair combed immaculately. No matter how often George dressed him, it was perfectly impersonal, a doll being beautified for the entertainment of the court. He could only be thankful that he wasn’t a woman as Morgana had made no secret of her distaste for her preparations, most of which could easily last twice as long as Arthur’s. As children they had always been elated to escape Uther’s stern eye at the earliest opportunity. Scampering to their rooms where they could rip off the itchy constricting cloth in favor of more comfortable, flexible, clothes before racing around the empty castle halls until they were inevitably collected by their minders. Those opportunities had grown more and more rare the older they got, particularly as Uther looked to Arthur to form political connections and Morgana to entertain the young princes that visited. A small smile ghosted his lips at the memory but was whisked away into the present as George stepped back, giving him a critical once over with a pinched brow that cleared as the inspection finished.
“There we go, Your Majesty! Polished to perfection!” He crooned, puffing out his chest in pride.
"I’ve already heard that one today, George." Arthur quipped, already exhausted, only to startle into a laugh at the genuine horror and concern on his manservant's face. He looked as if Arthur had told him he was to be fed to a pit of lions rather than that he had recycled the material of his very limited pool of jokes. The laughter felt good after the slough that had been his council meeting and Arthur allowed himself to revel in it, drawing strength to get through the rest of the day.
The warning bells interrupted him, not the high clamor of an attack but the lighter tone that announced the entrance of a friend to the lower town. From there it would only take King Lot a quarter of candlemark to reach the courtyard and Arthur composed himself once more. George startled out of his shock and hurried over to the dresser, carefully collecting the crown and carrying it over to place on Arthur’s head. The weight of the metal sobered the King immediately, as it always did, and he straightened his posture, intent on projecting the image of King that everyone expected, the one King Lot needed to see.
There was no room for vulnerability and weakness, not when facing a conquerer.
He clapped a hand on the servant’s shoulder in silent gratitude, eliciting another low bow, before heading towards his doors for the final time this day. The halls were practically empty as Arthur marched purposefully towards the throne room; the servants would be gathering in the courtyard, waiting to collect the servants and belongings from the arriving procession as Leon and a few chosen knights and lords greeted King Lot and led him to the throne room. The rest of the guards would be out of sight or stationed at their posts, meticulously ordered not to draw attention to themselves. The two guarding the entrance to the throne room bowed as well as he approached, one tapped the door behind them right before they straightened to grip the handles. They pushed open the sturdy carved wood and trumpets erupted as someone announced him to the room.
“Make way for His Majesty, King Arthur Pendragon!”
The room had turned to face him as he strode forward; each member of the court carefully curved away from the Pendragon red carpet that ran from the doors all the way back to the end of the long hall. Ribbons of orange licked across the floor from the setting sun streaming through the wall of windows down one side of the hall, climbing up the opposite wall like flames and bringing the decorations bearing the Pendragon crest to life, more accurate now than it had ever been under his father's rule. At the end of the room, opposite the opening doors, sat his throne, the one Uther had carefully crafted to his taste. The vibrant red cushions were outlined in a gold frame, and the chair tapered off into a wide triangular top, with the Pendragon crest carved neatly into its center. Beside the triangle rose two intricately carved pillars, swirling with a mixture of acanthus, dentils, and gadrooning to give it an elegant look. The arms morphed into leather wings attached to the shoulders of single-footed lions where the heads provided rests for the monarch’s hands and the feet made up the front feet of the chair. It was truly a sight to behold, a rather gaudy one in Arthur’s opinion, but it served its purpose as a prominent display of Camelot’s prosperity.
On a step lower to either side sat smaller, quieter seats, meant for his family members. They were less carved, using a darker wood that made them less eye catching, but were no less ornate and elegant for it, art within their own rights. He was elated to see that Morgana had rallied herself into attendance, her favorite dark purple dress drawn fetchingly up her torso and the light blue sleeves draped down her arms like banners. She still looked a little bit pale and there were remnants of the dark patches underneath her eyes, though Gwen had obviously done her best to cover them up, but her chin was held high and her body steady as she gave Arthur the curtesy his rank was due. She stood in front of the seat to the left of the throne while Agravaine, dressed in layers of black, bowed in front of the one to the right, what used to be Arthur's designated chair when he had been Prince instead of King. He approached Morgana first, accepting her hand as she held it out and giving it a perfunctory kiss.
"I'm glad you felt well enough to attend." He said sincerely, straightening and dropping her hand so that it did not appear that he lingered.
She scoffed, "Well we can hardly rely on your sense of judgement, can we? You might mistake the wolf for a hunting hound." she said, voice expertly soft enough that only Arthur and his uncle could hear, smirking as Arthur visibly resisted resorting to sticking his tongue out at her. In truth, he was relieved to hear he in much higher spirits than this morning, some of her inner fire restoked. Louder, for the court, she responded, "Of course, Your Majesty, I am most excited to be present to welcome King Lot into our kingdom."
Feeling that old childhood rivalry rear its head, Arthur giving her a responding smile that was all teeth, one he knew irritated her deeply.
As predicted, her eyes narrowed in warning as her shoulders tensed even before he had opened his mouth. "Well do tell me if you need a break, a man of King Lot's reputation can be quite exciting for those of fairer sensibilities. I wouldn't want you to swoon."
Morgana exhaled sharply through her nose, cheeks puffing out the barest amount in outrage and her eyes sparked dangerously. "Of course, Your Highness," she grit out between teeth locked in an equally sharp smile, before lowering her voice once more. "It's not every day you get to see a man of actual standing after all."
Arthur snorted, pride smarting just barely, but the familiarity of Morgana's bite was a welcome reassurance, and it was hardly the time to be caught squabbling with his sister. He turned instead to his uncle, nodding at the man as he moved to take his seat. “Uncle.”
“Your Majesty.” Aggravating returned. Both he and Morgana took their seats once Arthur had settled into his, and the rest of the court shifted into their places, excited, low murmurs crackling amongst them. A dart of beige caught the corner of his eye, and he turned slightly to see Gwen hastily shuffle away from where she had taken up residence next to a fully clad knight. Though, Arthur could not see the man's face through his helmet, it was obvious as to his identity. She smoothed down her dress nervously as she slid into the spot next to George on the wall, closer to the royals, flushing at the scathing eyebrow he raised at her.
Luckily they didn’t have long to wait before the noise cut off as trumpets sounded once again, announcing the arrival of the visitors to the throne room doors. Leon entered first as the announcer bellowed his title from the side.
“First Knight of the Camelot Company, Sir Leon!”
Leon marched three fourths of the way up the carpet before stopping to bow, a perfect 90 degree bend at the waist.
“Your Majesty,” he greeted, “I am pleased to present King Lot of Esetir to the court.”
He back out of the way, swiveling around so that he could take his place at the bottom of the steps to the throne, guarding it should the unthinkable occur. The trumpets struck up their tune one final time as the Esetir procession finally made their entrance. The dark-haired man at the front, who Arthur could only assume was King Lot, was decorated in all manner of furs, his gait swayed, confidence in every step, as his eyes swept once over the room before settling on Arthur. His lips split in a wide smile, showing off the missing upper left canine and stretching the gruesome scar that traveled from his chin to his left cheek, creating a crack in the short beard that melted into his mustache. Another scar was revealed as he opened his arms, three deep gashes twisting their way from the outside of his forearm all the way up to his arm pit. There was no mistaking the warrior he was.
Behind him strode five armed guards of varying height and bulk, though all showed the stretch of significant muscle beneath whatever cloth and fur they wore. Several of them carried axes on their backs and more wrapped their hands with cloth to increase their grip, all of them were scared in some form and seemed unimpressed by the colorful garb of the nobles at court. They looked and acted more like a band of mercenaries than a King’s procession. Instead of turning to Arthur their eyes continually wandered over the expanse of the hall, but Arthur was hesitant to decide whether it was wariness or curiousity that drove their inspection. Regardless many of them seemed less than taken by rank and authority, unmoved by the sparkling gleam of golden thread and accents; they were clearly humoring Camelot’s court by attending the introduction, merely following Lot’s lead. Coming to a stop where Leon had just been, Lot swung his arm around his stomach grandly, giving an over exaggerated bow.
“King Arthur!” He called as he rose again, “It is wonderful to finally meet you! I’ve heard so many tales of the Pendragon’s reign.” His gaze slipped to Morgana, gaining a slight leer, “And of course of the beauty of Lady Morgana.” He complimented with a bow.
Morgana’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on her chair, though she outwardly returned a strained smile and acknowledging nod. Arthur tensed his shoulders defensively, smile becoming slightly more fixed. “The same to you, King Lot. Welcome to Camelot. I trust the journey here wasn’t too stressful?”
King Lot’s gaze returned to the King, allowing Morgana to relax again, and his grin widened even more somehow, making him look a touch feral. “Not at all! Camelot’s forests are rather serene if not a little light on game.”
“It is to be expected with winter fast approaching,” Arthur assured him. “Perhaps I will have to show you the best hunting spots at a future date.” He offered, leaning forward. “In the meantime, I wanted to congratulate you on your victory. I’m hopeful that it will bring about a friendship between Camelot and Essetir that will last for years to come.”
“I’m certain it will.” Lot agreed, clapping his hands together with that same wild grin, “In fact, to show our good intentions, I have brought Camelot a potential gift of good will. I trust that it will be more than sufficient to prove ourselves uninterested in conflict with Camelot's army."
He gestured back to the doors of the throne room as Arthur's eyebrow raised in question. More heavily muscled men carried a large box covered in a black cloth to the center of the room. It took four of them to heft it, veins pushed starkly against the skin of their biceps as they gripped the handles that jutted out from the side of the object. Arthur thinned his lips at the sight of metal collars fastened around their necks, but it was not Camelot’s place to interfere with the workings of Essetir’s court.
With reluctant indifference, he pulled his gaze to the box instead. It was wider than it was tall, easily five men across and possibly one and a half in height. The black cloth draped over its sides hid the contents from sight completely, but Arthur imagined he could hear the faint sound of scraping from within. His stomach twisted in both anticipation and trepidation; there was no telling what a warlord might find as a ‘gift’ and whether Camelot’s reaction to it would color their opinion of each other. Beside him, he saw Morgana straighten as well and her sudden alertness tipped the balance of his gut firmly into dread. There was a heavy thud as the men lowered it to the ground and then shuffled away to the side, heads remaining bowed. King Lot gestured for the cloth to be removed and one of the guards who had followed him in yanked it off with a flourish, blinding them with a fluttering wall of black that pulled back to reveal a solid iron cage. The bars were tightly woven together to allow little room to escape, not that the level of security was needed to contain the large dark shape sent cowering to the floor, squinting narrow golden eyes against the harsh light as gasps rang out from the gathered crowd.
A dragon. A young one.
Cookiesncream890 on Chapter 2 Sun 07 Sep 2025 04:51PM UTC
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Soup2B on Chapter 2 Sun 07 Sep 2025 06:28PM UTC
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Zenithier on Chapter 3 Mon 15 Sep 2025 04:42AM UTC
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