A/N: Warning! Dark themes involving slavery, dehumanization, magical bondage and occasional violence. Plus a lot of that lovely Author-abuses-Merlin trope. (No sex, intense swearing or intense violence though, so rating stays at T.)
Wow, that made this fic sound absolutely horrible. Anyway, proceed at your own risk.
1. At Play
Summary:
We're at the edge of the ever-moving crowd, and Foehart crouches down to meet my eyes. His words are the last thing I expect. "I've learned there is a recruit here, Arthur: a person your father needs."
It's the strangest, most peaceful-looking sight.
I know tents and lodgings. Camp fires and scavenged greens.
"Quite pretty, innit?" Foehart murmurs down to me, and I grin up at him.
It's a small little place. Squat cottages, fields of crop, pens and chimneys. Small curls of friendly smoke filter from them, musking the village with a scent strangely different than campfires. The sun shines happy on the women's covered heads, the harvested straw and merry, dirty worker men. I almost forget we have a purpose in coming here; I just see other children, playing in the dirt off the side of the common area, shouting at each other. Worn holes and last year's too-short trousers, revealing scraped knees and dirty shins. A cluster of girls slightly separate giggle, one tripping a boy that runs past after he yanks on her dirty-blond braid. Laughter.
A hard little nugget of longing settles in my gut, seeing them play.
I have to squint to see anything, of course - the day is sunny, and that's good for our purpose. Just a few evenings ago, the importance of even the weather was relayed to me. 'Talking to them,' my father explained. 'Finding out what you can.'
'Finding out what, sir?'
'Who's the rat in the sea of mice - somebody always knows. You'll see.'
And here we are. I keep watching as we approach, however, and cannot help thinking these peasants seem more comparable to busy ants than rodents."You ready?" Sir Foehart, his trusted knight, says now, tugging along the carefully-covered tumbril. I steer clear from it as we walk, unsettled by the occasional moan or faint rustling that comes muffled through the canvas. "Arthur?"
"What?" I glance up.
His face carries a half-concerned, half-amused look. "Are you all right?"
I nod absently, my mind leagues away. The mission has been retreating to the back of it more with every step we take from Camp - the forefront being the taste of simplistic freedom this little dwelling place seems to offer.
"Good," he nods back. "It's all about experience, my boy. In time, nothing here will seem appealing to you, not in the slightest."
We reach the main path; more children, more people come into view, carrying baskets and buckets and bags. More smells too, good ones like baking bread and herbs, and pungent ones like manure and body odor. The people all glance at us in curiosity, pausing a moment to greet us in passing. "Goo'day," and "Safe travels" and other niceties. I inspect their faces, noting which ones look like they mean it and which ones couldn't be more suspicious of unfamiliar faces. Foehart nods back at them all, smiling his big grin easily. Then with a tip to a nice, twiggy-looking woman, he's allowed the nook between her chicken pen and cottage to place the cart, just off the main pavilion.
"Now we find the talkers," he whispers in my ear, squeezing my shoulder lightly. I nod, completely lost on accomplishing such an endeavor. But this is nothing new for him, to say the least. Foehart scratches the red beard perched proudly on his jaw, surveying the people around us with a twinkle in his cheery green eyes. Then, when someone seems to catch his gaze, the knight winks one down at me before walking into the masses.
I follow him close, weaving through the legs and wheelbarrows of the grown-ups. 'Townsfolk, the most basic of our race,' my father's said of them. In a tone I'd know anywhere; he uses it on the obstinate recruits, the daring women, the over-playful children. On me, like when I once swam deeper into the river, ignoring Yilgrid's cries about the current. A tone that left me dripping and staring at my feet an hour later, paralyzed more by the dismissive, amused inflection of his voice than any tone of anger could ever manage.
I don't notice what Foehart's doing, or who he's talking to. It's boring exchanges, on weather and crops and raiders. "Weather's been good, all good, for rather a ten year," one man says dismissively, and immediately moves on. "Crop's been good, raiders happy abou' that," a witheringly old woman supplies. They talk of a recurring name, spoken of in mutters; Kanen, his name often accompanied by an oath and spitting at the ground. Other than that, no freakish droughts or miracle storms or diseased crops or special fields that seem to do better than any other are reported.
As the sun treks higher into the sky Foehart starts looking frustrated, though without fail he still slowly patterns the subject in a way that inevitably leads to our goal, our reason for being here. On the subject of unnatural occurrences—sudden deaths of livestock, miraculous recoveries, strange births. Unnatural occurrences village gossips would be sure to blather about.
None are forthcoming.
My eyes wander eventually, dragged across the bustling life around me almost unwittingly, by colors and aromas and sounds. I see a group of boys near a hog's pen; they're kicking a bladder back and forth, dirty and grinning and yelling in hoarse, excited voices. With a glance up at Foehart's distracted state, I draw nearer, watching.
It appears to be a primitive game of back and forth; one dribbles the bladder ahead, the rest chasing for a chance to capture it. None of them look older than my thirteen years, though a few might be taller. One of them's good too—too good for the other boys. He keeps stealing it and bouncing it in the air with his knees, out of their reach. I observe for a while, till I am sure I understand. Then, when a kick draws them nearer to me, I plunge into the mass.
None of them notice the intruder at first. It's not till I kick the ball out of the best boy's grasp, three captures later, that they all halt and stare. Bright, wide eyes meet mine, a skinny boyish face looking at me curiously. "Who're you?" the best boy asks, pushing back a filthy mop of dark hair. I give him my best smile.
"Better than you," I say simply, and he narrows his eyes to slits, rushing at me with a challenging smirk.
It's a fun game, if a never-ending one. I have possession, than someone kicks it out of reach and gets possession. Run, repeat. Twice I get kicked in the shins, once thrown in the dirt. The best tactic, I quickly learn, is to stay ahead of the crowded mass of average boys at any cost, who all end up running back and forth for the ball but never touching it. Once I achieve that, the game's an exhausting, yet soothing matter of ebb and flow.
I've stolen the bladder yet again, the fourth time in the past ten minutes, when I hear a familiar voice.
"ARTHUR."
Foehart stares crossly as I look up, and the ball is swiftly kicked away the second I do by the best boy, who laughs in triumph. The rest follow.
"Sorry sir," I breathe, fighting for enough air. He shakes his head at me, grabs me by the collar and tows me away.
I silently pray for a scolding, a beating, anything but the promise to report to my father. The stern look on Foehart gives little away; I can't tell his verdict. But my head is spiraling on a dizzying path of excuses, lies, and pleas while he tows me along, intent on never letting my father hear how I succumbed to such childish impulses - and with commoners, no less.
We reach the edge of the ever-moving crowd, and Foehart crouches down to meet my eyes. His words are the last thing I expect. "I've learned there is a recruit here, Arthur: a person your father needs." He glances up around us, like someone might be listening, before continuing, "This last woman, she mentioned her daughter getting lost with a boy in a cavern. When the girl fell he tended to her wound - but not by any mundane means. A story, but one that can quickly be . . . verified, if we can. I need your help to find where he lives."
I nod quickly, unsure what I can do. This is our mission—my first mission, to confirm the location of a new recruit. Not to chase a bladder around with a pack of dirty peasants. "Hunith's boy, that's what they called him," Foehart explains quietly, "and I need you to find him for me, get this boy to come back to the cart. Ask him if he can help the sick woman we've brought."
I glance in the direction of the cart, unsettled at the thought of lifting its cover.
"Why? Isn't she almost dead?"
"Yes." Foehart says no more, just claps me on the back and leaves. No directions, no advice. This is the time to prove myself; I know. But still I stare after him as he returns to the crowd, dumbstruck, a sickening cluster of worry clumping in my stomach.
Worry that I'll fail.
A/N: Don't worry, Arthur! 'Hunith's boy' is the one who should worry . . .
MY next project! This first chapter is actually quite long compared to many that will follow, but they will all follow at very specific times. I've written most of this story out, and I'll be posting a chapter every other day at the same time, starting: NOW. All feedback welcomed and appreciated!
Recruit Reader Reflection: What's with the woman in that covered cart? Why are Foehart and Arthur really here? Will 'Hunith's Boy' be willing to help?
