Title: Fire It Up
Author: hobnailedboots
Fandom: BBC Merlin
Pairing(s): Merlin/Arthur, if you squint. Gwen/Lancelot (again, squinting is probably required).
Rating: T-ish.
Summary: This is a short story about an execution, and what happens afterwards, especially with regard to that whole destiny thing. Told through multiple outsider POVs, and set around the first couple of episodes of season 3. For Author's Notes, see end of story.
Fire it Up
it honestly was beautifully done
like trying to hide the daylight from the sun
even if we had been sure enough it's true we really didn't know
even if we knew which way to head but still we probably wouldn't go
-Fire it Up, Modest Mouse
"It's dry work, but somebody has to do it," his father used to joke. "No, really: the wood has to be dry, or you'll find yourself experiencing the wrath of the king. No one wants to see a witch or warlock get half-burned to death."
With stunning punchlines like that, Gwyn was almost surprised when, on his thirteenth name day, he was handed an axe rather than motley.
Gwyn didn't know much about much. Mostly, he knew how to set up a successful execution. He knew how to dry the wood, season it, strip the bark, tie it into bundles. There were three ways to burn a man or a woman or a child, though one was hardly used any more, as it involved swinging ladders, pits of fire, and a whole lot of work. Generally the only choice a burner had to make was whether the crowd would be able to see the person's face or whether they'd be surrounded by timber – in Camelot, this choice was made for them, and so the condemned were burned from the feet upwards.
His father always told him that as long as there were peasants with something to hate, they wouldn't go out of a job. Yes, there were simple beheadings, and hangings, but there was something satisfying about watching blisters form. There was something satisfying about their screams.
For the peasants, of course. Gwyn never stayed around for the burnings now. When he was little he was able to sit on his father's shoulders at the back of the crowd, and he still had vague memories of the flames leaping into the air like horses, causing him to laugh and shout. Yes, the smell was unpleasant, but the sight itself was spectacular. He remembered patterns, not people: the skin charred like so; the hair lit up first, burning bright and quick, giving the person the appearance of a very large and noisy candle; the jelly of the eyes trickled down like jam over a knife. Later, when he could understand Uther's words, when he could focus on their faces and hear what the condemned shrieked, he'd started to lose his taste for the burnings.
Gwyn was born with a bony ridge down his left forearm. It looked like burrs on a tree, and was slightly darker than the rest of his skin. His father called it his 'edge', and often made mention of it when he was in a mood: 'oh, Gwyn has a bit of an edge today' or 'have a drink, it'll take the edge off'. He'd had it for as long as he could remember, and every time the king began to talk about 'conspiring to use magic' and 'pursuant to the laws of Camelot', he ran his thumb along the edge and thought about punishing someone for the way in which they were born.
Then, of course, he grew old enough to take them to the pyres themselves, to tie them up. He watched their terrified eyes, he saw them piss themselves. Gwyn didn't know much about much, but he knew that when he died he was going to burn too.
One thing he did know, though, was that the pyre he was building then would not be lit the next day. Surely the prince would not allow his manservant to be burned?
As Gaius said, Sir Olwen was as blind as a weevil.
He had been feeling his way around the Upper Town when a man dressed Prince Arthur down for the ill-treatment of his manservant, and the next day he'd been attempting to buy some tomatoes when the two became embroiled in a fight.
Even those who were not blind didn't see the relationship as being a fruitful one.
Nevertheless, in the next couple of days it had been confirmed that Merlin was Arthur's new manservant, and in the weeks after that Merlin had solved a plague on the water by discovering an Avanc, declared himself a warlock in order to halt his friend's execution, and nearly caused a war with Mercia.
Sir Olwen was a lonely member of the nobility. His family had been killed in the same bandit attack that had nearly robbed him of his sight completely. Partly because of his solitude, and partly because of a basic sort of defiance against his condition, he liked to walk the grounds of Camelot. He was often to be found bumbling around the fields in the mornings, listening to the birds and, on occasion, stooping down to feel the petals of the flowers. The archers, when training, had to be careful to avoid him: Olwen had a routine and he stuck to it no matter the adversity.
Olwen took his daily walk, then, regardless of the obstacles in his path, though he did try and stay close to the verges of the woods in order to cause as little trouble as possible. It was on one of these walks that he had heard the prince and the servant talking of Merlin's village friend, Will. It seemed that Will had been a warlock and, far from railing against the fact as Sir Olwen had expected, Arthur seemed to be sympathising with Merlin's late companion.
Olwen had walked on quickly, not wanting to hear any more. Hearing the peasants mutter about Uther's draconian policies was one thing, but to listen to the heir to the throne describing the Camelot of the future – an Arthurian Camelot – was too much to credit. Prince Arthur uttering the very words that had been rolling around Sir Olwen's dark skull ever since the women in the forest had saved him and healed his burns, that magic in itself was not necessarily evil, made him feel like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and he had absolutely no idea what was coming next.
Of course, Morgana's disappearance had come next, and everyone began to roam the forests then, calling her name and readying for all-out war with Cenred. In just a short year, though, the king's ward was back among them, a new sharpness in her tongue and a slyness in her speech that had not been there before. It was not long after the king recovered from his madness that Merlin was revealed.
Bor had been a knight for over twenty years. He'd been battle-scarred and sword-callused when Arthur was not even conceived of, let alone conceived. He'd been a dutiful sort of knight – more a competent guard than anything else. Knights were supposed to be noble, to subscribe to higher ideals, but that became hard when you swore your loyalty to a man. Men had flaws and petty grudges, and when you were bound to a man no matter how noble their status your conscience would eventually be dragged through the mud.
Through it all, Bor had been dutiful. He had executed raids. He had slaughtered starving Mercians. And he had watched Arthur grow up. At first Bor had been detached: Arthur was a precious heir, the only heir, bundled away from the world by fussing governesses and plump nursemaids. Then, however, Arthur had begun training. He was terrible, at first: most five-year-olds are when handed a mace. Luckily, he'd learned quickly, and no one had lost a limb.
But in Arthur Bor saw what he'd never truly seen in himself, or in Uther: a desire to do better coupled with the will to make it so. Everyone wants to be a good man, Bor knew, but circumstances intervened.
Bor remembered pledging his fealty to Uther, the night before the Battle of Camelot. At that time the entire party had thought they were going to change the world for the better, that they were the first generation of a new race of man.
There were no guards at this event: everyone knew how easy they were to thwart. Bor stood tall beside the pyre, holding back the crowds, at the moment, with nothing more than a stern glare. Bor thought of good intentions, and he thought of circumstances. He wondered absently whether everyone was, when they died, a good man defeated.
Bor sighed and squinted up at the sun. It was almost time.
Lavirna threw an apple at the wall.
"That'll take ages to come off."
"Great!" she fumed, rounding on the unlucky under-cook who had been unfortunate enough to venture an opinion. "Send down the hopefuls and whoever clears it best'll 'ave the bleeding job!"
Lavirna saw the other cooks shy away. Even Tom, the meat carver, backed off. She took a breath and placed the fruit bowl on the worktop. Everything in the kitchens reminded her of Merlin: the fruit, which she'd pressed him to keep for himself when he came round begging for a night-time snack for Prince Arthur; the wine, which he'd shared with her on a rare occasion when he was free of chores for the night.
And every Beltane, every Beltane, she'd received a vase of flowers. Merlin had said they were from Arthur as a thankyou for their service, but she'd doubted it. Now the flowers were gone along with Merlin's company. Lavirna would have to organise the celebration banquets, of course, and prepare the duck roast to present to Morgana in praise of her valiant, noble act of turning Merlin in to the king.
The one benefit of preparing an execution banquet was that she didn't have to be around for the killing itself. There were all sorts of rumours floating around the servants, but one thing was clear – King Uther had declared it, after all. Although it was Morgana who had discovered Merlin's deception – with more than a little suggestion that it was Merlin behind Uther's illness – in order to present some sort of symmetry it was to be Prince Arthur who walked Merlin to his doom.
Lavirna wanted to cry, but she settled for hitting the worktop with a meat mallet.
The guard was quite stupid. But then what else is a man supposed to do, if he has brawn but no cunning, strength but no brain?
The guard stared straight ahead from his position outside the cell, and listened to the breathing of the man lying behind him on the hay. In time, just on time, footsteps came down the stairs.
"You're a bloody idiot, Merlin."
The guard shuffled to his right, still staring straight ahead. First rule of being a guard: you may listen but to all intents and purposes you will not remember.
"Well, at least you knew that from the start."
Rustles as the man behind him sat up. Arthur made it to the bottom of the stairs and grasped a bar with his right hand.
"I'm being serious," he said. The guard shuffled to the right again, ostensibly to give them more space, but in reality so he could look at them both. He attempted a quarter-turn, and whilst it wasn't as smooth as in drill, it did the job; he could now see them both, the prince desperate and uncomprehending, and the wizard servant perched on a mountain of hay, relaxed.
"Well I'm about to die, and I'd prefer it if I wasn't insulted before my cremation."
Prince Arthur threw his hands in the air and took a step backwards.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"How do you think I knew about the Avanc, the griffin, Edwin?" Merlin stood, the manacles making it rather hard to maintain his balance. "Who do you think sent the light when you saved me with the Morteus flower? Arthur, I thought you knew."
"Sire," Arthur said.
"Now, that's more like the sort of treatment I was expecting on my deathday."
Arthur turned to the guard. "The keys, please." Dutifully, the guard handed them over, before standing straight again.
"Perhaps I was wilfully blind," Arthur said. Only his shaking hands selecting the key to the bars between them set this occasion apart from any other conversation between prince and manservant.
"I didn't do the mandrake, with Uther."
"I know," said Arthur, finally slotting the key in the lock.
"You have to listen, Arthur. I know you don't believe me now, but it was Morgana. Her dreams and her time with Morgause – because that's what she's spent this last year doing – have blinded her to reason. She sees you as supporting Uther's rules. She will try and seize the throne for herself. I don't know if a united Albion can be achieved without me, but you must try."
"No, Merlin, I –"
"The dragon – Arthur, you are the once and future king," said Merlin, as Arthur opened the door.
The guard tensed, fingers seizing on his sword-belt. He knew his duty.
"Is that why you befriended me? Destiny?"
"No: that's why I worked for you. I befriended you," Merlin said, lowering his voice, "because you changed."
Arthur was around a foot from Merlin, and the guard noticed only then that Merlin was one or two inches taller than the prince. Arthur froze for a moment, and Merlin held his gaze.
"Come on, clotpole," said Arthur, slinging an arm round Merlin's shoulder and propelling him out of the cell. "It's time to get this show on the road."
"A yard of ale, if you please."
"'If yew puh-leez', eh? Has your venture to the city given you notions, Gwaine?"
"It's given me notions that a yard of ale should be a lot cheaper here than it is," the man called Gwaine said, flicking his hair out of his eyes and shooting a smile at the barman.
"Don't you try that with me, all right? I'm not a simple barmaid."
"No one is immune," Gwaine murmured and, true enough, the barman didn't ask for cash payment straight away, claiming that he'd claim his debt at close of business.
"You reckon we could charm a drink like that?"
"I think I probably could, but then again I'm far too recognisable."
"So am I, now," said Merlin, taking a seat at the edge of the bar. "Everyone's looking for the gangly wizard with the sticky-out ears."
"You know, Merlin, that's been puzzling me for some time," Arthur began. He paused to push Merlin off his stool, and began to guide him back out again. "Looks like you are rather recognisable," he muttered, jerking his head back to where two bulky men sat, watching them with interest. "Walk quickly."
Gwaine raised his eyebrows and slid off his seat. "See you next week," he said lightly and, before the barman could respond in anger, he'd caught up with the departing pair.
"I have you at a disadvantage," he said as they reached their horses. "You're Merlin. You're Arthur."
Arthur drew his sword, but Merlin just stood dumbly, apparently defenceless.
"I've heard all about the bounty, but he doesn't sound like he's been enchanted," gestured Gwaine, pointing at Arthur, "and you don't look like a power-hungry maniac. Princes – even hunted ones – are rich, and I need some source of funds. I'm good with a sword, and but for the code would have been a knight by now. What do you say?"
The two looked at each other, and then back at Gwaine.
"Besides," he added, "anyone who can escape a crowded execution and incapacitate the Lady Morgana in the process deserves my respect and my services, at least until I'm next thirsty."
"Prove yourself tonight and you're in," said Arthur.
"What's been puzzling you, then?" asked Merlin, mounting his horse and pointing to a readily thievable one for Gwaine.
"If you're so magically talented, why haven't you sorted out, you know –?" Arthur nodded to Merlin's general appearance – scruffy, unshaven, covered in dirt but with the neckerchief that the messengers had warned for – and scoffed in disdain.
"You wouldn't have me any other way," said Merlin and, for a second, Arthur smiled.
Uther had always been told to read the writing on the wall. It had been the instrument of his revolution, meetings arranged by scratchings in wattle and daub, by ink on canvas or by carvings in trees. Now, however, it appeared on the roof of his cell, great spidering letters tracing the ceiling.
He shuddered and looked through the bars, but there was just a solitary guard, staring straight ahead and doing nothing, idly reading the script dancing across the bricks in front of him. Uther didn't ever pay much attention to the faces of the staff, but Gaius, who was one cell along, would have sworn that he saw a smile begin to spread across the guard's face, which was all but obscured by shadow.
Gwen should have been asleep when it happened. The frost on her window screeched into life, forming the words she'd never dared to hope to read.
Lancelot saw the shadow words trudging along the canvas of his tent, and began to smile. Damn the code.
Bor couldn't read, but the words rang in his head like a war cry. The knights that were awake sat upright and began to plan; those who were asleep would soon join them.
Lavirna's feast was wasted on the courtiers, so her and the kitchen staff had been enjoying it themselves. The kitchens were the true fortress of Camelot, isolated from the main castle by six solid feet of stone. When the voice began to speak, though, everyone within heard it.
Morgana was having another nightmare when her people were taken from her. Yes, Morgause and Cenred were making their way over, but by midday everyone, even the king she had imprisoned as Arthur and Merlin had made their escape, would be gone.
"So the dragon never said Albion had to be created in Camelot, did he?"
Lancelot had to restrain a laugh. He felt giddy: perhaps it was riding amongst equals once more; or perhaps it was feeling Gwen's eyes on him again; but, right at that moment, as the hooves of his steed pushed him closer and closer to Cenred's kingdom, it was probably the fact that Arthur was talking about the Great Dragon like it was the court physician and not a giant talking reptile.
"The dragon rarely said anything that made any sense," said Merlin, riding to Arthur's left, on Lancelot's right. Merlin was looking straight ahead as he rode – he'd made this journey more than anyone else – but he reached out to the horse's neck as he spoke, clapping it on the flank affectionately. "But he never said that Camelot couldn't be moved by a couple of days' ride."
Gwen's laugh rang out behind them, and Lancelot steered his horse to the left to allow her to join the front line. Though it was quite a large crowd, of twenty or so, making the initial trek, they hadn't had enough horses to bring everyone at once, so some were walking and some were waiting for horses to be brought back by the knights. Lancelot was still a little fuzzy on the details – it had been a busy night and a fast ride to Camelot – but one thing was clear: they must avoid Cenred and Morgause at all costs.
Lancelot ducked his head to avoid a branch, and Gwen laughed again. "I think I remember these woods," she said. "We're almost back in Ealdor."
Author's Notes: I enjoyed writing this, but it's unlike anything I've written before, so I'm not sure how it comes off. The 'damn the code' is a reference to the Knight's Code in the canon, but the phrase itself was nicked from POTC. Some aspects of the fic itself could be seen to be inspired by the ending to Black Pearl, but that wasn't my intention when I wrote it. I'd appreciate your feedback.
I have an epilogue of sorts (which is mainly concerned with tying up Uther's situation, from two POVs you've already seen here) but am not sure whether I should leave it to stand alone. I'd love any opinion you might wish to share.