A/N: I don't even know where this came from. I just felt like writing something messed up and dark, and this is the result.
Warnings: Slavery, Domestic Abuse, Extreme Violence, Dub-Con, Torture, Murder, BDSM (I think). This fic is VERY dark, so don't read if you don't like that sort of thing.
King
There is only one king in Camelot. He sits on the throne in the great hall, surrounded by the trembling, quivering wrecks that used to be called courtiers. But their sparkle and pomp has long since faded. Now, they are treated worse than the horses in the king's stalls, and valued much less.
Their attention never wavers from their one and only king, as he declares laws to make Camelot a better place. By the king's feet always sits his slave boy, collar firmly fixed around his once strong neck.
Small metal spikes point inwards and every now and then the king jerks on the leash he holds in his hand. It chokes the boy, but the king always soothes it away with a stroke to his hair. The boy's eyes are haunted and hooded, and yet he looks at the king with puppy-like devotion.
None of the courtier's remark upon the strangeness of the looks, though; to do so would mean certain death.
Once a week, the traitors are brought in. The low-life's who have dared to disobey the new king and his regime, who want the old Camelot under Uther back. The king shows them no mercy. Oh, at first they think that they will be spared… the king's voice is soft as he questions them, his ears understanding and his smile genuine.
They honestly believe him when he says that they will be spared, that he understands them, that they are his subjects and he will protect them. Every single one is killed.
The king has an ally in the court. No one knows anything about her except two solid facts; her name is Morganna and she is a witch. Everyone is afraid of her dark green, bottomless eyes with their steely glint. Of the way her hips sway seductively when she walks and the way she looks over her shoulder at the men who stare at her. Her tumbling black hair curling down her back in waves.
There are rumours that she can kill with a single look from her eyes, that she once slew an entire army with just a sweet smile from her ruby lips. Some say it was she who first turned the king away from the goodness, from the light.
They say that she whispered dark promises into his ear, and that he listened. Without her, he would not be king and he knows it. After him, she is the most powerful person in court; she is the High Sorceress of Camelot and a Priestess of the Old Religion.
Nobody gets too close to her and nobody gets in her way.
Those who walk the corridors of the castle at night – and there are not many, for it is no longer safe – often hear the king playing with his slave boy. They hear how the boy moans and begs and ruts for more while the king laughs cruelly above him. They hear the cruel lash of the whip, the mingled screams of pain and pleasure. And they tiptoe quietly on, for they know better than to disturb the king and his toy. The next morning, a servant girl – the same every time – goes in to clean up the boy.
Some mornings he is roughly bound to the bed, sometimes not. His body is always painted in gruesome crimson stripes though, looking almost as though they were arranged in that manner. Bruises are pressed deeply into his hips, bites nipped into his chest and blood runs down the back of his thighs.
The girl often has tears in her eyes as she cleans off his wounds, but he never even flinches. They never speak, except for one morning. The boy looks at her in the eye for the first time, and speaks to her.
"He loves me. He does." His voice is hoarse and raw and broken, and it's all she can do not to run from him. Instead, she nods.
"I know. We all know." The next day, a new girl comes in to clean the slave; the old one never comes back.
Many of the neighbouring kingdoms hate the new king; they plot against him, to overthrow him and take his place. But they never succeed. For those courts are quickly subdued by the king's deadly army. It marches endlessly, stretching miles behind, kicking up dust to show the enemy they are coming.
Most courts surrender without a fight. Those that do not are slaughtered. Every noble born man, woman and child is cut down to clear the way for the king.
And thus, Albion is united, just as the dragon said it would be.
A feast is thrown one night, to celebrate the acquisition of a new kingdom, several miles from Camelot. The captured royalty are forced into the room, and made to kneel in front of the king and the witch. The courtiers know that their screams as they are tortured and then killed will echo in their minds for months to come.
That night, the king drinks more wine than he normally would, and if a courtier passed the king's chamber later on, he would hear the slave boy scream louder than usual.
The king and the slave boy curl up on the bed together, arms and legs tangled up loosely. The king holds his toy's hand in a rare gesture of intimacy, and he leans to kiss the slave. Normally when they kiss, it is rough, fast, painful; teeth clash and lips are bitten until they bleed.
Not this kiss, though. This kiss is soft and gentle. Their tongues stroke each other languidly, neither of them fighting for control. The boy sighs into the kiss, cupping his master's jaw in his hand and trying to deepen it. For once, he is allowed to get his own way. They stay like that for who knows how long, touching, caressing and holding. When the king finally pulls away, he looks at the slave boy tenderly.
"I love you, Arthur," he whispers, before casting more of the dark magic that now courses through his veins.
There is only one king in Camelot, and his name is Merlin.