2. Hunith's Boy
Summary:
Merlin takes a hesitant step forward, pity replacing disgust. "I've never seen anything like this," he whispers, mouth hardly moving.
I go back to the group of boys, find them off the main path chewing on grass.
"Where's Hunith's boy?" I ask bluntly, eyeing their surprised faces.
That one boy, the filthy-haired but good-at-ball kid, looks at me hard. "Why do you care where he is?"
The other boys snicker and the filthy boy glares, sufficiently shutting them up. "I need . . . his help," I say, feeling my face heat. The boy squints at me, stands and pulls the green blade out of his mouth. Finally he nods, beckoning me with a finger as he walks past. Relieved, I follow.
"Name's . . . Will," he tells me, and I nod.
"Arthur."
"Nice." Now that we're out of sight of the other boys, next to a rather lop-sided shed, he stops. His hands slam into my chest, pushing me against a wooden wall. Which creaks dangerously. "What do you want with Merlin anyhow?" His mouth is set, hard, bony hands pinching into me. For a boy no older than 12 years, he's surprisingly intimidating.
I don't struggle. "My mum's sick and dying," I say quietly, and it has the desired effect; Will releases me like I'm the sick one.
"Oh." The boy looks down, scratches awkwardly at his dirt-encrusted hair. Then he squints at me. "How do you know he could help?"
"Can he?" I reply, raising an eyebrow.
"Depends on what needs helping," he smirks, but his eyes are sizing me up still.
"Please. I've heard - well, there isn't much hope, anyway."
Will's mouth twists to the side. " Guess I'll show you to him," he finally allows, though his eyes still look suspicious at me. "Probably with . . . his mum, I'd reckon."
Will pulls me along by the wrist, weaving through houses and pens and barns. The town is small, no larger than the inner ring of Camp. Just a clearing in the eyes of kings and lords. Soon the buildings change, turn from bright cottages to squat huts. The common path turns bumpy; the stink of people lessens. Fewer villagers bustle around, the occasional person to lift their heads as we pass usually a woman feeding skinny animals or peeling roots. I follow Will's back, noticing how his filthy hair fits in right well around here.
He stops when we reach a small little place, moving on to the back after he peeks inside. No one's home save a flustered chicken, squawking at us till Will walks around. To find another kid almost filthy as him.
The second village boy is sitting on a barrel behind the house, stooping over something in his hands. All I can see is the long brown hair of his bowed head, looking up when he notices our presence.
"Who's this kid, Merlin?" The boy stands and says, though his mean glare at me seems to mean he's judged me for himself already.
"Wait - I thought your name was Will?"
The second boy guffawed. "You sure did a number on this poor fellow!" He slapped the first boy, not-Will-but-maybe-Merlin, on the back with pride. Then his cheery expression immediately flattens into a sneer as he puts himself in between me and the other boy. "Merlin only brings people to me if they're in need of a beating, do you hear?"
I glance back at maybe-Merlin in disbelief, but the dark-haired boy has his head down, sitting working on whatever this angry, shorter one had been earlier. "Maybe he's a sore loser," I make up on the spot, shrugging. "I beat him about 10 times at that ball game."
The brown-haired boy merely snorts. "No chance. He's the best of the bunch, he is. Too fast for everyone."
"Not for me," I shrug again, smirking.
His eyes narrow. "Maybe I will give you a good pounding, beat the shite out of you about 10 times in exchange."
"Go ahead and try," I drawl back with my arms crossed, though both fists are clenched.
"Wait."
The voice of Merlin, or at least who I assume is Merlin now, stops us both from the swings we are about to deliver.
He puts down the things in his hands, and it takes me a second to realize he's been sewing. "All right."
Merlin stares at me, expectantly, and I stare dumbly back.
"Sorry?"
He sighs in impatience. "All right, I'll help you. While you and Will have been yapping off empty threats at one another -"
" - Oi! I was one second away abouts from - "
" - I've decided. So . . . ?" He gestures at me to continue, ignoring Will's face of disbelief.
"Oh! I'm Arthur," I jab a thumb at my chest. "My . . . mum's, she's not doing so well. I was passing through, with my father, and heard you could. Umm. Help us."
His eyes intimidate me for some reason, hindering my speech into garbled phrases.
"How?" Merlin asks. I swallow.
You're not supposed to say it. You really aren't. My father says 'recruits' and 'their forces' and the 'weapon,' substitutes for words I've heard only murmured.
Sorcerors. Spells.
Magic.
Merlin stands up then; he's looking at my face closely, noticing my discomfort."You all right?"
"He's gonna sick all over," Will grins, and I scowl.
"Bet it'd improve your smell," I shoot back, and his eyes narrow to slits.
Hunith's boy laughs.
"You've a bad job of making friends, don't you?" he guesses, and I shake my head.
Wrong. I never try making them.
"Just worried about my mum is all," I say instead.
Merlin cocks his head a bit, eyes growing concerned. "Is she really that sick?"
Well no, she's dead, but that would put a gaping hole in my tale. So I just nod. And apparently it's enough; he nods back, putting the bone needle and cloth down on the barrel. "Well . . . my mum taught me about some things. Maybe I can take a look, then ask her about it," Merlin shrugs. But his brow is drawn, and he looks about as nervous as I feel. "Lead the way."
We head back to the center of town, Will wandering off to the other boys again after giving me a pointed glare, and I look around for the fiery-colored head of Foehart. The path is full; townsfolk exchanging chickens and grain, candles and cloth. Merlin keeps bumping into me when I pause. I roll my eyes at his apologetic grin, sternly dismissing the boy in my head as a buffoon.
"So why are you here?" he asks conversationally, and I try to keep a scowl off my face. More lies.
"We don't . . . really have a village, a place to settle," I try to answer truthfully, not meeting his eyes. I can still feel him look at me with sympathy, and it makes my skin crawl. "It's better, I think," I add quickly, hoping to erase that pity, "moving, finding new adventures, not sitting around sewing all day."
It works. The boy huffs, crossing his arms. "What then? Do you just walk around the Four Kingdoms with holes in your trousers?"
"No," I answer reproachfully. I give them to Yilgrid, or one of the women at the camp, I want to say. "I have my mum do it."
"Wager she can't stitch your holes now," Merlin warns, "what-with being sick and all." I glare at him, and he gives an easy grin back. So I hit him.
"OW."
And the boy looks at me like I've broke his arm or something.
"Arthur, who is this?" Foeharts voice interrupts from behind us, and I turn quickly to meet his gaze. It looks surprised, but intrigued.
"Merlin, son of Hunith," Merlin says for me, nodding with a polite smile.
"I told him how Mum's sick," I add in quickly, and Foehart's eyebrows rise for just a fraction of a second. Then it evens, his expression almost sorrowful.
"My wife has been worse and worse, with each passing sun," he says smoothly, shaking his head down toward his feet.
Merlin looks at both of us, brow furrowing. "Can I see her?" he asks quietly, and I nod. Foehart gestures over toward the covered tumbril, and Merlin follows. I can hardly look once we've approached it. When Foehart raises the cover.
The woman lies covered in lumps, purple-y and rotting-looking. Her eyes are slitted half-closed, the whites of them showing better described as gray. She looks overall more creature than human, twisted and curled in on herself in a limp, unnatural way. Blond hair matted and filthy, her person carrying a stench enough to turn any grown man's stomach. Merlin immediately takes a step back, and another when she lets out a weak cough. It sounds like she's gurgling water.
But surprisingly, appall leaves his eyes a second later. Merlin takes a hesitant step forward again, pity replacing disgust. "I've never seen anything like this," he whispers, mouth hardly moving.
Foehart parries me a hard glance before answering. "It seems as if none have. The best healer we could find told us no medicinal treatment will work. My dear Yilgrid, they say she's been . . . cursed."
I stiffen at the use of his young bride's name, who gave me a wan smile and a peck on the cheek just before we rolled the cart and its contents on our merry way. She will be waiting, maybe with fig pies, maybe with arms to wrap and comfort.
I don't want to do this anymore.
"If there is any possible way, if you know of someone who could even attempt," Foehart says, acting tired and hopeless, and I find myself disturbed at how easily the lies roll off his tongue. The way his voice breaks on the word 'attempt,' as if unable to hold back his emotion. In a way I likely will be expected to master, no matter how every dishonesty has always cut at my conscience like a knife.
Merlin glances behind us, at the unassuming movement of bodies and animals. Then he gusts out a stuttering breath and nods before approaching the dying thing, closer than I would dare dream. His hand reaches out, surprisingly steady, and I glance at Foehart in horror as Merlin places it on her bumpy forehead.
But Foehart is watching the boy, hard.
I almost miss Merlin's eyes flash, his mouth muttering what almost sounds like a prayer—if it wasn't in some guttural, earthy language, that is. I've heard it before, heard many times my father's recruits and the thick words that curl from their mouths like living things. And terror is always quick to follow, for whoever Father deems the enemy.
The split-second gold warns of great works about to be wrought—but always great works of destruction, of affliction. So when I see his eyes, fading back now to their original blue, I wait in thinly-veiled fear for what is to come.
The woman gasps, opens her eyes.
A/N: And says "my HERO, gimme a kiss!" Foehart is a man with a plan, up next, and Arthur is in for more than he can probably handle. Poor thing (though I'm taking a wild guess you'll all sympathize more for Merlin, haha). Comments, thoughts, feedback and whatever else are all warmly welcomed!
catherine10: Sorry to disappoint, though I hope its made clear in this chapter that Merlin is a lot more naive and trusting at this age, and Sir Foehart truly is a convincing actor. Thanks for reviewing and sharing your thoughts, I look forward to any that you have to share after this chapter!
Just A Reviewer: Your review made me laugh so hard, let me tell you. I'm glad the story seems promising so far, I hope it continues to be! Your taking the time to review was really appreciated and I hope you enjoyed this new chapter.
P.S. For the few of you still reading at this point, does anybody know trouble-shooting for getting a Cover Image to stick? The picture keeps disappearing after a while even though I save it and can see it on the fic itself time and time again. Morgana on a throne is not the right one, its my author image. GAH! So frustrating.
