Author's Note: Nice long chapter for you all here, which I hope you all like. Of course, I won't know that you like it...unless you review, please. If you come and read I'd appreciate one review on whatever may be your favorite chapter. But just to let y'all know, this is Merlin's first appearance. :) I own nothing but that which you do not recognized. This chapter takes place during Season One, Episode One, The Dragon's Call. Enjoy!
The Prince and His Jester
The month passed without much event in the kingdom, but that a commoner had been caught practicing magic and was scheduled for execution at the end of the month. Abigail watched from her tower the monstrosity the people made of the poor man, whose name was apparently Thomas James Collins, shouting swears at him and hissing curses as he trailed to the executioner's stand. Squeamish as a little girl, she covered her eyes in horror as the executioner raised his axe, and choked down a gasp as she heard it come crashing down. Following the killing, a cry erupted from the crowd.
It was an old woman, the mother of the fallen sorcerer, disgracing Camelot and claiming vengeance upon King Uther–upon his son. Upon Arthur. In a whirl of dust, the hag disappeared, revealing the origin of dead Thomas's magic.
Abigail could take no more. She fled to the square, covering herself in the most peasanty shawls she could gather, in search of her brother. Frantically she bustled through the throngs of civilians, all gathered about in laughter and misery, cheering and crying with the day's events. Finally she found Arthur, entertaining a group of his friends and brandishing his armor like the prat she knew he was.
"Arthur," said she breathlessly, removing the shawls from her head. "Arthur, I need to talk to you."
"You shan't address your prince as such," retorted one of his cronies, obviously dull enough not to recognize the princess when he saw her, and moved as if to strike her with the back of his hand. Arthur stopped him, snatching his wrist.
"Yes, what is it, Abigail?" he asked impatiently, sheathing his sword once more. She pulled him away from his band, toward a secluded edge of the square.
"Arthur, he can't keep on with this. Father. He's making himself ever so many enemies of the witches and warlocks in Camelot. It's dangerous. He's going to get himself killed, or–or you killed, and..." She paused, drawing breath again. "...and it's just... not right. The way he treats these poor people, as if they could help being born the way they are." Arthur watched his sister for signs of frailty, ensuring she wouldn't faint or swoon, as silly young women do, and chuckled lightly. Her frown deepened. "What on Earth is there to laugh about?"
"Abigail, I wouldn't expect you to know the customs of the court. Father, of course, has his reasons for banning magic from Camelot. And so what if he makes himself a few enemies? It's not as if he hasn't evaded them before. It's better to keep the fools down than allow them to run rampant about the city, causing mayhem and chaos wherever they tread. They're freaks, every last one of them. Don't you remember that it was magic that killed our mother?" She huffed and drew away from him. "Abby, you're being silly. You'll figure it out someday."
"I'm not a child anymore, Arthur! I'm twenty years old, just the same as you. I suggest you stop playing the fool as much as I play the woman. I'm as important as you, you'll see," she added in a mutter, throwing her shawls up again and sidestepping his jeering compeers, in a hasty decision to see Gaius again.
As she made her way up to the castle, the stone upon her neck burned again, but she ignored it, chalking up the pain to her inner anger, and Arthur's stupidity. She ran up the spiral staircase and beat Gaius' knocker thrice against the door, before he opened it, looking slightly askew, his hair ruffled and clothes crooked. Immediately Abby blushed, and took a step back.
"Is now a bad time?" she stammered, redirecting her eyes to her feet.
"No, no," said Gaius tiredly. "Come in, come in. I was just having a...chat with the son of an old friend." He opened the door wider, uncloaking the rest of his chamber. A few things were out of place, noted Abby. His bed, which had been on the opposite side of the room, had been thrust under the balcony, whose posts were now broken. Many of the books in the room had been scattered across the floor, and the chair in which she traditionally sat was occupied by a boy, near her and Arthur's age.
Even sitting, it was evident that he was tall. His skin was a light, porcelain-esque color, and smooth with youth. His hair, a dark, thick cloud upon his head, cloaked two large and prominent ears, which she thought seemed to suit him. His eyes were a soft cerulean, and as he began to smile, his teeth radiated a bright white, rather unusual for those of their region. He wore a tunic matching his eyes and a brilliant red scarf, which bounced slightly as he stood to greet her.
"Er, Abby, this is Merlin. Merlin, may I present Princ–"
"Abigail," she corrected quickly, taking a step closer. Her chest seemed to sear, but she noticed it not, as Merlin's smile grew just slightly. "Just Abigail. Pleased to meet you, Merlin."
"The pleasure's all mine...Abigail," he replied, with a bit of a bow, his grin shining dutifully for her. She stared at him a moment, smiling stupidly, then shook herself out of her reverie, turning to face Gaius once more.
"Gaius, may I ask how you encountered our dear friend...Merlin?" she inquired slowly, suppressing a slight laugh. His name felt odd rolling from her tongue–not bad, certainly not bad, but odd. It wasn't like many other names she'd heard before; then again, she hadn't heard many names, not having been outside the castle much. Gaius shot her a warning gaze before turning his attention again to the young man Merlin.
"I'm taking the young Merlin under my wing, dear, an apprenticeship, if you will. You'll be seeing much more of him about the castle, I believe, in the next few months." His smile settled, warmed, and then dissipated again into seriousness. "So I'm afraid that for the first time, Abigail, I'll have to ask as politely as I can for you to exit my premises. I'm sure you are needed elsewhere in the castle, particularly by...your father. Or...your brother." His smile returned yet again. Abigail learned quickly that it was quite time to curtsy, bow her head just a bit, and hesitantly shuffle backwards with a half-smile.
The last she caught as she left the room was a soft, "G-good meeting you, Abigail," from a voice rather like the young man Merlin's.
As Abby made her way through the corridors back toward the entrance hall, Guinevere, the kind young maid who tended mainly to Uther's ward Morgana, bustled past with her arms entirely full of washed laundry to dry. Seeing Abby, she began to say hello, but fumbled with her load, sending a few sopping heaps onto the floor.
"Oh, dear," said Abigail, bending down to pick up some of the dresses. "Are you alright? This is an awful lot of laundry to be carrying at once, dear." She didn't mean for it to be scolding, but Guinevere curtsied bashfully, stepping backward.
"My apologies, milady," she stammered, collecting the lot that Abigail hadn't yet reached. "I must be sure to wash them again, your majesty, twice as well as the last. To please Lady Morgana, of course." Abigail let loose a slight laugh, appearing perhaps a bit more airy, a bit lighter than her usual self, which was often set brooding, silent, full of angst and darkness. To see her today, as happy as she seemed, was an oddity. Guinevere was nonplussed as the princess collected just about half of the laundry.
"I shall escort you, Gwen–you don't mind being called Gwen, correct?" The serving girl shook her head quickly, proceeding alongside her lady. "So. Gwen. Are there many...nice...boys around the...around where you live?" Gwen glanced nervously at her, shifting the laundry between her arms.
"Milady, are you feeling quite alright? I can have Gaius called, if you need, or Desdemona, or Prince Arthur, or your father–"
"No, no, Gwen, I'm absolutely fine. Thank you. Just trying to make some conversation with my serving maid, you seem like just a lovely young lady, of course. So. A boy you have your eye on then?" In the next moment, Gwen's lovely exotic skin turned a certain shade of raspberry in her cheeks. "Aha," said Abby slowly, as if she'd made some grand discovery that could change the future of the kingdom, "So there is a boy."
"It's not–no, Your Majesty, only friends. Sorry to disappoint." It seemed very quick to Abby the time that they spent together going to Morgana's chambers. "Thanks very much, Your Highness, it's been...a pleasure." She curtsied.
"The pleasure is all mine, Gwen," replied Abigail, piling the laundry into its proper place, and gave a curtsy back. "Enjoy your day then."
"Princess," came a lilting, soothing voice from behind Morgana's shade, and there was the ward herself, as tall, beautiful, and graceful as ever. She collected her skirts, falling into a formal curtsy. "To what lovely occasion do I owe your visit, milady?"
"Simply assisting our friend Guinevere, Lady Morgana. Anyway. I must be off. It is late, and Father wishes I join him for the...celebrations tomorrow." Her voice faltered in the pause, and when it returned, it was weaker.
"I see," said Morgana almost sympathetically, then patted Abigail's shoulder, sending her on her way, back to her chambers for the night .
Abby dreaded every execution, no matter how evil the sorcery performed had to be. Some of the subjects screamed when they saw someone being beheaded, or hanged, or worst of all, burned at the stake. The hardest part, and at times the most interesting, the most sadistically fascinating, was the victim's face, just before they died. Many of those to be beheaded, or hanged, bore the look of resigned triumph, as if they'd tricked Camelot in some way, tricked Uther Pendragon himself, and now were prepared for death, assuming their comeuppance soon. But those who died on the stake, witches and warlocks burned for only the acts of highest treason, their faces were the most frightening, for they died with agony and suffering, and fear and pain, and disgust with what they'd seen their lives become. And to where their lives were going.
She hated to think of it, but she disagreed with her father on the the question of wizardry. There could be good and bad wizards, she believed, hoping that the good sorcerers outweighed the bad ones, and that the good triumphed against evil, but her father wouldn't have it, he never did. He was convinced that it was magic that had killed Ygraine, their mother, but many women died in childbirth, it wasn't uncommon. Not saying that she didn't mind her mother dead–who wouldn't mind?–but that was just it, she was dead. And there was nothing she could do about it. She was dead and she would be dead until Abigail died, and then long after.
"Father," she said softly, upon reaching him, and took his arm when offered. "Is it true? That Lady Helen is coming to Camelot?" He nodded, a gentle smile on his face.
"Yes, my dear, it is. It will be a grand treat for us all, I hope, especially for you and your brother. How hard the two of you have been working recently, he in his training and you in your...studies." Though he loved his daughter, Uther knew not the real point of her endless indoor work. What did she have to study but the history of Camelot, of Camelot's customs? (Keeping in mind that both Arthur and Abigail had been taught Camelot backwards and forwards since they were old enough to study.)
She nodded simply, the faint traces of a smile rising to her lips.
"Thank you, Father. I have made it my priority to consider all of our country's political customs. I will become a master delegate. To please you, of course." She shifted slightly and straightened her back, holding her head high. Uther forced a smile, patting his daughter's back.
"A master delegate, you say," he repeated, clearing his throat, then stood a little taller himself. "My dear, I'm led to believe that the career of a master delegate is the position held only by a man. How do you suppose, as a very young lady, to become a master delegate in today's world?" A small smirk rose to her face, and she looked her father in the eye, ignoring the festivities about her celebrating the kingdom's eighteenth year clean of magic.
"Father, I fear you underestimate my skills. Arthur has studied Camelot's political customs too, he knows them well, yet I must believe I know them better. If Arthur can be taken seriously by foreign diplomats, like so many of the princes and kings he's dealt with already, so may I. You cannot deny it, Father, they too have claimed that they find me...charming." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "I don't see why I wouldn't be a fitting politician, Father. I daresay I know our ways, our laws better than half the council."
"Then you will know why I cannot allow such foolishness, Abigail," he chided, taking her hand and maintaining the joyous face for the festivities. "I'm afraid I have no other choice. Legislation will take a very long time to pass a woman's law anyway, perhaps you will have more luck when your brother is king." Abigail was forced to bite her tongue time and again. The disappointment was always swallowed, but hardly accepted. This had to change soon, she believed. Had to.
She parted with her father to cross the market on her own, against his wishes, of course, as a woman was rarely ill-protected in Camelot's square. Least of all the elusive princess, second in line for Camelot's throne. Yet there she was alone, exploring all the vendors, purchasing the small things, little pendants with tiny carved dragons in them and a few tiny vials with liquid in the prettiest colors, sealed tight as never to be opened. Perhaps she'd have these as presents for the servants in the castle, as well as the rest of them, she supposed. A dainty bracelet for Morgana, a pin with the family crest for her father, and a sheath decoration for Arthur. A leather-bound book for Gaius, a pair of modest little brooches for each Desdemona and Guinevere, and...a royal red neckerchief for the new servant Merlin. She shoved her fineries into her bag, keeping them all out of sight.
As she passed the pillory, Abigail experienced a slight pain in her neck, something unpleasant but not quite disturbing. She noticed the fool of the day grinning a bright grin, teeth twinkling under distinct cheekbones and lovely blue eyes. She smiled herself and proceeded up the stairs on the small stage, standing at a fair distance from the line of fire of the villagers' rotten vegetables. Merlin met her gaze, letting his hands go limp in the pillory holes.
"Hullo, Abigail," he greeted her, giving a little wave.
"Good to see you again, Merlin," she returned, chuckling slightly. "May I ask what you've done to land yourself here?" He tried to shrug, managing the same goodnatured smile as before.
"Well, I noticed that a certain fellow was mistreating a few of his friends, tried to tell the prat off, then found out he was actually the prince of Camelot. Must have been fate, then, I suppose." Abigail's smile faltered just in the slightest, before it returned in full. Of course Arthur was being a prat. He always took advantage of that poor boy Dudley, making him the aim in target practice, cracking jokes at his expense (jokes that weren't that funny, by the way), and having him do all his work for him. Dudley had suffered enough stress over the years. It was right time that somebody finally told Arthur off.
"That sounds accurate for the prince, actually." Abigail scratched her head, giving him a genuine smile, beyond the courteous, bashful princess smiles that she gave her father and the court. "How much longer have you got in the pillory?" she asked casually, running a hand through her hair and crossing one foot over the other in what she hoped to be a friendly pose. She didn't really know, the happenings of the marketplace weren't quite her forte.
He wagged his head slightly from side to side, thinking on it. "Perhaps another few moments or minutes or so. Or at least until the villagers run out of rotten food. They said the guard would let me out when I'm...allowed out." The same goodnatured grin refused to leave his face, as he waved gently at a few passing children, who continued to throw their tomatoes at him, laughing richly. "They all have a load of fun with it, look at them."
"Oi!" said one of the guards, advancing onto the platform. Abigail pulled her hood back up over her head, ducking her head down quickly. The guard took no notice of her, but threw off the top of the device, freeing Merlin's head and hands "Off with you. Now." Abby noticed Merlin's immediate reaction to hug the guard, but backed away equally immediately, sparing the guard another friendly wave.
"You could use a wash," chuckled Abby, picking a piece of cabbage out of Merlin's hair. He looked up at the food in her hand, as if he had never seen it before.
"Oh. Yes, I...probably ought to. Get back to Gaius' chambers, that is. Will I see you again?" he asked almost too quickly, taking her hand and sending a light chill up her spine, a light and pleasant chill to contrast the somehow equally light and pleasant burning sensation radiating from the hand he'd touched all the way up to her mouth. Abby had no other choice or instinct but to smile and bite her lip timidly at his invitation.
"Yes. I think you will." I hope you will, she thought, as they parted ways once more.