A/N: So I decided, this instead of the sequel to "Refined by Fire", but I'll write that one next, after the conclusion of this.

Chapter 2: Rites of Citizenship

"Are you all right?"

It took Merlin a distant moment to realize the question was addressed to him. He lifted his gaze from the edge of the empty wooden bench opposite his at the end of the holding room and turned to see that one of the girls had approached him again.

With her robe closed. There had been a few, initially, who'd laughed and opened their only allowed garment deliberately, a few others who let it fall open slyly with a sideways glance to evaluate his reaction. Perhaps only as a joke or pastime, perhaps as a cruel way to unsettle him before his own turn, perhaps to gauge how they might expect the male they faced in the arena to respond.

He'd taken it dispassionately, noticing and analyzing their antics in a vague way. They might have gotten a different reaction, had it been a different day.

Merlin blinked at the wide brown eyes and soft blonde curls and registered concern and compassion there. Nerves, maybe, but under control.

"You're not – okay, are you?" she said. "I mean, not that any of us are okay – I'm so nervous I could spew. Except those of us who've passed already – without serious injury, that is –"

"Give it a rest, Laney," one of the few remaining girls called over the shoulder of her own robe from the circle of her companions. One of the girls who'd chosen to crop her hair short – sacrificing vanity for strategy. "He's a suicide."

Merlin closed his eyes for a moment – he's a suicide – seeing and feeling and experiencing again, this morning. Discovering Gaius cold and – gone, on his pallet. And Merlin had no time or coin to see to him properly, with dignity… the body would simply be disposed of along with the rest of the day's rubbish from the city streets. Possibly, with the rubbish from the day's doings here.

His old mentor had deserved so much better.

Merlin wondered if he'd be joining Gaius, today, among the heaps of corpses, criminals and girls too weak to earn citizenship. He thought part of him might want to; he was trying to ignore that part, without knowing if he should.

"Are you planning to give it a go, at least?" Laney asked, pulling one knee onto the bench between them. It caused the robe to gape a bit, but she seemed as unconcerned as Merlin, and all he glimpsed was an innocuous extra inch of leg. "You know, fighting back might actually make him kill you faster – though of course you don't have to worry about him playing with you the way we do…"

He didn't bother correcting her use of the singular him, to plural they.

The girls without sufficient magic – or physical strength and skill, if she was satisfied to be military the rest of her life – to kill their opponent, were considered fair game, sexually. The prisoner was allowed for once in his life, to take a woman – a girl – without repercussion. That was a disadvantage, for the girl, the fear of such public and brutal rape.

However, they went out to the arena without a stitch of clothing, leaving the robe behind. Ostensibly this was to prevent a hidden weapon, to test if the girl allowed herself the moment of weakness to conjure clothing, a moment that might decide their fight – but it also acted as a distraction to their opponent. Who might be more intent on the sex than the kill, thus affording the girl a few more moments to end the contest decisively, and ultimately in her own favor.

Merlin supposed he was glad, after all, that they'd allowed him the loincloth of the male prisoners, supposing that nudity would not factor into his success or failure, the same way. Though he hadn't gotten a robe then, either, which left his skinny limbs and bony torso vulnerable to the ridicule of the girls. He forgave them, understanding the psychological need to belittle the male in their company, today of all days. He wasn't their opponent, it was a safe way of building their own confidence.

"Have you thought about what to do?" Laney continued. Maybe using the conversation as a diversion or pastime til her name was called, and he didn't begrudge her that either; she wasn't being condescending, at least. "What you're good at conjuring? They've told us –" They being the arena mentors, if the girls' mothers could afford such a thing, and evidently Laney's mother could; us being girls – "To be careful making weapons, because they can be used against you. For instance, if you can conjure and throw a spear, you've got to be careful to dismiss it before your opponent throws it back. Same for close-combat weapons. I think, a small knife hidden in your hand –"

She broke off as another name was called, and the girl with the cropped hair moved to the arena-door at the other end of the holding room. Confidently dropping the robe. Merlin couldn't be bothered to be affected by the view.

"Though whatever you do, it should be quick," Laney reminded him. "Keep it simple. For instance, if you want a rope, don't try for a rope, all those strands braided together, just cord or twine. A sack, instead of a net, you know?"

Faintly through the pale stone of the walls, they heard the roar of a great crowd. Merlin tensed and straightened, Laney turned toward the arena-door curiously.

"Laney," the attendant read from her scroll, bored. She looked to be mid-thirties; Merlin wondered how long she'd held this post, to be so unaffected by the violent death of at least a few of her charges.

"Already?" Laney said, surprised.

The attendant shrugged. "Last girl didn't take long."

Laney rose and moved slowly forward. "At least tell us if she made it?"

The attendant smirked. "You want to know that, you got to make it to the citizen's reception room, across the way," she said, "same as the others."

Laney turned and looked over her shoulder at Merlin, and he guessed what she was thinking – they'd only see each other again if both of them survived to be granted citizenship, in that other chamber.

"Good luck," he said to her. His voice sounded husky, speaking for the first time that day. His throat was sore from the tension of holding back his tears for his oldest friend – and the only one, he'd thought, who cared if he lived or died.

"You as well," she said.

It came to him that he hadn't told her his name. "I'm Merlin," he said, standing.

"I know." Her smile was sympathetic for a fact he hadn't yet realized. "Everyone knows."

As the door closed behind Laney, the attendant sneered at him. "Everyone knows who you are today, boy," she said, making his gender an insult. "Tomorrow they'll say, what was his name again? and by next week, you'll be nothing more than a tally mark in a log book and another reason for males to accept the inevitable without wasting our time."

"The inevitable," Merlin said quietly, thinking of Gaius. The male criminals beyond that door – and some of the girls, too.

"Slavery."

The other girls remaining said nothing, watching for a moment before turning their backs.

Merlin retreated back to his seat on the bench, feeling the stone of the wall cold and rough against the bare skin of his back, staring into his palms. Laney hadn't told him anything he didn't know; he'd been conjuring since before he could even remember. It had been a shock to realize other children had toys that they didn't make themselves, and that didn't disappear the next day to make space for whatever new ones their imaginations suggested. He had pitied them several more years before realizing they pitied him for his poverty. With his mother, and Gaius, he'd never considered himself poor. Until lately…

They left Merlin til last. Maybe to keep the crowds – for the sake of curiosity or something darker – maybe to diminish his significance or dull his edge with waiting.

The arena felt overwhelmingly crowded as the attendant closed the heavy wooden door on the now-empty holding room. He glanced back to see there was no way of opening it, from this side, and stepped forward to the edge of shadow and light. He judged it would take him fifteen seconds at least to sprint across the great circular expanse, it was that wide. Though the several inches of sand that floored it would give him trouble… he noticed fresh rake-marks in several areas, covering the absorbed evidence of the girls' battles that had gone before.

His mother had never told him, how she'd won. They'd never come themselves to the spectacle of the citizen-trials, any year before now – it cost money they didn't have, and none of them were inclined to watch such an event. And he hadn't been paying attention to the other girls' tales.

Merlin was aware of the laughter and jeering from the stands rising around the arena, as he moved out; he was aware that he looked like one of the criminals.

He wondered, as his heart picked up its pace, how fast the two men he'd chosen could sprint across the arena – and which direction they'd come from. There were great wooden doors like the one he'd come through, at various intervals around the wide circle. A holding room for the prisoners, a room for the dead – he wondered if they still segregated male and female corpses. A room for bestowing citizenship on victorious girls, a room for granting pardons to victorious criminals. Before they were sent right back to the slave-block.

The uncertainty drove him to the center of the arena in a nervous jog, spinning in place in case he didn't hear which door opened to admit his opponents, over the noise of the crowd. He was suddenly glad neither his mother nor Gaius was here. He could ignore all the strangers in the stands, to deal with only two down here.

Merlin discovered that he didn't want to become a killer. Not even to gain citizenship – but to avoid dying himself?

The sun and dread warmed perspiration from his skin; he thought he was trembling. He wondered if they were delaying on purpose –

And then turned to see one of the doors, just closing.

The big one and the mean one, dressed as he in loincloths – but making a much different impression in their near-nudity, that of unmistakable and imposing strength. He wouldn't have to worry about conjured weapons turned back on him; he couldn't let it come to close combat or they'd kill him with their bare hands.

For a moment they stayed together, the big one bent slightly as if to speak to the mean one – they hadn't shaved his head, Merlin noticed, and his own scalp prickled with sweat under his shaggy black hair – and the mean one nodded.

Interesting.

Then they split to circle him, a bit – his empty hands came up, automatically defensive though their approach was oblique, their stance slightly crouched, sure and strong and exactly the same. Military training, then. Prior acquaintance? Cooperation?

Three seconds of moving too far apart for him to watch both at once comfortably, and they sprinted for him.

Attention divided was effectiveness divided. Merlin chose the mean one.

Kneeling to put his hands down on the arena floor, he conjured a cord, long and thin, snaking fast as sight, ending in a section of light hide, also beneath the sand. He kept his head up to watch the mean one's running feet – timing was everything –

His fingers closed around the cord – sand flew as it emerged taut from the sand – and he yanked with his entire body, even turning and running a few steps to tighten it as he felt the sudden weight at the other end of the line.

The mean one fell with a shout of surprise and anger, tangled and enveloped in the trap he'd conjured; half of one kicking leg only showed outside the tightened hide.

The big one slid to a stop on the sand, turning away from Merlin, turning toward his partner – in that moment more concerned with what had happened to him, than either attacking or defending against Merlin.

Hope soared in Merlin's chest. This, he could work with.

Dropping the cord, he knelt to put his hands on the sand again, and focused on stone.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Percival stood between Gwaine and every other prisoner in the waiting-cell.

Didn't matter that they were all chained to the wall at intervals with a manacle around one wrist; he crossed his arms over his chest to face backwards to his friend. Gwaine was itching to throw a punch – had been since the other prisoners found out their opponent was a male – and sooner or later, Percival knew from experience, he'd find a way.

"Easy, Patience," he said with quiet humor.

Percival himself had decided to actively ignore the abuse. Neither he nor Gwaine was the sort to commit rape, even if their opponent had been female – no one deserved that sort of pain and humiliation, even before they died. Maybe especially before they died.

The other sort of comments might have been more upsetting, if he'd let himself get drawn in – as Gwaine was still in danger of letting happen. The sort that labeled them traitor, somehow, to kill another male for their own freedom.

Never mind the percentage of other prisoners there who'd been incarcerated for murder.

He ducked and shifted to make sure Gwaine's dark eyes met his own, and no one else's over his shoulder. Gwaine glared.

"Don't," Percival said. "Save it for the arena. Start a fight in here, they'll slit your throat and yank someone else from the prison to face our kid. Breathe, and think of our pardon."

Gwaine nodded and did just that, moving restlessly in the corner – the far corner, which made Percival think somehow that they'd be going to the arena last – like a charger scenting battle.

"Think they'll send us back to the border?" he said quietly.

Percival shrugged. "Better than capital duty," he said. "Bit more freedom…"

"Who are they going to send us to, though," Gwaine interjected. Serious was rare for him – when it happened, Percival paid attention. "With our reputations, it won't be someone decent, you think." He moved his arm to tug at the manacle. "Percival, what if… say a couple of these other jackasses were facing that kid, okay?"

He grunted, agreeable to consider the what-if.

"Would you consider it a worthwhile sacrifice, for those two to die, for the first male citizen in a century?"

He didn't consider himself a fast thinker, or a deep thinker – it wasn't a requirement for someone built like him, and it was never encouraged in their gender. But it was a pastime he'd indulged in before, and Gwaine the only one he'd ever met to be completely unsurprised, finding that out.

"I think it depends on that kid," he concluded. "Someone who's a coward or a sneak or a thief, the females conclude they're right to keep the lot of us chained as brainless brutes. Someone smart, though, someone successful –"

"Provided they allow him to be successful," Gwaine muttered darkly.

"Yeah, I'd say," Percival said. "Any two of these dung-heads would be well-sacrificed to give a male citizen a go. You and me, though –" he grinned as Gwaine looked up with a sardonic smirk.

It slipped as Gwaine's gaze moved past Percival's shoulder; he finished the sentence, "Are next."

Percival swiveled, uncrossing his arms, surprised to see the last prisoner but them released to the sun-bright arena beyond the heavy wooden door. He'd been ignoring the rest of them too well, it seemed. Or maybe his thinking had taken longer than he was aware. He blew out his breath in relief, though – at least they'd made it through this stage. And at the next one, they'd be rewarded for killing someone…

"If we let him kill us, we don't even get to see what kind of citizen he becomes, if he does us proud or not," Gwaine remarked. "And if it's too obvious that we threw the fight…nah. I'll distract him for you."

Percival nodded in agreement. It meant a higher risk of some harm befalling Gwaine – though he could take it – but it also meant Percival would be the one snapping the skinny boy's neck.

Which he regretted already.

The female attendant rolled her list into a scroll and shoved it into an inner pocket of her blue uniform jacket; she fingered keys as she strode toward them, then reached to unlock Percival's wrist. "Let's go," she said, circling to do the same for Gwaine.

Percival heard Gwaine make a lighthearted joke behind him which drew no response from the woman; evidently she wasn't amused. Then again, she'd probably heard just about every lame joke a man could come up with, in this situation. He began to stretch out his muscles as he headed for the door.

The crowd was audible – raucous mocking sarcasm – while the arena was still just a bright blur. And it made him angry – if anyone was daring to cheer for the boy, they were in the overwhelmed minority.

Ignoring them also, he focused on the boy standing in the center of the sandy space, gazing about the stands as if feeling overwhelmed himself. They'd let him wear a loincloth too; Percival wasn't sure whether he was glad the youngster was allowed to maintain a last shred of dignity, or offended that he'd been made to appear a criminal also – but he turned toward them at the moment Gwaine emerged beside Percival and the door shut firmly.

"Go right, stay low – and be careful!" he said aside to Gwaine, already moving to the left.

Split up the target. That was basic training, common sense. The boy might have some ability in conjuration, after all. The desire to go down fighting, or a last-minute impulse to self-defense – at least he wasn't screaming, running, cringing with fear. Percival almost hoped –

The boy knelt, flattening his palms on the sand – but his head was up, eyes focused on Gwaine.

Something sparked Percival's instincts – he shifted from circling to attack. The boy sprang up from the ground, yanking up something that scattered sand in a long fast line – right toward Gwaine.

Who yelped over the noise of the arena.

Percival felt the impact of Gwaine's fall through his bare soles and checked himself – turning to assess Gwaine for injury, ascertain what-the-hell –

His friend was a shapeless bundle on the sand. Writhing furiously inside a… sack?

Suddenly wary, Percival turned back to the boy – who rose from a crouching position for the second time.

And a great wall of stone rose under his hands. Slanting away toward Gwaine, growing higher and higher, five feet then six – a wall of solid stone.

What the hell. Percival didn't gape – soldiers didn't gape.

Another half a second, and the boy at the origin end of the conjured wall leaned like he was pushing it.

The wall tipped. Over toward Gwaine. Still trapped – blind – inside the sack.

Percival sprinted again, his own palms outstretched. Three paces from Gwaine, he hit the wall – solid as it looked and heavier – he grunted and braced. Feet apart, one shoulder nearly touching the stone.

Joints popped. Sweat sprang out on his skin – his knees buckled –

The tilt of the wall slowed… stopped.

Percival could hardly breathe for the strain; moisture beaded and trickled down his body. His pulse roared in his ears, but beyond that he could hear Gwaine shuffling about and cursing. In memory, Percival saw and realized that the rope which had drawn the sack tight was caught under the wall.

Gwaine was not going to be able to free himself, or move out from under the stone.

Percival could not turn his head to see if the boy was coming to kill them both. He pushed at the stone – it didn't budge. He tested – carefully – yes it would fall if he let go.

Which he almost did, at a touch on the inside of his left thigh.

"Do you know what will happen," a voice said from somewhere just beyond his hip. Young, male, unfamiliar – serious and calm. "If I cut you, just here."

The touch shifted to mark a line from the front to the back of his upper leg, along the inside, tickle more than sting though Percival identified the sharp edge-and-point of a knife. He tried to think of some way he could kick, knock the blade over to Gwaine – but he was frozen in place. Even the slightest twitch could ruin balance and concentration.

"I'll bleed out," he responded in a slow rasp – and gasped in a little air to replace what he'd used.

"Probably in less than a minute," the boy agreed. "You'll weaken before you die, though, which means you'll probably have to watch your friend die first…"

And horribly.

Percival's heart pounded and sweat trickled; he dared to tilt his head slightly so it would stay out of his eyes. Gwaine, almost near enough to kick, yelled in smothered rage - demanding to be freed, to be told what was going on. Yelled for Percival.

"Surrender, and I'll dismiss the wall."

This time, Percival had very little time to think. Surrender meant lifelong slavery in service to the victor, no manumission possible. There were criminals who chose that, in the arena, but it always depended on the dubious desire of the teenage female to keep a criminal as a slave.

It was that, or death. But not just his, Gwaine's also. And if he didn't choose – spasms cramped in his arms, his lower back.

"I surrender," Percival grated out.

"They've got to hear you." The boy sounded apologetic. The wall remained, but the blade at Percival's inner thigh disappeared.

Percival licked his lips – thought twice – focused on his lungs and greater volume. "I surrender!"

It was very quiet, but for the air rasping through his throat.

Then he heard his name, shouted urgently by Gwaine inside the sack. "Wha' d'you jus'say?"

"Surrender," Percival gasped, suddenly desperate to settle this before he slipped. "Surrender, Gwaine, or you'll be – crushed to death – please… trust me –"

The boy could have killed them. He didn't want to kill them. And if Percival was any judge, he was also a better-than-average conjuror. He had neutralized two opponents, and without serious injury – so far – to any of them. He'd chosen mercy. Was lifelong slavery worth the chance of seeing what sort of citizen this boy would make? Was death preferable to him as a master?

Gwaine mumbled something that was probably, I hate you. Then lifted his own voice to enunciate through the material enveloping him, "I surrender!" A moment later, he spat an obscenity and Percival could hear him and feel the vibrations of him scrambling back.

So the boy had dismissed sack and rope first, for Gwaine to see for himself, the situation that had warranted surrender.

Was that clever of the boy, or compassionate. Both, maybe.

Percival was distracted from the question by the subsequent and immediate dissolution of the stone wall. He lurched forward in reaction, limbs momentarily beyond his control, still trying to push against a great weight. Landing on hands and knees, he let his head drop, shaking and panting.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Gwaine's legs from the knees down, move into view next to him. "You all right?"

His voice held more warning than concern, and Percival responded to it, reminded of where they were and who was watching. He rocked back to his haunches and raised his head, shaking out the trembling and ache in his arms. "I'm fine."

The arena was dead silent – ironic, since all three of them were alive and unharmed. He turned his head to look at the skinny boy, hovering near them with a faint frown and an air of incongruous apprehension. The boy noticed the knife still in his hand and released it in a dropping motion; it disappeared, and he twined long thin fingers together nervously.

"Well done, sir," Percival said quietly.

The boy flinched like he'd called him a foul name in insult, shock stark in his dark eyes.

Before any of them had a chance to say anything further, both the boy and Gwaine alerted to something behind Percival. He glanced over his shoulder, then rose and turned as a female attendant with her iron-gray hair in a short tail – and a thunderous expression – approached them.

"Come with me," she demanded.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

In the third month of summer, the air was warm enough and the sun bright enough that Gwen was glad for the cool stone and extended overhang of the arena's royal box. From her seat – stone but sumptuously padded – in the middle of the comfortably private space, she could see about half the sandy floor four levels down, and that was good enough for her.

Good enough for Lancelot, too, who lounged in the seat beside her, leaning on one elbow to hover solicitously over the tray of daintily cut fruits and cheeses between them. He was doing an admirable job distracting her from the carnage – violent, pitiful, swift, prolonged – below them, describing his home estate, his life and family, in undemanding phrases. His mother was fortunate to have three daughters, they were still underage and in tutelage, he himself was content to act as steward in the meantime.

If they all were so placid as he, she figured the three girls would have no problem employing their brother about the estate for the rest of his life.

Arthur, on the other hand… He was seated on the front ledge of the royal box next to one of the supporting pillars – the better to see the proceedings in the arena below, she assumed.

As Nimueh was doing, in the front right corner of the box, though resting more appropriately in a seat, out of earshot of the three of them to remain intent upon each match. Her secretary beside her took notes with a charcoal pencil in a slim leather-bound folio – more than one royal recommendation or sponsorship would be made for a new citizen's future, come tomorrow.

Gwen noticed that the pillar would mostly hide Arthur from the queen's casual glance – was that deliberate on his part? – but he sat sideways and participated, if nominally, in conversation with her and Lancelot. Til now, the interaction between the three of them had been lightly social. She wondered if the two lords had come to some agreement to give each other a bit more private time with her, and wondered how she felt about such a given.

"Arthur. Do you have any sisters?"

His situation was much like Lancelot's, though he acted steward of a garrison rather than a rural estate. Lords each because of their mothers' titles or rank, they had been redeemed from the military-or-slave-market choice at seventeen, their mothers paying enormous private sums to the crown for the concession. They were freedmen, in essence – their families rich and privileged, personally enjoying some few freedoms and representative authority along with their responsibilities – but still one step below a citizen, in the eyes of the law.

She just didn't know if Arthur had younger sisters who would inherit, also – and what his relationship with them might be like, if he could reasonably expect lifelong employment, or not.

Arthur shifted, turning mostly toward them – his eyes flitting back to the arena action inoffensively. "I do not, unfortunately," he said. "My mother was very disappointed, but after bearing me, she was unable to conceive again."

"You're an only child," Gwen said; she wasn't sure she knew that, before. "Who is your mother's heir, then?"

Arthur maintained his pleasant expression, shoulders and posture relaxed, unconcerned. "There's a second cousin. She's serving as a junior officer under my mother's command."

Gwen hummed in genuine interest. "Anyone I know?"

"Lady Mithian?"

"I do know her," Gwen said, surprised. "She's nice. I didn't know she was related to your family."

Arthur only smiled in response, and tilted his head slightly to watch down into the arena again.

Gwen found herself watching his profile and wondering if Mithian would choose to strengthen her inheritance by bearing a child of Lady Ygraine's blood by Arthur. It would be smart, especially if the child was female… Why was she worried about it? She shouldn't be concerned about what either of them would do, if she chose them to sire a daughter on her, or if she didn't. It should be utterly selfish, depending only on her desire and whim.

"Have you tried the plum yet?" Lancelot said, leaning forward. She admired the way his hair curled at his ear – thick, dark, soft hair – enjoyed the way he glanced up to capture her with his gaze, inhaled his carefully-crafted, deliciously-masculine scent. "They were quite good this year, the southern orchards saw plenty of rain."

It should be a completely unselfish choice. What was best for the kingdom, no matter what she thought or felt. Initiative and spirit and defiance? The current princess' father, as it turned out, had been a rapist and an executed criminal.

Either of these two would be an improvement, she mused, and oh, yeah, there was still –

"Here's the male candidate," Arthur said clearly – and his glance at them was too swift to see if it was directed to her, or to Lancelot.

They both shifted to their feet at once – she noticed Nimueh and her secretary move forward in their seats at the front corner of the box – and Lancelot courteously motioned for her to precede him, stepping down to take a position beside Arthur before he joined them at her other side. She leaned on her open palms over the low stone ledge, feeling a bit of breeze stir the gauzy ruffle at the low neckline of her cream-colored dress.

"He isn't much to look at," Lancelot commented, honest and inoffensive at once.

It was hard to tell at that distance, but Gwen was inclined to believe he was right. The boy appeared to be tall, but at seventeen he hadn't yet filled out his height with comparable muscle. Not like the two barely-clad criminals who emerged from a door in the arena wall opposite the royal box and to their left.

"Oh, I forgot there would be two," Gwen mourned – disinclined in the moment to examine that reactive sentiment – and turned away. She was content to learn the outcome from the other two, rather than witness it herself.

Arthur's body tensed, and he said, "He picked soldiers?"

Gwen cringed and didn't look. Worse than common slaves who'd broken one law or another, soldiers who were criminals were also trained killers.

Then a collective gasp went up from an arena suddenly, oddly silent. Lancelot said, in horror and disbelief, "He's going to crush them."

Gwen whirled to see – a wall. Stone wall, just like every other forming the arena and its extended complex, but this one stretched right through the middle of the open sandy area, serving to hide the three combatants from their sight at least, on this side.

And it was tilting.

She'd seen nothing like it all day – last year – she racked her memory… Ever? Weapons of every shape and size and purpose, yes. Even a few more ingenious traps or defenses. But solid stone…

The more complex a conjuration, the longer it took to form, and the more concentration and energy it required. Likewise for objects of increasing size or weight.

Stone. Wall. She was aware that her mother was on her feet. What was he –

The wall vanished, conjuration dismissed, and the three men appeared – the big one stumbling to his knees, the dark-haired one stepping to his side. The candidate making a tossing gesture. No obvious blood, but the fight did not continue.

"They surrendered to him," Lancelot said blankly – and looked at Arthur, looking back at him.

And Gwen felt immediately, thoroughly self-conscious. Intrusive, and maybe even rude, for being a female and a citizen and a noble.

Below, an attendant stepped out onto the sand, approaching the three men; the bigger criminal stood up to face her. After a moment, they followed her back to the door she'd emerged from.

Still, silence. Everyone as shocked and uncertain as she. What did this mean? A male citizen? She moved back from the ledge, expecting that every eye would turn to the royal box, once that door closed behind the three men, and it wouldn't do to show anything but proper composure. Past Lancelot beside her and the secretary beside her mother, she met Nimueh's eyes, doing the same thing. And she could not tell what the queen was thinking or feeling – maybe she simply hadn't decided yet.

"Will Your Majesty be descending to congratulate the new citizens individually?" It was Arthur's question, spoken into the privacy of the royal box, perfectly respectful.

It was more than that. It was a reminder, a provocation wrapped in a deference that could not be doubted. What, Arthur wanted to know – and why? and why draw the queen's attention personally to verbalize the issue here and now? gauge her reaction or lack of it before she had a chance to fabricate the official version? – was Nimueh going to do about that young man.

That citizen.

"I don't usually," the queen said smoothly. Honestly. "But that boy has made history, after all… Perhaps you should go down and meet him, Guinevere, and convey our appreciation of his performance. And if the lords wish to accompany you for curiosity's sake, by all means." She waved a gesture of invitation toward the door at the back of the box. "Gwen, I'll speak with you later."

Gwen kept her sigh internal. Nimueh would want to dissect every moment of her meeting with the young man, extrapolate what he was like and how Arthur and Lancelot reacted to the fact of a male citizen. At the very least, she'd want to know Gwen's opinion of him as a possible sire for her daughter and heir.

"Yes, Mother," she said.

A/N: Thank you for your enthusiastic greeting of another a/u! Reader enthusiasm feeds author inspiration, it really does. As a reward, a second-day update! (Don't get used to it, though…)

The citizenship-trials and their rules are based on the Anthony/Lackey book, as well as the outcome for the combatants.