Name: Taken By The Storm
Chapter: Ten
Summary: Three knights. Two enemy princes. One war. The consequences will affect the whole of Albion. "When all is lost, how can you hope?"
An: It's late. Again. I have an essay of excuses, most of them real, but I'm sure that's not what you're here to read, so I'll save them to my computer so that no one has to see them ever again. I'm actually leaving in a few minutes, so I might not get to reply to all your reviews from last chapter, and there might be a few mistakes, so I'll say it now; thank you – you're all fan-spiffing-tastic! Most of all, SpaghetiMonkey, who decided to guilt trip me (and quite rightly, too) into posting this. Thank you. Anyway, onto the actual story that you're all here to read. Please read and review!
The air was full of anticipation and expectation at the Pendragon table as they ate in a tense and somewhat awkward silence. Uther sat at the head as usual, with Arthur on his right and Morgana on his left as etiquette dictated. They had come at the king's request, uncertain as to why.
"So, Father," Arthur said finally, taking a sip of his wine. Almost as soon as he'd put the goblet down, his manservant came forward and refilled it. "What news for Camelot?"
"Nothing much," Uther replied, barely glancing at his son. "Just the usual. The people are still complaining about taxes, we arrested another sorcerer yesterday and our spies in Caerleon had reported nothing new thus far."
"You caught another sorcerer?" Morgana interrupted.
"Yes. Rather foolish of him trying to hide in the stables... he'll be hanged at dawn."
She bit back a gasp and instead asked coolly, "What was his crime?"
"Practising magic. One of my advisers caught him as he enchanted a broom to sweep the floor by itself."
"That's all?" Morgana said incredulously. "You would execute a man just for trying to make his work load easier?"
Uther banged a hand on the table. "Magic is evil, Morgana. It corrupts. When will you learn that? It doesn't matter how small the crime is; today he enchants the broom, tomorrow he enchants the knife. I will not have that atrocity running rampant in my city!"
"Father, Morgana," Arthur put in. "There are people present."
"Oh, so you're going to take his side," Morgana said shrilly. "I should have known. Like father like son, after all."
"Morgana, I suggest you watch your tongue before you find yourself back in the dungeons!" Uther thundered.
Neither of them paid any heed to Arthur's words, ignoring him completely as they carried on the age old argument.
"So that's your answer is it? If someone complains, lock them up? Yes, I can see that's worked brilliantly."
"I'm warning you Morgana."
"That's all right. I've got a head ache anyway." She put her knife and fork down and stood up. "If you'll excuse me."
She stalked out of the room without another word, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin as she left. Uther glared after her. Arthur swallowed nervously.
"Father, you know she doesn't mean it-" he started.
"Enough." Uther averted his eyes from the doors. "Let us speak of this no more."
"As you wish."
Silence fell. Arthur took another, longer sip of wine. He felt that he was going to need it.
"How are the knights coming along?" Uther asked as he picked up his own goblet. He let it linger on its way to his mouth as he waited for Athur's reply and the younger felt his wariness increase.
"Well enough. Some of them have shown surprising talent. I never thought that Gwaine would have done this well. And Mathew had cleaned up his sword work; he might even be able to beat Leon soon enough."
Uther chuckled.
"I doubt it. The man has a knack of getting out of impossible situations."
Arthur nodded his agreement. He watched as his father set the goblet down.
"And you? Are you doing well? You look tired."
The question was carefully phrased; too much so. This was obviously the point which Uther had been working towards, the reason why he had asked Arthur to dine with him.
"I haven't been sleeping well," Arthur replied shortly. Uther's hand twitched and a grape was squashed between his fingers, squirting juice everywhere. A servant came forwards hurriedly.
"I see. Is there a reason?"
Arthur tensed. "Not that I know of," he replied carefully. "I've been very busy."
"Have you seen Gaius?"
"No." He cleared his throat. "No, I'm afraid I haven't had the time."
"I think you should. He may be able to help."
"Yes, father," Arthur said, slightly taken back. Everyone knew that anything the King thought should be done was done. It wasn't a suggestion; it was an ill disguised order.
A pause, then, "Maybe you should see him now. No point in delaying."
"Yes sire," Arthur said, bowing slightly and standing up, his chair scraping against the stone floor.
"Yes," Uther said to himself, popping a grape into his mouth. "While you do that, I shall go and see our royal guest."
He looked up at that moment, just in time to see something flash in his son's eyes. For a moment, he stared, puzzling over what it could be. Panic? Pain?
"Yes," he repeated. "I think me and the prisoner need a little chat."
And there it was; a flash of emotion, carefully concealed, but not quite. Uther felt a jolt in his stomach. He stood up and cleared his throat. "And Arthur."
His son glanced at him with a carefully blank face.
"I forbid you to go to the dungeons. The prisoner... he is in a disturbed state of mind."
There was a small hesitation, but then Arthur bowed again, lower this time, more formal. "Yes sire," he said. "As you wish."
And then he walked out.
Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm
They were in the armoury, of course. It was where they always were. Knights had to complete a the beginner test before they even got into basic training, a gruelling program that had made grown men cry. The trained under this program for as long as was needed – sometimes months or even years – and finally, the had to face the toughest test of all to see if they made the cut, still with no guarantee of success. This was one simple challenge; beat Arthur.
Understandably, once surviving being knighted, the men formed a close knit group who not only trusted each other completely, but were also each other's best mates. They also had a small habit of loving their weapons. If they weren't training, they were preparing to train or practising drills. If they were doing that, they were polishing and caring for their equipment. The life of a knight – in times of peace – consisted of not much more apart from eating, sleeping, the tavern and the dreaded patrols.
As it was, they had just finished training and were now cleaning their weapons afterwards. The smell of sweaty men filled the room as their armour was peeled off and they shifted onto their seats more comfortably.
"Ah," sighed Gwaine loudly as he held up his sword. "If I can say one thing about the Knights of Camelot, it's that their weapons are good."
Percival looked up innocently. "And here I was thinking it was the ale," he said.
"That too, that too," Gwaine smiled.
Lancelot rolled his eyes. He was busy polishing his sword, rubbing a cloth in slow circular movements. "You know, I'm sure your supposed to reserve that look of love for your lady."
"You're one to talk, Sir Prince," Gwaine shot back good naturedly.
"Aye, maybe. But then at least I have a lady."
Leon looked over from his space by the crossbows, a mischievous glint in his yes. "Oh, I'd say that Gwaine here has a lady or two. Maybe more than is good for him."
Gwaine's eyes widened. "You saw that! You said you hadn't!"
"I'm curious now," said Lancelot. "You might as well spill the beans – or ale in your case."
"No, Leon, I forbid you to tell him."
"It seems that young Gwaine here is a regular at the Rising Sun tavern. A rather nice bartender who, as I recall, seemed to be getting on rather well with him."
"Leon!"
"While they were quite busy, another young lady entered, looking for her lover. From what I could gather, she seemed to think he might be having an affair with another woman."
A slow smile spread across Lancelot's face. "I can see where this is going."
"Indeed. Well she soon found her lover and was quite distraught as she saw what he was doing. She stormed out, and if my memory serves me well-"
Gwaine yelped. "Your knight's honour," he pleaded.
"-She shouted out for all to hear that 'if anyone else was having an affair with the liver bellied scumbag having an affair with the bar tender, they might as well step out now'."
Bedivere laughed.
"Well, quite a few people stepped out and all of them were quite upset as they realised what was going on. And I'll say it now." Leon leaned in. "Never – ever – get on the wrong side of a woman of Camelot."
Gwaine hung his head and mumbled something to his chest as the others laughed.
"Sorry, what was that Gwaine?" Lancelot asked.
"First bar fight I've ever lost," he repeated dejectedly. They laughed again.
"I wondered where those bruises came from," Bedivere called from the corner.
"And why he could sing soprano yesterday," Percival smiled.
Lancelot patted Gwaine on the shoulder. "Ah well, maybe next time you'll learn to woo a single woman at a time."
"You people have no shame," Gwaine mumbled, sheathing his sword and standing up. "I'm off to find some people who love me."
"Aye," Lancelot nodded. "When will we expect you back? It's just, I'm not sure if the curfew will still be the same in a few years- ow!" He rubbed the spot that Gwaine had just punched.
"Serves you right."
But Gwaine sat back down, content to watch as the others finished with their own weapons. After he had judged the silence went on long enough, he asked, "Anyone know when the next training is? What?"
"The same time it always is Gwaine," Lancelot said slowly. "Everyday at the eighth morning bell."
"I know that," Gwaine waved it away. "I mean when we're being trained by Her Royal Highness."
Leon frowned at him disapprovingly. As Arthur had been dining with his father, he had had to take the training instead.
"You really should stop calling him that," Lancelot commented. "It's disrespectful – especially now we're in Camelot."
"It's meant to be." Gwain scowled. "When he's earnt my respect, he'll have it."
"He led us into battle," Bedivere said from the corner, though there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. "How much more respect do you need?"
Gwaine sent him a disparaging glance.
"He led us into battle and massacred the people who he could have taken as prisoners. He killed a defenceless girl and took a boy who's barely a man prisoner and is even now torturing him. Is that a man who earns respect?"
"This is war, Gwaine," said Leon quietly.
"Aye, and who started it?"
"It's been coming for a long time, since before you were even born. It's just a blessing it's been delayed this long."
"Yes, but who started it?" Gwaine repeated stubbornly. "I've never heard a bad word about Caerleon except within these walls. And who was it who killed Balinor? Who was it who declared war?"
There was a silence.
"Uthere," Leon said grudgingly.
"Exactly, and like father, like son. Yes, I trust him to lead me in battle. Yes, I trust him to watch my back. But do I trust to him to make the right decisions, and to point out when his father's wrong? No. There is one word for what happened twenty years ago, and that's genocide. And if nobody puts a stop to it, that's exactly what's going to happen again."
"You go too far." Leon sheathed his sword, his movements strained. "You have sworn allegiance to both the rulers of this kingdom. You are speaking treason."
"And so what if I am?"
Leon tightened his hand on his sword hilt. "Then I have no other option but to tell the Prince."
Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm
"Hush, Morgana, it's all right."
Gwen patted her mistress on the back gently, rubbing in soothing circles. Morgana was clutching her as if she were a life line, sobbing into her shoulder, the tears wetting her skin.
"It's not real Morgana, it was just a nightmare. In your head, remember?"
Her mistress didn't reply and she kept whispering comfort and reassurance. Soon, the sobs began to diminish, quieting to small hiccups.
"Oh Gwen," she whispered, shaking. "You need to help me"
"Anything, my lady. You know that."
Morgana raised her head, her eyes round a fearful. "You haven't heard what I need yet."
"A sleeping draft?" Gwen proffered, hiding a nervous swallow. "Gaius can make one up quickly-"
"No Gwen, not a sleeping draft." Morgana wiped the tears from her eyes, sitting up straight and taking her servants hands in her own. "I need you to go to the dungeons."
"My lady?"
But she had stood up and was rummaging through her dresser, finally pulling out a silk handkerchief. Instead of a plain white one like the kind she usually carried, it was a pleasant pale blue. Then, rummaging once again, she withdrew a stick of kohl that she only sometimes wore, and hurriedly drew a symbol on the cloth. Gwen bit back a gasp.
"This. Give this to Prince Merlin, please Gwen. If you hurry, you can take his mid day meal – they won't let you down there otherwise."
Gwen took the handkerchief, perplexed. "But my lady-"
"Please Gwen; for me."
Gwen hesitated for a moment more. "Of course, my lady."
Taken By The Storm :: Taken By The Storm
Arthur walked down the stone steps heavily, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his brow furrowed. It was mid day and prisoners pleaded with him as he passed or screamed abuse, but he ignored them, too deep in thought to notice.
He hadn't gone to see Gaius yet. He was saving that for after this visit. Because if all went well, then the court physician wouldn't be needed after all.
He reached the first guard post and the soldiers leapt up, dropping their eyes respectfully. Arthur waved them down absent mindedly.
"Kanen, Igor," he greeted. "Make sure nobody passes this way."
The guards nodded, looking slightly confused, and Arthur moved on.
He was on his way to see Prince Merlin and that knowledge was weighing heavily on his mind. He was going against direct orders from his father, but after two weeks of sleepless nights full of pain, he had had enough. Uther was getting suspicious and he was fighting a war. He couldn't afford to go into battle sleep deprived and miserable. The time had come to confront the other man.
He reached the second guard post and saw Lancelot and Gwaine. There were only a limited number of knights who were allowed to guard this spot, and of those number, these two knights managed to wind their way down here more often than was usual. He dismissed the thought; that wasn't his problem right now.
"Sire," Lancelot said, standing and bowing as soon as he saw the prince. Gwaine didn't bother. Instead, he inclined his head just far enough to be thought respectful. Arthur felt a sliver of annoyance.
"Make sure nobody comes through," he told them. "I'm going to talk to the prisoner."
The knights swapped glances and he knew what they were thinking. Not bothering to correct them, he turned towards the long passageway that led to the cell.
"Sire," Gwaine broke in and Arthur was so surprised at the title, he stopped and turned.
"What is it Gwaine?"
"Uther's only just left, I don't think-"
"No, sometimes I'm surprised you think at all Gwaine. I'll thank you to remember your place and not to question me."
"But-"
Lancelot grabbed Gwaine's arm and shook his head forcefully. By the time they turned back to Arthur, the prince had already disappeared into the gloom.
His footsteps echoed around him, heightening the already tense atmosphere that only he could feel. Doubts flew around his head, but he pushed them back, steeling himself for what was about come. He knew it would not be pretty; he had been taught how to resist interrogation and knew all the techniques that could be used. None of them were pretty.
As he stepped into the light and saw the cell and it's occupant before him though, he realised that none of that knowledge or preparation could ever have prepared him for this.
It was the smell that hit him first; like a sold fist to his gust, it forced him back a step and brought tears to his eyes as he gasped. The musty, damp smell of old and derelict buildings mixed with decaying bodies, the metallic smell of blood, and the stench of human excrements. The source was a large puddle of urine around where the other prince lay and Arthur looked away, feeling the humiliation that Merlin must be able to feel.
When he looked back, he managed not to retch and look past the injuries and the blood, but to focus on what he had come for.
"Merlin," he said loudly. The prisoner didn't stir. For a brief moment, Arthur wondered if he was dead. Then he saw the blood still running from open wounds and the heaving of the boy's chest and realised that he was merely unconscious or deeply asleep. "Merlin!"
Maybe he should have come later. Uther had just been at work with the torturer, he should have known known that Merlin wouldn't be in a fit state to explain why he was cursing Arthur with terrible dreams each night. But no. Uther had expressly forbidden Arthur to come down here – come another time and he would be caught. And he did not want to know the consequences for that.
Seeing no other option, he leant down and reached a hand through the bars of the cell and shook the boys shoulder. Merlin flinched away with a yelp, his eyes shooting open.
Arthur sighed in relief.
"Merlin," he said cautiously, "can you hear me?"
The other prince mumbled something that he couldn't hear and he leant in. It was a chant of the same words and Arthur felt a strange emotion in his chest.
"Go 'way. Please, stop, stop, I can't take it, please!"
"Merlin," Arthur repeated. "I'm not going to hurt you." He made his voice as soothing as possible and to his surprise, it seemed to work.
"Here."
He held a flask through the bars and Merlin reached out with a shaking, frail hand and sniffed.
"Water?" he croaked.
"Yes."
It was a testament to how desperate the other prince was that he uncorked the drink and took a deep sip. In any other situation, he would have been on the guard for poison or some other trickery. Merlin's eyes cleared a little as he looked up.
"Oh," he whispered. "It's the prat."
Arthur's annoyance was quickly squashed as he realised the the boy hadn't even recognised him before then.
"I need to talk to you," he said.
"That's what they all say," Merlin croaked. He took another sip of water. "Then the pain comes..." he trailed off, his eyes clouding over.
"No!" Arthur grasped his should again and this time it was a scream, not a yelp, that came out. He let go as if he had been burned.
"See."
"I-I'm sorry," Arthur said, still horrified. Then he cleared his focus. "Why are you cursing me?"
Merlin was silent for a few moments.
"Cursing?"
"At night," Arthur prompted. "You make it so I can't sleep."
"Don't." Merlin shook his head feeble. "Can't do magic. Hurts."
"But you can! I haven't slept in a week!" Arthur could hear the desperation in his voice. He could see Merlin slipping away again, eyes looking at an object in the distance that no one but him could hear. Before he could shake the boy however, his vision blurred in a swirl of colours and he was staring at a completely different scene. He recognised it almost at once as another vision.
He was in a small cottage that looked more like a hovel, similar to those in the outlying villages. The dying embers of a fire and the moon shining through a window were the only light. In the furthest corner was a small bed on which a dark haired woman slept, clothed only in a simple night shift. He blushed, but could not look away, because Merlin was not.
They – he – was kneeling sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, rocking slowly backwards and forwards. Arthur realised that they – no, he – felt smaller than usual and realised they were now in the very depths of Merlin's childhood. Large fat tears rolled down his face, dripping off his chin and onto his knees. Every so often he would hiccup, then glance anxiously over at the woman in the corner.
Whatever had made him upset, he didn't want this woman to know about it.
Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, the rocking continued. The tears were not lessening, instead increasing with each hiccup as he tried to swallow the misery down. Arthur found himself once again confused and scared as he tried to back away but couldn't. Then his vision blurred once more and he was by the cell again, now kneeling on the floor, ears ringing as Merlin's piercing scream cut off.
"Scared," the younger mumbled. "Freak."
Arthur realised that the prince had drifted off into memory lane. Dread started to build in his stomach. Did Merlin even realise what he was doing when he forced these visions upon Arthur? Would he ever be able to stop it?
"Merlin," Arthur said in a low voice. The boy snapped back to attention and blinked. "I need you to stop that. Whatever you did just then – stop it."
"Can't," Merlin whispered. "Tried." A tear leaked out eyes, then another. All too soon he resembled the child in the vision Arthur had just seen.
"Freak," he mumbled to himself. "Hurts."
"I know it hurts!" Arthur bellowed, unable to hold it in any more. "You keep showing me!"
Merlin looked up with large blue eyes and Arthur couldn't quite bring himself to meet them, instead staring at a piece of wall behind him.
"Every night," he continued, "I see your memories. I can't sleep, I can't work, I can't focus and it hurts! Like the fiery pits of hell and by the gods, I've never felt anything like it. You have to stop it. I don't think- I'm not sure if I can go on like this."
He couldn't speak any more with those reproachful eye looking at him and he choked over his words every time he opened his mouth. Now he had stopped shouting, he could hear footsteps. His father? Maybe.
He didn't care any more. Not now. Because there had to be a way to stop this.
"Arthur?"
It wasn't his father. It was Gwaine and Lancelot, swords drawn as they came to a halt in front of him. He wondered what he must look like, on the floor, tears drying on his face as he stared at the still figure inside the cell.
"Sire, is everything all right? We heard screaming and shouting-"
"I'm fine." Arthur stood up, dropping a hand to the hilt of his sword to look more in control. He glanced at Merlin. "We were just having a chat."
Gwaine narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You weren't-"
"No." Arthur stared at them evenly in turn. "No I wasn't. Now as much as I appreciate your thoughtfulness for coming up here, I need to go."
Both knight's hesitated.
"Yes sire," Lancelot bowed, nudging Gwaine who grudgingly nodded his head.
Arthur turned to leave. "Make sure the prisoner gets some food and drink, won't you?" he tossed over his shoulder. "He looks like he needs it."
He left behind two very confused knights who swapped glances before looking at Merlin. Only now they saw the flask that Merlin clutched in his hand and they wondered just what had gone on. Then they turned down the passageway and back to their guard posts.
In their confusion, neither of them would notice the dark skinned servant girl who was at that very moment hurrying down the dungeons stairs with a tray of food and a silk handkerchief.