11. To Submit
Summary: Finally my father lets go, releasing Merlin with a jerk. "I see no remorse in his eyes, but I see an opportunity." He looks at us all under his eyebrows, adding, "A weapon."
Usually Muirden is the one to orchestrate these in the Ascetir camp. The recruits—more than 300 in total, their numbers spreading well across my father's lands of conquest though most are currently at the front lines—are not often more than unassuming townsfolk, perhaps minor lord-sons and ladies at most, formerly of Camelot or the land about. No one to be missed, in these parts. They commonly carry little in way of power, or will, and easily bend to Muirden's conditioning.
Merlin is already different.
He kneels just inside the Council tent, and I can tell just upon walking in how he has changed since Morgana carded him past me. His skin is no longer pale; it's still sickly, but now with a blushing fever, perspiration peppering his forehead and catching in the candlelight. He's no longer limp, but shaking, like he's caught a chill. Though most of all, his eyes are now bright with coherency, shifting to look around himself with a loathing as heavy as the shackles weighing down his wrists.
The knights have shuffled in slowly, circling around him, and Uther is already standing there staring down at him. Merlin doesn't shrink under his gaze; his chin lifts, defiant and proud. I want to shake him, shake off that look. The look that could very possibly get him killed.
Nimueh slinks in then, not far off—she's smiling at me, hugging the corner of the tent in shadow. I ignore her as my father begins to speak. Ignore the prickling of my neck as he addresses all of us who stand around. "Sir Foehart and his trainee have brought this to us," he says, nodding at Merlin, "and I find myself ready to pass judgment."
He clears his throat. "This peasant has both undone the Lady's spell and fatally wounded one of my knights. Actions of mutiny . . . and yet, actions of interest. For murder I would sentence death, but as of yet Sir Foehart's heart beats on." My father moves forward, and Merlin flinches as the man's rough hands grabs his jaw and pulls up. The boy's face is bared, twisted and livid under the warlord's scrutiny. The warlord stares back coldly.
Finally my father lets go, releasing Merlin with a jerk. "I see no remorse in his eyes. But I do see an opportunity." He looks at us all under his eyebrows, adding, "A weapon."
"Was it not Sir Foehart's mission to seek out the rumors, to learn if this great sorcerer the Lady dreams of existed? Not to bring some peasant boy, with unlikely ability, back to wreak havoc."
The voice is that of Sir Oswald, an older knight, who stares sternly down at Merlin.
"Yes," Uther says gravely, "and for reasons he did not tell nor is capable of explaining now, Sir Foehart decided supplementary action. We can only guess as to his reasons, though perhaps he believed what I believe now." The crowd waits, anticipating as my father approaches Merlin once again. "And now I speak directly to you, boy," he says in a low voice, "and it's in your best interest you pay close attention."
He grabs the boy's bony shoulder and a fistful of dark hair with both hands, craning Merlin's head to look at him. The boy grunts in slight protest, pain contorting his features.
"You will be put to death," the warlord breathes out harshly, and I see Merlin's spine stiffen just as mine does the same, "you will drown or burn or hang."
"Unless." He shoves Merlin away, his back hitting the ground, "Unless you do two things. The first, being that you submit to my will. But the second, that you heal Sir Foehart, just as you healed the woman they brought to you. Then you will have your life."
My father looks grim with satisfaction, watching as Merlin struggles to get off his back without the help of any hands. We all wait in silence, dread settling in my stomach as the boy finally rights himself. The defiant fire hasn't died in his eyes.
"Well, boy," Uther almost drawls, smirking down at him.
Merlin glares back. Then he spits out one word.
"No."
A chorus of voices splits open the silence—
"The boy says 'No,' Lord Uther, proof already that—"
"—It is a brash answer, nothing more, surely it doesn't wish—"
"—Treachery against you! To scorn such mercy—"
"—No doubt now, if there ever was, a nuisance—"
"—Gods' grace, my lord, perhaps a minute of reflection—"
"—He has decided his fate, there is no question now!—"
The shouting escalates until my ears are buzzing with the sound. It immediately trails off, however, when Nimueh leaves her corner, walking through the midst of them. All of the knights part widely and quiet one by one to let her pass, as she moves slowly to where Merlin kneels.
Uther is staring stonily at Merlin up till then. Now his eyes flicker to his recruit. "Nimueh," he says slowly, though it's more than a greeting. It's an affirmation.
Nimueh nods, no longer smiling, and stands over Merlin somberly. Who takes one look at her and immediately hunches his back, as if expecting a blow. I watch in numb horror as the Lady points widespread palms over the air above him, her mouth beginning to chant. The strange words sound more ominous than ever, foreboding in the low tone they're uttered.
". . . bānwærc ac hreðerbealo ac dreogan, nefne mara feorhbealu, feorhbealu, feorhbealu . . ."
Her still-blue-for-now eyes move to mine, however, and there's something like a request in them.
I understand.
"My lord!"
I edge out of the crowd, interrupting an almost grateful-looking Nimueh who stops her words immediately. Merlin doesn't chance a glance up, but I see his head lift just a fraction.
The warlord is stone. "Soldier."
"With your permission, my lord, I—would you allow me a moment?" I jerk my head in Merlin's direction, and my father raises an eyebrow. "With the, uhh . . . possible recruit, I mean. I believe I can talk some sense into him. He's a bit well . . . slow, in the head, sir."
My father's other eyebrow joins the first. "Is that correct?"
"My lord he is just a simple peasant at heart," Nimueh slides in sweetly, going so far as to ruffle Merlin's unkempt hair. The boy flinches at the contact. "And he's known dear young Arthur, though briefly, the longest of anyone. Perhaps it'd be in everyone's best interest to . . . "
She cocks her head at the door, but there's no need. My father is already nodding, however stiffly, and the knights grumpily file out of the tent. Most look disappointed, a few relieved.
My father grabs my shoulder as he passes, muttering, "I expect you to make this worth my time."
The unspoken or else seems to be implied anyway as he lets go and leaves, followed last by Nimueh. She winks, before closing the tent flap shut. We're alone, me and Merlin.
I am to convince him to spare his life—not his old life, but the lowly, subservient, enslaved one to come. There is no denying that is what awaits him, what he cannot escape from alive. I don't know what there is to offer—if there is anything to offer—but as I watch his still form silently, I know I have to at least try to save him from himself.
Even if in a way he's already saving himself, from us.
A ball of nerves has worked its way up my throat as I approach, Merlin still in the same, hunched over position as he was before. Nothing but his breathing fills the silence, bated and heavy. Hesitantly I kneel next to him and wait, reminded of when he was retching the night before, when I thought to place a hand of comfort on the small of his back.
I do so now.
"Merlin?"
A/N: Thank you for your comments, I'm glad everyone is enjoying how this is playing out. Up next is Arthur trying to persuade Merlin to . . . be a slave? Tell me how you think that is going to play out!
catherine10: Aww, thanks! I hope this chapter didn't disappoint. Thank you for reviewing, it means a lot!