The sand and pebbled rocks were sun-warm under his bare feet as he traversed the quiet shoreline. A snow-capped mountain loomed beautiful and imposing above the crystal lake, and the woods behind the shore were full of cheerful birdsong. The azure sky was spattered with fluffy white clouds which whirled and shifted in the gentle breeze. He was sure that if he reached high enough, he could grab those cotton-spun clouds, feel their softness under his palm before they dissipated back to water droplets to sprinkle the earth, to make their way back to the lake, and then once more into the sky for him to pull down and hold against his chest again. The air around him was clean and fresh, with just enough chill to make simple breathing invigorate his entire body with renewed energy. His mind was as clear as the lake, as happy as the birdsong, and as warm as the sand. He stooped to splash his face with the cold water. As the water rained from his face, he caught sight of a man up the shoreline, stumbling from the woods. The sun glinted off his black hair and fair skin, his earth-toned garments hung loose enough around his frame to hide his bones, but not the assumed slenderness of his figure. He too made his way to the lake, splashing the earth's life force onto himself until the droplets clung to his dark lashes like tears. He reminded him of a bathing raven. He called to him, the wind carrying his quiet voice to the dark-haired man so as to not disturb the tranquility of the place around them. The man startled and froze him with eyes as blue as the sky and as deep as the lake.

"How did you get here?" the man asked, his face darkening.

He laughed, reaching for a pebble to skid across the lake's surface, rippling the otherwise calm waters. "This is my escape," he said. "My home away from home. I have never seen you here before."

"This is my escape too," the raven boy said. "I have never seen you here either."

"Then perhaps we should come together more often," he said. The raven boy gave him a funny look and he handed him a stone to throw. "What is your name?"

"My name?" the raven boy asked, as though he were surprised a stranger would want to know him by name. He placed the stone back on the shore with its brothers.

He laughed good-naturedly, skipping another stone across the water. "Yes, your name. If you don't have one I shall have to make one up for you. I could call you Alfred, or Edward. Noble names for a nobleman such as yourself."

The man frowned. "I am not a nobleman," he said.

"Well you look a nobleman, and that is all that really matters to them anyways."

The laugh that he earned made him pleased. "Or perhaps your name is Morrigan, for you look like a raven to me."

"Or perhaps my name is Merlin, and you should call me thus."

"And I am Arthur," he said and smiled. He handed Merlin another stone before taking one for himself. The sun was descending beneath the horizon, casting the mountain and lake in brilliant golden light and throwing the woods into shadow. Arthur threw the rock and it skipped, once, twice, thrice, before it gave itself up to the waters.

Merlin frowned at him. He did that a lot. Arthur liked him better when he laughed. "Why must you disturb the lake? What purpose does throwing stones at her achieve but sore arms and a smaller shore?"

"This is our cycle, the lake and I. I give her the only thing I can; I give her pebbles and rocks and in return, she gives them back. Maybe one day she will give me back an oyster with a beautiful pearl inside, so that I may give her that as well. Maybe she'll give me two so I can share one with you. She's generous like that."

Merlin stared at him, and then at the rock in his hand, the one which Arthur had given him. He sighed. "You are a strange man, Arthur, with even stranger ideas. What makes you think you know the Earth?"

"She is my oldest friend," Arthur admitted. "She has always been there when I needed her; to feed and clothe me, to hold and comfort me. She knows me better than anyone, and I am still learning from her."

"She is my oldest friend too," Merlin said quietly. He carefully threw the stone, and it landed with a 'plop' to sink heavily beneath the ripples it created.

Arthur smiled at him. "Perhaps that is why we found each other here. We are alike."

Merlin looked thoughtfully at him. "Perhaps we shall see if that is true. For now, I must go. It is almost time for waking."

"Goodbye then, Merlin Morrigan. Until we meet again."

The birdsong filtering through the thin tent walls woke Arthur from his slumber. He breathed the air in deeply and stretched his muscles, effectively waking his body up to start the day. A part of him was already awake, and Arthur stared glumly at his full cock, Emrys' words from the night before echoing in his ear and rattling around in his head. You will not touch yourself. Arthur snorted to himself. If that man thought he was able to order Arthur against a human's basest nature, he was in for disappointment. Arthur listened to the activity outside the tent, making sure he wasn't likely to be disturbed, before gleefully thrusting a hand down his trousers. He palmed himself readily and bit back a moan at the touch on his feverish member. He shivered with the need for immediate release, and wasting no time, he pumped himself mercilessly until he spilled his seed in his hand. He was breathing heavily but had managed not to make a noise so as to alert someone to him. Once calmed, he stashed himself away and glanced around for something with which to wipe his hand, but to no avail. Sighing, Arthur licked his palm and fingers clean, scrunching his nose up in distaste. It wasn't as though he'd never tasted his release before - he was sure all boys had been to curious to resist the action in adolescence - and he really didn't mind the bitter, slightly saltiness of semen, but the predicament of being forced to lick it up to remove evidence of his nature to avoid surely some form of punishment reminded him of his own prepubescent and teenage years; hiding the pillow covers within his wardrobe with the soiled nightshirts until he was able to take care of the mess himself, lest one of the laundry maids see the stains and laugh. Arthur hated being laughed at.

The tent flap rustled, announcing the arrival of Freya. She sniffed the air, wrinkling her petite nose like a rabbit while taking in the stink of sweat and sex that permeated the atmosphere of the tent, before rolling her eyes.

"Emrys was kind enough to take the enchantment from your eyes early this morning. He's gone to see the Great Dragon again. You're to work with William today, preparing meals."

That sounded almost fun, and it was once more something Arthur was fully accustomed to. He would often aid the knights charged with meal preparation while they were away from Camelot. The monotonous ritual of chopping and stirring was soothing after a skirmish and he looked forward to the mindless task. He hoped would be able to prove to Will that not all royals sat on their thrones all day. He was more than willing to work for his bread, or in this case, make it himself.

He nodded his consent to Freya, not that he had any real control of the situation, and followed her out. There was a small group gathered around the large table in the center of camp, washing vegetables, curing meats, and chatting. Their conversation ceased when they caught sight of Arthur but he ignored the silence and walked straight towards Will.

"What would you like me to do?" He asked.

Will seemed amused by his eagerness to help, his eyebrow raising and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "There are potatoes and carrots needing to be peeled. Start with those."

As Arthur steadily worked through a pile of washed vegetables and starch, the conversations around him slowly crept back in, decidedly leaving him out of them. Arthur didn't mind; it's not like he had much to say on matters of gossip even among his own knights, but he always listened. The most prudent information was usually given among comfort, although Arthur wasn't sure what he was hoping to hear. William periodically checked up on his work, sending him none-too-subtle glances at his decreasing load before giving him more to do, making sure Arthur's hands were never idle. When there were no more carrots to peel and slice, and the potatoes were cooking in the large pot over the fire, William took him aside.

"Hunith is going to show you how to make dough. She's a gentle lass, so if I hear you've been rough with her… let's just say it'll be the last bit of bread you ever see, ta?"

Arthur tried not to roll his eyes at the empty threat, nodding his head slowly instead. The gesture seemed good enough for Will, as he indicated Arthur should follow him. He led him to a large, open tent, inside which were rows of benches and wooden tables. Several druids were congregated, sprinkling the tables with flour and kneading the dough with practiced ease. One man simply twirled his fingers, his eyes flashing a dull gold, and the dough separated into three even sections before it began braiding itself. Arthur almost gasped at the blatant display of magic, but knowing any outburst would be unwelcome, he kept the surprise to himself. He wondered how many of those in the camp had magical abilities, aside from Freya, Mordred, and Emrys.

A middle-aged woman waved at them, her face breaking into a light smile. "Good morning, William. I see you've brought me an extra set of hands."

"Yes, ma'am. And you know to call me Will."

"And you know not to call me ma'am," she replied, causing Will to laugh. She turned her attention to Arthur. "Now, what's your name, dear?"

"I'm Arthur, ma'am," he said.

"Oh, please. Call me Hunith," she said.

Arthur looked her in the face and was startled by the calmness he saw. He had no doubt this woman had known who he was, but she chose to extend a branch of kindness to him anyway. The variance of dispositions he was met with truly was confusing, and Arthur was surprised he was met with any form of kindness at all. He was a Pendragon, after all, and these people were druids. It should be in their blood to hate him for his father's sins, as it should be in his to hate them for his father. Yet when he looked at Hunith, he couldn't help the image of his mother from invading his mind's eye. Although he had never met her, he had always imagined her face to be as gentle and serene as the one before him. Although shorter than him by a whole head, Hunith exuded protective energy, making Arthur feel safe in her presence.

"Come, Arthur," she said, holding out her hand to him. He took it without thinking, slipping her small hand into his larger calloused one and letting her lead him to a table. "First, we need to make the dough. Have you ever made bread before, Arthur?"

Arthur shook his head.

"No, I suppose not," Hunith said. A blush crept up Arthur's neck, but she smiled warmly at him. "Don't worry, dear, we'll teach you. You'll have many new skills when you leave us. I can only hope you'll kindle them. I know for me, baking has always been like meditation. It's my own special kind of magic. We all have that here, in some form or another," she winked at him.

Arthur couldn't help his confusion. "What do you mean?"

She began sprinkling flour in an earthenware bowl, mixing it periodically with water. "Everyone has their own magic, dear. Even you. The trick is finding it. I may not be able to call the dragons or change the weather, but my bread is the best there is, and that's good enough for me."

"How do you find your magic?" Arthur asked her. He couldn't help but wonder if he had a little magic too, if he had a talent he hadn't discovered yet.

"You explore, you learn, and it will find you in it's own time. Now, pass me that rosemary oil, would you?"

After Arthur had learned a basic recipe Hunith made him practice on his own. "Nothing builds a skill better than a hands-on approach," she said. Arthur made a right mess of his first attempt, the dough turning to soupy mush beneath his hands, and no amount of flour helped to stiffen it. The second batch rose too quickly, overflowing the bowl and bubbling over the side before he had time to notice. It tasted sour, like too much leavening agent. His third try turned out remarkably well until he burned it to a crisp when he accidentally dropped it into the coals of the woodstove. He blamed the redness on his face to the high heat from the fire, but Hunith hadn't laughed at him. She simply smiled and showed him how to place the loaves on the large flat wooden shovel, dusting the surface with cornflour so the dough didn't stick too badly. By the time his fourth attempt made it out of the oven, Arthur was exhausted but exuberant. Hunith had laughed at him then, good-naturedly. She insisted they share the loaf amongst the workers so they could taste his first success. The crust was perfectly golden and the inside was light and airy. Hunith gave him a slice with goat's butter seasoned with rosemary (Arthur learned it was her favorite herb), and Arthur swore he had never tasted anything as good. Hunith took his hand and squeezed it, whispering how proud she was of his progress.

"But I only made one loaf, and I've wasted so many resources," he tried to reason with her. "It is not a success worth celebrating."

"Every success is worth celebrating," she admonished him gently. "And we learn more from failure than success. You cannot expect to get things right on the first attempt. Everything good in life takes patience and practice. It's better to learn that lesson baking bread than anywhere else!"

When she said it like that, he couldn't help but believe her.

Mordred came to collect him when the sun sunk below the treeline, casting the forest in shades of purples, reds, and oranges. Arthur saud good night to Hunith, who pulled him gently to her breast and made him promise to bake with her again. Arthur agreed without hesitation, and couldn't help the loss he felt when she let him go, waving him off as she took another loaf from the oven. They walked back to Arthur's tent in comfortable silence. Mordred followed him inside and asked him jokingly,

"So, do you prefer chopping wood or vegetables?"

"Wood, honestly, but between you and I, I much prefer baking bread!" Arthur laughed.

"Everyone does," Mordred said. "Except Emrys, he never has been able to cook. Burned more loaves than you did on his first try. Hunith told him he's not allowed in the bread tent again. Almost chopped his finger off making stew one time."

Arthur was surprised. "For such a great and powerful warlock, he sure sounds clumsy."

"Well, we all have our talents," Mordred said. "I suppose the Earth decided he needed to balance out."

They both laughed, and for the first time since leaving Camelot, Arthur felt as light as the fresh bread he'd made. The feeling made guilt rise like bile in his throat, and Arthur choked on the laughter. He had no right to joke with these people, he had no right to feel as though he belonged here with them. He was a prisoner, shackled by their kindness and feasting on meat and mead, but a prisoner nonetheless. Mordred must have sensed the change, for the gaze he fixed Arthur with turned sad.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I wish we had met under better circumstances."

"I'm not sure that would have been possible," Arthur replied, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping through his voice like acid dripping from his lips. "You are a druid, and I am a Pendragon. There is nothing to be done."

"You should not resign yourself so easily to a fate that does not suit you."

"Do not give false hope where there is none, Mordred," a familiar voice said from the entrance. Arthur looked up quickly, but all he saw was blackness. Arthur cursed loudly, stumbling in disorientation, only to be caught by surprisingly strong arms, inhaling the scent of honey and mint.

"Let go of me!" he cried, wrenching himself from the intoxicating scent, stomach roiling with nausea and lust. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground. There were no strong arms to help him this time.

"Pendragon is right. His fate was sealed with his name, his birthright is our downfall."

Mordred sighed, long and heavy, but he did not attempt to argue. "Good night, Emrys."

Arthur heard the tent rustle and knew he was alone with his captor. Hatred and shame bubbled up from within him, his breathing turning ragged at the struggle to reign in his temper. The events of the evening came back full-force, and Arthur tried not to gag as Emrys spoke.

"Good evening, Pendragon." His voice was low, almost a murmur. He sounded almost apologetic, but Arthur pointedly ignored him. When it was clear he wouldn't get a response, he continued on. "I trust you slept well. A hard day's labor is quite adept at ensuring that."

He snapped, rising to his feet as gracefully as he could manage. He stared at the spot from which Emrys' voice spoke to him, snarling in the direction he hoped the man stood as he said, "so does the shame of molestation!"

Emrys was quiet for a long moment, seeming to judge his words carefully. Arthur counted backwards from ten in his head, his hands flexing into fists at his side, wanting nothing more than to meet flesh and bone to ease the ache in his stomach. When Emrys spoke again, his voice was as hard as steel and just as sharp. "What I'm doing, I'm doing to ensure the safety of my people. Would you not do the same?"

"There are lines I would never cross. You have taken from me that which I would never take from my worst enemy. There are more moral ways to break a man."

"Then perhaps you should just give in."

Arthur sobbed unwittingly. "Don't you understand? That's worse! I'm your prisoner, Emrys, all I have is my pride. Now I have nothing, I am nothing, and the only redemption I have is my silence."

"Then this truly will be torture for you, for I will not stop until you tell me the answers I seek."

"Then I shall die with them."

Emrys sighed heavily, and Arthur could practically feel him rubbing his temples in frustration. "How many times do you need to be told that I do not intend to kill you? You're of no use to me dead, so stop being so dramatic. All I want is the information to keep my family out of Uther's grasp. He's done enough damage to my people, and I would sooner die than let him lay a finger on a single person in this village ever again. I simply want your cooperation. I'm not asking for the secrets of the state."

"What you ask, I cannot give. Information on the King's plans are secrets of the state and if I gave you anything of substance I would be thrown in jail for treason. Surely you must know this."

"You're the crowned prince of Camelot; Uther's only son and heir. I doubt he'd lock you up for anything less than consorting with sorcerers."

Arthur was about to retort before he understood what Emrys had said, and the apparent change in his mood. "Was… that supposed to be a joke?"

"It was meant to be an acknowledgment of your point."

"Don't mock me."

Emrys sighed again. "Why is everything with you a fight?"

"Because," Arthur replied.

He felt the slightest pang of guilt because really, the druids had been nothing but kind to him. They saved him from the slave trader and healed his wounds, and even though he was technically a prisoner, he was being treated like one of their own with few exceptions. They treated him as an equal and that was something he'd never encountered before. He was always above the station of everyone else and being bowed to - his shoes shined and his opinions catered to - or he was beneath his father, being looked down upon and treated like manure. Even last night with Emrys hadn't been all bad; in fact, Arthur never recalled feeling so good regardless of not being allowed to come. The experience wasn't malicious, it had felt almost comfortable. There was no judgment from Emrys, there was no ire or disgust at touching another man and bringing him pleasure. As horrible as the situation was, being with Emrys had felt right somehow, almost as if his presence was a balm soothing Arthur into contentment even as his hands brought a need with no end in sight. If Arthur was honest with himself, which he tried seldom to be, he would admit that he had held his tongue on the harmless questions just to see what Emrys would do. He longed to know what he was capable of. He wanted to open himself up and invite Emrys inside, and that scared him.

"Because," Arthur tried again, "fighting is all I know."

His whole life he had been a weapon of perfect destruction in the hands of Uther, even as he fought against the man. He was tired of fighting his father, tired of fighting himself. Fighting is my magic, he realized. That's all I have, it's all I'll ever have.

"Then try something new."

"Why don't you just have your way with me and be done with it!"

Emrys' voice dipped dangerously low when he said, "Oh no, Pendragon. You see, even I have standards."

Arthur was once more about to retort when felt the magic in his skin, forcing him to his knees. It zipped through his blood like fire, igniting a spark in his belly and bringing heat to his cheeks. He gasped as the power of it coursed through his very marrow, almost as if it was a part of him. Gentle but firm hands gripped his chin, turning his face upwards, long fingers curling themselves around his face. Even though he couldn't see, Arthur closed his eyes against the feeling of powerlessness. He memorized what those hands felt like, using the information of his senses to gather whatever details about this man as he could without his sight.

"Don't worry, Arthur," Emrys spoke in a murmur, his breath ghosting over Arthur's closed eyelids and cheeks, only to be breathed into Arthur's own open mouth. "That is one virtue that I will not take without consent. I'll only fuck you when you beg me for it."

Arthur wanted to scream, he wanted to fight, but his arms hung uselessly at his sides. "I never beg."

Emrys chuckled, dark and low into Arthur's ear. "We'll see about that. Tell me, why did you find us?"

Arthur laughed without humor, knowing his torture had officially begun. He opened his eyes, his frustration fuelled by his lack of sight. "Since it doesn't really matter, I'll tell you. I was on personal holiday, the last I'd see as a free man since my father has decided it's time I find the next queen. I was running from my destiny for as long as I could because I know it will never change. Marriage, an heir, succession to the throne. That's all I was born for. Does that answer satisfy you?"

"Oh, how unfortunate," he said, his voice betraying a sneer. "Born into privilege, never needing to work, and all you have to do it get married, have sex, and run a kingdom. My heart is breaking for you, Pendragon, truly."

Arthur angrily shook the hands from his face, curling his lip in a snarl. "You mocked me once, don't do it again! You think I have no burdens? That my life is perfect, simple, and easy? It is anything but." He laughed then, anger coiling in his vocal cords and choking him. "But you don't really care, so why bother with words?"

"Be careful, Crowned Prince, or one might think you were eager for it. Did you miss my hand already?"

"You think too highly of yourself, Emrys," he sneered back. "I've had a better hand job from a stable hand." His confidence faltered when the laces of his trousers loosened.

"And are you unable to attain them from higher company? I must say I'm surprised the ladies of the court aren't making fools of themselves in the hopes of your wealth."

Arthur was laid back non-to-gently on the plush furs, his head hitting them hard enough he was surprised he didn't feel the force of the ground. His arms were forced above his head and held to the ground, much like the last time. All the while, his breeches rolled from his hips, untucking his shirt. He already felt more exposed than previously but he tried not to let his nerves show. Any sign of weakness and he knew Emrys would exploit it. But he couldn't help the gasp when a warm hand snuck under his shirt, racking it up to expose his defined chest. Arthur knew he was fit but he couldn't help but be curious of what Emrys' face looked like, seeing him like this. He got his answer when strong legs straddled him, grinding down on him as his fingers found a nipple and rolled it between them. Arthur almost shouted at the harsh stimulation. No one had ever touched him there before, and he'd never been in a position like this. Fumbling around with stable hands in the privacy of an empty horse stall paled in comparison to this kind of treatment.

As those hips ground down on him again, his brain short-circuited and he found himself saying, "If I wanted a maiden, I'd have one."

"I see," Emrys said, bringing his face closer to Arthur's chest. He nuzzled his face into the coarse golden hair and licked a broad stripe up his sternum. "Then I suppose I'm not the only one who would prefer knights to the fairer sex."

With that, he took one of Arthur's nipples into his mouth, sucking and grazing the nub between his teeth until it pebbled. When he pulled back gently, his teeth still clasped around the bud, Arthur tried to follow him, his back arching so as to lessen the strain. He bit his lip, trying not to make another sound. Emrys released him, stroking his hand up Arthur's side, cupping his peck before diving back down to give the second nipple the same treatment. His hips ground down against Arthur's, and Arthur was ashamed to find himself hardening impossibly fast. He shuddered beneath Emrys, his breaths coming fast and short. For the first time, he felt afraid. Not of Emrys, not of being tortured like this, but by becoming aroused by it in spite of - or perhaps because of- the situation itself. They had barely gotten started and Arthur already wanted to tell Emrys anything the man fancied just so that he wouldn't stop. It had been so long since his body had felt this good, and his spirit broke knowing it wouldn't last.

Perhaps sensing the change in Arthur, Emrys took his face between his palms again. "You could let yourself enjoy this. There's no shame in it." He took one of Arthur's hands, bringing it to his own cock which matched Arthur's in hardness. "See? I'm enjoying myself too."

"What would be the point of enjoying it if it's going to end the same as before?" Arthur ground out from between his teeth.

"You could change that," he said, grinding down particularly hard, causing Arthur to gasp, his hips stuttering up of their own accord. "Tell me what Uther is planning."

Arthur bit his lip, forcing himself quiet. Emrys moved off of him, his hands running down his sides, his hips, settling on pushing his thighs open so that the man could fit between them. Even suspecting what was coming, Arthur was ill-prepared for the feeling of the wet heat that engulfed his aching member. His hips thrust up uselessly against Emry's firm hold on him, and he could do nothing but twist the thick coarse furs in his fist as Emrys began to slowly sink his mouth down, sucking gently. He tongued the vein on the underside of the shaft in his mouth and Arthur wanted to scream when he lifted up and ran his tongue through the slit at the head. Emrys continued as his task of making Arthur come undone, but as soon as he got close enough, Emrys moved off, cupping his balls and asking him the same question. Over and over, again and again, until Arthur was close to insanity. He no longer tried to contain the sounds that fell from his lips, the near screams that left him every time Emrys staved him off of the cliff. He sobbed, he swore, he called him every dirty name he could think of, but he never answered the question. He didn't know how. It was true that his father had heard of a druid camp within his borders, but the knights had never been able to find its location. Arthur knew that if he ever returned to Camelot, Uther would launch a full attack and he would not rest until the camp was found and the people obliterated. Was that really what Emrys wanted to hear? It was nothing the man didn't already assume, surely. So Arthur wouldn't say.

After being brought to the edge more times than he knew, Emrys said, "this is your last chance, Pendragon. Tell me what Uther is planning for my people, or you will spend the morrow unsatisfied."

"I can't, I can't," Arthur repeated, openly weeping. "I can't, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

Emrys rose and took Arthur by the feet. Arthur kicked and screamed, but Emrys dragged him away from the warmth of the furs and onto the cold dirt floor before once again dousing him with freezing water.

"Me too," he said.

He left Arthur shivering on the floor.