The aftermath of the Throne Hall confrontation with the Barons, and Nicola's dream draws Arthur to her bedside again. (Also, the story will definitely earn it's 'M' rating in this chapter).

The antechamber just beyond the Throne Hall is the same room that Arthur has placed his infamous round table, and Arthur waits there for them to file out. Goosefat Bill is the last to come through the door, "Sabina and Tabs are going stay in there and plumb the depths, so to speak."

Maggie is following close behind Nicola and when she moves out of the way, she goes up to Arthur, all smiles, "That has been a long time coming, Your Majesty." The blonde noblewoman is from one of the oldest families in England and played a critical part in the success of the Resistance, but she did not know him from before, so she is typically more formal in addressing him than all of the others. "Now they have a better idea of what you are capable of, they will take you more seriously and perhaps we can get some good work done on behalf of the people."

Percival joins them, commenting with wry humor, "Well, hopefully after this, you won't have to get after them with the sword."

"Hrmf," George grunts, twirling a finger in his long, thin beard. "Sometimes, going after someone with a sword is exactly the type of motivation that is called for. We will see how quickly they take to the lesson."

Ever the voice of reason, Bedivere alone is solemn. "Are you sure it was wise to antagonize them?"

"Well we've tried the carrot, right?" Wet Stick snorts. "I'm tired of these fancy dressed idiots staring down their noses at me like I'm not fit to so much as empty their piss pots. I'm with George. Bring the stick—or the sword, in this case."

Arthur is quiet, especially for him, and finally addresses the only Knight that hasn't spoken up. "Lancelot, what are your thoughts? As an outsider, it's gotta look different for you than it does for us."

The beautiful man purses his lips thoughtfully before giving a Gallic shrug. "Your Majesty, while I do not approve of the heathen magic, which is an abomination in God's eyes," he aims a scowl at Merlin, who has moved to stand beside Nicola and rolls his eyes at the Frankish man, "I cannot deny that negotiating with these Lords—or Barons, as you call them, has been an exercise in frustration. You know I came to England because Viking raiders have driven the Anglo-Saxons from their homes. A war is coming, and we must all be ready for it. We need the Barons to help with that."

"What about one of these 'sparkmages'? With so many to choose from, surely there must be one amongst them who would be willing to join our cause…." Goosefat Bill's voice trails off when he sees the look at Arthur and Merlin exchange, "…unless you were lying about all of it to keep the Barons in line, of course." His smile is self-depreciating like he can't believe he fell for it too.

"Oh no, the part Arthur mentioned about people having a spark of magic in them is quite true. It's the quantity we, ah, misrepresented," Merlin assures him and then slaps Arthur on the back with good humor, "but by cracky it was quite astute of you to imply that you knew Corineus was one of them! I suppose Nicola told you that then?"

Art jerks with surprise and shoots a frown at her. "No, that must have happened to slip her mind." His disappointment is etched all over his face.

"You never asked," she shrugs but a warm flush of shame rises up her neck. She should have told him, especially given the Baron's importance among the others.

"Well in all fairness, it doesn't really matter with that dodgy bastard. He doesn't know and will never find anyone to train him as long as I draw breath," Merlin insists, "and I plan on being around for quite a while longer. Dreadful man, really," he adds with a sniff.

Wet Stick suggests, "Well then maybe we can use it as leverage. If people know he's a 'sparkmage', they're certain to…"

"No," Arthur flatly denies, glaring at his old friend and then the others in turn. "We will not be using someone's ability to use magic against them under any circumstances, are we clear on that? If we do, we may as well have the barons rewrite their proposal for me to sign off on."

Wet Stick drops his eyes, shuffling his feet. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry, Art. It just popped in there."

"It's alright mate, it's what we would have done before. Great tactic on the streets, using what we know about our competition against them. Old habits die hard," Art responds, nudging him as he walks past and starts pacing, "Who are the others, besides Corineus?"

Merlin glances at her before answering, leaning on his staff. "A daughter of one of the lesser nobles. One of the servants, an older gentleman though, not a boy. Probably about your age, Bedivere, so I'm not sure if he joined the castle staff during Uther's reign or is a holdover from Vortigern's. And the dowager of Cochester, who's eighty if she's a day." He makes a face, "Shame, really, that she's too old to teach. She was quite the spitfire in her day and hasn't a lick of patience for all the political games."

Arthur nods, deep in thought as he considers their options.

"Wait that's only four," Percival points out. "Who's the last?"

Merlin, Nicola, and Arthur all exchange a significant look, and then turn to regard Blue, who has clambered up onto the round table and been watching the adults while swinging his feet freely in the air. He shoots a quick glance behind him to see who they are looking at before turning back, "Me?" A nervous laugh escapes him, "Ok Boss, I get it, you're just pulling one over on me now, aren't you."

Resuming his pacing, the King asks, "How long would it take to train him, I mean once you figure out where his gifts lay?"

Merlin wrinkles his nose, "Depends on the student—and the teacher, for that matter. The lad's a sharp one, but you can't rush this sort of thing."

"You're serious?" the boy looks gobsmacked. "You really could teach me how to be a Mage?"

"No one can make you a Mage" Nicola corrects, "but you can be trained to make the most of the spark within you." She still feels guilty for not telling Art about Corineus, so tries to make up for it. "There is another in the castle, a scullery maid. She is well-liked and kind-hearted—quite excellent with the spit dogs, which is almost certainly a manifestation of her spark. I met her the day Sirius caught those rabbits and we carried them to the kitchens. However, she is a bit simple-minded and gets confused quite easily, so I think it would be unwise and unfair to complicate her life more than she is able to bear."

Blue still looks stunned by the revelation that he has the magespark within him, and Arthur settles his hand on the boy's narrow shoulder. "You don't have to do anything about it right now, Blue, or ever, if you don't want to."

"Ok Boss," the child gives him a shaky smile, and Art ruffles his hair.

"Good lad."

Goosefat suggests, "Perhaps I should have a talk with the young noblewoman and servant, to get an idea of which way the wind blows in regard to their loyalty to the crown."

"Please, Bill," Maggie snorts, tossing her head. "We would prefer to get to know her without sullying her virtue or her reputation, and you are unable to do one without the other. I will talk to the young lady, Your Majesty."

The others snicker at the blonde noblewoman's accurate assessment and Goosefat's grin is unrepentant.

Bedivere gestures toward Wet Stick, "Perhaps Tristan should talk to the servant. Everyone knows he grew up with King Arthur in the streets, so he should be able to get a good sense of how of how he feels the current state of affairs."

"I'll point them both out to you, Miss Maggie and Sir Tristan," Merlin offers. "In fact, let us go see if they're still in the vicinity, now might be a good time to test the waters, so to speak."

"I will talk with the dowager. She is still as sly as a fox and with her strong connection to the merchant guilds, she would be an excellent ally," Bedivere proposes.

They all start ambling toward the door in pairs but when Nicola goes to join them, Arthur stops her by gently grabbing her arm. "Hold up there, Mage, I'd like a word."

Bedivere is the last out of the room and his gaze is speculative when he pulls the door closed behind him, leaving the two alone.

"I suppose you're upset with me for that little display," he jerks his chin back toward the Throne Hall.

"Of course I am upset," she sniffs, glaring up at him. "You must understand, I have spent my whole life hiding who and what I am, and to be exposed like that, it felt wrong—dangerous, even." Catching sight of his chagrin, she quickly adds, "But, it is what needed to be done. People must know that Merlin is not the only Mage that they can trust, that there are more of us out there who are loyal to our King and our country. My time in the shadows is over. It is time for me, and in time for all Mages to step into the light. But on our terms, not the Barons or anyone else in that room."

He exhales slowly, resting his hands on the back of the chair. "Speaking of which, there were a lot of people in there…I don't suppose…?"

She doesn't answer, can't even bear to look at the hope in his eyes, she is so sick of the lie.

A low growl of annoyance escapes him. "I hate this. I hate how people out there look at me like I haven't got enough sense to pour piss out of a boot with directions at the bottom, or like am a side of meat in a market. I hate the waiting, the audiences, the pomp and the especially damn bloody Barons. I thought as King I'd have the freedom to do what I wanted, to make things better for the people in the streets but I feel like I'm working with both hands tied behind my back."

She hasn't seen him this frustrated since right after he got back from the Darklands. "I'm sorry."

His head comes up, "For what? None of this is your fault. Like I said, it f it wasn't for you I'd be dead, and England would be in ruins, so as obnoxious as all of this is, it's not a fate worse than death—well, not quite," he adds with dry humor.

"I know, but if I had never tried to do the reading, at least that would not be adding to your vexation. You have so many things demanding your attention, I just…I'm sorry." She bites her lip to stop herself from saying, staring down at her hands.

"Are they ever wrong, these visions of yours? What if I were to marry someone else?"

Her eyebrows shoot upward in surprise. "Someone else?" She is so shocked she is nearly at a loss for words.

"Yes, maybe, if she—I just…" He grumbles in irritation again, running his fingers through his hair, "I don't know. So are they ever wrong, your visions?"

"No," is her simple reply. "The visions show a possible future, but always a final path. Either one must happen, or the other must happen. It is always this way, like one road that divides, with each fork going to a different destination. A true vision of a possible future comes at a high price. It's why I nearly died trying to see it. All power comes with a price." Without warning, she hears that barnacle-encrusted voice again, You know the price. She shivers and turns away from him while rubbing her arms to ward away the chill before continuing, "It may be delayed, but eventually, one way or the other, you will marry one or the other of the women in the vision and have her as your wife and queen. Any time you have if you take another as your betrothed would be fleeting at best. Perhaps you would divorce, or perhaps your marriage would be annulled. Perhaps she dies, who is to say?"

He looks stricken by her words, like she has dealt him a physical blow that has knocked the wind right out of him.

His response is bewildering, because she can't think of a single woman in court that she has seen him spend enough time to become attached to, and he seems far too practical and world-wise to fall in love at first sight like a foolish boy.

The silence drags on for a long while, during which he just stares at her. If he were anyone else, she'd think he had something to say and didn't know how to put it to words, but this is Arthur—he's never once been at a loss for words or a chippy comment in the months that she's known him.

There is a discrete knock on the door, and Goosefat pops his head in, "Sorry to interrupt, but Bedivere sent me to ask if you were interested in having a chat with the dowager before she goes in for her afternoon nap."

Art rubs his eyes and nods, "Yeah. Bring her in here, and have Blue get some fruit and perhaps some good wine or liquor—loosen her tongue a bit."

Goosefat is dubious. "Have you ever actually the dowager? She could outdrink a Viking. You'll definitely need something stronger than wine, though." He ducks back out.

"Duty calls," Nicola says with a quick smile and drops into a quick curtsy. "By your leave, Your Majesty."

He rolls his eyes and that easy grin returns. "Off with you then. See you at dinner."

The rest of the day goes by quickly. She gets a higher than usual number of surreptitious stares, but other than that it is uneventful. Silas seems to be hovering a little closer than usual, and she uses the sign language to ask him why.

I keep you safe from these…something. She can't quite make out that last word, but it's probably an unflattering description of the nobility, who have been such a thorn in Arthur's side. Ranulf, Bertram, and Corineus are absent, to no one's surprise, but she has little doubt it will last for long, or they will lose face.

That night, she has the most vivid dream yet, and wakes herself up crying out with pleasure from dream Arthur's ministrations. Her entire body is covered in a light layer of sweat and the liquid heat between thighs is slowly fading. She was close, so close to, well, something, and now it's slipping away. It is enough to make her clench her fists at her sides and growl with frustration.

"Same dream, eh?"

Nicola squeaks with surprise, yanking the covers up to her chin. "What are you doing in here?!" she demands in a loud whisper.

"You called my name, so I c..." He interrupts himself with a wry chuckle before continuing, "Well, here I am." He's sitting in the chair beside her bed just as he has done off and on since she fell ill from the scrying.

Mortified by the knowledge that she hasn't just woken him up this time, she did so by calling out his name, she hurriedly apologizes, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. You can go back to bed now, I'm fine." She rolls away from him and waits to hear the door close behind.

He doesn't move. After a few moments of silence, during which she can hear his slow, even breaths, he says, "They'll keep getting worse. They did for me, anyway, so long as I kept looking away. But… what if I can help you with it," he offers, speaking in a slow, deliberate manner, as though he is taking great care in choosing his wording.

She has no idea how he would be able to help stop the dreams.

When she doesn't respond, he asks, "You always wake up in the middle of the dream, right? Before you… well, before the end." She refuses to even acknowledge his words, hunched in on herself beneath the covers, her face still burning in her mortification. "I'm just saying if you wake up before the end, you're missing out on the best part. It's a bit like you're climbing a mountain and stopping right before reaching the top, without ever seeing the view on the other side. It's worth it, I promise you. I can show you—if you want me to."

Under normal circumstances, her answer would be an unequivocable 'No'. However, it's been more than a month now, and the dreams are getting progressively—well, not quite worse, but more vivid at the very least. Waking up in aching frustration day after day is getting tiresome in more ways than one. She's even tried taking sleeping draughts to at least dull the vision's effects but to no avail. Her dreams are no less vivid with the potions and when she does wake her head feels like it is stuffed full of wool the rest of the day. Nicola considers his words. The analogy seems appropriate, for during the dreams she has indeed felt her desire rising toward a presumptive peak, but she awakens before ever reaching it. "You've climbed a mountain?" she asks dubiously. Camelot, Londinium and the surrounding area are not in a particularly mountainous region, unlike the Frankish lands she comes from.

A sheepish laugh escapes him and he admits, "Well, no, you got me there. I've heard stories, though."

She thinks about when she was a girl and how, for a time, she and Merlin lived in relative anonymity in southern France. Even in high summer the mountains were capped with snow, and while just climbing the lower foothills was an exhausting trial, the view alone made the struggle worth it. "I have." His offer is so very tempting, but finally she shakes her head. "I... no, we can't. You're a king and I'm a…" a nobody, she very nearly says but stops herself at the last second and sums the matter up by stating, "It wouldn't be proper."

To her surprise, he bursts out laughing, loud enough that she rolls over to look at him in astonishment. "Proper? What the fuck do I know or care about being proper? I was raised in a brothel, remember, and that was my entire life long before I was a king."

He has a good point.

"Besides, I figure there's enough misery in this world as it is. Why would the gods begrudge us what little pleasure we can get whenever it's offered?" He runs his fingers through his hair in a quick gesture that would seem nervous on anyone else and shrugs, 'I don't know. It's just an idea, you know, that maybe if you experience getting over the, ah, top of the mountain, so to speak, the rest of the vision will be downhill the rest of the way. You'll know what to expect and won't have to look away."

She wavers at that because it actually makes sense, she always wakes up at around the same moment in her dream and she can't seem to get past that point. Maybe it is because she doesn't know what happens next since she has never experienced anything like it outside the vision itself. It isn't that she is or has been averse to laying with another, but she is a Mage. Focusing on her training and her survival has always been a priority over personal relationships so there has been little opportunity to devote to such dalliances. He must sense her indecision because he says, "If you like, you can even keep your clothes on."

Keep her clothes on? Her experience may be scant on the subject at hand but she'd always been under the impression that lack of clothing was all but required. "How does that even work," she asks, bewildered.

"Oh, there are ways, trust me."

Do you trust me? Arthur has asked in her dreamvisions. The answer is the same either way. "I do trust you." She bites her lip and eventually nods. "All right—but I keep my clothes on."

He seems surprised by her sudden acquiescence, gauging from how he rocks back in the chair, "Well all right then. If you change your mind at any time, just tell me and I'll stop, ok?"

Nicola nods and starts to roll over to her back because that is the position she is in during the dream but he stops her movement by resting a hand on her shoulder. "No, just stay like that, on your side. It'll be easier." He slips into bed behind her, easing the full length of his body against hers, his cheek just at her shoulder, his chest to her back, his thighs to the backs of her legs and buttocks. One arm slides under her head as a makeshift pillow while the other curls around her waist. He may still have trousers on and she is wearing a thin chemise but the heat emanating from his body is enough to make her shiver. She isn't sure if it's from nervousness or anticipation. "Cold?" he asks.

She shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak. He repositions the blankets over them both anyway and resettles back in to spooning her, nuzzling her hair while one hand trails a lazy circle over on her belly. "Do you still feel it? The dream?"

The heat of desire had all but faded, but the full length of his body pressed against hers has started to rekindle it. When she makes a noncommittal sound, one of his hands slips up to brush across the curve of her bosom. "Here?" he wonders, as her breath hitches at the unexpected contact.

"No," she manages, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

"Really?" he seems genuinely surprised. "Hrm." His palm settles over one breast, fingers splaying out to stroke and massage the skin through the thin fabric of her chemise. She'd always thought her breasts were so small as to be all but useless, but gods, she never could have imagined how amazing his touch would feel. He slides the pad of his thumb across her nipple and she gasps, for it sends a jolt of heat straight to her nethers, and he's only just begun to touch her.

But what a beginning it is as one hand alternates between caressing one breast and then the other, plucking her nipples through the linen nightshift until they are swollen enough to tent the fabric, sliding his other hand down her body from torso to thigh and back up again. Tension drains out of her arms and legs, but her stomach tightens with anticipation as his roving hand drifts closer to her lower belly and inner thighs. All the while he talks to her throughout, asking gentle questions like, "Do you like this?" or "Does that feel good?" in between pressing hot kisses to the nape of her neck and nibbling at the exposed flesh there, or making statements such as, "Gods, you smell so good," and "You're beautiful," all spoken with such sincerity and reverence that she can almost bring herself to believe him.

When his hand brushes over her mound the first time she forgets to breathe until his playful nip along the rim of her ear startles the air out of her. He begins to roll her nipple between thumb and forefinger until she writhes in his embrace, whimpering with pleasure that is almost enough to distract her from his finger trails down her cleft—almost. Her arousal mounts when his hand lingers there and teases along the swell of her mons. Her body seems to have a will of its own now, evidenced by how her hips push forward to nudge at his hand where it has settled between her thighs, hesitant at first and then with greater insistence. She is dimly aware that she isn't feeling as much of his touch as she might have expected and it takes her a long moment to realize the cause; the dense layer of dark curls combines with the linen shift to form a more protective barrier than the cloth alone has done elsewhere. Well this simply will not do, not now. Muttering a Frankish imprecation, she yanks the offending fabric up over her hips to grant him greater access to her aching loins. He doesn't comment but she feels the curve of his smile where his lips press against her shoulder.

Now his fingers flutter between her thighs, caressing her skin directly for the first time and she feels as though she is melting from the inside out. She may indeed be, because she can feel Arthur's touch drift through a slick damp heat that he spreads up and down her labia. His other arm tightens around her chest and is the only warning she gets before he grinds the heel of his palm firmly against her mound. It startles a strangled cry of bliss out of her and gods, gods, it's as though his hand just served as the flint to spark a warm pile of kindling into a white-hot fire somewhere in her very core. This is what her dreamvisions have built up to but as clear and memorable as they've been, they do not hold a candle to the reality that is Arthur laying beside her, solid, warm and somehow familiar, whispering tender reassurances into her ear while his hands dance across her bare skin.

To her frustration, now that he's exposed that node at the very center of her, his fingertips swirl and stroke along her dripping labia with the utmost of care to avoid direct contact with it, which only heightens her desperation. Nicola whines and bucks her hips into his hand with wanton abandon, so that when his fingers finally brush along it, it almost seems like an accident, and yet even this slight stroke is almost painful in its intensity. It doesn't matter though, she wants—nay, needs more. "Please. Please," she begs so he will stop teasing and just touch her already and yes, she wants to kill him for that low, incorrigible chuckle, but then he starts rubbing that molten nub with featherlight strokes at first, then with increasing pressure and all ability to think of anything other than how utterly splendid it feels vanishes.

Just as has happened in her dreamvisions, Arthur brings her closer to that peak until she is gasping and writhing, delirious in her lust, and just like in her dreamvisions, it is too much to bear. Instead of thrusting her breasts and hips into his hands as she has done practically from the time he joined her in the bed, she finds herself squirming in an effort to dodge his busy fingers. At first he chases her to maintain that maddening touch but when she whimpers, "Wait, wait, please, please just, just, oh please, wait, stop," and grabs blindly at his hands to pull them away from her aching and oversensitized nethers, he freezes.

She is panting like she has just run a footrace and her heart is beating so hard and fast she is sure he can hear it. As she regathers the frayed threads of her wits, she realizes she can feel the hard length of his manhood pinned between them against her buttocks.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks and while his voice is gruff with his own arousal, concern for her wellbeing rings through his words as clear as any bell. He withdraws ever so slightly from her.

"No! Oh no, please don't!" she exclaims, suddenly in a near panic that he might stop and leave, now of all times, when she is so close to her peak. Clutching at him, she draws those wonderful, clever hands back to her skin. "I just, well, I just needed a moment to catch my breath is all. Don't stop, just wait a moment, that's all I need."

They both lay there in silence while his fingers trail lazy circles where her bush covers the swell of her mons, and his hand slowly massages one breast then the other. Now that she's aware of it, Nicola finds it hard to believe she hadn't noticed Arthur's arousal before now. After further consideration, she will allow that she was quite distracted for a while there. Giving an experimental wiggle, she tries to settle him more comfortably against her backside.

He grabs her hip to hold her still. "Ah-ah-ah, now we'll have none of that, Mage," he chides with tender amusement. "Have you eased off a bit then?"

Flushing at her own audacity, she nods and whispers shyly, "Yes."

"Alright then, now where were we? Ah, yes..." His hands ease back to where they were and he begins to stroke along her folds while the other sets to playing with her breast again. This time the build-up is more leisurely, more deliberate, as though he's not so much as pushing her toward her peak as he is guiding her there. When she feels herself beginning to reach that breaking point of too much, he stops before she can tell him to, letting her recover a bit before he starts in on her anew.

He does this again, and then again, and each pause is just long enough that she can catch her breath while still drawing her inexorably closer to that proverbial mountain top. Finally, she can feel herself tottering just shy of the edge, a quivering mess, unwilling to draw back and yet unable to take that final step forward. "I can't, I can't," she whimpers, writhing helplessly in his arms.

In response, Arthur reassures her, "You can," while shifting his hand between her thighs to slide his calloused thumb across her swollen, aching nubbin while his fingers tease at the entrance of her dripping opening. Her heart stutters, her breath hitches as she feels herself pausing for an endless moment on the precipice before falling—nay, flying into the space beyond to shatter into a million pieces. Crying out in exquisite bliss, she bucks and rides his hand through the waves of ecstasy, her inner walls fluttering and spasming. All the while, he grinds the heel of his palm against her mound with steady pressure, prolonging her satisfaction, whispering, "I've got you, Nicola. I've got you," into her ear.

As she drifts back down to earth, he slowly removes his hand from between her thighs, eliciting a mewling sound of protest that is all but enveloped by the delicious languor that is overtaking her now. His rock-hard shaft still flexes and strains against her rump, seemingly with a will of its own but she is unconcerned. Relaxed and boneless, she finds herself so exhausted she is scarcely aware of him tugging down her linen shift to cover her lower body and resettling the furs before he cuddles her close.

She falls asleep and does not dream.

Author's note: Ahem. So this entire story has been un-betaed, in case that wasn't obvious. I really could use a beta, especially for chapters like this. Drop me a PM if you interested.