Part One — Merlin
When the days are cold
And the cards all fold
And the saints we see
Are all made of gold
Demons by Imagine Dragons
He first laid eyes on the Prince from far above, where only few knew he dwelled. Veiled by shadows and masked by chains, only one could grant him his freedom. Freedom. Liberty. The words fabricating a world of false happiness and security were not foreign to the boy's tongue, but they might've well been, for it had been several years since he was unbound. Several long years of work and torture and turmoil — dreaming of his homeland to withstand the lashes, recalling his mother's eyes when the beating was too harsh, imagining the feasting of flesh when his days went unfed.
The first glimpse the boy caught of the other was that of his golden hair, illuminated in torch light from the scones upon the thin walls — this he knew from the pleas and cries and grunting that pieces the frail wood at night, and even during the light hours as well. The prince stuck out in the crowd of brunettes and gingers like the sun, like a flame lit during the Dead Night. This stranger's clothes, on the other hand, were perfectly in tune with everyone else's. A typical tunic of rough material, faded breeches and a heavy cloak. His appearance bore no trace of royalty, yet the boy somehow knew from miles above and only a quick glimpse in the dark, that this was no normal fellow.
The boy's mouth foamed as his thoughts whirled of sinking his teeth into any of the necks of the mortals mulling around below. He was no blood sucker or undead wanderer but he needed flesh and blood to keep him alive and grounded. This, his captors unfortunately knew, as they were also aware that he technically needed to only feed twice a month to live, and cruelly starved him until he was almost mad with hunger. Albeit, he could survive without a daily or even weekly meal of flesh, this did not mean he couldn't find nourishment and strength from their mortal food, either. But they did not care. Not a single one of them.
The boy fiercely pulled on his restraints for the thousandth time, and for the thousandth time it was to no prevail. He mewled pitifully as pain shot up his arm. His captors were quick thinking in their planning of imprisoning one of his kind in advance. The cage he crouched within was carefully crafted metal, as were the chains around his arms and legs and the giant lock on the door. The contraption of metal they forced onto his head was another sort of cage; this for his mouth and his speech and his magic for the bar pressing upon his tongue prevented him from uttering a single word, and every single bolt and nail that held all the metal together was made of iron.
Yes. Iron. His captors knew that iron burned his kin — it even caused death should his kin be in contact with it for too long — and so they mercilessly planted iron all around him. Subtle, but affective, it fulfilled its purpose perfectly. The boy didn't dare move an inch for fear he would be burned, and his capturers had a perfect, submissive slave.
Although the prince was a good ten feet lower, the boy had impeccable hearing and needed only to strain slightly to catch the conversations taking place below.
"This is it?"
"Yes, I am positive."
"Positive? Pray tell, when is the princess ever positive?"
"Shut up, Gwaine."
"Leon, I am confidant we are in the right location. We followed the map correctly and it has led us here, just as it was marked and promised."
"Alright..."
"You look uneasy."
"If... if you are confidant, Sire, then I am as well, you know I trust your judgment and your word without a doubt."
"Here, here!"
"Hush, he approaches!"
"Remember the plan: not a single sword shall be drawn unless the situation presents itself in need of one, understand?"
"Yes Sire."
"Keep your eyes opened for anything and everything suspicious or out of the norm."
"Let us pray this transaction is peaceful."
"Here, here."
"Good evening, kind sir's. What business can I assist yer in today?"
The boy gritted his teeth as a band of well worn travelers of whom the conversations belonged to greeted his capturer, Golden Hair in the lead. The Slave Master was a large, round man who ate ten times his worth and never washed nor bathed. His hands were permanently dyed red from whipping, beating and striking his slaves, and there was not an ounce of good to be found in his heart. Only greed, which roared its ugly head as Aric eyed the group, estimating the men before him could bring in several hundred silver coins if he was fortunate and played his cards right.
"What are yer preferences?" Aric said, the pleasant undertone in his voice as true as a thief's promise. The boy knew from experience (as did any sensible person) that Aric had a vicious temper and violent mood swings that could arise at any given moment, over any given thing. It was best not to deal with Aric at all, which made him all the more curious why Golden and his comrades intentionally sought him out.
"We are proud to offer the largest assortment of slaves in all the Five Kingdoms. Not only do we have hard workers for the fields, mines or smitheries, but we also have younglings that can be groomed with age an' bodies of all shapes an' sizes."
"It sounds beneficial and from what I've seen of your establishment, you are quite equipped," Golden said. "Shall we discuss our preferences over a meal, or perhaps a refreshment? It has been an extremely long and tiresome journey to make. My me—friends are weary and cold; yet word has it that you are the finest of slave traders in all of Mercia and we wanted to experience the elite for ourselves, and so we had to come all this way see for ourselves."
The men held their breath as Aric eyed their haggard group of five. He gave them a stiff nod, mouth quipping in a malevolent grin. Reputation was everything; it could kill a man or crown him, and Aric was making his way to becoming a Lord, judging by the massive amounts of purses that filled the hall each day, willing to pay good coin for service and bodies.
"Yes, I can assure yer all that yer will not find any a finer slave than here."
The men shared a hidden smile only the boy took notice of.
"Come now, good sir's, sit by the fire an' warm yerselves with our richest ale an' hottest stew. Rest from yer long journey an' we shall continue our talk of profit."
Aric led the men to a table by the grand fire pit that sat in the center of the room and each took a fur-covered seat as he clapped his hands. Immediately, a timid serving girl came forth on trembling legs. Golden Hair frowned deeply as the light of the fire danced over the bruises plainly displayed on the girl's neck, collar and arms. The boy above only winced in knowing sympathy as he observed the black and blue splotches. He had spent many years with Aric and in the Slave Hall — it was only of the norm to receive a daily beating. The only chance the poor souls had of escaping the abuse here was if death swooped in to take their spirits or a master came calling for their service.
"Tell the kitchen I want the fat goose prepared for these men, an' that our best wine is to be served. Not the shit that's watered down like nothing, the real stuff that's in the barrels in the back. Hurry!"
The girl, all wide eyes and matted hair, scrambled to carry out his orders. As she darted from the hall she tripped on a foot purposely stuck in her path and went crashing to the ground. Bystanders roared in laughter like lions in the fighting arena.
"Is it for sale?" Someone called gleefully from the sidelines. The boy couldn't make out a face to par with the voice.
"No."
"Oh, come now Aric! It's such a pretty thing — you know how crazy Hellen's been lately. I need something new, something fresh!"
"Something new, sure," said a beefy man with squinty eyes and stringy hair. "But I can tell you from personal experiences that it ain't something fresh."
The crowd hollered and cheered and the boy above felt sick to his stomach as he watched tears gather in the corners of the girl's large eyes.
A thin man with a mane of dark curls, leather attire and wild orbs the color of the Dead Night came forth. He crouched next to the girl, grasping her chin in his hand as he examined her closely. "But I, however, do not care if it is used goods or not. As long as the work is completed, I am satisfied."
The girl whimpered as he cradle her dirt-smudged face. "How precious," the man drawled. "Does it speak?"
"I said no. It ain't for sale. I ask yer to step away so it can complete the task I gave it." Aric made no move to cross the hall, but his voice rang clear and strong and his intentions were unpredictable, something everyone knew enough to fear.
The man didn't move.
"Yer have been a favorable business partner over the years, Cenred; we have always made good profit together. For that I greatly appreciate. Which is why I shall hate to have to call the guards to escort yer elsewhere."
This time Cenred dropped his hands as if he was burned and quickly rejoined the crowd.
"Leave," was all Aric said, and the girl all but fled the hall. As she left in a flurry of tattered skirts only the boy noticed something that sent shivers down his spine.
It was a rune. He could tell the second he saw it. Carefully etched into the skin of her forearm, and creatively hidden with sorcery so that only those of magic themselves could see through the concealment, it was cleverly hidden and a cry for help.
A Druid rune.