The rain is coming down in steady rhythm when Lord Agravaine arrives in Camelot with his daughter and some twenty men-at-arms.
Arthur stands in the courtyard to greet them, uncaring of the rain. Ignoring any kind of protocol, Bellegere dismounts from her pony and near sprints across the way to embrace him, burying her face against his chest. Waiting at Arthur's side, Merlin can see the relief on the newly-crowned king's face, ducking his head to hide it and embracing her just as tightly in return. Though he's done well to keep up a strong façade for the court, grief still shadows him, a second cloak laying over the Pendragon red.
"Thank you for coming to Camelot in such short order, Uncle," Arthur says as Lord Agravaine joins them, their party moving indoors and out of the rain. "Your men will be shown to the guardsmen's quarters, and we have chambers prepared for you and Bellegere."
"No thanks are needed, sire," Agravaine replies, lowering his hood; Merlin gives him a curious glance, finally seeing the man he's heard so much about in person. Bellegere takes after him, black-haired and dark-eyed, but there's something sharper about him, lacking the softness his daughter has. It's hard to imagine that he's at all related to the fair and golden Ygraine with smiling eyes Merlin has seen in the Hall of Portraits. It makes him wonder what Tristan must've looked like. "In times like these, we must keep to our own in order to get through."
Arthur gives a weak smile and shakes his head. "You can dispense with the honorifics, Uncle. We're family," he insists.
"Of course. This must be the Lady Morgana. Ah, forgive me. Princess Morgana," Agravaine corrects as he gives a courtier's bow, kissing her hand lightly. "Whilst it brings me little joy to know that my late good-brother strayed from my sister, I am pleased to know my nephew hasn't been alone in his grief and hope that you might come to consider me family as well." His voice is surprisingly warm.
Morgana's lashes flicker slightly, the only sign of her surprise—no doubt she'd been imaging a far different greeting from him—but she recovers and offers a polite smile touched with genuine warmth in return. "Nothing would please me more, my lord."
Merlin feels a tug on his sleeve, and he glances down at Bellegere. She'd quietly migrated around Arthur to stand between them, one hand subtly tucked behind her back and grasping for his own. He places his hand in hers, her grip immediately tightening as though he's the only thing keeping her in place. Her other hand has a similarly ferocious grip on the edge of Arthur's cloak, knuckles white on the red cloth.
"Uncle, this is my manservant, Merlin. He'll show you to your chambers and see that your belongings are moved in promptly," Arthur says, gesturing to him; Merlin bows accordingly. "I'm certain you're hungry after your journey. We can take supper together in the hall once you've settled yourself."
"Delightful."
Recognising his cue when he hears it, Merlin steps forward. "Right this way, my lord, my lady," he says. Despite Arthur's constant bemoaning otherwise, he does actually know proper decorum and all the subtle delicacies involved in serving attendant on nobility and royalty. It's simply that he never actually bothers to do so, at least not where Arthur is concerned. However, since he knows that Arthur holds his uncle in high esteem, he will behave and act according to his station for once. So he keeps a docile pace, leading them up the stairs and to the chambers that had been already aired and tidied in preparation for their arrival. "Right here, my lord," he says to Lord Agravaine. "Shall I have your possessions brought up?"
"That shan't be necessary," Agravaine replies, then gestures to the man who had unassumingly trailed along with them, lingering alongside. "My attendant, Sayer. Show him about tomorrow, and he'll see to my needs for the duration. You may see to her, however, as she lacks her own maidservant." That last is said with a pointed sidelong glance at Bellegere, who clasps her hands behind her back and says nothing, head bowed slightly.
Merlin schools his expression blank, affording another bow. "Of course, my lord. This way, my lady," he says.
She follows him along to the chamber at the far end of the corridor, but when he opens the door, Bellegere's face falls. "I cannot have the chambers I held last time?"
The disappointment in her words makes Merlin frown. "It is appropriate for you to be placed near to your lord father."
She looks to the floor for a moment, then nods in understanding. "Very well." There's a knock at the door, and they both turn to see Sayer, Agravaine's servant, standing in the doorway holding a large trunk which can only be hers. "Thank you, Sayer. Just there, please. Merlin will see to it," she says, nodding towards the table.
The man carries it over and sets it on the table with a thump. Sayer is taller than he is, of height with Leon, but he's as thin as a reed, dressed in dark grey livery, entirely unadorned but for a silver phoenix pin at the collar. There's a sharpness about him, as though his edges might cut anyone who laid hands on him. Grey-blue eyes stare at Merlin unfalteringly. "I'll meet you in the morning to show you about the castle," Merlin ofers. It'll be easier to get everything done in the early hours, before the entire castle wakes for the day.
Sayer bows without a word and leaves the room.
"I've never heard him speak," Bellegere remarks. "I'm not certain if he's mute or not, but he's been Father's attendant since before I was born."
Merlin turns to look at her now, puzzled and slightly concerned by her subdued demeanor. Bellegere looks different. It isn't just that she's grown taller, or that she's beginning to look a young woman instead of a girl. There's a…fadedness to her. Like Arthur, grief has shadowed her over, lent her a new gravity and depth. "Are you well, Bellegere?" he asks, opening the trunk. She clearly packs like her cousin as well, things thrown in without a care as to how it all fit.
"I'm not certain," she replies frankly, still honest as ever. "What happened to…to Mother, and then the invasion, the King's death, and Father moving us here…."
"It's a great deal happening in a short time."
"Yes, well…I'm certain I'll be alright. You needn't worry." She crosses to the chair and sits down, staring at the unlit hearth in front of her. "So, Lady Morgana is truly the princess now?"
He picks up a large yet lightweight case, no doubt her bow, and goes to set it on the desk. "That's right. She still very much herself, though."
Uther had managed to hold out for near three days after the siege, despite the damage done by the javelin, partly from Gaius's treatment and his own stubbornness. Merlin doesn't know what Arthur and Morgana said to him in those last days, only that the King's final decree both acknowledged Morgana as his daughter and legitimized her as a Pendragon and a princess of the blood. He's not asked about it and doesn't intend to yet, not whilst the wound is still so raw for both of them. The announcements had been made quietly, and there'd been a second ceremony after Arthur's coronation for Morgana. If Uther had been fearful of some kind of backlash against her, his concerns are unfounded. The news has been received with little fuss and no dispute so far, only an increase in the number of suits for her hand. The people of the city love her even more now, if possible.
Merlin continues to sort through the jumbled mess of her things. When he uncovers another small box tossed amongst her belongings, it rattles when he moves it. "I fear you've broken something, Bellegere," he says, untangling the box from the tunic it's ensnared in. He would say it's a jewelry box, but the day Bellegere wears jewelry is likely the day that Arthur decides to exchange his chainmail for a gown.
"It's my chess set. The pieces are loose," Bellegere murmurs without looking his way.
Weighing the box in hand, Merlin thinks of the pointed comment Agravaine had made towards his daughter. "You are of age to have a maidservant of your own, aren't you?"
"Yes, but the girls Mother chose were all wretched, and then we were too occupied with the journey here. I don't mind not having one."
Unlike some royals he can name. "Maybe so, but it's still expected. Perhaps you can speak to Gwen or Morgana. I'm certain they can help you." He crosses over to hand her the box, and she takes it from him absently, holding it in her lap. Sighing softly, he brushes his fingers over her damp hair, smoothing it behind one ear. "Would you like me to send along Guinevere to help you get ready for dinner?" he asks.
"I'll manage."
Arthur gazes out the windows, listening as rain drums a steady beat against the panes, the occasional tongue of lightning forking across the sky, followed by the deep roll of thunder. He's always enjoyed the rain, at least when indoors. He's just raised his cup to his mouth when a set of strong hands close over his shoulders, squeezing firmly, and he nearly inhales his wine instead of swallowing it. "Seven hells, Merlin!" he sputters. "Don't do that!"
Standing behind his chair, Merlin chuckles. "I didn't think a clumsy oaf such as myself could ever startle a mighty hunter like you, sire," he replies, drawling out the last word in that impudent way of his.
"You didn't startle me," Arthur grumbles, resettling in his chair. A low appreciative groan is pulled from his throat as Merlin applies firm pressure against his shoulders, thumbs pressed into the aching knots just below his neck, slowly working them loose. He's had the most dreadful tension headache the entire day, doing nothing but listen to the damned council argue in circles without ever getting any closer to resolution. If that's what Father had to listen to day after day, no wonder he'd always looked so weary. "Ow, ow, ow, easy!"
"Sorry," Merlin says without sounding the least bit apologetic, but his grip does ease up somewhat. "How was the council today? Still arguing?"
Arthur grunts, taking another deep pull of wine. "I had to end it early, or I am fairly certain that Morgana would have garroted someone with her necklace." That earns him a snorting chuckle, and he grins, still gazing out the darkened windows. It's only early evening, yet the skies are the deep grey of unburnished steel, the colour of a migraine. "If they argue like this over road repairs, I can't imagine how they'll sound when I repeal the ban of magic."
The slow-steady massage halts. "You aren't lifting the ban now," Merlin says flatly.
Baffled, Arthur tilts his head back to get a curious upside-down look at the younger man. "What do you mean? Why would I not?"
Heaving a sigh, Merlin resumes his massage. "Think on it. You've only been king for two months. Not that you haven't proved yourself capable so far, but Uther was king for a great many years, and for a great many people, the only king they ever had. After an invasion backed by magic, the people might well think you've been ensorcelled by Morgause or something of the like. To force growth is to kill it," he says, releasing one shoulder to ruffle Arthur's hair gently.
He scowls towards the window, tapping his ring against the side of his goblet. "I hate when you're so damned logical," he grumbles, and Merlin chuckles. "Very well. How long would you suggest I wait, then?"
Merlin is quiet a moment, pondering, then declares, "A year. No." One hand moves to cover Arthur's mouth even as he opens it to protest. "A year. That's time enough for the people to recover from Uther's loss and to know that you are their king and your own self. I've waited this long, Arthur. Another year shan't do me any great harm."
Reaching up to lay one hand over the younger man's, Arthur sighs again. Merlin's right, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. Another tongue of lightning flares across the sky, the thunder almost simultaneous with the whip-crack; the windows rattle in their frames. "Very well. A year," he relents at last. "But I'm going to move towards it in the meantime. The raids on the Druid camps stop. No more executions. If anyone is accused of sorcery, they'll be given a trial, and the punishment shall fit the crime, if there is one at all." He thinks again of Senna and her bindweed crowns. What dread magic could a girl of nine winters possibly have known? What awful charm could she have made from flowers in the palace garden? How many more like her have ended up at the block, the pyre, the gallows, for nothing?
"Good. That's good." Merlin leans down and presses his lips to the top of Arthur's head, his arms sliding around the prince's neck, hands resting lightly against his chest. "Mordred is still here as well. He has his ravens about. You can use them to communicate with the Druid elders, make a start with them."
Arthur nods. He'd nearly forgotten about the boy's predilection for feathered beasts. Even with Alvarr slain, he imagines that Morgause will be recruiting for her ranks as well, calling more sorcerers to her cause. Not to mention, his relation to the Bloody Tyrant of Camelot has been reason enough for sorcerers to declare their personal wars against him. It'd do well to give the Druids a reason to believe his reign will be different from Father's. "I'll expect your help in that, Emrys," he remarks with a smile, laughing when Merlin tweaks his ear in playful reproach.
"Anything else I should add to the royal agenda?" the young man asks.
He drums his fingers against the arm of the chair. "The council. I'm fairly certain some of those men have had their seats since my grandfather's rule. It's time for some new blood, no?"
Merlin laughs gleefully, tightening his embrace. "You may be a stubborn one, clotpole, but at least you're stubborn about the proper things." His warm breath ruffles Arthur's hair as he leans down to kiss the side of his neck, lips pressed softly over his pulse. "We're going to have a busy year, aren't we? You plan to cut this kingdom open to the core."
"The core is rotten. It's been festering for near twenty years now, and it is past time for it to be drained. Are you ready for it?" Arthur prompts in all seriousness. What he has planned is no trifling matter. It's a massive undertaking, even if it is spread out over the course of a year or even two years. He doesn't delude himself into believing that it'll be easy, either. No doubt it will be an uphill struggle, and there might well even be violence involved, though he prays it shan't come to that. He cannot think to manage it on his own. If he is going to rebuild what was torn down in the Purge, he is going to need a great deal of help.
"I've been ready for this my entire life, prat."
He grins, reaching back to snag hold of Merlin's ever-present neckerchief and tug him into a kiss. That's precisely what he wants to hear.
As fate would have it, his first trial appears not even a day later when one of the guard patrols from Essetir's border returns to the city with a party of bedraggled commoners that were seen crossing the border into Camelot. They claim to be refugees who had taken advantage of the general disorder in Essetir to escape. Under any other circumstances, he would believe it. Essetir does partake of the slave trade, and it's well-known that Cenred will pay good coin for a sorcerer. Now, however, so soon after an invasion, he finds himself conflicted. And he isn't the only one.
"These people might well be spies, infiltrators sent to prepare for a second attempt at taking the city," Agravaine insists. "Cenred might have withdrawn his forces the first time, but now with the King dead, he may see opportunity."
"Have you seen these people, my lord?" Morgana asks in return. Not many had been happy with Arthur giving her a seat at the council, but she's always had insight, and she's never hesitated to tell Arthur when he's acting the ass. He has Merlin to tell him so in private, but she can tell him so in public without running the risk of being flogged. "They have been beaten, starved, abused in the worst ways. That kind of neglect cannot be feigned, and I cannot imagine anyone willingly going through such a thing for the sake of a second invasion when the first has failed."
Arthur rests his elbows against the tabletop, fingers interlaced in front of him as they continue to go back and forth. Insofar, the refugees have been placed in the infirmary, and for the sake of safety, he's posted an extra guard shift. Most are women, a few men and children, and they indeed make quite pitiable figures, some barely able to stand upright upon arrival. Hunith might know if there's aught amiss with them. Merlin certainly would; he has the most uncanny ability to sense ill will in people, him and his 'peculiar feelings.'
The door of the council chamber opens. "Your Majesty," Bellegere says in a tight, cool voice, and Arthur straightens up in his seat, snapping back to attention sharply. She never calls him by any form of address except when she is furious at him or something is deeply wrong. "I would show you something."
"This is a council meeting," Agravaine says frostily, levelling a sharp look at her.
"I am aware of that, my lord, and I would not interrupt were it not important," she replies, bowing slightly. She looks to Arthur. "Your Majesty?"
He can almost feel the disapproval radiating from the other councilmen; he can very nearly hear them now, informing him that a woman has no place on a king's council, nor does a girl of three-and-ten. "What do you have to show us, Bellegere?" he asks.
She pushes the door open further and leans back out into the corridor, making a gesture. A girl, barely ten winters, shuffles forward on bare feet. She must be one of the refugees, Arthur supposes; she has that same nervous, beaten look the others do, like a skittish animal. The girl's eyes widen when she sees who she stands before, huddling further down into her blanket, starting to edge backwards as if ready to flee.
Bellegere goes to her side and takes one of the girl's hands in her own, drawing her forward instead. "Show them what you showed me, Jehanne." Her voice is unwontedly gentle. "Don't be frightened. You're safe here, I give my word."
Eyes darting nervously around the chamber, the girl plucks open the frayed laces holding the neckline of her ragged gown, then turns her back to them, slipping the garment from her shoulders.
"Gods' mercy," Arthur rasps out; Morgana presses a hand over her mouth.
On Jehanne's freckled back, just below the bony knob at the top of her spine, is a brand, still fresh, the skin blistered and suppurating clear fluid. It takes a moment for the shape of the burn to resolve in his horrified revulsion, but then Arthur makes sense of it—the serpent of Essetir coiled around a sword, the stamp of their slave markets.
"Does that settle your concerns, my lord?" Bellegere asks of her father as Jehanne gingerly pulls her kirtle back up. Her tone, astringent though it is, softens once more when she addresses the other girl. "Go and see the physician. The Lady Hunith will give you something for the burn." Jehanne bobs a nervous curtsey and all but bolts from the chamber.
"Do any of the others bear this mark?" Arthur asks, forcing down his disgust. To brand another person as though they are cattle…. The skin of his back crawls.
"I've not seen any of the others. She was frightened enough to show me."
He pushes back from the table. "Then we shall see together." A few councilmen mutter as they rise to follow, but Arthur ignores them. He wants to see this for himself. Merlin and Guinevere are waiting in the corridor, as the meeting was due to end soon anyways, and they both fall quietly into step with Arthur and Morgana as they make for the infirmary hall, Bellegere leading the way.
"You have to know this is unusual, sire," Agravaine murmurs to him.
"Perhaps," Arthur replies. Unusual or not, he wants to see this for himself before he makes any sort of decision.
When they enter the infirmary hall, Hunith is there; she's been given charge of the refugees' care whilst Gaius manages their regular patients. She's kneeling beside the girl Jehanne, carefully lathering ointment onto the brand, smoothing a square of thin bandaging over the burn. "My lord," she greets, rising to her feet and wiping hands on her apron. "What can I do for you?"
"That mark," Arthur says in a low voice, nodding towards Jehanne, who had fled to the arms of a similarly thin and bedraggled woman, no doubt her mother. "Have you seen it on any of the others?"
"The brand? Yes, sire. On all that have allowed me to examine them so far. Some are stubborn, but I don't imagine they'll lack it," Hunith replies, her voice quiet yet full of uncharacteristic fire. No doubt the sight of a child being put through such suffering has her protective instincts getting their back up. "The girl's is the newest that I've seen. Others are older, but—"
"Elyan?"
Guinevere's shocked gasp turns several heads, surprised by the unexpected interruption from someone usually so decorous. She's gone quite ashen, eyes wide and mouth agape. Following her gaze, Arthur sees a dark young man rise from one of the cots, looking just as beaten and worn as the other refugees, but there's a blinding smile on his face. Letting out a sobbing cry, Gwen rushes past them to fling herself at the man, pressing relieved kisses all over his face as he laughs and heaves her right off her feet in an embrace. When he sets her down again, she turns back to look at Arthur, wiping at her face with one sleeve. "Forgive me, sire," she sniffles even as she smiles. "My brother, Elyan. I've not seen him for some four winters now."
"Not of my own will, I promise," Elyan replies, then bows at the waist. "Your Majesty."
"As I understand it, this young man is the one to lead these people out of Essetir," Hunith puts in gently.
Arthur steps closer and holds out a hand, clasping Elyan's arm. "I hope you don't mind sharing the tale," he prompts, smiling. "Come along to the council hall, if you would. Guinevere, you're welcome to join us." Once they've all returned to the council hall, Arthur gestures for Elyan to take one of the empty chairs and retakes his own seat. Gwen moves to stand behind her brother, one hand resting on his shoulder, and Merlin, who has apparently taken the opportunity to follow the rest of them in as well, is a familiar shadow over Arthur's shoulder.
"I was captured by Essetir's slavers last spring," Elyan says, reaching up to rub behind his neck, just above where the brand would be. "Mostly I was put to work in a quarry, but once Cenred started planning the invasion, I was sent to work in the castle forges, making weapons and armour. I was sleeping in there by the end of it. I knew once Cenred moved the army out, nearly all of his men would be gone from the castle and the city, so I saw it as a chance to escape. I forged my own keys. All the others with me, they were all prisoners working in the castle as well."
"Even the children?" Arthur prompts, scowling.
"Them as well," Elyan confirms, his mouth turning down into a scowl proving just how much he despises it as well. "It's easier to keep control that way, ensuring none of them made trouble or ran away. Threaten the mothers to control the children, and threaten the children to control the women. We went at night, between guard shifts, and made our run. We tried to go mostly at night, stayed on rougher ground that didn't hold track so well, which is why it took so long for us to arrive, not to mention we had to take cover for a few days when the army retreated back to Essetir. After that, it was simply a matter of getting over the border before a hunting party came after us and not getting killed by the border watch here."
Arthur nods slowly, resolve settling in him. Getting that far in poor health, on foot with no supplies, evading capture and an army. It's damn near a miracle they made it. Spies, they most assuredly are not. "Very well," he says, sitting back in his chair. "Elyan, these people trust you. See if you can't speak to them, find out where they were from, what positions they held. I'm certain we can find a place for them until they can be returned home or given more permanent lodging."
"Sire—" Agravaine begins, but Arthur holds up a hand to halt him.
"We'll have them looked after," he repeats firmly.
"Thank you, sire." Elyan stands up to leave, bowing to the council; Guinevere starts to follow him, then glances back at Morgana, who waves her along in silent assent. Bobbing a hasty curtsey, she goes along with her brother.
After the reunited siblings have left, Arthur glances at the angle of sunlight coming through the windows and sighs. "That's enough for the day. Dismissed. We'll finish tomorrow."
One at a time, the councilmen take their leave, bowing and murmuring farewells. Staring after them, Arthur finds himself wondering, not for the first time, which he should have replaced first. He should ask Dara. That man knows everything important about everyone important; he'll have an idea of where to start. Once the door of the hall shuts, Agravaine casts him a dubious glance. "Are you entirely certain that is wise?"
"They didn't ask to be captured, Uncle. We cannot, in good conscience, turn them away now when they ask for our help."
"Of course. Forgive me, nephew, I do not mean to sound unsympathetic to their plight. I mean only to remind you to err on the side of caution."
Arthur smiles. "I know, and I always appreciate your council. But Guinevere is one of the most honest and trustworthy people I know. Morgana has never once had an ill word to say of her. I trust my sister's judgement," he replies reassuringly. Even if he hadn't known it for himself, he would trust Morgana's opinion, just as much as he trusts Merlin's. They have a way of seeing the truth of people, and he can admit that they're better judges of character than himself.
One of Merlin's favourite places to be when he wishes to be alone is the north walltop. There isn't a regular guard shift here, as the north wing is largely unused, so he can walk back and forth as he wishes in solitude, welcoming the calm and the quiet. It's a welcome relief when the constant presence of other people and the weight of manmade walls around him becomes too much. With the wind coming from the north, too, he can smell the forest, the sweet smell of damp earth and mast. Somewhere near, an owl hoots; perhaps a companion of Mordred's, coming to beg an easy supper.
He leans his arms against one of the battlements, staring out at the sprawl of the city below, spotted with pinpricks of light. One hand slides beneath his neckerchief to find the familiar weight of Father's signet ring, rubbing his fingertip over the engraved face of it. It's become a habit of his.
After he'd brought Arthur his dinner, Merlin had taken his leave to go see Guinevere and Elyan, curious to finally meet the sibling he's heard so much about. He and Guinevere had spent quite a few nights in the Cockerel commiserating over bothersome elder brothers. Elyan seems quite a warm person, full of good humour and friendliness that apparently even captivity cannot break. It'll be interesting to see how he gets along with the betimes-prickly Will, as Merlin's old friend has taken over working Tom's forge since the blacksmith's death.
Thoughts of Elyan and Will aren't what worry him now, however. No, right now, he is more preoccupied with thoughts of Lord du Bois.
Merlin isn't entirely certain he likes Arthur's uncle all that much. Even without personal interaction to base it upon beforehand, he didn't think all that highly of a father who would let his young daughter journey halfway across the kingdom with only three green lads and a single seasoned warrior as her guard, or one would let her stay away from home an entire summer without once writing to acertain she was indeed well and safe. Now that he has met the man in person, that dislike has found sturdier ground to root in. Mainly, Agravaine's dismissal of Bellegere, his cool detachment in dealing with her. Merlin doesn't like it, but he knows that there's likely to be some who are ill-suited to parenthood.
It isn't something he'll bring to Arthur, at least not now. Oblivious the prat might be from time to time, he does hold a deep and abiding love for his family, part of the reason why he'd invited Agravaine and Bellegere to Camelot in the first place. He's allowed some leeway there, Merlin supposes; he himself would be hard-pressed to ever believe ill of his own mother. He shan't cause strife simply because of his own personal dislike of the man.
What truly concerns him, however, is that whenever Merlin is too near to Agravaine, his magic…shivers. It doesn't prickle and crawl as it does when he stands in places of the dead, nor does it flare up in outright alarm as it had when he faced Alvarr or Nimueh. But somewhere down in the deepest part of himself, his magic shivers to be near to Agravaine du Bois, as though catching wind of some disturbing presence. Akin to smelling smoke on the breeze in the dry season, not certain if it comes from a traveler's cookfire or an uncontrolled blaze in the plains.
Merlin frowns and begins pacing once more, plucking at the cord around his neck.
The reaction isn't one he's used to. He doesn't know what to make of it, in all honesty, and he's not certain whether or not it's even worth mentioning at all. For all he knows, this is some kind of subconscious reaction to his dislike of the man. Perhaps he's finally crossed the line from fretting like a fishwife into being truly paranoid, just as Will constantly jests. Taking a deep breath, Merlin tucks his ring back beneath his tunic and heads back along the walltop towards the stairs.
He'll let it be. Like as not, he's overthinking things.