A/N: It occurs to me I might want to give warning for some… hm, hints of underage and noncon intentions/possibilities…

Chapter 6: Sarra

"You're not a child anymore," her grandfather had told her.

And the excitement of going along! sobered to the fact that he hadn't requested her presence for its own sake, for love and family and genuine personal interest, this time either.

"Nobility always has its price," her grandfather had continued. "This is yours. It is time you learned to sacrifice for your kingdom."

Sarra remembered how her heart had thrilled to what seemed like a challenge, only a few short days ago. Try me, let me prove my loyalty. She would never be a man to train and fight in tournaments or in battle – but she could demonstrate the depth of her fidelity with her body, just like the knights did. She could face the unknown, and whatever pain or injury came, just like the knights did.

She wished she didn't have to do it alone.

And realized, at the first banquet at Tamwyrth, she wasn't going to do it alone.

He would be there. But would he turn out to be an enemy, or a comrade? the sorcerer of Camelot.

Sarra didn't like her grandfather's sorcerer. He was old and unclean and looked at her in a way that raised hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. Trickler was a perfect name for him, given by her grandfather in the same way as the dogs in the kennels and the horses in the stables were given their names. She avoided Trickler. He was silly; he pretended to be silly; she was sure he was capable of great cruelty and the most twisted of dark spells.

Would Camelot's sorcerer be like him?

It wasn't easy, but she managed more than one glimpse of him and his fellows, the second day – ignoring her maid and her guards and wandering where she pleased about the castle, in search but not wishing to be seen, herself.

He was young; she appreciated that much. Tall and slender and black-haired. He had an expressive face, that gave her pause. Did he show what he wished people to see, affecting concentration or cheer, hiding deeper and darker motivation? She wasn't sure; she had not seen enough of him to know for sure.

His king was young, too, and many of the knights that wore red. The king intimidated her; every move was fast and strong and he seemed to wear a frown more often than any other expression. His sorcerer watched him the way Trickler watched her grandfather, gauging his mood and his reactions – but there was no fear in the sorcerer's face when his king was brusque. It was… concern. Genuine, it might be.

And even though the young king frowned, his men – neither knights nor sorcerer – didn't cringe or stiffen. They laughed; they threw their arms over each other's shoulders to stride together down hallways – and both sorcerer and king were occasionally subjected to these displays of physical attention. And neither of them lost their tempers.

Sarra dared to hope, for one of the two outcomes of fulfilling her duty. Even if he hated her, she dared to hope, if he lived, he would not shout or hit her.

If he wasn't the sort of man to raise his voice or his fist, then she did want him to live.

The second night, Sarra learned that anticipation was not a knight's friend. She felt sick to her stomach with trepidation, of keeping herself to the course of duty that had been chosen for her, of holding to resolve rather than breaking down in frightened tears. She made no attempt to attend the feast, pleading a headache – which was more ladylike than a stomachache – and having her dinner brought to her chamber.

Her maid left it with a sympathetic look – as if she suspected something of what Sarra's duty was to be – but no word, since it wasn't a servant's place to speak first. Many times Sarra had wished things were different, growing up in her grandfather's castle. Her parents and elder brother – barely remembered in faint flashes – dead of the plague. Her uncle, the heir, busy with his own affairs – one woman after another, she gathered from gossip overheard about the castle. And her grandfather's recollection of her as a ward, very much like her recollection of her family. It would have been nice to have a friend. Not just, the half-dozen other noble girls about the castle with whom she took lessons and was supposed to keep company; they had their families to go home to. But… someone special. Someone hers.

Sarra was used to lying awake in her bed, curled up and alone and lonely, as the long hours of an early evening passed, and no one thought of her. Books helped, but she had not thought to bring any with her to Tamwyrth. As if she could have focused on the written word, when she expected the sorcerer through her door at any moment, really, and then he would…

"Let him do with you as he pleases," she'd been instructed. "Do not fight, do not scream. It should be over fairly quickly – your life will be in no danger, and you will be properly cared for in the morning."

She held her pillow tightly, resting one shoulder against the headboard, trying to keep her breathing steady and her heartbeat calm. Trying not to hear every sound outside her door…

And when a fumbling touch released the latch, she inhaled in sudden quiet panic because – he was enormous. She didn't remember the sorcerer was that large. From the bed she watched him stumble to the last candle left alight on her side table, and – he was wearing chainmail, as a knight, and his hair was very short and golden in the single flame.

It was the wrong man.

How could it be the wrong man? Should she scream, after all?

Something had gone wrong, and that fact terrified her. There was no one in control, anymore. No one but the stranger – the candle fell and extinguished - in the dark.

He struggled out of his clothes, and she hid her eyes. He was audibly ill, and she shivered. When he slumped onto the bed, she shrank away.

And nothing happened.

Moments passed, and her body began to calm all on its own – if she'd been a knight, she would have known that the state of heightened tension could not last unsupported.

He remained motionless, and she relaxed.

More time passed, and she could not convince herself that he was still awake. And then she wondered if so much time had passed, that everyone else in Tamwyrth had gone to sleep but her.

Perhaps her sacrifice was to be made in the morning?

The stranger was atop the covers. She didn't tug, but slowly and carefully nestled down, keeping her legs drawn up for the warmth, resting her head on the pillows. Resting her eyes…

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

When Sarra woke, there was a gleam of daylight at the curtains of the window. She shifted in her nest of bedding and felt that the blankets were still pinned, on the other side of the bed, by the stranger's body. Since he still lay unmoving, she shifted a little more to stretch out her legs, and lift herself onto her elbows.

It was definitely the wrong man. One of the knights, and he still looked enormous. Interesting, though; she'd never seen a man's naked back. She watched him breathe, watched the muscles so close under his skin move minutely and calmly, traced the jut of bone in his shoulders and the shallow line of his spine. She could probably count the freckles randomly dotting his skin…

Across the room, the door opened.

It was Estyr, her maid, in a fresh cap and apron, carrying a silver pitcher in both hands. Eyes on its contents – water, Sarra guessed – so she was two steps inside the room before she noticed him. Estyr gasped, eyes wide, and almost dropped the pitcher.

Sarra reacted without thinking, putting a finger to her lips. An urgent request for silence, that the sleeping man would not be disturbed.

Estyr closed her mouth. After a moment, the maid moved toward the side table – blinking distastefully at the tumbled boots and discarded mail. She grimaced outright, but made no sound, setting down the pitcher she'd brought, and gingerly picking up the basin. Sarra remembered the sound of vomiting, and pitied Estyr the chore of cleaning; her maid only rearranged her face into blank impassivity, and bobbed a smooth curtsy without meeting Sarra's eyes. A moment later, the door clicked shut behind her.

The sound seemed to penetrate the man's sleep. He grunted, and Sarra discovered she did not want to meet him lying down, after all. Slipping out from between the covers, she retrieved her over-robe and shoved the curtain behind its hook on the wall to let in the morning light, before creeping carefully around the other side of the bed.

His eyes were still closed, though there was a line between his brows, the same light brown as the hair-bristle on his head. His arm, on this side, lay palm-up, down along his side and hip – and there was a tiny pink scratch just below his thumb.

She recognized him, then, though he was horizontal and his face half-mashed into the sheet. It was the knight who'd helped her rescue the kitten in town, yesterday.

That made her smile, and sigh with relief.

Except that, he was waking up.

His face drew into a frown, and he pulled his arm up, as if to push his body away from the mattress. He lifted himself up only enough to turn his face the other direction – relaxed for a moment – then turned back, groaning aloud as he bent his near leg for his knee's help in separating his body from the bed.

He slurred a word – someone's name? she thought. And went on, speaking slowly and half-incoherently.

"Feel like hell. Worst night… 'S there any water?"

One foot, then the other, tumbled over the side of the bed to the floor, and he pushed himself upright. She'd never seen a man's naked chest before, either, and felt herself blushing, before he rubbed one hand over his eyes to allow thumb and fingers to squeeze his temples.

Headache, probably, she sympathized. And fetched a silver goblet to pour half full of water for him.

" 'Re you even there, Gwaine?" he whispered hoarsely, before she was through.

His whole body bent over, forehead propped on the back of his hand, that didn't help hold it up. She dared to approach him, holding out the cup.

"Here's water," she said, making sure to keep her voice quiet, out of consideration for his headache – and because she still wasn't sure what let him do as he pleases entailed, and whether it still applied, if he was the wrong man.

But he didn't move, and she focused on the hand bracing himself on the edge of the mattress, moving the goblet closer.

"Here. It's just by your hand…" She brushed his hardened knuckles lightly, and his hand responded automatically, opening to allow his fingers to grasp.

She looked up to see that he'd raised his head, his eyes wide open, gazing at her. His mouth drooped slightly in bewilderment and shock.

"Who –" he said. "Where –" And ignored the water she'd given him to stare about the room. "This isn't my chamber," he concluded hoarsely.

"No," she said. "It's mine."

He gaped at her another long moment, seeming almost amusingly childlike in his incomprehension. "Who are you?"

"I'm Lady Sarra," she said. "I'm the granddaughter of –"

He didn't seem to be listening to her answer. His eyes roved the room again, lingering on her jacket over a chair, one side of the wardrobe open to show the gowns that had been packed for this trip by her maid. When he'd twisted all the way around, his glance fell last upon the bed behind him, the sheets mussed by her last night's sleep – he startled so badly he was on his feet before he was steady.

"What – " he said, gesturing at the bed with the goblet. "What… did… we – what did I –"

"Nothing," she said immediately, though she wasn't sure why. He'd gone as white as the sheets, as if afraid he might have rolled over and crushed her while they were asleep. "It's all right. I'm all right. You slept very hard – were you ill?"

"Was I…"

He trailed off, focusing on the goblet in his hand, as if he'd forgotten he was holding it. Then dashed it down on the side table so suddenly and hurriedly it slopped over his hand – but that was forgotten in an instant also, as he seemed to realize his state of undress.

"Oh! My lady, I…" He swooped down on a rust-red garment, a sort of long-waisted jacket without sleeves.

Instinctively she backed a step – he was very large and very fast – but he concentrated on his buttons, awkward and crooked. Then his boots, one after the other, hopping a bit in a way that might have been amusing at another time.

Then, gathering up his tunic, chainmail and sword-belt in his hands, "I offer the profoundest apologies for my offense, Lady Sarra. Please believe it was an honest mistake, and if I…" He glanced her over quickly, before dropping his gaze and flushing. "I'm so sorry. I must have frightened you very badly."

"Only at first," she admitted. "A little. But then you were asleep, and – you're not very scary when you're sleeping."

He didn't smile, but shook his head as if it still wasn't clear. "If I… woke you when I came in. Why didn't you scream, or… yell at me to get out?"

Sarra hesitated. She'd been told not to scream, so she hadn't. But was she supposed to tell him that?

"I'm sorry," he blurted again, before she could say anything. "This isn't your fault, it's mine. It's just… I don't… do, this sort of thing, and… I can't imagine why it… happened."

He looked very like a little boy in his confusion; Sarra felt sorry for that, and his shock, and his headache, and took pity.

"Because you drank from the wrong cup," she told him.

He looked right at her, puzzlement beginning to clear because – he knew exactly what she was talking about.

But before either of them could say a single word more, the door slammed open, all the way into the wall, and two of her grandfather's knights stormed in. Behind them she glimpsed two more in Mercian blue.

Her knight reacted immediately, sidestepping in front of her and drawing three inches of the sword from the belt in his left fist.

"Sheathe that now!" the elder of her grandfather's knights, Sir Hectyr, ordered furiously, pointing, as the other tensed and laid hand to the hilt of his own weapon. "You're under arrest for the violation of Her Ladyship, Sarra the granddaughter of King Alined."

"Granddaughter?" her big knight said, and slid his sword back into the sheathe. "King Alined? Oh…"

He slumped slightly, and her grandfather's knights approached to take hold of his arms. One of the Mercian knights entered to seize his chainmail and sword out of his hands.

"Wait a moment," Sarra said, her pulse quickening at her own daring. "Where are you taking him?"

"Before the kings," Sir Hectyr told her, somewhat sharply.

"And Arthur also?" Sarra's knight asked.

Sir Hectyr nodded, and yanked his prisoner toward the door. Sarra hesitated, then picked up the skirts of her dressing gown and bed-robe to follow.

They were very rough with him, though she didn't see any sign that he resisted them, and no one spoke a word. She trotted behind her grandfather's knights and their prisoner, the two Mercians behind her in escort, aware and scared of the fact that several people saw them, along the way. Maybe not scared, exactly. More – nervous and embarrassed.

They came before the three kings in the small receiving chamber where the introductions had been made, the first day when they arrived. Though the party from Camelot had followed them by a significant enough amount of time, she had been excused to rest in her chamber.

So she knew right away the names of half the men in the room. There was their host King Bayard, and his son Prince Wolfrick, both looking thunderously displeased. Her grandfather, of course, looking livid in a way that made her want to turn and flee, back to the safety of her room and the bedcovers over her head. She didn't.

The other three men – the golden-haired king, the armorless sorcerer, and the loudest of their knights – turned immediately when they entered, king and sorcerer each expressionless in a stern sort of way. All three seemed to see her in an instant, but the knight took two quick steps toward his restrained comrade.

Exclaiming, "Percival! What the hell!"

Percival was his name. She thought it was a nice name; it sounded noble and kind.

"It was as the maid said, my lord," Sir Hectyr reported, addressing Sarra's grandfather. "He was still in her chamber, yet only half-clothed."

"Sir Percival of Camelot," Bayard began, "you are hereby charged with the rape of the Lady –"

"She's a child, Percival," the king of Camelot said, disappointment and disgust faint and bewildered, but present.

And the sorcerer, before his king was even done speaking, interrupted to ask, "What happened?"

Sir Percival dropped his head, mute before the accusation.

Sarra blurted, "It wasn't his fault!"

All the men's eyes on her at once was hugely intimidating. She lifted her chin – but had to cringe when her grandfather spat, "Silence!"

Which he broke himself, when the attention turned to him, with surprise that bordered on shock. Her grandfather rearranged his expression, like she'd seen him do lots of times, to smile at her like he hadn't meant the tone or order the way it sounded.

"I mean to say, what an awful ordeal this night must have been for you, my dear." King Alined stepped to her side, gripping her shoulders and kissing the hair at the center of her forehead. "Surely you wish to retire to your chamber til you recover as much as is possible, under the circumstances. We can talk later, when you feel ready-"

"I'm fine," she told him. Her instinct was to obey, but there was this mistake, the wrong man had come, and surely her grandfather's words meant he'd been worried about her. "He didn't hurt me at all. He didn't touch me."

"Be quiet and go to your room," her grandfather ordered, glaring because his back was to the rest of the men in the room; she fell back half a step. "You there, escort my granddaughter –"

"Wait one moment!" the golden-haired king interrupted, striding forward with one hand outstretched. "She said he didn't touch her."

"She's in shock!" her grandfather snarled, rounding on him.

Arthur, wasn't it, of Camelot. He didn't so much as flinch, turning to Bayard. "I'll not have my knight condemned on conjecture and coincidence, if there's a witness who can tell the truth of the matter."

"He was in my granddaughter's bedchamber all night – that is neither conjecture nor coincidence!" Alined protested to the king of Mercia, letting go of Sarra's shoulders. "I want him executed immediately!"

"No!" Sarra exclaimed, horrified. Her big knight darted her a curious glance, past the two who still held him in place.

"This is completely unlike Sir Percival," King Arthur argued. "I'm sure there must be some explanation."

"You mayn't speak to her – I won't allow it!" Alined declared.

King Arthur looked furious, and Sarra was glad he was not glaring at her. "I won't allow my knight to face unearned punishment – and he will absolutely not be executed!"

She exhaled in relief – and couldn't deny a flare of admiration for this king. Her grandfather would have rejected rather than championing a knight in disgrace.

"Peace, Your Majesties," Bayard demanded, scowling. "Let us not forget the reasons that brought us together here."

He paused for them to remember their diplomacy, and Sir Percival spoke quietly into the silence, directly to his king as if they were alone in the room. "I'm sorry, sire, please believe I was trying to avoid this."

"What do you mean," King Arthur said, still somewhat impatient. "Percival, how did this happen?"

Her knight cast her another sideways glance, his head still down. "I… I wish I could say, my lords."

Something wordless but significant passed between the young king and his sorcerer as they looked at each other, then the black-haired young man stepped to Sir Percival, caught between her grandfather's knights. He raised his head, startled, as the sorcerer seized his face in his hands. Sarra swallowed a gasp as the sorcerer's eyes glinted gold for a moment – before he released the big knight to study him another moment blue-eyed.

"Merlin?" King Arthur said.

That, Sarra thought, was a very good name for the young sorcerer.

"He's been enchanted," Merlin said, turning back to the two kings. Percival exhaled softly, shoulders slumping a degree in the grasp of his keepers. "It's only residual now, either not strong enough or not meant to last."

"Alined," Arthur growled. She noticed his hands were fists at his sides.

"Why do you aim your accusations at me?" Her grandfather snapped. "Yours is the only magic-user present, if there's an enchantment, it's his doing."

"That's preposterous," Arthur said coldly. "Why on earth would I have my sorcerer enchant my own knight to – to –" He gestured, as if at a loss to explain the purpose of the magic worked.

"Maybe he did it of his own accord," King Alined suggested.

"Merlin would never," Arthur retorted immediately.

Sarra noticed that both Sir Percival and the other knight – long dark hair, short beard – wore expressions of offense and protest, also.

"You cannot claim your knight is innocent of wrongdoing because magic was involved, and that your sorcerer is also innocent," Alined said. "It is either one or the other who is to blame."

"He was your servant while Uther was alive," Bayard said to Arthur. "Was he ever ill-treated? Perhaps he bears a long grudge."

"No," Arthur said adamantly. The dark-haired knight whose name she didn't know growled in the back of his throat like a wolf. Merlin was quiet, his eyes on his king.

"Can you be so certain," Prince Wolfrick said, with skepticism.

Sir Percival tipped his head, enough to meet Sarra's eyes, and there was a pleading look there. Sarra clasped her hands together over her heart; she didn't know what she could do to stop it, but kings arguing frightened her. Arthur did not turn on his sorcerer, either, did not place blame or threaten punishment for failings real or perceived. He trusted his men and was trying to protect them at his own expense, and it occurred to her, that they would do the same.

Holding her eyes, Percival said, slowly but clearly, "Because I drank from the wrong cup."

That silenced them all again. His king and his sorcerer looked at Percival.

Bayard said, "I beg your pardon?"

"There was a cup," Percival said softly. "Set at our table, and Merlin had nothing to do with it. I suspected that there might be something wrong…"

King Arthur swore, calmly and foully, that made her cheeks warm to hear; the sorcerer huffed a grim little chuckle. Bayard looked furious again.

"So I drank it," Percival went on. "It made me feel… ill, and wrong. I thought I'd reached my king's room – I didn't want to cause a scene…"

The golden-haired king nudged his sorcerer so hard he had to shift a step to keep his balance.

"So he was drunk, and mistook the room," Alined said loudly. "That still doesn't-"

"Enchanted, not drunk," Merlin interrupted. Sarra blinked at his temerity. Impressed, because – he was brave; he didn't cower or whimper but seized the attention of the kings. "How did you know, Percival? You said, the wrong cup. How did you know?"

A/N: The inspiration for this romance came from Tennyson's Merlin and Vivian, though it's Sir Sagramore that's accused of taking a too-young wife by force, and Merlin excuses the knight as having made a mistake similar to Percival's here (though without the deliberately roofied wine).