Title: Child's Play
Summary: AU In a time where magic-users choose between execution and becoming the weapons of Camelot, two boys must choose between what they can and cannot do or each other. Features kid!Merlin and kid!Arthur
Disclaimer: Merlin and all it encompasses is the property of Shine Limited, BBC Wales, and BBC One. I sadly enough, can lay no claim to any of that. Hell, I don't even live in the UK. I had to watch the whole series on youtube…which I then downloaded onto my ipod.
A/N: Sorry I didn't update sooner. Our internet went out due to home renovations. BTW, I made Merlin younger. Not by too much, just ignore the discrepancy from chapter one. It was a decision I came to while writing later chapters and was too lazy to correct it. Okay, here we go!
-o-O-o-
"Not today, Arthur."
"But Father, you promised I could sit with you during the war council."
Uther sighed irately and pinned his young son with a stern glare. Predictably, the stubborn ten year old did not yield.
"Arthur," Uther tried again, holding his temper at bay, "I would have had you attend, but with Anselm's return, the council—"
"Anselm's come back?" Arthur exclaimed incredulously.
"Dammit Arthur, remember your place," Uther barked, his patience for his son's antics wearing thin.
"I'm sorry, Sire," the boy apologized immediately, although the tone suggested he was less apologetic than he was eager to learn about what had transpired with Camelot's elite warrior mage.
Uther suppressed the urge to sigh again. His son was a handful at best and it was times like these that he wished he was gifted with a son that wasn't so much like himself.
He dismissed his son with a wave of his hand. "Go and attend to your studies. I will inform you of what has transpired as soon as I am able."
Arthur was too well bred to huff and stamp out of the room, but as he bowed stiffly and made his exit, he did close the door just a little more loudly than a crown prince ought to do. Uther ruefully mused that perhaps he should have wished for a doting daughter instead.
When Arthur angrily strode into his bedroom, he was met with a smug looking Morgana, idly flipping through his work books, legs swinging freely as she sat perched upon his desk.
"Still think you're too high and mighty to use the sky height?" she asked coyly.
"Still insisting on dressing like a man?" Arthur snapped.
Morgana arched her brow. "You don't expect me to go up those rickety stairs with my skirt hitched up the entire time, do you?"
She slipped off the desk in a fluid motion, unburdened since she wore dark brown breeches and a loose white cotton shirt, the modestly developed breasts of a thirteen year old bound with tightly wound cloth. She headed out the door, winking at her not-quite younger brother, and was ready to close it when Arthur appeared at her side. She shot the younger boy a taunting smile.
"Let's go," he growled, refusing to meet her gaze.
They hurried away through the hall and slipping into one of the service passageways, they set out towards the wooden staircase that would take them to a landing used to service the single sky light for the gathering place of Camelot's war council.
-o-O-o-
The war council room was abuzz with a tense silence. Sir Miles, captain of Uther's personal guard, sat jiggling his leg as if he would have liked nothing better than to be riding a horse out the gates. Lord Byron, one of the King's senior advisors, shifted nervously from foot to foot, while coughing and mumbling inarticulately to himself. Uther's fierce right hand and high constable, Everhard, repeatedly trailed his fingers over his scabbard—the caress of a veteran soldier. Lady Nimueh, as always, sat primly atop of the table, ignoring the expectant looks from many of those assembled. She had been on the mission after all, but she seemed less than willing to share. Godfrey, for his part, yawned and idly began squashing grapes beneath his gloved fingers.
"Do you think it wise that the king's field marshal look bored whilst awaiting a vitally important mission briefing?" Gaius questioned dully.
Godfrey shrugged at the wizened physician and healer. "My rank nor the gravity of the situation makes the waiting any less tedious. Unlike you Gaius, I have to sit through even the most mundane council meetings."
Gaius' eyes twinkled with mirth. "Such is your burden, my friend. I am but a lowly physician, who knows nothing of the machinations of war."
Godfrey bared his teeth in a half-smile, half-grimace. "You know plenty of what transpires on the battlefield Gaius. You wouldn't be here if you didn't."
"No, no I wouldn't, but sometimes I wish I didn't," the elder man replied softly.
"As do we all," Godfrey murmured and the room settled into silence once more.
The minutes stretched by, but finally footsteps could be heard echoing in the hallway outside the chamber doors. The heavy, metal enforced wooden doors swung open, revealing the king, flanked by two of his escorts who dutifully closed the door behind him without entering the exclusive meeting. All those assembled stood and saluted their king, who waved them off with an agitated motion, much like the one he had used on his son, before settling in his appointed seat in the middle of the table.
On queue, the three figures that had thus far been lounging against the wall, materialized from the shadows and moved to the center of the room. In the forefront was Anselm, leader of Camelot's elite squad of warrior mages. His stride was concealed by long, dark navy robes that ghosted along the floor, giving him the appearance that he was floating across it. He was a tall man, lean with angular features and dark, wavy hair that fell about shoulder length. With his build he could have passed for a knight if only for his hands, supple and immaculate, they hung loose at his side, ready to reach into one of many of the robe's inner pockets or the pouches that hung about his belt and lay waste to whatever stood in his way. He was accompanied by his shorter lieutenant who was bald and had grey eyes that reminded one of storm clouds and another who wore black robes with the hood up, concealing his face. Each carried a sack, blood staining through the fabric.
They bowed low, lower than anyone else in the room was required.
"Sire," they chimed in unison.
"Well," the king demanded expectantly.
"As you know from the Lady Nimueh's report we were successful in defeating the dragon. We have collected its hide for armor, its teeth and talons for weapons and other body parts for spell components or various remedies."
To emphasize his point, his lieutenant emptied his sack whereupon the severed head of a gold crowned dragon rolled out onto the stone floor. It was a wretched sight. Its fangs had been removed, some of its scales simply cut away from the imposing face. Its eyes had been gouged out in a brutal fashion, leaving jagged cut marks and nothing but bloody mush.
Some of those assembled had to stay their reactions of fear or disgust.
Uther smiled. Such a beast may have inspired fear or respect once, but now it showed nothing but his triumph.
"We scoured the caves to recover any gold or jewels it may have been hording. We can have it delivered to the treasury as soon as Graham checks for any enchantments."
"Any casualties?" the king asked.
"We lost Cole, Archer, and Sterling. Drake," he nodded towards the cloaked figure, "was heavily wounded; his limp will improve in time."
"Let me see if I understand you correctly, after more than a week with your entire squad and the aid of my Court Magician, you still managed to get three of your men killed and cripple another," Uther said angrily.
"Sire, with all due respect, one does not become the last surviving dragon by being weak or easily defeated."
"Then how did you kill the beast?"
The warrior mage hesitated a fraction of a second before answering.
"We didn't," he replied cryptically.
"What are you saying Anselm?" the king questioned tightly.
Anselm stepped forward and kicked the severed head onto one side. "Do you see the ridges below the eye, Sire?" he asked, indicating the thin folds of scaly skin, "They are an indication of age."
"Yes and—?" Uther snapped.
"They are continuous," Lady Nimueh spoke for the first time, a peculiar smile gracing her lips, "He was the first."
"First what?" Godfrey wondered aloud.
"The first dragon ever born," Anselm clarified.
"He was dying," Nimueh said, her tone indicating surprise and curiosity in equal parts.
The council members turned their attention towards Anselm for an explanation. Unfazed, the warrior mage continued on with his story.
"After the initial attack, the dragon withdrew into the mountain and hid behind its wards. It was old magic, we had to toil for most of the week to tear them down and even then we could not do so without the help of Lady Nimueh. When we did finally break through we discovered the dragon had already been dead for at least two days."
"Residual magic?" Sir Miles guessed.
"No, a powerful ward like that would have disappeared with the dragon's death. For it to have lasted, it would have had to be transferred to something else."
Anselm reluctantly nodded towards the cloaked mage who placed his sack upon the floor and shook out its contents. Of all the things in the world, it was a boy, trussed up and gagged, that fell out of the bag. Steadying himself with his bound hands, he managed to stay in a kneeling position, floppy ebony hair sticking to a blood stained forehead. Bound as he was, the boy couldn't do much more than blink rapidly in the sudden flood of light. His eyes darted around the room with wary consideration as he unconsciously began to inch further away from the surrounding stares, but when his eyes fell on the head of the felled dragon, for an instant his whole body froze before he turned his face away and bowed his head to hide the single tear that snaked down his pallid cheek.
"We found him in the caves, he was the one who maimed Drake," Anselm said.
"So," Nimueh breathed, murmuring softly so that it could not be heard over everyone else's anxious whispering, "He's finally come."
"Let me talk to him. Free his legs, allow him to stand," Uther commanded.
Anselm's lieutenant, Hrothbert, stepped forward and moved his hands over the rough hemp, muttering some charm under his breath, causing the gag and bonds around the boy's knees and ankles to melt away like smoke. Hrothbert stooped down to yank the boy to his feet when the child instantly turned from mourning to snarling beast. He lashed out, fire suddenly leaping from bound hands and into the face of his perceived attacker, who hastily let the child go in order to throw up a shield to protect himself and against the flames that arched towards the council table. Although the shield was sufficient to block the burning heat, many of the council members instinctively flinched away from the spray of fire that smashed against the invisible defense.
Freed, the boy raced towards the door, limping slightly. He thrust his arms out in a desperate motion, brilliant azure eyes flashing molten gold, and the doors to the council chambers burst wide open. Triumph blossomed over the young boy's face as freedom lay but two paces away when it was suddenly blocked by a swirl of dark robes and the imposing figure of Camelot's premier warrior mage. Hand already glowing with the magic he prepared, Anselm's eyes flashed emerald green as he struck his palm into the air.
"Ventas servitas!"
Pure kinetic energy hit the boy at full force, throwing him back nearly a dozen paces where he hit the stone floor like a rag doll and rolled another few feet before coming to a stop. The boy whimpered in obvious pain as he twitched in the attempt to curl up like it would protect him against the worst of the pain.
With little sympathy, Everhard planted a boot on the boy's shoulder and pressed his sword none too gently against his exposed neck. The king's high constable surveyed the child coldly. "Camelot does not take kindly to renegade warlocks, boy. It would be wise to behave."
"Obey, you mean, like dogs," the boy spat.
With contemptuous ease, Everhard grabbed the boy by the neck and tossed him back towards the center of the room. He stumbled and fell only to be grabbed about his collar by the hooded Drake and dragged up once more to stand before the king.
"Stop that, you have punished him enough," Gaius protested indignantly at the boy's rough handling, although it fell on deaf ears.
"How is he doing this? He's just a boy!" Uther roared, enraged by the unfettered shock generated by the unforeseen attack. His attention shifted back to the child. "Where did you learn magic from? Who taught you?!"
The boy looked over at the mutilated corpse, forcing words past his swollen and bloody lip. "He did."
"That's-not-possible!" was Lord Byron's strangled outburst.
"This is but one of many instances this boy has used his magic attempting to evade capture and each time I have yet to hear him utter a single incantation. It is unheard of," Anselm insisted.
"Perhaps not, what about blood? Strong magic is often inherited, is it not?" Godfrey reasoned intelligently, "Who are your parents boy? What is your name?"
"I don't know. I don't think I have parents."
The boy was so frank it was hard to believe that he could be lying.
"And your name?" Godfrey prompted.
"I have many, but I lay no claim to them…not yet anyway," the boy answered absently.
Everhard's fingers drummed impatiently against his naked blade.
"I won't stand for this. Sire, kill the boy and be done with it. It matters little whether he is the devil's spawn or has somehow learned to use dark magic. How are we to explain that Camelot's finest," Everhard sneered derisively, "was bested by a child and his pet dragon? It's bad enough that they had to enlist the aid of a woman. Had our knights been the ones dispatched we would have come victorious or not at all and maintained our honor."
Anselm remained silent although his lips curled in obvious displeasure.
In the wake of his anger, Uther schooled his expression into a stoic mask. "Court Magician, Anselm, I will have your opinion on this before I pass judgment."
Anselm's answer would have been instantaneous if not for the sudden increase of pressure on his ear drums, as if he had suddenly been submerged underwater. An unnatural quiet blanketed the council rooms and time momentarily ceased to exist except for Anselm and the predatory gaze of the Lady Nimueh, the edges of the room darkening into impenetrable shadow.
"What were you going to so say Anselm?" she asked languidly.
"The boy's too dangerous. He should be executed."
Nimueh laughed, although it was utterly devoid of mirth and began to twirl about the room aimlessly. "You have spent too much time in the company of these," she stopped before the frozen face of Everhard, "imbeciles. You are beginning to sound just like them," she twittered mockingly.
"To a certain extent, Everhard is right," Anselm reasoned.
"And he is a fool. A woman—ha! I could destroy him with less than a thought," Nimueh snarled.
"Then why don't you, great Priestess?" Anselm challenged.
"I could leave any time I choose," she stated simply. "You know as well as I that if we had struck then, Uther and his brood would have accumulated more support and we would have been destroyed once and for all. We are here today because we adapted and now we are in a position to not only crush Uther, but seize Camelot for ourselves. This boy is what we've been waiting for."
Anselm shook his head. "No, I won't go along with it. The boy is too unpredictable, too unstable to be an asset. I saw this nameless little urchin impale Drake's leg with a stalactite without even flinching."
Nimueh surged toward him in a liquid wave of rage. "You would betray me, for them?! These fools who don't even respect us when we are more powerful than they could ever be. They treat you like they would their dog," she hissed, purposefully repeating the boy's words, "Is that what you have been reduced to, my apprentice? Nothing more than a tool to be used by people who are far beneath you?"
Anselm's hands curled into fists as Nimueh's words left a stinging slap to his already whipped and smarting ego. There had been a time when people wouldn't dare cross paths with him. He was pretty young when he came into his powers, mid-twenties or so and as a young man with power readily at his command, he had problems with authority. If some Lord tried to put him in his place, he would call up fire so hot it would burn that pompous degenerate's house in a matter of seconds. Now he was required to bow as low as a common servant would. His power was leashed, restrained, and used for another man's purpose and he hated it. There wasn't a single moment where he cursed himself twice over for not dying a heroic death on the battlefield of Uther's takeover.
"And as for Drake," she continued, "He deserved what he got. He should know better than to be defacing a fallen dragon like an uneducated cretin. What say you now, mighty Anselm?"
Anselm sighed. "What's your plan?"
Nimueh practically purred in satisfaction. Crazy bitch.
"Push the boy hard, make his life a living hell and make sure to remind him frequently of who exactly is responsible for making his life a waking nightmare. We need him to hate Uther while being sympathetic to us so that when the time comes he will only be too glad to tear down the walls of Camelot around the king's ears," her eyes flicked over to the piercing blue stare of the young warlock, "We should return. He is trying to listen."
She lazily strode back to her place at Uther's side, hips swaying gently, causing her dress to flutter in a nonexistent wind. Not quite looking at him, she added casually, "And Anselm, the next time you go against me, remember who vouched for you when Uther was burning people alive. I could always arrange for that to be changed. I showed you mercy then, perhaps you could do the same for this boy."
"Mercy would be to let him die," he muttered, plenty loud enough for the sorceress to hear.
If she did hear him, she chose not to reply as she gracefully descended into her seat and with a snap of her fingers—a snap was so sharp Anselm had to resist the urge to check if his eardrums hadn't ruptured—time began to move again, the darkness bleeding back to whatever abyss it originally came from.
The boy's eyes bored into him unnervingly. Anselm mentally cursed. That boy was far too perceptive to be underestimated. Manipulating him would not be an easy task and happily enough, it was going to be him, not Nimueh who would be doing most of the work.
Uther turned to his right. "Lady Nimueh?"
"Give him the choice of all fledging mages. Serve Camelot or die as its enemy. Allow him to take the oath, Sire. He has much to offer. If you were to show mercy you would be showing wisdom as well." Nimueh smiled encouragingly.
"This is ridiculous. He is too young to take an oath of that magnitude," Gaius rebuked.
"Gaius as Chief Physician and Healer as well as my friend, I appreciate your opinion, but remember your place in this council is but an honorary one," Uther reminded him, though not unkindly, "The boy has no legal guardians. It has to be his decision. What say you boy?"
"No. I won't take the oath." It was a barely audible whisper.
"No?" Uther repeated, "You would choose death boy?"
"Milord, perhaps I can try talking to him?" Drake suggested.
The king nodded his consent and Drake stooped down, a little slowly so as not to aggravate his still healing leg and deliberately pulled back his hood to reveal a face marred by a slaver's brand on his right cheek. He leaned close to the boy's ear and although his tone suggested it was just between the two of them, he spoke loud enough for all of those gathered to hear.
"There will be no martyrdom for you, boy. No death before the open skies. It will be somewhere in the deepest part of this castle where no one can hear you beg to be spared or scream for death to take you. There will be a ritual, dark and old. We can't risk you leaving us a nasty little death curse. We will bleed you. It can take hours, the agony drawing past your final breath, and after every single last drop is harvested, we will mix it with oil and use it as fuel to burn the pieces of your unrecognizable and mutilated body until there isn't anything left of you, not even ash and you will die alone, like you never existed, just like that dragon did."
The boy trembled like a leaf, fear fever bright within his eyes. Reflected in those eyes was that primal fear of being eaten alive by those nameless evils lurking in the night. Only this time, what had just been the vague sense of glowing eyes peering from the darkness became real and they stood before him, not beasts but man, but monsters all the same.
The boy shuddered as if in pain and uttered but one word. "No."
The boy stared death in the face and spat in it.
Even Anselm felt a little respect for that boy. He was scared shitless and yet he stood by whatever meager principles he had and inside Anselm's most inner self, he felt a pang of envy for the boy's courage, a courage he had been without in his own time.
Nimueh shot him an expectant look, prompting him to speak.
"Milord, the boy is still young and for us, a wizard's promise is binding. He may not be able to give his oath. Perhaps if we give him some time to adjust. We found him practically in the wilds. He does not know what it is to serve for the greater good…"
'You have no idea,' the boy thought miserably to himself.
"…we should teach him, nurture his talents so that someday he could be a great asset to our cause. Give him a year or so and he may be willing to serve."
Lies came easily to Anselm. So much so that he didn't even vomit after saying the exact opposite of what he had said earlier, although he could have sworn there was a nasty taste in the back of his throat somewhere.
Uther took the time to ask the rest of the council what they thought on the matter, getting an equal amount of 'wait and see' as 'kill him'.
"Very well, after due consideration I have decided to spare the young warlock. He has until the beginning of winter to decide on his fate," turning his attention to the boy, he said, "Mark my words boy, if you try and escape during these coming months I won't hesitate to have you executed. If he does anything else," he added, his attention back on Anselm, "have him flogged. What will you do with him now?"
"I will start him off with Master Graham and the other trainees to assess his skills."
"Rest assured milord, we will monitor him closely," Nimueh said. "Perhaps if he was to board with another mage…"
"Your majesty, I would like to request that I supervise the boy's stay here in Camelot," Gaius interrupted, standing from his place at the table.
"This is rather sudden Gaius. Why do you ask for such a responsibility?" Uther questioned.
"As you said milord, my place here is merely a formality. Therefore, I could act as a neutral party during the time before the boy must make his decision. If it is required, I can act as guardian to the child until that time comes."
The boy stared at the older man, stunned. Nimueh's eyes briefly betrayed the annoyance she felt.
Uther nodded. "Then it is settled. In one month's time this council will convene once more to finally determine this boy's fate. Until that time, Gaius will act as the boy's guardian. This meeting is adjourned."
Some of those assembled bled away while others stayed. Gaius gently laid a hand on the boy's shoulder and steered him in the direction of his quarters. Drake's eyes followed them as they left and the boy shivered, hurrying to keep up with the elder man's gait.
"I'm afraid you have made a dangerous enemy, my boy," Gaius observed.
The boy didn't dare look back.
-o-O-o-
"Thank god I didn't have to go to the actual war council. Then I actually would have had to have listened. It was boring as arse," Arthur griped in between a gargantuan yawn.
Morgana rolled her eyes. "You are a pig, you know that?"
Arthur shrugged, nonplussed. "Killed a dragon, caught a stupid kid. We've got a new mageling, hoorah. Let's get Kenneth and see if we can find where they've stashed the dragon head."
The pair mounted the stairs and began their descent.
"What do you think Drake said to convince the kid to join?" Morgana asked.
Arthur shrugged disinterestedly. "Who knows, it must not have been very convincing though."
"Mmmnn," she agreed absently, carefully considering what she was going to say next. "Arthur?"
"Yes, Morgana?"
"For a moment, during the middle of the council, did you feel something…odd?" Morgana asked hesitantly.
"Like what, the urge to fall asleep?"
"No, it was like everyone stopped talking and there was this buzzing…"
"No, I didn't hear anything as remotely interesting as buzzing. Would you hurry up," Arthur said impatiently.
Morgana quickened her pace, but couldn't shake the feeling that during the council something had made everything go quiet and that buzzing was the sound of someone else talking instead. She was sure of it. Then again, she was sure her dreams were real too.
And those were only right half the time.
-o-O-o-
REGAURDING LAGUAGE: I honestly try to keep more old style medieval-esque language tone and frequently try and throw out pesky contractions or modern day vernaculars, but I'm not perfect, so deal. Although I do give Arthur a little more leeway with slang since he's a kid and would talk less proper. I am also not English, so English terminology is not my forte. There's only so much that can be learned from one' s doubles partner.
STORY NOTE: The name Hrothbert, Anselm's bald lieutenant in the story, is an early derivative of the name Robert.
MEDIEVAL RANKS (according to wikipedia):
High Constable (Everhard)- "commander-in-chief" to local constables, commanders of the major castle garrisons. Also head of cavalry.
Field Marshal (Godfrey)- Chief of logistics and the officer that set up the army's camp
Captain (Miles)- heads a company
Lieutenant (Hrothbert)- a captain's second
Sergeant (Drake)- receives orders from higher ranked officers rather than king
Corporal- heads a squad (NOTE: Anselm is more of a captain, but because he commands such a small group of warriors and because mages aren't considered vital parts of the military, he retains a sort of lower rank)