- Four -
What on Earth had he just done? In front of all those people?
He quickened his pace, folding his arms tightly over his chest. The tips of his ears were burning. He did not stop walking away along the corridor leading from the hall, away from the feast and the people who had seen him do what he had. He did not stop until he reached the Eastern corridor.
Stepping out of the junction, Balinor heaved a deep sigh, and fell back to lean against the wall to the right. Thoughts of his antics, however unintentional they may have been at first, tormented him.
It was not so much what he had done, but that he had done it. The very idea made him anxious. He hadn't even wanted to dance. He just hadn't wanted to disappoint Nimueh when she had seemed so set on it. Disappointing others was perhaps one of his biggest fears. Seeing the look on someone's face when he let them down...
Quite where it had come from, he could not be sure. Probably from his set future as a Dragonlord. It was such a weighty duty, passed with pride from his forefathers for countless generations. There was a great responsibility on his thin shoulders. Not only to one day inherit the sacred gift and become a Dragonlord, to take charge of the great creatures, but also to continue the line. It was his duty – his responsibility – to father a son to one day inherit his gifts. If he did not, then his ancient line would end with him.
Even that should not be beyond his ability. All he had to do was find somebody willing to put up with him for the rest of their life. That was the hard part. The son part was supposedly easy, and given his understanding of how these things worked, should follow soon after. His first born would be a son. The first born of every Dragonlord was always a son, born specifically to inherit the sacred duty. It was a quirk specific to his people. Even he shouldn't be able to mess that up.
He huffed and knocked his head back lightly against the solid stone wall at his back. That was all redundant unless some delusional woman decided that he was attractive enough for such things. That was unlikely. Yes, he was friendly and outgoing enough, but also awkward, and thin, and gangly as a newborn colt. He could barely stand up for more than five minutes before tripping over something, or himself, or bumping his head on thin air. The way he felt when he thought about his future there was always a deep sense of having failed before he had even begun. There was nothing attractive about him in the slightest. He may as well be an assortment of sticks bundled into a scarecrow and held together with old twine. He certainly moved like one, should somebody decide for some reason to animate such an unlikely creation. How was he supposed to be all that he was expected to be? No dragon would do as they were told by such a small, spindly wisp of nothing.
His father assured him that he would fill out and lose the remainder of his childhood angles as he grew to manhood, but Balinor had trouble seeing it. He had been little for as long as he could remember. It was all well and good for his father to make assurances on those quiet occasions he caught his son staring at himself in the mirror. His father was tall, and broad-shouldered. He commanded a presence that no man could deny. Balinor could not recall if it had come with the Dragonlord inheritance. Rion had always commanded a presence in his life, so important to his son as he was.
There was no doubt, however, when Rion stood before a dragon, when he spoke to them in their ancient tongue, and called upon the voice shared between dragon and Dragonlord, they would defer to him and obey his command.
It was a sight that always left Balinor speechless, watching as the great beasts yielded to his father, lowered themselves close to the ground and bowed their heads in respect and deference before him. It both awed and terrified the boy. To see such power, such infinite creatures of magic bow down to a mere man, and to know that one day he would be the one calling for the same respect to be shown to him... that scared Balinor to death.
Nimueh wanted to know why he let Uther treat him the way that he did? What he had told her was true, but not the whole truth. There was more to it than friendship and helping him to be a better person. Uther, for all his differences and awful, awful flaws, was a kindred spirit. Uther understood. Both boys had been born with a purpose in mind, a destiny neither could escape. Uther understood what Balinor felt so entrapped by, because he felt exactly the same way.
What they would one day be was both exhilarating and frightening. To be surrounded every day by people holding expectations of you was soul crushing. In one another they had found what the other so sorely needed. A friend.
Somebody with whom they could just be themselves. Two rambunctious teenage boys, out to drink too much and have a good time, engaging in a bit of rough and tumble and getting into trouble along the way.
Balinor blinked hard and shook his head at himself. All this from being embarrassed? He trips over in public and goes into a complete mental meltdown?
Because others had seen his mishaps and he had not been able to pick himself up, dust himself down and treat it like a joke. To brush it off as though nothing had happened. Everyone fell over now and again. Fell up the odd step, or stubbed one of their ten toes on an object of random origin. Everybody did that. Not everybody was incapable of taking two steps without falling flat on their face. Every stumble felt like a disappointment, made him anxious and prone to tripping again. It did not fit with expectations of a future Dragonlord to be clumsy. A future jester perhaps, but not a Dragonlord. Especially not one to the Court of Camelot.
He was a giant idiot.
Saddened at himself, he moved to head along the corridor to the tower and Gaius' chambers. There was no question of going back to the hall, not when he had been put on public display the way he had. The only option was to go to his room, curl up in bed and snooze. Pretend nothing had happened. That was usually the best way to deal with embarrassment. By morning, after having slept on his dilemma, he may have come up with a way to brush it off, gained the ability to laugh at it and joke the way he normally did.
Passing by a column, he gasped as a hand shot out and closed around his wrist, tugging him to the balustrade overlooking the moonlit courtyard below.
His breath left him, his back meeting the cool stone of the column as he found himself pushed back against it.
Nimueh held him there, her small hands grasping his forearms as she stared up at him in an almost predatory manner. Balinor's surprise did not register with her, those deep blue eyes of hers roving his face, settling a moment on his defined cheekbones, his dark eyes, and thin lips.
"I knew that there was something about you." She murmured, her voice low, quiet, as though she did not want anyone else to hear. "I have not been able to stop thinking about you since this morning, when you showed me your magic."
Balinor swallowed. "My Lady-"
She did not let him speak any further, rising on tiptoes and crushing her lips against his. Her grip on his arms tightened, forcing him back against the pillar without chance of escape.
Balinor stared down at her, wide-eyed. She was...? She was really...? But... they shouldn't...
Her hands moved from his forearms, sliding up to his shoulders and on to trail his cheekbones and twine long fingers through his unruly, dark hair. Her lips brushed lightly against his, refraining in their kisses a moment that she nibbled gently at his lower lip.
He could not hold back any longer. He raised his hands to softly cup her cheeks, and lowered his head to reciprocate her advances with the same fervour and passion as she had begun this embrace.
His hands slid from her cheeks, to her bare shoulders and down to rest at the small of her back. He pulled her to him, holding her against him. She gasped lightly, fuelling his fire that he returned her kisses with renewed vigour, almost ferociously.
She fought back, pushing herself against him, pinning him to the pillar. Her own hands began to wander, curious fingertips descending over his chest, stroking down his sides, around his belt to his back, and down.
Balinor jumped, but made no move to break their embrace. He could not if he tried. Perhaps she had enchanted him?
A foolish notion, he chastised himself, exploring her lips with the lightest touch of his own.
What was it about her, this... beautiful girl, he did not know. Perhaps that was all there was to it? Beauty?
But that was not so. It was much, much more. With a shock of heat through his body, he realised what it was as their magic once again touched. He stepped away from the column despite her hold against him, and pushed her to it instead, snatching desperate kisses as they went.
The intensity of the moment was so strong, unlike anything he had ever felt before. In his limited experience, he could not tell what was right and what was not. Nimueh led him, he followed. It all seemed so natural, and yet some part of him told him. Deep down, he knew that he could go no further. Somehow, he did not doubt that she knew it also.
Gently, slowly, he pulled away from her kisses, trailing light pecks along her soft jaw, over her cheek until they stood together in one another's arms, his cheek resting against her soft hair.
"Balinor." She murmured softly, nuzzling into his neck.
His arms tightened around her. He dipped his head that he whispered in her ear, afraid to speak aloud and break the warm tingle of their magic as it flowed around them. "You don't even know me."
"I wish to." She murmured in return, her hands beginning once again to wander.
"You don't, Nimueh."
"I do."
Balinor shook his head lightly, ceasing the movement of her hands and holding her to him in a soft embrace. "You don't."
"Do you wish to know me?"
He swallowed, and took a small, shuddering breath. What he wanted did not matter. It could not be. "... I am too low for you, Priestess."
His hands fell from her back, hers upon his chest, pushing him gently away.
She turned her head from him, her eyes fixed on the floor as he stepped away. "I see." She said nothing further for a moment, no discernible emotion on her face or in her eyes.
Balinor watched her, fearful that he had upset her, or hurt her. He felt the shift in the air as her magic broke from his and she stood straight from the column.
Still emotionless, she looked at him. The lofty air of a Priestess had returned, and she smoothed her gown as though nothing had happened. "That is your final word."
It was not a question. She knew as well as he that there was no more to be said. He did not answer, but gave her space as she brushed a hand over her cheek, and raised her eyes to meet his briefly.
Brief it was. She bowed her head, and curtseyed. "Then, goodnight to you, Balinor."
"Goodnight, my Lady."
Nimueh turned, and walked away before he could bow or incline his head. He watched her go, watched her hurry away from him, back towards the hall of ceremonies. With a deep, steadying breath, he ran a hand back through his hair, long fingers trembling slightly.
What was wrong with him? She was a Priestess. What interest she could possibly, truly have in him, he could not fathom. He did not have the right have any interest in her, let alone follow up on it. Not yet.
He shook his head at himself, and let his hand fall to his side. He really was an idiot.
An idiot who needed to talk to someone.
With another steadying breath, he turned and started off down the Eastern corridor in the opposite direction to the hall. To the left, and to an area of the castle frequented only by guards, and those who had done wrong.
Nimueh did not look back at him as she strode away. She raised a hand to brush her hair back from her face, feeling her cheeks burn in embarrassment, and irritation at herself. What was wrong with her? To throw herself at someone so...
Balinor was right. She did not know him, just as he did not know her yet. Why, then, did she feel such a connection to him? Why did she see him as-
She gasped, pulled roughly to the left as a hand shot out from a junction to grasp her arm and pull her into a pool of shadows just off the main corridor.
She did not need to see her assailant to know their identity. The touch conveyed all that it needed to.
Nyneve released her, veritably throwing down her wrist. She turned on Nimueh with a scowl of deep rage. "Foolish girl. What do you think you are doing?"
Nimueh fixed her eyes squarely on the ground, but she did not try to hide the defiance burning in them, nor her frown. Neither did she answer, well aware of what it was that Nyneve referred to.
The High Priestess lower her own head that she stared her charge in the face, her voice a whisper filled with rasping anger. "Have you no shame? You would gamble your virtue so? Have I taught you nothing?"
"I know very well what you have taught me." Nimueh replied hotly, attempting to turn her back on her mistress and fold her arms. Nyneve would not allow it, grasping Nimueh's wrist in sharp fingers and dragging her back to face her.
"Do not purport to ignore me, child." She hissed, pulling Nimueh closer that they stared on another directly in the eye.
For a long time, neither looked away. High Priestess and Priestess stared one another out, neither willing to back down. At length, Nyneve softened, and she released Nimueh's wrist, though she did not break her stare. "You have power, Nimueh. Of all my students, you are the most promising. That is why I cannot watch you disregard your training so."
"And what of my choice in the matter?" Nimueh drew herself up that she looked down her nose at her mistress, her arms folded tightly over her chest. "Do I not get to choose?"
Nyneve smiled, thought it was more akin to a smirk. "You do. You know well that you do. However, now is not the time to make that choice. You must wait for Beltane's night to do so, as you well know."
"And what if I have already made my choice?"
A laugh, a cackle escaped Nyneve. She shook her head. "The fledgling Dragonlord? Oh, my girl. That is an ill informed choice indeed."
"I am soon to come of age." Nimueh argued, her tone petulant. She tilted her head, gauging the High Priestess' reaction. "As is Balinor. By Beltane's night, we will both have passed that milestone." She took a step closer to her mistress, raising defiant eyes to meet hers, "He is a peasant, but he has magic, Nyneve. Powerful magic. He is a sorcerer-"
"I am well aware of what the boy is." Nyneve cut her off. "More so than you, I now see."
Nimueh narrowed her eyes, examining Nyneve's expression – her stance, in search of something, anything that may give her an insight into what the woman may be thinking. She found none. Effort to touch her mistress' mind failed also, her attempts meeting with a wall of stone.
"What do you mean?"she relented, curiousity getting the better of her. She did not like to be uninformed.
"That boy," Nyneve began in a low tone, part mindful of any who may be listening, part mocking of the arrogant girl in front of her, "is more than a sorcerer. Despite Rion's attempts to shield him and his true nature from outsiders. He is a warlock."
Nimueh stared, her lips parted in surprise, and wonder. Balinor had been born with magic? But he... he had said -
'It just started happening when I was fourteen summers.'
The look on her face encouraged Nyneve to go on, no matter what may be binding her to silence. "He is more even than that. The young Dragonlord-to-be is a beginning. He is a means to an end. His path is mapped out for him more clearly, more certainly than you could ever know. And yes, he has powerful magic. It is not him that you have such attraction to, but his magic. It is unlike anything you have ever encountered before, is it not?"
Nimueh looked at her mistress in astonishment. Uncertainty ran rampant within her. "How do you know?"
"It radiates from him. Surrounds him. He glows with it. Magic is woven through every inch of space he moves through. Always with him. Always around him. But it is not his magic that clings to him so."
Not his magic? Nimueh pursed her lips, not sure that she understood. "Are you saying that he does not possess magic of his own?" She ventured tentatively, surprisingly worried by the idea.
"He has magic." Nyneve smirked. "make no mistake. The boy has power. But he has more than just his own, even if he cannot touch it."
Something sparked, at the back of Nimueh's mind. Something she had read once, as a child on the Isle. Long before coming to Camelot. "... Two magics in one." She murmured. That was significant. There had never before been one with such a strange gift, entirely useless as it may be. But it was not meant to be used. Not as magic normally was. It was intended as something else. For something else. It heralded something, but she did not know what. It had been written in the text she had studied, but not in the common tongue, nor the language of magic. It had been recorded in words she could not read. It had been written in the Dragontongue.
"Your peasant boy is a stepping stone." Nyneve told her, all seriousness in her tone. "He was placed on this Earth with an express purpose. Before you try, child, know that you cannot understand it. Just as he himself cannot yet know it. But I have seen it. The knowledge of events to come has been revealed to me by the Goddess, as she gave me the seer's gift in her wisdom. What is to come must not be averted, though the boy labours not under the will of the Triple Goddess, but that of the White Goddess. It is by her power that his destiny will be fulfilled."
Nimueh said nothing. She did not know what to say. It had been clear to her, when she touched Balinor's magic that it was unlike anything she had felt before. His control of it, for one supposedly so new to the gift had seemed incredible. Yet, if what Nyneve said was true, then it had been a part of him for far longer than he realised.
It astonished her to believe that there was so much more to such a simple boy, but it was undeniable. It did not change her decision.
"You will not object, then?" She questioned Nyneve, her manner haughty, asserting herself against her mistress. "If I am still to name him as my choice on Beltane's night?"
The High Priestess' smile was unnerving. Nyneve folded her arms and looked down on her favourite charge from her greater height. "You may name his as your choice by all means. But you shall not have him."
"If he is my choice then there is no reason why not." Nimueh tossed her head. "I should have thought you would be pleased that I choose such a powerful warlock."
"And I would expect nothing less of you, Nimueh. However," Nyneve dropped her arms to her sides and fixed the young Priestess with a look of both sympathy and dare, "as I have said. His destiny is clearly mapped out. You can try, my dear, but you will not have him. He is meant for another. Not for you."
"And why should fate determine everything in our lives?" Nimueh demanded, a deep frown on her face. "If I want him, I will have him. I refuse to allow destiny to take from me that which I am so sure of. If I do not want it so, then it shall not be so."
Nyneve's smile at that was genuine. Warm, and kind as she laid an affectionate hand on her charge's shoulder. "Such arrogance. It is all that kept you from selection to the Disir." She searched Nimueh's stone face, finding no hint of withdrawal or of doubt. The girl believed her own words. Nyneve's smile became a grin. "Very well, my girl. Defy destiny. Have your peasant boy on Beltane's night. See where your arrogance will lead you. I guarantee, if the little Dragonlord gives himself to you, then I shall relinquish my title and make you Sorceress to the Court of Camelot instead."
"You may mock me, mistress." Nimueh returned, brimming with cool confidence and quiet elation at her small victory. "But I guarantee. Balinor will be mine, and there is nothing that you can do about it."
"Believe me, child. I need not do a thing. I need not lift a finger. Fate will have its way and thwart your efforts. Though I await its methods with interest."
Nimueh did not say anything. She raised her chin in a gesture of defiance and walked away from her mistress, towards the hall.
Nyneve watched her go, wide smile of amusement on her face. Until Nimueh disappeared around the corner at the head of the corridor, out of sight. Once she was gone, the High Priestess let her smile fall. She turned to look out of the window. Her hands clasped over her chest, she gazed at the waxing moon in the dark sky above.
The gift of the seer was indeed within her, and it was powerful. Night after night her dreams were disturbed with events to come. Far from now, in a time when she would be there to see them come to pass, and in a time when she would not. Perhaps in that she was lucky. She had foreseen her end, and it left her cold. But it was not her own death, but what would follow thereafter that turned her blood to ice in her veins.
Flames and blood. Hatred ad death. When all about would be sorrow, and ashes. So many ashes.
A darkness was coming, one that would last for more than twenty years. It would be long, and it would be terrible. It could not be averted, and it could not be changed. It must be allowed to happen. For it was not the darkness, but something else waiting beyond that was important. Something that could only come to pass, should destiny proceed as planned. For it was from the deep darkness that the light of hope would rise. The flip of the coin that decided the fate of the people of magic, and those without.
She had seen it, and it was so, so important. And she knew. The knowledge was inescapable. The young Dragonlord-in-waiting, and Camelot's Prince must live. They must be protected, or the world that she had foreseen could never be born.
It must be, or all was darkness.
Very few people came to this part of the castle. They had no reason to. Beyond the guards stationed at the foot of the stairs, nobody came here by choice.
Nobody except Balinor.
He offered a friendly nod to the two men playing dice at the table, smiling when they returned the gesture, and passed by on his way without worry or question.
He turned down a steep flight of stone steps beneath and entryway decorated with a beautiful frieze of dragons in flight, the floor either side laid with a variety of different offerings. Instinctively he reached out and grasped the torch, from where he knew that it would be, and lifted it from its bracket on the wall.
"Bryne.*"
Flames flickered into existence, lighting the torch and the stairs in a warm glow. Without a backward glance, Balinor descended the steps into the Earth beneath Camelot.
Many times he had made this trip. More than he could remember in the two years since his arrival in the city. The cold steps beneath his feet were ingrained in his mind; every drop, every lip. Every nick and blemish. In their stone he could see with the soles of his feet better than he could in the torch's glow.
Before long the smooth, sculpted stairs gave way to rough-hewn rock. He stepped out into a towering cave, lit softly by a beam of white moonlight from somewhere high above.
The caves below Camelot were no secret. Neither were their purpose for time immemorial. The people were grateful for it, the offerings left around the entrance at the head of the steps laid on their behalf by the guards. Not the type of gifts that one would picture in terms of the caves' occupants, but fresh cut flowers and garlands, the best needlework, and finest linens that could be acquired on small wages. Not what was to be expected, neither for the reasons expected.
The offerings were not left to appease. Not left out of fear. They were placed there with feelings of gratitude, to one who served their Kingdom and safeguarded their lives from threat.
Balinor stepped out from the stairwell through the open iron gate, and onto the ledge overlooking the expanse of the cave.
He hesitated, and raised his head to look around for the one he had come seeking.
"Kharis?"
A cool breeze blew through the caves, but no answer came with it. Perhaps the caves were empty tonight?
Unsure, he tried again. "Kharis? Are you here?"
A sound below, like rock slipping over rock reverberated up through the cavern, followed by a deep sigh of warm air.
Balinor shivered lightly, the warmth glancing over his cool skin in the deep atmosphere around him. He did not step back, nor shy away as the darkness beneath the ledge stirred, and with a rush of wind and a thunderous beat of wings the head and claws of a great green dragon swept over the lip of the ledge.
The creature's massive claws crashed down either side of the relatively tiny boy, shaking the ground beneath his feet, but he did not flinch. He did not blink in fright or surprise.
Towering above him, the mighty beast raised its head, gazing down on him with thoughtful, deep brown eyes, blinking softly in the torchlight.
Balinor craned his neck to gaze back at her, a warm smile tugging at his lips. For the dragon was a female. Even to one who was not aware already in the soft line of her delicate head and long, slender neck and body. They were surely feminine features and belied the sharpness of the long, twisted horns atop her skull, and the razor-like quality of her black, shining claws.
She was Kharis. Charm, grace and kindness in the Dragontongue.
Tentatively, Balinor took a step forward, raising the torch a little that he could better see her face. "You did not come when I first called."
Kharis inclined her great head a little that she looked down into Balinor's confused face. Her eyes searched the boy as they always did when he stood before her, searching for any injury, and emotional unease. "I was sleeping." She returned levelly, only peace in her melodic voice that seemed always to echo up from the very air itself.
Beneath her gaze Balinor winced. "M'sorry."
She chuckled lightly, her warm breaths stirring his hair around his cheeks, chasing away the persistent chill of the caves. "I bear no ill feeling towards being woken by you, youngling. As you well know."
He smiled openly at that, and took a moment to bask in the warmth her proximity always brought.
She did not let him bask long, her smile fading to a look of concern as she tilted her head to regard him in thought. "Now, tell me why it is that you have come to see me at this late hour. And do not think to lie about its lateness, as the hatchlings have long fallen to their dreams, as you should have also."
Balinor swallowed, and looked up at her, his father's dragon, and mulled briefly over what it was that he needed to say to her. He shifted his feet nervously, uncomfortable, and crouched to lay the torch on the ground. Exactly why he had come, he could not be sure. He didn't really know. He had just felt awkward, and sad, and had needed to see her.
Just like that, as though sensing his thoughts, Kharis lowered her head and gently pushed her cheek against the side of his body. She understood what he needed, just as she always did. He looped his arms around her muzzle as far as he could reach and laid his head against her broad forehead.
She shared a bond with his father that ran deep. Balinor had seen her for the first time when his father called out in the clearing in the woods outside Engerd. The powerful, yet graceful creature who answered his father's first call, and submitted to bow without command.
She had waited a long time for Rion. Seven hundred years from her hatching. Waiting for the day she would hear his call and respond. The one Dragonlord who would be hers and hers alone. Because while any Dragonlord could command her, only Rion's voice could outweigh them and all that they commanded of her.
It had been that day, when she had risen from her greeting bow to her Dragonlord, that her eyes first met those of the small, awkward creature now stood in her embrace. Balinor, son of Rion. One day to inherit his father's gifts and become a Dragonlord himself. She had known then what her presence would mean to Rion's youngling, and so she comforted him willingly, for in his own way he was as vulnerable and needy as the hatchlings placed under her tutelage by his father.
"Come, young one." She murmured to him in her ethereal tones and raised her head from his arms to perch herself comfortably atop the rocks beneath the ledge. "Tell me what troubles you so."
Balinor made his way to her that he may take a seat on the rocks against her warm chest where it rested against the lip of the ledge. He drew his knees up to his chest and circled his arms around them.
Kharis settled herself tighter against the ledge that she pressed reassuringly to Balinor's back, and gave an encouraging rumble deep in her chest.
"I..." Balinor frowned at himself, and shook his head. "I made a fool of myself tonight."
Quietly, hesitantly, he let it all out. Everything that worried him, upset him, he confided it in Kharis. All the while the great green dragon listened carefully, in total silence. She did not speak as her precious youngling bared his soul, but absorbed it all with a warmth and understanding that Balinor imagined one could only receive from their mother. Because that was almost what this gentle, unfathomably old and wise being was. She was the closest thing to a mother he had ever known. As always when he felt the rhythmic thump of her strong heartbeat against his back, and sensed the magic that coursed through her as his own did him, felt her warm breaths in his hair, he became relaxed, and fully at ease.
Kharis did what she knew that she needed to do. She listened to him in the hopes of lifting some of the troubles from his slight, but already so heavily burdened shoulders. Because one day, maybe soon, he was going to learn how burdened he truly was.
It must be well into the early hours. Though it was not yet lightening outside.
Balinor made his way along the corridor in something akin to a march, his fists balled at his sides and arms swinging with each step. The castle was quiet. Only the candle flames to be heard as they caught and swayed in the drafts circulating the halls.
The feast must have finished some time ago, and all present either headed to their beds, or in the case of any servants lucky enough to have the following day to themselves, the tavern.
Himself, he made for Gaius' chambers, intent on getting to his bed and avoiding anyone who may have seen his display at the feast. He really did not want to talk about it. Though talk about it he had.
Kharis knew all of the details, everything that had run through his head, and she knew how he had felt afterwards. He had spent a good hour and a half telling her all that weighed on his mind, and she had told him not to worry about it. He had nothing to worry about. Even on the subject of Nimueh, she had assured him that it was al perfectly normal. They were both young, and from her understanding of these things speaking as a dragon, emotionally vulnerable due to their stage in life. That was her dragon version of his father's reaction to thirteen year old Balinor marching up to him and declaring that he had hair in places there had not been previously, and asking for an explanation. The thought made Balinor cringe, now. At the time he had been rather confused and needed to know what was going on and if the hair would spread over the entirety of his body like a rash of some sort. He did not particularly want to be that hairy.
After he had finished pouring his heart out, he strongly suspected that he had fallen asleep against Kharis and that she had let him sleep for an hour or two. While he felt much refreshed, he was still very tired and emotionally drained after the evening's events. Bed sounded like a wonderful idea.
Turning the corner onto the corridor containing the griffin staircase, Balinor halted and wrinkled his nose. A little way ahead, a pair of familiar boots stuck out from behind one of the pillars. With a shake of his head , he started towards them, coming to lean on the pillar and look down at their owner, his arms folded over his chest.
Uther sat in a heap against the stone banister leading up the spiral staircase above, his head lolled uncomfortably to one side, fast asleep.
Balinor sighed, and nudged the heel of Uther's boot with the toe of his own.
"Hey. Pizzle face."
The snoring Prince drew a deep breath, and lazily opened his eyes. Apparently without control of his muscles, Uther rolled his head against the banister that he looked up at Balinor. At the sight of his friend, a dopey, wide smile broke out over his face. "Balinor. Where'd you...?" No end was coming for that sentence it seemed, as Uther coughed, and blinked sluggishly.
Balinor winced. "Gods, Uther. How much d'you have to drink?"
Uther's head lolled forwards, but not so much that he could not see his friend. He raised an arm and set a viciously pointing finger on the boy before him. "I am not sure, but I'll have you know it was a lot."
"What are you doing on the floor?" Standing there, making demands, his arms folded over his chest, Balinor suddenly felt more like Uther's father than his seventeen year old friend.
"Looking for my chambers."
"You won't find them down there. Where's Edmund?"
"Godwyn's got him, and..." Uther's pointing finger waved feebly in the air a moment before falling to rest in his lap with a slap. "...I don't know." And he looked as though he was about to fall asleep again.
Balinor huffed, "Ye Gods" and bent to grab Uther under his arms and drag him away from the banister.
"What're y'doing?" Uther slurred, and made a half-hearted attempt to slap Balinor's face.
Balinor managed to jerk his head away just in time to avoid it, and began to manhandle his stupid royal git of a best friend into a position where he could duck under Uther's arm. "Escorting you back to your chambers, my liege." He answered testily, and just about managed to heave Uther to his feet. "Where you can go to sleep, or vomit with abandon into the nearest suitable container while I hold back your beautiful, shining, simply luxurious hair. Lean on me."
"Unhand me." Uther slapped at him again. "Don't tell me what to do. You're a peasant."
"And you're a tosser. Do you see me bringing it up every five minutes? No. So shut up and lean on me."
Uther did not actually object again. In fact, he did not speak again at all. Even as they traversed the corridors, reached his chambers and he allowed Balinor to put him to bed. He was asleep and snoring like a swine the moment his head touched the pillow.
Balinor hummed and haahed to himself. Leant on the post at the end of Uther's bed, he tried to put together some kind of plan of action for himself. Go home. Go to bed. Go to sleep.
It suddenly seemed less of a good idea. Not the bed part, but the home segment. By this time Gaius would be well and truly bedded down for the night and probably be fast asleep, snoring like a hog. He would not be pleased if woken, as Balinor knew from past experience, and would heap chores on his assistant in quiet vengeance the following day.
The idea of waking Gaius, and having to explain where he had been did not appeal at all. So Balinor sighed to himself, and ran a hand back through his hair. He rounded Uther's bed to the side unoccupied by the twat, and lay down on his back on top of the covers.
Lying there, his fingers threaded upon his chest, he stared up at the canopy and waited for sleep to claim him.
He didn't even remove his boots.
*Bryne – Burn
*Notes: The other half of part III. From here on there is actual story, so fear not. Again, anything that doesn't make sense will be explained eventually. There is a plan! This story is a lot of fun to write :) I may be falling in love with writing drunk Uther.