Chapter Text
“Uther. You are aware of what year this is?” one of the elders on the council spoke up, his wrinkled face drawn and blank. His name was Lord Henry, a plain-faced noble without a child or wife, whose only goal in life seemed to be the running of the kingdom, and making sure that Uther knew exactly what he was doing at all times.
Uther turned to face him, frowning. Lord Henry stared back calmly, as though not seeing the obvious disdain in his king's face.
“There is no need to remind me.” the King replied coldly. “I am very aware. I placed my most personal knights in charge of gathering the names.”
“Then you know you must begin the drawing soon.” Lord Henry pressed, ignoring the pierce of the younger king's dark eye. He flicked a gaze around the room, dramatically searching for an eavesdropper, though there obviously were none in the presence of the King's court. “Whispers are beginning to spread – rumors.”
The King folded his hands, clearing his throat. “I have the date for the drawing set, Lord Henry. Let matters unfold. We will have our Champions by noon tomorrow.”
“This year, your son will be at risk of being chosen.” put in another weary man. This one had a scar curled across his jaw, with witty dark eyes that seemed to always be laughing, though his injury pulled his lips down into an ugly scowl.
Uther's eyes were drills as he turned to him. “He is. And if Arthur is chosen, he will bring the Pendragon family glory. If he is chosen and does not, he is not the man we want as king.” The other men of the council went quiet, watching the stone-cold King with solemn eyes and knowing this was a man who would send his son into the games for the sake of ''honor'' and ''pride''.
“Are we clear, then? The Drawing shall be tomorrow.” The King dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and immediately the men rose to leave, some hurrying while others too their time gathering papers or robes of feathered quills. Uther hid his annoyance in a mask of blank indifference.
Left alone in his chambers, Uther turned his eyes to the tall glass bowl that stood outside, on his balcony. It was a piece of fine craftsmanship, with its gilded gold feet and graceful, clear neck. It had no certain shape he knew, all soft curved lines and smoothed-over corners. Powered by the levers and pulleys that had been set up on the castle's walls, it churned the names within like it itself was water. Inside its crystal body, hundreds of names were scrawled on torn scraps of parchment or thin scraps of cloth. Within the mechanism was the label of every man or woman in his kingdom over eighteen, including his own son's name.
Uther had not been bluffing when he'd quickly waved away his councilman’s concerns for the prince. It was not the job of the Council to feel sympathy or pity, nor empathy or curiosity. His son, if chosen, would participate in the Games as any other man would.
But Uther was not a heartless man. Morgana had left him not long ago, and he had loved her dearly, still feeling her betrayal like a wound to his very soul. He did not think he would want to lose his only son. A Pendragon's luck is not so bad as to have my son's name drawn from the many within the cup. Uther thought calmly, silently watching the paper shift it's way within the machine. I will not lose two children to fates of death or worse.
---
“I'm sorry, father, but I cannot agree with this.” Arthur stated firmly, standing his ground in front of his father, “These Games sound barbaric and unnecessary. Why should Camelot condone these acts or murder?” The prince stared his father down, trying to appear respectful despite his shock and outrage at hearing what was planned for this year. He attempted to look as impressive and decided as his father, but Arthur was only half-dressed as he'd woken up only a half-hour ago. They were alone in his chamber. Mostly alone, he amended, seeing Merlin folding his shirt into a drawer. The black-haired servant looked unhappy, his blue eyes flicking warily over to the two royals, and for once Arthur found himself siding with the other man over his own father, though he dared not say that aloud.
“The Games of Five Kingdoms have been around since Camelot's founding, Arthur, it is not as though I came up with them myself. They were created to keep the kingdoms in peace and allegiance, in a sort of friendly competition. Two Champions are chosen to represent us, and we send them to the Arena to battle for Camelot. It is a tradition, a tournament of sorts.”
“You send innocent men and women to their deaths. It's unjust.” Arthur protested, “Tell me, father, how old were our last Champions?”
“Eighteen and twenty.” Uther responded coldly, his posture going from relaxed to defensive in the span of one swift shift of his foot. “I would Watch your tone.”
Arthur bowed his head, trying to appear ashamed while inside he was furious. “Father.” his voice was tight, so he attempted to relax. It wasn't easy. Finally, feeling a bit more in control of his emotions, but no less appalled at the turn of events, he raised his eyes back to Uther. “Why wasn't I informed of these Games earlier?”
“The rules forbid the discussion of the Games unless they take place within the year. It was meant to keep Kingdoms from raising all children as Champions.” Uther replied evenly, though his voice was curt, provoking no further arguments.
“Father this isn't right, if you reconsider-” Arthur tried once more, blue eyes fiery with horror at the aspect of seeing young men or women tearing each other apart. He imagined some of his younger knights, being unlucky enough to have their names drawn and having to hear, via letter or paper or messenger boy, of their bloody deaths.
“Arthur Pendragon.” Uther was using the tone he used when commanding armies. Arthur jerked into attention, knowing his fight had been lost, yet wishing he had fought a bit harder. “You will report to the courtyard with the knights and servants tomorrow morning. You will wear your ceremonial armor, you will be early, and you will not bring this up again.”
“Yes, Father.” Arthur's mouth tasted like candle wax as he said it. Uther turned on his booted heel and stormed away, face set in a cold, unfeeling mask. The door slammed with a resounding noise as it shut, and Arthur glared at it until the curtains stopped fluttering in the wake of air Uther's departure had left.
The prince uncurled his fingers, not remembering having curled them into angry fists, and saw the imprints of his fingernails on his palm. “Dammit.” he cursed, dropping onto his chair behind his desk with another noise of frustration. Merlin looked up at him from across the room, already discarding the laundry to come to him. He was a useless servant, Arthur thought, not for the first time.
“You were right, Arthur.” the servant informed him calmly, coming to a halt in front of the large oak desk. Arthur looked up. Merlin looked determined and focused, his bright blue eyes less cheery than usual, but still wondering and thoughtful. Arthur flicked his own eyes back to the paper in front of him, glaring at it as though he could burn a hole through it.
Arthur gripped his quill too tight as he pressed the tip to the page. “Thank you.” he said curtly, hoping the big-eared servant would take the hint and drop it.
Of course, Merlin didn't.
“But you were.” Merlin pressed, “Right, I mean. These Games are wrong, inhumane. Maybe you can convince Uther to stop them. Maybe-”
“Merlin, I appreciate the thought, but you saw my father. His mind is set. There is nothing I can do but support the chosen champions best I can.” Arthur cut him off, looking up. His eyes were sad, and it seemed a look of understanding passed between the two men as Merlin went quiet for a moment, pondering.
“I hope you don't get chosen.” Merlin told him, honest and guileless as ever, looking down at the sitting prince.
Arthur's eyes widened, his mouth parted in surprise. The littler servant stared at him, face open and caring, and he felt a smile tug his lips up. “I doubt that would happen, Merlin, but the thought is returned.”
“You'd be happy I was gone.” Merlin snorted, waving him off with a flippant hand.
“I wouldn't!” Arthur looked affronted, “Servants as awful as you are hard to come by.” He flicked at the waving hand with his quill, watching Merlin snatch it back with a playful scowl.
Merlin rolled his eyes, “Of course, sire.”Arthur smiled and turned back to his paper, knowing the speech needed to be finished.
---
The next day dawned ice-cold and blindingly bright. Merlin was slow, his feet heavy like his heart, as he drew the curtains back from the window in his bedroom and then trailed slowly to the courtyard, where it seemed as though all of Camelot had tried to squeeze. Wiggling and using his elbows as levers, he scrambled through the press of bodies gathered until he found himself at the base of the balcony, awkwardly crushed between Gwaine and Lancelot.
“Morning, Merlin. Chilly, innit?” Gwaine yawned, not at all bothered by the crowds of people around him. His hair was fluffy and messy from sleep and he looked drowsy, but there was also a hunted look to his eyes, the kind of glint they got when he was preparing for battle. Merlin swallowed nervously, thinking for the first time how easy it would be for someone he was close to to be chosen for these suicidal games.
Please don't let Gwaine be chosen. He prayed silently, turning pleading eyes to the machine churning above them. He added quickly, Nor Lancelot or Percival or Leon!
Lancelot was more awake than Gwaine, his hair brushed neatly and his chain mail straight and careful, as opposed to haphazardly thrown over his frame like the sleepy knight. “It's not a very good morning, is it?” he sighed, following Merlin's gaze towards the balcony. "I hope it's no one we know." he admitted, sounding guilty.
Arthur arrived, coming out of the doors in front of them, his cape tugged by the breeze and fluttering about him with a quiet noise. He was dressed in his ceremonial armor, of course, as Merlin knew he would be, which had been freshly polished. Merlin flexed his sore hands in remembrance of sitting there for two hours carefully scraping off dust or dirt and filling in any minor scratches to the now-shining metal. Arthur nodded to them and came to stand amongst the knights, directly in front of Merlin. A quick glance over told Merlin that the armor was put on mostly correct, but as he drew closer Merlin saw minor mistakes he'd made in strapping on his heavier shoulder guards.
As he came to a halt, Merlin went immediately to correct the straps. Arthur allowed him to undo the buckles without a comment besides, “Where were you this morning?”
“Gaius had me preparing traveling bundles of herbs for the Champions. They're supposed to keep them energized on the journey to whatever Arena is chosen for this year.” Merlin answered honestly, hands already flitting to readjust the shoulder straps and re-tie his cape. “You managed without me, it seems.”
Gwaine chuckled, “Can't the Princess even put on his clothes?” The teasing was his usual remarks, but all three other men could hear that his heart wasn't in it. Everyone was tense and worried, their eyes drawn to the giant container holding their names as if magnetized.
They all fell silent when a loud trumpet blared above them. Uther's servant, a little squirmy boy younger than both Arthur and Merlin, looked petrified. He lowered his horn and stepped to the side as the king stepped out onto the balcony and took to fidgeting in the background.
From their positions, the knights and Merlin had to crane their necks to look up at the box. Uther began talking, his loud, commanding voice echoing across the chilly silence that the courtyard had fallen into. “Ladies, Gentlemen, Knights and Nobles!” he called, false excitement in his voice. “We've gathered today to pick the names of Camelot's two champions!”
There were no cheers, only unhappy murmurs of ''wrongs'' and ''phony tournament'', and even one brave soul Merlin couldn't identify who snapped a hidden, "Murderer!"
Uther's face seemed to darken at the lack of agreement in the faces of the crowd, but even as Merlin watched the King's face became indifferent once more. “Remember now – there can be but one volunteer!” he looked around before plunging one gloved hand into the tall glass thing. “Our first Champion!”
His face paled dramatically, his eyes widening. Those farther away could not see, but those closer began to murmur worriedly amongst themselves, wondering what could have so broken the king's careful shell. Merlin himself saw the King's lips form words, once, twice, and he could read them quite clearly. He just prayed he was reading them wrong.
“Arthur Pendragon.” he said finally, voice ringing once more. The crowd fell silent.
Eyes swiveled like beacons, staring at the prince. Arthur himself had frozen, eyes wide with shock, but as Lancelot nudged him a little bit, he snapped back into his old self, walking slowly up the stairs that had been built in a hurry just for this occasion. Each cheaply hammered wooden stair creaked, but didn't so much as wobble as he climbed up to his father, silent as a wraith. Everyone watched in calm quiet, not daring to break it in case they were chosen instead. A few people looked minorly relieved at their almost-freedom, but there was still one more Champion to be chosen.
Already horrified and feeling panicked, Merlin felt another weight drop heavily onto his heart. Guinevere. He looked around and finally spotted her, standing close to Elyan. She looked as though someone had hit her, her chapped lips parted but not moving, her usually so soft and warm brown eyes welling with salty tears. He quickly turned back, not able to stand the look of terror in her face.
Seemingly numb now, Uther Pendragon shook hands with his son, a grim look on his old face, and then raised one of Arthur's hands, like he'd just been winner of a tournament. Merlin felt sick, watching the color of Uther's eyes harden to stone as he dropped his son's arm and reached back into the glass container.
Merlin had already known exactly what he was going to have to do. He was going to volunteer for Arthur, because that was what needed to be done. Arthur was a valuable soldier, a brave knight, and a prince that Camelot desperately needed. Merlin was a servant with magic that was so illegal he'd be killed if anyone knew. It was obvious what needed to happen, even if he didn't take his destiny to protect the blonde man into account. From that moment of clarity, where he accepted that he was going to go to his death, alone with a stranger, things went from horrid to impossible.
“Guinevere Pellinore!” Uther called, his voice wavering slightly not because of the name he spoke now, but because his only living – as far as he knew – child was standing beside him like a cold stone statue, blue eyes blank.
Merlin almost fell to his knees, reaching up and knotting his hands in his short black hair. Lancelot tensed as though he'd been electrified, his eyes wide with horror. "No!" he hissed, "NO!"
Gwaine grabbed the taller knight as he surged forward and clapped a hand over his mouth to still the protests. “Lancelot, shut up. Not now. I will volunteer-”
Guinevere walked past them then, her appearance making Gwaine's words die in his throat. She stepped with aching slowness, her feet whispering over the stones. The once so strong daughter of the brave blacksmith looked like a lost little girl, her hands gripping her skirt until her knuckles were white as bone. She climbed the stairs, and Merlin thought she looked like a ghost already, her skin like ash beneath the dark tone. Arthur looked as though someone had ripped his liver from his gut and fed it to him on a fork as she brushed past him, hair lifted slightly by the wind. Merlin covered his eyes as he saw the pain in the prince's face, and thought of a way to protect him. Only one volunteer, those were the rules...
“I volunteer!” he shouted, voice ripping from his throat the way it had when he'd first learned he was the last of the Dragonlords. Gwaine and Lancelot stopped their tussle and turned, eyes horrified.
“Merlin, no-” Gwaine began, but Merlin was already at the base of the stairs, Uther beckoning him forward. There was a slightly hopeful look in his eyes, as if he suspected that Merlin might save Arthur. The little servant didn't look back, fearing the faces of those he knew.
The warlock's heart twisted with sudden sadness, realizing that he had just sealed his absolute death. He climbed the stairs with sure feet, not really seeing anything anymore. He wondered vaguely, somewhere in the back of his mind, if he was going into shock. “I volunteer.” He said again, quietly, to the King alone, and his voice sounded funny even to his own ears. "I do."
"What is your name, boy?" The king asked lowly, to him alone.
"Merlin." the warlock replied. "Merlin... Emrys."
Arthur was looking at him, his mouth open in unhidden shock, his eyebrows drawn together in a mixture of fear and anger. “Merlin... what are you doing? You-”
Uther held up a hand, silencing his son. “Who do you volunteer for, Merlin?” he asked, and his voice carried across the silence like a drum. It was quiet enough that one could hear the rasp of chain mail on leather or cloth from down below. For a heartbeat, Merlin was torn. He could save Arthur, of course. Right then and there. But that would break the prince, knowing that he'd been left behind while the girl he loved and the servant who was his best friend were sent to fight for their deaths. Really, there was only one solution.
“I volunteer... for Guinevere.” he said, raising his head proudly. Arthur looked at him as though he'd just promised the sun to the sky, or world peace. Guinevere looked stricken, her face ghastly.
“No. No, Merlin, no-” she protested, shaking her head and holding out her slim hands. Two gaurds came forward from the inner parts of the castle and took ahold of her arms, gently pulling her away.
Uther looked at him in slight disappointment, ignoring Gwen completely but dipped his head, “So be it! Merlin Emrys will replace Guinevere Pellinore in the Games of Five Kingdoms!”
The King gestured, and Guinevere was taken down the stairs again, protesting with tears running down her cheeks. Ignoring her with the face of one who is blank to the world, Uther grabbed Merlin's arm, his grip rough and the leather cold against even through the fabric of Merlin's plain blue shirt. He stood the pale boy to his left, Arthur on his right, and raised his arms. “Camelot, greet your new Champions!”
There was scattered applause. Mostly, there was a grim and painful sound of arms crossing. Merlin swept his gaze over the people that had become his friends – his family, even – the last few years.
Gaius was no where to be seen, probably still back in his chambers finishing up on the traveling herbs, but Merlin could imagine his face when he found out his ward had volunteered for his own death. He'd be heartbroken. He'd be worried out of his mind the entire time Merlin was in the arena, and his aged heart would fill with pain when he realized Merlin would not come back. When he saw Merlin today, come just to say goodbye, his face would crumble and Merlin would be reminded that Gaius was an old man who had seen a lot of death, a lot of tragic pain. Merlin would hug him, and Gaius would promise that he'd have his favorite meal on the table when he returned. Merlin would shake his head, a slow smile blooming across his face.
Elyan caught his eyes as he scanned the crowds, and there was a bittersweet smile on his face. He gave Merlin a slow nod. Merlin didn't know him well, but it seemed like he was saying ''Thank you''. Percival and Leon stood with some other knights a distance away. They were saluting he and Arthur the Camelot way, looking proud, and Merlin felt honored, lowering his eyes.
When he looked up again, Gwaine stared at him as if he'd never seen him before, lips open wide and eyes huge, all tiredness gone from his lithe frame. He shook his head, looking sad but proud at the same time as Guinevere finally made it down the stairs and threw herself into Lancelot's arms. Lancelot's look of intense relief and adoration for the dark girl in his arms was damaged only by a sudden, hard grief. Merlin knew why.
None of the people below looked at him as though he was coming back.
It was okay. Merlin didn't believe he was coming back either. At least, not if he had any say in it.