Chapter Text
Castiel sputtered awake when a wet something was dropped onto his head. The crow sitting in the tree above him cackled with delight. Wiping his face, Castiel eyed the wet cloth now in his lap. Somehow Balthazar had managed to untie Castiel’s scarf during the night without waking him. The nearby creek explained the wetness, but the crow had, like so many times before, gone to impressive lengths just to mess with him.
A spark of blue lightning stole over Castiel's eyes, and with a resounding crack the branch serving as the bird’s perch broke off, ending the cackling with a rather undignified squeak. Castiel's satisfaction, however, was short lived, because the severed branch then proceeded to hit him straight on the head, reigniting Balthazar’s cackling.
Castiel sighed. Probably served him right; he had given Hannah his solemn promise to keep his magic in check. Hannah was not kin, but the closest thing to kin he had. Hannah’s hope that an old friend of hers might be able to help Castiel understand his powers and her promise to write to him were what finally made Castiel agree to go to Camelot.
Camelot was where he was travelling right now. Grumpy as he was about the early morning and Balthazar’s rough yet effective method, he was also grateful to Balthazar for waking him. If Castiel wanted to reach the capital city at a decent hour, maybe even in time for some lunch, he would have to set out early. A short dig through his satchel revealed a disheartening amount of edibles, but still, he broke off a few crumbs of bread and a piece of cheese for Balthazar. The crow flew down from his new perch, a much thicker branch this time, and gratefully started picking at the food. Just because Balthazar could hunt down mice and berries and the like didn't mean he enjoyed doing so. He much preferred human food. Castiel couldn't count the number of times he had found suspicious beak-marks in his pies or missed a piece of cheese he was sure had just been in front of him. Balthazar could be a sneaky little bastard, as evidenced once more by the theft of Castiel's scarf this morning.
The bread was a couple of days old and only borderline chewable. Castiel glanced around. There was only the bluish, hazy mist of the early morning pooling in the creeks and hollows of the forest around him. With another flash of white briefly lightning up Castiel's eyes, the bread was soft again and steaming with heat, and Castiel's dew-damp coat was cosy-warm and dry. Balthazar glared at him. Castiel shrugged. There hadn’t been anybody around to see him anyway, and he quickly dried his scarf as well before putting it back on. The crow angrily clicked his beak.
“I know,” Castiel sighed. “Don't worry, I’ll be more careful in the city.”
Castiel stood up, stretching to loosen up his bones after another night on the ground. His back and shoulders popped audibly. He shook out his coat, rolled it up, and tied it on top of his satchel. For this time of the year the coat was rather warm, but Castiel hoped it would be fine for the winter down here too. It was an old, tan coat that he had had for a number of years now, but where he had grown up the coat had never been quite enough during winter. However, when he had bought it, he had known that he would only be able to afford one coat, and so he had reasoned that he would take one that was suitable for cool weather - this way it would only be a little too warm in summer . Since he would need something in winter as well, he took the coat two sizes bigger than he needed so that he could wear a woollen jumper or two beneath it.
Back on the road, Castiel took a moment to orient himself, but Balthazar was already hopping from branch to branch, down the road, in what Castiel assumed was the right direction. Shouldering his satchel, he followed the crow. He knew there was little chance of catching up with Balthazar now; the bird would fly ahead to see what lay further down the road until he was little more than a black and grey shadow in the twilight . Later he would return and probably hitch a ride on Castiel's shoulder for some time.
The day was bright and promised a good deal of heat later on, which was unusual this late in the summer. During the last few weeks autumn had started to filter through. As Castiel marched on, the scenery slowly changed, and soon he had left most of the woods behind him. The landscape mellowed and the torn stone of the mountains softened into rolling hills and green meado ws, m uch like the ones Castiel was used to. Camelot’s rich pastures and gentle climate were the object of much envy from many of the surrounding kingdoms.
Thian, the kingdom where Castiel had grown up, did not look much different, but being a good deal further north made the winters much rougher than in Camelot. Now, half a day’s journey from the City of Camelot, the fields around him showcased Camelot’s prosperity: grapes hang heavy from the vines with thick wooden beams supporting their weight, and some farmers had already started bringing in the seas of golden wheat and copper sunflowers. Artfully assembled stonewalls separated fields from orchards and lined the winding road - some of them only thigh-high, others taller than a grown man. There were fields and fields of all kinds of vegetables, the remains of yesterday’s heavy rainfall on the leaves, sparkling in the morning sunlight like rhinestones sewn onto opulent green silk. Farmers with colourful hats dotted some of the fields.
The disadvantage of the heavy rainfall from the day before were huge puddles of murky water; none particularly deep due to the road being kept in commendable order, but some of them rather wide. Quite often Castiel found himself tiptoeing along narrow paths or playing hopscotch with dry spots.
Already in viewing distance of Camelot, Castiel was carefully manoeuvring around what appeared to be a small pond, when he heard the rapidly closing sound of a group of knights on horseback. Caught between the puddle and a high stonewall, Castiel hoped for the riders to slow down. However, when they shot into view, the foremost rider seemed to urge his black mount to an even higher speed as he saw Castiel awkwardly edging along the wall trying to keep his boots dry . In a whirl of hoofs, hoots, and jaunty screams to get out of the way, the pack tore past him, dowsing Castiel in cold water and splattering him with mud from head to toe. In an effort to press himself even closer to the wall, Castiel slipped and landed deftly on his bottom, smack in the middle of the puddle. The blond rider in the front was looking back over his shoulder and appeared to all but fall off his horse with laughter.
The knights were almost out of sight when Balthazar landed on the stonewall. The bird seemed caught between keeping himself from laughing and genuine worry about what might be Castiel’s reaction. Castiel himself needed a second to process what had just happened. A fat blob of mud was slowly sliding down his forehead, and when he instinctively tried stopping it from dripping into his eyes, he smeared even more dirt over his face.
Fuming, Castiel barely kept himself from trying to do something to that rider’s saddle belt, even though by then he was probably already too far away to reach. He picked himself up, leaving behind a visible indent in the sludge on the ground. Brown rivulets of water cascaded down the seams of his trousers, running into his shoes and out again. He wriggled his toes. He could feel the mud between them. This close to Camelot, surrounded by farmers and with only a stonewall to serve him as protection from any prying eyes, Castiel knew summoning his magic would be reckless and stupid, but he could feel the sparks of it riding on the anger bubbling up inside of him. He could still see the blond knight galloping away on his beast of a stallion, his red cape billowing behind him. Lightning shot across Castiel’s eyes, too fast for anyone to notice who might not have been waiting for it to happen. There was a shout, then some more shouting, followed by curses and quickly subdued laughter. The blond knight appeared to be sitting in a puddle similar to Castiel’s, soggy cape draped half over his head. His horse had come to a stop a few paces away from him and stood with the other knights. They must have pressed past him to avoid trampling him, but had repeatedly doused him in tepid water. The black horse seemed to be rather surprised to find itself suddenly without a rider. The saddle was askew, hanging at an off angle somewhere around the horse’s belly.
After a second of staring dumbfounded at his horse, returning to nuzzle the wet cape on top of his head, the rider surged up, almost toppling over again when he got caught in the cape. Following what Castiel deemed a rather ridiculous and immensely gratifying performance of flailing limbs and bellowed curses, the rider finally broke free of his cape and examined his mysteriously torn saddle girth. There was some more shouting, knights trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, and pointing around. One of the knights got off his horse, took off his saddle and gave it to the blond knight before taking the ruined saddle off the black horse and placing it on his own. As soon as the new saddle had been securely attached to the black horse - and carefully tested - the knights took off again, leaving the one with the broken saddle to walk his horse along. The riders on horseback took off and soon disappeared around a bend a bit further down the road.
While Castiel did feel guilty for bringing the blond rider into a situation that might well have killed or at least severely injured him or one of his companions, seeing him demand the saddle of one of his peers set Castiel off even more. Just when Castiel might have been about to do something even more foolhardy, Balthazar gave a warning caw, and Castiel could hear the slow, trudging hoof-beats of a heavy farming horse coming up behind him, followed by the sloshing sound of wheels and the rhythmic creaking of a cart. The cart, drawing close at a much more leisurely pace than the riders before, was covered with a heavy tarp to protect the goods beneath. As soon as the cart was near enough for its driver to spot Castiel, her eyebrows shot up and a sharp whistle brought the horse to stop.
“Well, don't you look like one drowned chicken,” the woman on the cart drawled. A rain cloak was loosely draped around her shoulders, with the hood pulled up over her head. Straw-blond hair peeked out beneath it. “The roads are good, but you should watch out; they’re slippery after rainfall.”
“Slippery roads are one thing, inconsiderate horsemen another,” Castiel bit out between clenched teeth. “I would have expected the knights of Camelot to be more chivalrous and less of a bunch of - ”
“Careful, careful, you don't want to be sent to the docks for insulting anybody’s honour now, do you.” Her lips were twitching in amusement. “Where are you headed?”
Upon Castiel’s dejected answer that he was going to Camelot to start an apprenticeship with the archivist that day, the driver offered a sympathetic smile and a ride to the castle. When they rolled past the knight with the broken saddle, Castiel found himself to be extremely interested in the fields on the other side of the road. The woman introduced herself as Ellen Harvelle, the owner of one of the alehouses in the city and a good friend of the court archivist. After he had told the innkeeper his story, carefully leaving out any mention of magic, Castiel admitted that he was a little puzzled how his aunt expected him to learn about medicine from an archivist.
“Oh, you’ll see soon enough,” Ellen chuckled. “He might have started as the archivist, but when the court physician unexpectedly died from a fever a good many years back, the king made Singer take over the physician’s duties. But it turned out that he’s brilliant at it, and the king ended up never bringing in a new one … ” Ellen shrugged. “The king’d rather have a new archivist than a new physician, and Singer, that old grump, keeps grousing about it because he barely ever has time to spend in the archives nowadays,” she said with a fond smile.
Castiel frowned.
“Then who is taking care of the archives?” he asked.
“Well, one of the scribes has been taking over some of his duties, but it’s open knowledge that Singer was basically coaching Prince Samuel as his replacement; the boy spent his childhood sneaking into the archives all the time anyway. Almost set part of them on fire once because he crept in one night with only a candle since he couldn't find a proper lantern and nobody would have allowed him in had he asked anyone for one . Singer banned him from the archives for half a year and had him copy all the old history books before he was allowed back in. Kind of bit him in the ass, though, cause the kid’s a genius, remembers every single word he ever reads, and now keeps quoting everything back at him,” Ellen grinned. Then she sobered. “Well, that was at least before the prince took off to university. It’s an open secret that the entire thing got pretty ugly. My daughter was working at the castle at the time; apparently it got so bad that the servants were actively trying to avoid being in the same room as the king and Prince Sam. I think Prince Sam leaving like that hit Prince Dean pretty bad… Spent quite a few nights at the Roadhouse .” Ellen sighed. “Anyway, now Metatron does most of the archivist’s work.”
“Metatron?”
“The scribe. Creepy little know-it-all, insists on having his drinks at the Roadhouse. Bad for custom.” Ellen pulled a face . “I wish he’d stay out of my tavern, but I guess you’ll have the pleasure of working with him, so I’d probably better shut up and let you make up your own mind.”
Castiel nodded noncommittally. This was just sounding better and better, wasn’t it.
By now the arrangement of smaller hills around the more prominent one upon which the castle was artfully placed was drawing near. Castiel looked around, trying to take everything in. He had been to bigger towns before, but this, this was a city, and a big one at that. The capital city of the country. The castle walls looked intimidatingly high, gleaming white in the sun, the shingles on the roofs of countless towers and on the castle at the highest point of the city sparkled in the bright light.
They had come close enough at this point to distinguish the flowing banners and flags of Camelot and King John. Both were a deep, rich red, but while the former showed a silver castle on top of a dragon, the latter depicted a complicated knot formed by a golden crown, two golden eyes pierced by multiple silver daggers, and a huge black dragon. On one of the towers a single green flag was fluttering in the breeze. Castiel squinted against the brightness of the sun to see whether he could make out the coat of arms, but all he could see was something black in a silver circle. He figured it didn’t really matter, but curiosity got the better of him.
“Why is there a single green flag?” he asked. “What’s on it?”
“The green one?” Ellen looked up from the road towards the castle towering in front of them a little further up the hill. “That’s Prince Dean. He must’ve come back from a hunting trip. The flag is usually raised to show he’s home. When he was formally invested crown prince he chose a black stallion in a silver circle as his coat of arms, but once he becomes king he’s likely going to change it.”
Ellen frowned.
“You seem unhappy about something,” Castiel remarked. Only after did it occur to him that that might not have been the appropriate thing to say. He tried to apologise, but Ellen waved him away.
“Nah, it’s okay. I was just wondering when Prince Samuel’s flag would be up there again. Thing’s have been… strained between the king and the two princes since he went off to university.”
Castiel wanted to ask more, but they were rolling through the city gates, and Ellen’s attention shifted to the guards asking for her documentation and about the contents of the cart, which turned out to be beer, wine, and a couple of other things for the Roadhouse. Once they had entered the city, there was so much to see and hear that Castiel did not know where to look first. The horse moved confidently through the crowded streets and soon the cart rolled to a stop next to a big, mostly wooden building close to the central market place. Big letters above the entrance proclaimed it to be the Roadhouse and Castiel decided it was time for him to say his goodbyes. He thanked Ellen profusely, who told him to come by for a drink some time and to pass her greetings to Bobby.
“Tell him to come down here for a drink some time too,” she ordered Castiel, before pointing him in the direction of the castle. Castiel thanked her again, and, after hopping off the cart, he promised to relay her message and waved goodbye.
The gate to the street was pushed open and a young man with a strange hairstyle Castiel had never seen before took hold of Ellen’s horse, guiding it into the yard beyond the wall and towards a barn where Castiel expected the stables to be. Castiel could see barrels lining the walls of the yard inside, stacked on top of each other. A young woman with long blond hair joined the people in the yard and gave Ellen a hug.
Moving to the side of the market place, Castiel inspected his clothing. It was almost mid-day now and his clothes had mostly dried. His boots had not, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that; there were people everywhere and he didn’t dare sneak into one of the private yards leading off the main street for cover. Patting his clothes, Castiel did his best to dislodge the dried mud, which mostly worked. He still looked a bit like a mole who had been picked out of the ground and left to dry, but it would have to do. He did not have anything to change into since Hannah insisted he only bring his best change of clothes to the city; torn farming clothes would not do for the court she had said. Then she had given him a couple of coins and told him to get something new and appropriate when he was there. Castiel hoped he would not have to use all of the money for clothes. Maybe he could send some of it back to Hannah.
Castiel walked up the rest of the hill to the castle, Balthazar continuing to follow him in the air, or hopping from rooftop to rooftop if it took Castiel longer to navigate a particularly crowded patch. A court of crows and a couple of ravens perched on the gate to one of the inner rings of the city, eyeing Castiel with interest. Castiel gave them a small but respectful nod; it wouldn't do to anger the Ravenfolk.
The city seemed in a festive mood, and there were colourful banners waving from many lampposts and some of the houses. At the castle gates, two guards stepped in his way and asked where he was headed. Castiel wasn’t sure whether he should ask for the court physician or the royal archivist, but the guards immediately knew who he was looking for and pointed him to a tower a little to the side of the main building across the courtyard.
Once he had made his way up from the gate to the courtyard, Castiel found himself at the edges of a crowd gathered around something half-way between the middle of the courtyard and the entrance to the main building of the castle, above which there perched a broad balcony. The courtyard was decorated with the same colourful banners as the rest of the city. On the balcony there stood the king, flanked by two guards on each side. Flags of Camelot billowed next to the king’s own. The people below were chatting excitedly and Castiel wondered what they were waiting for. Slowly, he dodged and twisted until he stood directly in front of the centre of attention: a wooden podium covered with straw, with an ominously rusty wooden block and a basket in the middle.