Why We Fight.pdf

Title: Why We Fight

Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Gwen/Lancelot, Morgana/Mordred (with other background and past

pairings mentioned)

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: ~94.2k

Warnings: -takes deep breath- Violence, slavery, depictions of war and its aftermath,

branding/scarring, flogging/whipping, minor character deaths, suicidal sentiments and suicide, sexual

content, slight age difference, non-consensual use of magic (not in sexual context)

Summary: Canon!AU Fusion with Carol Berg‘s Transformation . Age-old prophecies foretold the descent

of Albion into chaos after the fall of Carmarthen. Only with the King and Warlock can Albion be saved.

All his people believe that Merlin is Emrys, the Warlock in all the prophecies. But when the kingdom

Carmarthen actually does fall, Merlin is taken as a slave and stripped of his magic. All hope for Albion is

lost. Thirteen years later, Merlin is bought as the personal writing slave to the prince of the kingdom

responsible for Carmarthen‘s fall—Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. He soon finds himself caught

in the middle of a plot to take over not only Camelot, but all of Albion.

Disclaimer: Merlin is owned by the BBC and Shine. No copyright infringement is intended and no

profit is being made.

Author's notes: This was written for paperlegends 2011, my first ever big bang! And man, was this a

monster to complete. I have several people to thank for making this fic possible. My lovely

bet a guilshad . (So any mistakes left are mine.) My equally lovely artist altocello . Thank you both for

giving me the feedback and advice I needed to hear. My cheerleader a_systole , even though she had to

drop out due to a busy schedule. caitcupcake , because it was great having a fellow writer to talk to and

cheer me on. feyuca , who helped keep me focused on writing whenever I felt like drawing instead haha.

The wonderful people on the Paperlegends chats. I didn't have to join in the chats after school ended

back in May, but I enjoyed the chats I was able to join. And, various people on tumblr who helped cheer

me on to the finish line. (You know who you are!) Also, a big thanks to the_muppet , without whom none

of this would have been possible! Thank you for all the hard work you put in to organizing the challenge

and keeping everything on track!

This fic is a fusion with the first book in Carol Berg's Rai-Kirah trilogy. I tried to make the story as

much as my own as possible, but can't really judge how well I've succeed and I don't know anyone who

has ever read the book. If anyone has, I love you instantly and would love to hear your comments.

Since I'm an American, I decided to save myself from embarrassment and stick with American. Sorry. If

there's some British English slipped in, it's probably by accident....

In addition, I took all the city and kingdom names in the fic from history or legend, but they do not

truthfully correspond with their namesakes. Some of them, like Camelot, obviously do but others were

simply for convenience. So just think of the setting of the fic as taking place in some fantasy world that

sort of reflects canon but not.

It was once told among his people that when Carmarthen fell, a greater evil would descend upon all of Albion. His

people, the Carmarthians, would suffer through dark times once their kingdom fell, but it would be nothing

compared to what humanity would suffer after the Evil plunges Albion into chaos.

It was also told that a man would rise to save Albion, to save humanity. This man, the Once and Future King as

some called him, would defeat the Evil and unite all of Albion as one, despite having no power but that of his

sword and his words. Because at the King‟s side would be a great warlock, one of their own, and it is only with the

King and Warlock united, that Albion will find salvation and peace.

For years as he grew up, his people looked to him as the Warlock. Because as young as he was, he was gradually

becoming the most powerful of them all. Because magic flowed through him the way blood did. Because his name

was Emrys , the name all seers connected with that of the Warlock.

But Carmarthen fell as prophesized, crushed quickly under the combined forces of the kingdoms of Camelot and

Mercia. And Emrys fell too. With his loss was the loss of hope of his people. Dark times were ahead, and without

the Warlock to aid the yet undiscovered King, Albion was doomed.

Merlin was barely awake when he was dragged up from the dirt floor and hauled out of the slave pen.

The slave merchant, whom he hadn‘t bothered to learn the name of, gave him a cursory glance—to no

doubt check for any defects to his merchandise—before clamping manacles to Merlin‘s wrists. He was

then herded out of the slave house, tripping over his shackles, and into the rain. And as he stood on the

small, crudely constructed wooden dais meant for putting slaves on display, stark naked and shivering,

he had a feeling that the day would rank as one of the worst since his capture twelve years ago.

He did not have to wait long before the slave merchant returned though, leading two men behind him.

The taller of the two wore a blue cloak closed tight around his body, his head protected from the rain by

the cloak‘s hood. The shorter man wore a knight‘s armor and remained two steps behind the other,

indicating the hooded man‘s superior rank.

―The Carmarthian slave, as you requested, your highness,‖ the slave merchant said with a subservient

bow when they reached Merlin.

The hooded man was less than a foot away from him, and Merlin found himself under the scrutiny of

Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, son of King Uther Pendragon and heir apparent to the very

kingdom responsible for Carmarthen‘s fall. During the first few years of his captivity, if he had found

himself before the prince, Merlin would have attacked him right then and there. He knew better than

that now; he had no chance and no will to do so, not if he wanted to at least stay alive and as pain-free as

possible.

Under the hood, Merlin caught hints of blue eyes, bright even in the rain, blond hair, and smooth,

golden-tinted skin. If the glimpses of the man‘s face were any indication, then the prince was as

handsome as the stories said he was.

―He looks too pale to be Carmarthian,‖ the prince remarked. ―And you're sure he can read and write? He

looks a bit like an idiot.‖

The prince's companion snickered. Merlin felt his temper spark, but he let the insult slide, as he had

learned to do with all the insults he'd had directed towards him through twelve years of slavery. ―Idiot‖

was probably the mildest he'd ever gotten.

―Yes, your highness. Lord Gaufrid, his previous master, informed me specifically that this one could

read and write. It seems he knows several of the Old Languages as well--better for his kind to do magic

and whatnot,‖ the slave merchant replied.

The prince's shoulders shifted, straightening his back undoubtedly at the mention of magic. Magic was

not a rare thing in Albion, but it was the very reason Carmarthen had been invaded. Carmarthen had

had the highest concentration of sorcerers, its own royal family having consisted of skilled sorcerers.

Only a handful of the magicians in Camelot and Mercia had any true power, and it was through jealousy

that the magicians betrayed their kind and turned Camelot, Mercia, and who knew which other

kingdoms, against the Carmarthians.

―So he's a sorcerer then,‖ said the prince. The disdain in his voice was hard not to miss. The prince had

been only a child when Carmarthen fell, but it was no secret the disdain the royal family held for magic,

even though magic was not banned outright. It didn‘t have to be, not when most of the Carmarthian

sorcerers were killed or enslaved. ―He's been put through the Rites, of course?‖

Merlin stiffened when the prince reached into his cloak and extracted a knife from his belt. But the

prince did not uncover the blade, instead using its sheathed point to poke and prod Merlin all over--

including between his legs. Never since the first few years of his captivity had he felt the urge to bristle

and hiss at the invasive treatment. He bit the inside of his cheek and willed himself still in both body and

expression. The prince stepped a bit closer, circling him with increased scrutiny.

―Yes, sire, most certainly. I believe he's been in service since the very day we took Carmarthen. There

shouldn't be a trace of magic left in him.‖

None that Merlin could actually use anyway. No one, not even his own people, fully understood that he

essentially was magic. Magic was in his bloodstream, in every fiber of his being. The Rites had left him

with the bare minimum--just enough for his heart to pump and lungs to move, just enough for his

wounds to heal and his mind to function, and no more.

―And these stripes? I wasn't informed that he was damaged.‖ Merlin kept himself from shivering when

the sheathed knife lightly traced one of the whipping scars on his back. ―Seems like he's been a handful.‖

―He was one of the fighters taken during the conquest; no doubt he must have been put under strict

discipline at first. But Lord Gaufrid has assured me that he is now well-behaved, albeit rather clumsy.‖

―And what reason did Lord Gaufrid give for...relinquishing the slave?‖ The offending knife finally

withdrew, returned to its original place on the prince's belt.

―He didn't say, but assured me it was no fault of the slave.‖

―Hmm, odd.‖ The prince finally stepped away from Merlin, raising his head as if to get another look at

him. Merlin‘s breath caught in his throat when, by accident, his eyes met those of the prince‘s. He

immediately looked away, bowing his head to stare fixedly at the soggy grass before the prince‘s feet.

―I-if the slave does not please you, there are others…‖ the merchant trailed off, and Merlin glanced up to

see the prince shake his head.

―I‘ll give you sixty for him. Get him ready and delivered to the castle.‖

―But your highness, the slave is worth at least a hundred if not more!‖

―You forget who you‘re speaking to, Merchant,‖ the prince snapped. He glared down at the man with

arrogance and expectation, a look most certainly garnered over years of always getting what he wanted

when he wanted it. ―I‘m being generous. Those stripes are unsightly, and you‘ve already said the slave

was clumsy. I have little tolerance for bumbling idiots, but I have need of a scribe. You should be glad

I‘m paying you so much.‖

―Yes, yes, of course, sire!‖ the merchant agreed, complete with frantic, low bows.

―Good,‖ the prince said with a nod before turning around to his companion. ―Sir Caradoc!‖ The prince

put a hand on the knight‘s shoulder. ―The slave handler still has business to take care of. Why don‘t you

pay for the slave and take him back?‖ The knight‘s face morphed into a perfect look of shock and dismay.

As if not noticing the look at all, the prince merely patted the knight‘s shoulder before sauntering off

towards the stable.

With a look of contempt and anger, the knight tossed several gold pieces at the merchant‘s feet. His

anger was understandable, and even the merchant looked vaguely sympathetic. Without any hesitation

or guilt, the prince had essentially demoted Sir Caradoc from knight to slave handler, a position on level

with, if not lower, than that of a simple commoner.

Of course, it was difficult for Merlin to feel a shred of sympathy for the man when he ended up with his

wrists bound and tethered to Caradoc‘s horse, chilled to the bone and still stark naked. Merlin stumbled

along behind the knight and horse, too focused on not tripping and consequently being dragged

through the city to feel any embarrassment and shame at the display he was making.

But Merlin failed to realize the extent of affront the knight felt at the prince‘s slight until he was being

dragged by the chains of his manacles into the castle and across its courtyard. It was with creeping

apprehension that he spotted their destination—not the slave house, but the smithy.

―Sir Caradoc, what can I do for you?‖ A blacksmith stepped forward. He eyed Merlin with masked

curiosity but waited for Caradoc to answer.

―You are to brand the slave‘s face with the royal seal.‖

Merlin choked back his cry of horror. The blacksmith looked from the knight to Merlin with a furrowed

brow.

―Is he a runaway? He seems new. And Prince Arthur dislikes branding slaves. Are you sure, sir?‖

―Look at those stripes. The slave deserves it, and the prince requested that it be done,‖ Caradoc said.

Merlin had to say something, to stop this or he‘d be the one to pay for this senseless act of revenge.

―No! The prince— I‘m not—‖

―Quiet, slave!‖ Caradoc cut him off with a backhand to his cheek. ―Brand his face, smith.‖

―But are you sure?‖ the blacksmith asked again.

―Are you questioning my word, Blacksmith?‖ Caradoc snapped.

The blacksmith quickly denied the accusation, scurrying away and then back again, an iron glowing red

hot at its end in his hands. The blacksmith murmured to Merlin that he‘d chosen the smallest of the

branding irons bearing the Pendragon royal crest and handed him a rag to clench between his teeth.

He had, mercifully, been half-conscious and delirious when he had received the brand on his thigh

marking him as a slave. But today, he was wide awake as the blacksmith pressed the iron into his skin,

right over his left cheekbone. His vision briefly turned white as pain flooded him, and he was biting

down on the rag so hard he was afraid his jaw would break. His eyes watered, his left cheek feeling as if

it was on fire. The smell of burnt flesh—his flesh—made his stomach turn. He dry heaved, nothing but

bile rising into his mouth since he couldn‘t remember when his last meal had been. He spat the rag from

his mouth as dizziness swept through him.

A servant boy led him out of the smithy and across the courtyard to the slave house. The floor lurched

under his feet, and his head felt hot and muddled. The boy pointed to the very-inviting-looking straw

pallet on the floor, and without a second thought, Merlin collapsed onto the straw, hoping that when he

woke up, the swelling and throbbing under his eye would have dulled.

It seemed as if he‘d just closed his eyes when he was being shaken awake.

―Carmarthian, wake up. The prince wants you to serve him at—‖ The voice faltered to a halt when

Merlin clambered to his feet.

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