Warnings: Merlin/Uther, noncon




Gossip travels fast throughout the castle staff; It's one of the first things you learn working within the building's walls. You will learn everything about everyone, whether it be an affair or something more personal. Something more deadly.

You grow accustomed to traveling lightly along the line of rumor and caution early on.

You receive your first warning about the man from the crying lips of a maidservant. She leans against the walls, hiding in an alcove, face within her hands.

Then she sees you. Looks at you. Her face grows darker and the tears refuse to cease as her eyes roam about your body.

Her gaze finally settles on your face.

She's holding herself, shaking.

'What's the matter?' you inquire, unaware as you take your first step into the pool of dark, ghastly knowledge. Another prophecy yet come to pass.

She falls in your arms.

' Don't let him look at you,' she pleads, hands holding your cheeks, her eyes never ceasing to water, ' don't let him touch you, either.'

The words end there.

She leaves, the faint sound of her footstep against the stones

And you brush the words off without a thought.


" Don't follow him." The quivering sting of words say, barely audible. The terror within the syllables brush against your ear, settling unto the pit of your stomach. This shivering servant does not touch you.

He does not want to be touched.

His form quakes under your concerned gaze. Your eyes trail along the colorful bruises and cuts peeking out of his clothing.

' Who is he?' You inquire.

You never get your answer.


It is by the third warning that you realize just who he is.

' He's staring at you.' One servant says.

Your form freezes carrying the jug of wine, the notes of music dancing in the air as the laughter and joy of the feast makes the great hall seem so surreal.


' Better you than me.' another servant says, passing you amongst the sea of servants tending to the guests.

You answer the call to refill a royal's cup, quietly and dutifully as a servant should.

And he touches you.

The gloved hands gently graze your arm and run down your side as the liquid leaves the jug in your hands.

You ignore the hand and gaze as long as you can.

You ignore his commands as long as you can.

But the other servants refuse to take your place; you are the chosen lamb led upon the alter.

You will be slaughtered.

And as the music dies down with the rise of the moon

And he beckons you to his chambers

As those cold, gloved hands begin to remove your clothing, your form shivering under the touch

First removing your jacket,

Then your shirt

The hand rubbing against your chest and neck, indifferent to your pleas of tears

And finally, as the mighty oak doors moan and finally close, sealing your fate for the night

You wonder: ' Why didn't you listen? '