Fic: One Hundred (WIP, 1/?)
Dec. 3rd, 2010 02:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyusTitle: One Hundred (1/?)
Characters: Merlin, most of the male cast
Warning: Character Death from part 2 on
Rating: R
Type: Canon!AU, WIP
Length: 3000 words
Summary: On the first day of spring, one hundred young men meet for an event known throughout Camelot as "The Long Walk."
Notes: Based on The Long Walk by Stephen King, writing as Richard Bachman. It's a bit of an experiment, in terms of taking the idea and turning it into something Merlin. Fair warning there, if you're hesitant about reading it after you looked up the book, don't read it. Beta'd by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
misswinterhill and paragraphs.
Merlin had avoided his goodbyes in Ealdor. He'd slipped out of his room before his mother and Will could spend another night cornering him by the fire and attempting to change his mind in hands and feet and tears (his mother) and punches and flying spittle (Will). The dew-swept morning, the first of the birds back in the trees, had turned into a brazen early spring afternoon that stunk up the space on the supplies carriage that crossed the borders into Camelot and travelled further north. The sound of fighting and the acrid smoke of war wafted through the thick brushwork of the forest when the wind turned for a few moments, blowing cool on the first sun-baked sweat of the year, but war had been a constant ever since Merlin could remember. He took comfort in it.
The last opportunity to send a note had come and gone with the last new moon.
Merlin squinted into the sun, stretched his legs between pots and pans with dried meat and preserves and wriggled his toes inside his shoes. With the rocking roll of the wheels on the uneven ground, the lull nearly sent him to a nap. He dozed and the scenery around him changed, trees giving way to the low roll of the first hills and turning into shrubwork then mostly bareness. The sounds of war had receded. Merlin pulled his jacket tighter around himself when clouds pushed in front of the sun. Will would curse him for the rest of- Merlin stared at the field they rolled past, -Will would curse him, full stop, maybe.
The carriage rolled to a stop, the horses blowing out through their noses, hooves loud as they tapped on the hard ground.
"Is this...?" Merlin asked as he slipped off the back of the cart and walked around, rubbing his knuckles across the horse's flank.
Two knights stood at a small path in the middle of nothing else, a tournament field with a few figures sitting around the edges beyond them. The knights were decked out in armour, faces impassive, and Merlin rubbed his fingers along the horse's back once more, then thanked the man with a nod and only barely resisted the strangest urge to jump back on the cart and be taken further afield. The horses turned the cart and Merlin's eyes burned as he stared after it. He still stood in the same spot when it crossed back into the forest too far away to make out clearly and ached for home when he turned. Wind was tugging at his jacket.
"Merlin," he said to the knights, clutching fingers around the sack over his shoulder as he handed them the sealed letter. One of them cracked the seal, read. He tried to read their faces, but they simply stepped aside and let him pass.
Dry earth cracked under his feet and he felt the jagged edges of small stones. Every step became a sequence of events. Merlin stumbled, nearly fell, and half the boys looked up as he stepped onto the tournament field before they went back to what they were doing. Merlin lifted his hand in sheepish greeting, turned his ankle this way and that to make sure he'd not done something colossally stupid before anything had even begun, but it seemed fine.
One of the boys was stretched out on his back in the middle of the tournament field soaking in the sun while dust brushed around him, his feet bare and toes wiggling. One was pacing back and forth along the short side of field. Merlin heard steps behind him and turned. A man, long hair and beard and somewhat older than Merlin stepped up next to him and surveyed the field with quick, assessing eyes. The Ealdor made you tough with the work in the fields and the village but Merlin felt like a waif next to the broad shoulders and strong stance.
"Merlin," Merlin said eventually and held out his hand.
"Gawain," the man replied as he gave a brief laugh that made him sound young enough, scratching at his beard. He stretched, completely unselfconscious and gave Merlin another friendly nod before he looked across the field then stepped forward to a few other boys sitting in one corner of it in the wind-shade of some stands, one crosslegged one with his legs stretched out, leaned back on their elbows.
Merlin glanced across to the one pacing along the field, tightened his grip on his sack and followed Gawain. He sat down next to him.
"Nervous then?" Merlin asked. He picked up a small stone and rubbed it across the dry ground. The wood behind them that blocked the wind made the sun feel a little warmer. Foreboding prickled on Merlin's skin; it was a good day for a walk.
"It's the worst," Gawain said and looked over to Merlin, studying him from boots to trousers, the shirt and the light jacket. "You'll be good. Not as heavy are you? They say the heavy ones are the first to fold."
Merlin shrugged. He wondered if it was true like any of the other myths surrounding The Walk, but Gawain looked all muscle, like one of the knights, when Merlin didn't see much strength in himself.
He caught snatches of the other conversation next to them, how to preserve energy initially and the preparation they'd done. He glanced across the tournament field again. One boy had settled on the balustrade, feet dangling, biting into an apple, blond hair glowing in the sun. Why hadn't he withdrawn when he'd still had the chance? Listened to Will and his hissed tirades over Merlin's darned magic not protecting him from that either. "They won't even give you a warning for that!" he'd said.
Merlin knew the rules. Everyone knew the rules.
Merlin's preparation had been to duck Will's blows and his mother's quiet strength.
"Just don't go," his mother had pleaded, and he'd explained to her once more that the knights would find him, patiently, until she'd cried and he'd let her. He'd ducked people clapping him on the shoulder, avoided the debate about participants after the list of names had been read in the villages and the talk of The Walk replaced all worries and complaints about the crop and the war.
"I've a strategy," one of the boys they sat next to said to the other, drawing a pattern into the sand. He narrowed his eyes at the point of his stick. "You'll see." Narrow-eyed and small-nosed he looked across the tournament grounds, fingers white on the stick until the wood cracked. Merlin gave him to the first incline maybe, weasly as he looked, and then looked down at his own arms and legs.
"To walk?" the other replied with a dry drawl that Merlin made out to be roughly from the other side of the kingdom. He looked no less intense, but a smile played around his lips as he scuffed his shoe at the grass bushel.
Gawain gave a barked laugh and the two boys turned to him and Merlin. The one who'd spoken last lifted his hand. "Lancelot. Two more lambs waiting to be slaughtered then?"
Gawain nodded, smiled and introduced himself. Merlin did the same.
"Gilli," the narrow-eyed boy supplied and stretched out a hand to Merlin. Merlin shook it. Gilli looked at Gawain and just gave him a nod. Gawain nodded back, amused.
"He won't make it long," Lancelot said, biting at the side of his thumb he'd slid between his lips as he nodded at the pacer on the far side of the field.
"Number 13," Merlin muttered.
"Conserve energy whenever possible," Gilli muttered and the others nodded and they fell silent in quiet contemplation of the morning. Merlin looked out across the plains. Last year a winner had been there, it had been rumoured, watching last year's 100 take off, but despite the hushed vibration of energy and lowered whispers and outright speculation the mention of The Walk brought in every tavern around the kingdom, people vying for their favourites, no one was there to see them off.
As the sun came up a little higher more and more boys stepped past the knights and onto the tournament field, shuffling into groups. Merlin couldn't help but measure them for their chances, how long they'd make it, the shoes and clothes they wore.
"Wouldn't mind for it to start now," Gawain said, standing up to jump up a few times. He grinned down at them. "The waiting's just a bit tedious, isn't it?"
Laughter travelled over the field from one of the other groups. The boy who had been eating the apple was now licking his fingers and watching them all. Merlin thought it curious he was talking to no one when Merlin had shaken more hands and heard more names than he could even remember by now. When the sound of hooves and metal travelled closer across the plains, dark shades becoming figures, they all stood, necks craning as the King rode into view. The bright red of his cape, the sun glinting off his armour stood in stark contrast to their muddy browns and greens as he passed by them with his entourage and stopped in the middle of the field, canted smile on his face as he lifted his hand and motioned them to sit.
Merlin settled back on his arse, flushing red at so easily forgetting about the list of rules and hints, as did the rest of them. The boy on the balustrade knocked his heels to the wood, looking bored. Merlin had never seen the King of Camelot. He'd heard his mother talk of him, of the time before they'd lived in Ealdor when his father had still been there and spent the nights in the tavern ranting against the King and his loyal subjects. They hadn't talked of Camelot other than to marvel at its riches and strengths in the village, Will and him and the others, at least until Merlin had declared that he'd sent a note and Will had never mentioned the kingdom by name again other than to call him a traitor, drunkenly, and Merlin had been forced to deck him.
Merlin stared and stared, open-mouthed until he realised he looked the fool and only consoled himself with the knowledge that all of the others looked the same. The King looked out at them. He had a sword, gleaming like the rest of him, strapped to his waist and the glare of the reflection made it near impossible to look at him directly. The short, cropped hair and deep lines, the expression of importance, made Merlin's heart catch in his chest. He was the King. His horse stood stock still as if even it had to obey his command completely.
His knights, metal covering their faces leaving slits for eyes, had ridden in behind him in rows of tens, moving as one with the shuffle of chainmail. The horses stood magnificent and tall, a few carriages stood towards the back. Wind hissed through their rows and the clang of a sword to metal, the shift of a crossbow over a shoulder were the only movements.
Gilli snorted beside him. Merlin shot him a quick glance but just then the King lifted his hand again.
"I'm not going to make a speech," the King said. "I give my respect to the winner among you." He paused and continued in lower inflection, "And my acknowledgments to the losers." He regarded all of them, standing and sitting, close and faraway with a stern, yet unseeing glance, and Merlin shivered, the gravity of the situation sinking into his guts. "I'm going to call you forward by your name and birth-manor. Step up when you are called, collect your number. You'll be fitted with your gears and first provision, and will return to your place until the start."
He unrolled a scroll and began to read out the names. Merlin watched the boys step forward. Aeron of Penwyth, Alun of Ab Gafn. The King bent down off his horse to every one. He put a hand on their shoulders, exchanged a few words, then one of the knights fitted the construction of gears to each of the boys' ankles. Aeron walked away with a dazed look in his eyes, and Merlin and everyone else couldn't take their eyes of his feet when each step brought a small click of the gears.
"Arthur of Hellandbridge," the King called, and the blond boy dropped the core of the apple he'd been eating and slid off the balustrade and walked to the King. He presented his ankles to the knight and received the first day's provision belt he carried loosely in one hand. He turned from the King and walked away without having once looked at him. He settled back on the balustrade and stared up at the sky, watching nothing.
He was called Arthur, then, the strange one who seemed unconcerned with everything and everyone.
Merlin lost track of the boys called. Cornelius of Heage who stood by the King longer than any of the others, was clapped on the shoulder and laughed with him, before he was fitted with his gears. He looked sinewy, lean, strong and Merlin gave him good chances of lasting long.
"Has he said something to you?" Merlin asked when Gilli came back, watching him stride along. Gilli shrugged but Merlin didn't press. The 16 stood out in stark red on Gilli's chest.
"Gawain of Scarcewater." Gawain gave Merlin a wink as he pushed off the ground and wandered over to the King, giving him half a bow, and Merlin could still see his eyes twinkling from where he sat. When Gawain returned, he was busy pulling an apple from the pouch and biting into it while Merlin bent down and examined the intricate design of the gears.
"He asked if we'd got the first heat yet," Gawain said as he bit into the apple. He laughed. "The King, asked me. I told him we'd have the crops out in no time at this pace."
Merlin stared at the gears on Gawain's ankles, but when he reached out to touch them, Gawain pulled his foot away and Merlin gave a quick glance to the knights. "It's not manipulation if we haven't started yet," he said under his breath, but kept his hands in his lap, sure that one of the knights now had his eyes on him. He glanced up under his lashes, studying them, but even their eyes were impossible to make out under the helmets. They didn't look human.
Lancelot was called, and he was more earnest than Merlin had expected. Merlin thought he might make it to the last twenty or maybe even ten, not too heavy or slim with strong thighs.
"Merlin of Carmarthen," the King called, and Merlin stepped forward and the King wished him good luck. Merlin wanted to touch him just to see if he was real, his skin and his hair and the red cape fluttering in the wind and the strong metal, and Merlin wondered if there was a person underneath. Too fast the moment passed and the gears were fitted to his ankles and he walked away, still dazed, under the clicking sound of every step. The knights were watching as if they'd call out the first warning for his number already now. Merlin moved faster.
Merlin was number 47, Gawain 23, Lancelot 45. The last number and belt went to Wynn of Bunny, and the click of the gears on his ankles carried over the field as he returned to his place. They all held out in silence until he'd stopped, turned and sat. Merlin's stomach clenched painfully and he felt the urge to take a shit somewhere. A few of the other boys' expressions spelled out the same.
"Step forward in rows of ten and line up," the King said and the knights parted ranks to free the view of the far side of the field then rode forward and formed two straight lines, the horses standing nose to tail, carving out the path. Merlin and Gawain stood, looked at each other briefly as they began walking across the field and were joined by 98 others and the steady clicking of the gears into nooks into visible colour code. Merlin's placard turned red and he hastened forward and only stopped when Gawain gave a bemused snort.
"See that over there?" Gilli said from behind Merlin's left shoulder as he pointed to a dark stain on the wood of the corner post of the line. Merlin turned his head, as did Gawain. "Last year, one of them froze on the line after the signals. The knights waited through all three warnings and slit his throat still there, waiting on the line." Gilli looked around as if he was waiting for one of them to show the first signs of doing the same, slashing their number to 99 before they'd properly started in.
Merlin's stomach gave another painful clench and he reached for the water, but then stopped, mid-movement. The water would have to last.
"Good luck to you," Gawain said from beside him, pushing up on the balls of his feet and sinking down again. He looked pale now, the bags under his eyes standing out. "I must be a fool to have agreed to this."
Merlin looked down at his shoes and tried a smile. He wondered if he'd freeze too like the boy the year before, if he'd forget how to move one foot in front of the other. "Good luck to you, too," he tried and failed at encouraging. He moved his toes as if to check they were still there, still functioning. He'd freeze up like that boy, what if he'd freeze up and rack up his warnings and it'd be over before it had started.
Everyone was breathing, everyone was waiting. The silence under the shuffle and heavy breathing of the horses enveloped them and stole Merlin's thoughts.
He'd-
"Luck to all," the King called from the side, arm raised and cape fluttering behind him, the only splash of colour on the backdrop of the hills.
The King lowered his arm, and they shuffled forward. Merlin didn't freeze, no one froze. They moved as one, the steady clicking of the gears, the horses moving beside them. Merlin felt Gawain next to him, and Merlin, fighting the urge to stop just to see if they'd do it and call out a first warning, fell into step with him, head down.
Characters: Merlin, most of the male cast
Warning: Character Death from part 2 on
Rating: R
Type: Canon!AU, WIP
Length: 3000 words
Summary: On the first day of spring, one hundred young men meet for an event known throughout Camelot as "The Long Walk."
Notes: Based on The Long Walk by Stephen King, writing as Richard Bachman. It's a bit of an experiment, in terms of taking the idea and turning it into something Merlin. Fair warning there, if you're hesitant about reading it after you looked up the book, don't read it. Beta'd by
misswinterhill and paragraphs.Merlin had avoided his goodbyes in Ealdor. He'd slipped out of his room before his mother and Will could spend another night cornering him by the fire and attempting to change his mind in hands and feet and tears (his mother) and punches and flying spittle (Will). The dew-swept morning, the first of the birds back in the trees, had turned into a brazen early spring afternoon that stunk up the space on the supplies carriage that crossed the borders into Camelot and travelled further north. The sound of fighting and the acrid smoke of war wafted through the thick brushwork of the forest when the wind turned for a few moments, blowing cool on the first sun-baked sweat of the year, but war had been a constant ever since Merlin could remember. He took comfort in it.
The last opportunity to send a note had come and gone with the last new moon.
Merlin squinted into the sun, stretched his legs between pots and pans with dried meat and preserves and wriggled his toes inside his shoes. With the rocking roll of the wheels on the uneven ground, the lull nearly sent him to a nap. He dozed and the scenery around him changed, trees giving way to the low roll of the first hills and turning into shrubwork then mostly bareness. The sounds of war had receded. Merlin pulled his jacket tighter around himself when clouds pushed in front of the sun. Will would curse him for the rest of- Merlin stared at the field they rolled past, -Will would curse him, full stop, maybe.
The carriage rolled to a stop, the horses blowing out through their noses, hooves loud as they tapped on the hard ground.
"Is this...?" Merlin asked as he slipped off the back of the cart and walked around, rubbing his knuckles across the horse's flank.
Two knights stood at a small path in the middle of nothing else, a tournament field with a few figures sitting around the edges beyond them. The knights were decked out in armour, faces impassive, and Merlin rubbed his fingers along the horse's back once more, then thanked the man with a nod and only barely resisted the strangest urge to jump back on the cart and be taken further afield. The horses turned the cart and Merlin's eyes burned as he stared after it. He still stood in the same spot when it crossed back into the forest too far away to make out clearly and ached for home when he turned. Wind was tugging at his jacket.
"Merlin," he said to the knights, clutching fingers around the sack over his shoulder as he handed them the sealed letter. One of them cracked the seal, read. He tried to read their faces, but they simply stepped aside and let him pass.
Dry earth cracked under his feet and he felt the jagged edges of small stones. Every step became a sequence of events. Merlin stumbled, nearly fell, and half the boys looked up as he stepped onto the tournament field before they went back to what they were doing. Merlin lifted his hand in sheepish greeting, turned his ankle this way and that to make sure he'd not done something colossally stupid before anything had even begun, but it seemed fine.
One of the boys was stretched out on his back in the middle of the tournament field soaking in the sun while dust brushed around him, his feet bare and toes wiggling. One was pacing back and forth along the short side of field. Merlin heard steps behind him and turned. A man, long hair and beard and somewhat older than Merlin stepped up next to him and surveyed the field with quick, assessing eyes. The Ealdor made you tough with the work in the fields and the village but Merlin felt like a waif next to the broad shoulders and strong stance.
"Merlin," Merlin said eventually and held out his hand.
"Gawain," the man replied as he gave a brief laugh that made him sound young enough, scratching at his beard. He stretched, completely unselfconscious and gave Merlin another friendly nod before he looked across the field then stepped forward to a few other boys sitting in one corner of it in the wind-shade of some stands, one crosslegged one with his legs stretched out, leaned back on their elbows.
Merlin glanced across to the one pacing along the field, tightened his grip on his sack and followed Gawain. He sat down next to him.
"Nervous then?" Merlin asked. He picked up a small stone and rubbed it across the dry ground. The wood behind them that blocked the wind made the sun feel a little warmer. Foreboding prickled on Merlin's skin; it was a good day for a walk.
"It's the worst," Gawain said and looked over to Merlin, studying him from boots to trousers, the shirt and the light jacket. "You'll be good. Not as heavy are you? They say the heavy ones are the first to fold."
Merlin shrugged. He wondered if it was true like any of the other myths surrounding The Walk, but Gawain looked all muscle, like one of the knights, when Merlin didn't see much strength in himself.
He caught snatches of the other conversation next to them, how to preserve energy initially and the preparation they'd done. He glanced across the tournament field again. One boy had settled on the balustrade, feet dangling, biting into an apple, blond hair glowing in the sun. Why hadn't he withdrawn when he'd still had the chance? Listened to Will and his hissed tirades over Merlin's darned magic not protecting him from that either. "They won't even give you a warning for that!" he'd said.
Merlin knew the rules. Everyone knew the rules.
Merlin's preparation had been to duck Will's blows and his mother's quiet strength.
"Just don't go," his mother had pleaded, and he'd explained to her once more that the knights would find him, patiently, until she'd cried and he'd let her. He'd ducked people clapping him on the shoulder, avoided the debate about participants after the list of names had been read in the villages and the talk of The Walk replaced all worries and complaints about the crop and the war.
"I've a strategy," one of the boys they sat next to said to the other, drawing a pattern into the sand. He narrowed his eyes at the point of his stick. "You'll see." Narrow-eyed and small-nosed he looked across the tournament grounds, fingers white on the stick until the wood cracked. Merlin gave him to the first incline maybe, weasly as he looked, and then looked down at his own arms and legs.
"To walk?" the other replied with a dry drawl that Merlin made out to be roughly from the other side of the kingdom. He looked no less intense, but a smile played around his lips as he scuffed his shoe at the grass bushel.
Gawain gave a barked laugh and the two boys turned to him and Merlin. The one who'd spoken last lifted his hand. "Lancelot. Two more lambs waiting to be slaughtered then?"
Gawain nodded, smiled and introduced himself. Merlin did the same.
"Gilli," the narrow-eyed boy supplied and stretched out a hand to Merlin. Merlin shook it. Gilli looked at Gawain and just gave him a nod. Gawain nodded back, amused.
"He won't make it long," Lancelot said, biting at the side of his thumb he'd slid between his lips as he nodded at the pacer on the far side of the field.
"Number 13," Merlin muttered.
"Conserve energy whenever possible," Gilli muttered and the others nodded and they fell silent in quiet contemplation of the morning. Merlin looked out across the plains. Last year a winner had been there, it had been rumoured, watching last year's 100 take off, but despite the hushed vibration of energy and lowered whispers and outright speculation the mention of The Walk brought in every tavern around the kingdom, people vying for their favourites, no one was there to see them off.
As the sun came up a little higher more and more boys stepped past the knights and onto the tournament field, shuffling into groups. Merlin couldn't help but measure them for their chances, how long they'd make it, the shoes and clothes they wore.
"Wouldn't mind for it to start now," Gawain said, standing up to jump up a few times. He grinned down at them. "The waiting's just a bit tedious, isn't it?"
Laughter travelled over the field from one of the other groups. The boy who had been eating the apple was now licking his fingers and watching them all. Merlin thought it curious he was talking to no one when Merlin had shaken more hands and heard more names than he could even remember by now. When the sound of hooves and metal travelled closer across the plains, dark shades becoming figures, they all stood, necks craning as the King rode into view. The bright red of his cape, the sun glinting off his armour stood in stark contrast to their muddy browns and greens as he passed by them with his entourage and stopped in the middle of the field, canted smile on his face as he lifted his hand and motioned them to sit.
Merlin settled back on his arse, flushing red at so easily forgetting about the list of rules and hints, as did the rest of them. The boy on the balustrade knocked his heels to the wood, looking bored. Merlin had never seen the King of Camelot. He'd heard his mother talk of him, of the time before they'd lived in Ealdor when his father had still been there and spent the nights in the tavern ranting against the King and his loyal subjects. They hadn't talked of Camelot other than to marvel at its riches and strengths in the village, Will and him and the others, at least until Merlin had declared that he'd sent a note and Will had never mentioned the kingdom by name again other than to call him a traitor, drunkenly, and Merlin had been forced to deck him.
Merlin stared and stared, open-mouthed until he realised he looked the fool and only consoled himself with the knowledge that all of the others looked the same. The King looked out at them. He had a sword, gleaming like the rest of him, strapped to his waist and the glare of the reflection made it near impossible to look at him directly. The short, cropped hair and deep lines, the expression of importance, made Merlin's heart catch in his chest. He was the King. His horse stood stock still as if even it had to obey his command completely.
His knights, metal covering their faces leaving slits for eyes, had ridden in behind him in rows of tens, moving as one with the shuffle of chainmail. The horses stood magnificent and tall, a few carriages stood towards the back. Wind hissed through their rows and the clang of a sword to metal, the shift of a crossbow over a shoulder were the only movements.
Gilli snorted beside him. Merlin shot him a quick glance but just then the King lifted his hand again.
"I'm not going to make a speech," the King said. "I give my respect to the winner among you." He paused and continued in lower inflection, "And my acknowledgments to the losers." He regarded all of them, standing and sitting, close and faraway with a stern, yet unseeing glance, and Merlin shivered, the gravity of the situation sinking into his guts. "I'm going to call you forward by your name and birth-manor. Step up when you are called, collect your number. You'll be fitted with your gears and first provision, and will return to your place until the start."
He unrolled a scroll and began to read out the names. Merlin watched the boys step forward. Aeron of Penwyth, Alun of Ab Gafn. The King bent down off his horse to every one. He put a hand on their shoulders, exchanged a few words, then one of the knights fitted the construction of gears to each of the boys' ankles. Aeron walked away with a dazed look in his eyes, and Merlin and everyone else couldn't take their eyes of his feet when each step brought a small click of the gears.
"Arthur of Hellandbridge," the King called, and the blond boy dropped the core of the apple he'd been eating and slid off the balustrade and walked to the King. He presented his ankles to the knight and received the first day's provision belt he carried loosely in one hand. He turned from the King and walked away without having once looked at him. He settled back on the balustrade and stared up at the sky, watching nothing.
He was called Arthur, then, the strange one who seemed unconcerned with everything and everyone.
Merlin lost track of the boys called. Cornelius of Heage who stood by the King longer than any of the others, was clapped on the shoulder and laughed with him, before he was fitted with his gears. He looked sinewy, lean, strong and Merlin gave him good chances of lasting long.
"Has he said something to you?" Merlin asked when Gilli came back, watching him stride along. Gilli shrugged but Merlin didn't press. The 16 stood out in stark red on Gilli's chest.
"Gawain of Scarcewater." Gawain gave Merlin a wink as he pushed off the ground and wandered over to the King, giving him half a bow, and Merlin could still see his eyes twinkling from where he sat. When Gawain returned, he was busy pulling an apple from the pouch and biting into it while Merlin bent down and examined the intricate design of the gears.
"He asked if we'd got the first heat yet," Gawain said as he bit into the apple. He laughed. "The King, asked me. I told him we'd have the crops out in no time at this pace."
Merlin stared at the gears on Gawain's ankles, but when he reached out to touch them, Gawain pulled his foot away and Merlin gave a quick glance to the knights. "It's not manipulation if we haven't started yet," he said under his breath, but kept his hands in his lap, sure that one of the knights now had his eyes on him. He glanced up under his lashes, studying them, but even their eyes were impossible to make out under the helmets. They didn't look human.
Lancelot was called, and he was more earnest than Merlin had expected. Merlin thought he might make it to the last twenty or maybe even ten, not too heavy or slim with strong thighs.
"Merlin of Carmarthen," the King called, and Merlin stepped forward and the King wished him good luck. Merlin wanted to touch him just to see if he was real, his skin and his hair and the red cape fluttering in the wind and the strong metal, and Merlin wondered if there was a person underneath. Too fast the moment passed and the gears were fitted to his ankles and he walked away, still dazed, under the clicking sound of every step. The knights were watching as if they'd call out the first warning for his number already now. Merlin moved faster.
Merlin was number 47, Gawain 23, Lancelot 45. The last number and belt went to Wynn of Bunny, and the click of the gears on his ankles carried over the field as he returned to his place. They all held out in silence until he'd stopped, turned and sat. Merlin's stomach clenched painfully and he felt the urge to take a shit somewhere. A few of the other boys' expressions spelled out the same.
"Step forward in rows of ten and line up," the King said and the knights parted ranks to free the view of the far side of the field then rode forward and formed two straight lines, the horses standing nose to tail, carving out the path. Merlin and Gawain stood, looked at each other briefly as they began walking across the field and were joined by 98 others and the steady clicking of the gears into nooks into visible colour code. Merlin's placard turned red and he hastened forward and only stopped when Gawain gave a bemused snort.
"See that over there?" Gilli said from behind Merlin's left shoulder as he pointed to a dark stain on the wood of the corner post of the line. Merlin turned his head, as did Gawain. "Last year, one of them froze on the line after the signals. The knights waited through all three warnings and slit his throat still there, waiting on the line." Gilli looked around as if he was waiting for one of them to show the first signs of doing the same, slashing their number to 99 before they'd properly started in.
Merlin's stomach gave another painful clench and he reached for the water, but then stopped, mid-movement. The water would have to last.
"Good luck to you," Gawain said from beside him, pushing up on the balls of his feet and sinking down again. He looked pale now, the bags under his eyes standing out. "I must be a fool to have agreed to this."
Merlin looked down at his shoes and tried a smile. He wondered if he'd freeze too like the boy the year before, if he'd forget how to move one foot in front of the other. "Good luck to you, too," he tried and failed at encouraging. He moved his toes as if to check they were still there, still functioning. He'd freeze up like that boy, what if he'd freeze up and rack up his warnings and it'd be over before it had started.
Everyone was breathing, everyone was waiting. The silence under the shuffle and heavy breathing of the horses enveloped them and stole Merlin's thoughts.
He'd-
"Luck to all," the King called from the side, arm raised and cape fluttering behind him, the only splash of colour on the backdrop of the hills.
The King lowered his arm, and they shuffled forward. Merlin didn't freeze, no one froze. They moved as one, the steady clicking of the gears, the horses moving beside them. Merlin felt Gawain next to him, and Merlin, fighting the urge to stop just to see if they'd do it and call out a first warning, fell into step with him, head down.
