by J A Cummings
“Did you ask her name?”
“Yes.”
“Did she tell it?”
“Yes. Niniane.”
Finally, Amren’s stoic face showed a reaction. His lips parted, and his eyes widened. “She’s one of the Ladies of the Lake.” Arthur shook his head at the unfamiliar term, and he explained, “There are seven fey ladies who live in the water. They live in lakes, mostly, but also in the sea. I’ve never heard of them in rivers. Are you sure that’s who she said she was?”
“Yes, I’m sure. She healed me. It was incredible. I knew when I saw her that she had to be a faery lady.” He grabbed Amren’s hands in his own. “She might be able to heal you, too.”
The older boy pulled away. “I’m not hurt.”
“Yes, you are. You’re hurting inside.” The older boy looked startled, and Arthur pressed, “In your heart. Your heart is broken. She could heal you, too, I know it.”
Amren’s face darkened, and he turned away. “You’re a fool.”
“I’m not. Well, maybe I am, but I still think she could help you.”
Bedivere’s son started to walk away, no longer stepping carefully, crashing noisily through the underbrush as if he meant to frighten away everything still living in the winter wood. “Why would she help me?”
Arthur followed him. “I don’t know. Because she helped me? She seemed like a helpful person.” Amren kept walking, and his path was taking them away from the river and back toward the keep. Arthur grabbed at him again. “Stop! Listen!”
“Listen to what? You’re babbling. I’ve lived by this river all of my life, and I’ve never seen any of the Ladies of the Lake. I’ve been down there healthy and I’ve been down there sick, and I went down there when I broke my arm last summer. I’ve never seen her. She has never come to help me, not ever, but she came for you.”
The anger and jealousy in the other boy’s voice was startling. Amren pulled away and Arthur let him go.
“What did I do?” the younger boy asked.
He gave no answer. Instead, he turned and continued walking back to the keep. Arthur watched him in confusion, then followed him at a distance.
When Arthur returned to the keep at Viroconium, he found the courtyard filled with mounted knights, their armor gleaming. A standard showing an armored fist on a green field fluttered over their heads, and their leader, a mountain of a man with an extravagant moustache, was speaking to Sir Bedivere. Kay stood wide-eyed at Sir Bedivere’s elbow and Amren, who had reached the keep before him, hovered behind his father.
“Come with us to Caerleon,” the mustachioed man was saying as Arthur approached. “You knew the High King and you might have some insight into his will.”
Sir Bedivere shook his head. “King Uther kept his own counsel as to his chosen successor, and I have no wisdom to offer on the subject.”
“Then come and offer your opinion on which of the petty kings should succeed him. Merlin called this meeting to try to forestall war. If we fail at this, then the land will burn.”
“The land will burn no matter what this conference yields. Whoever is not chosen will take umbrage and then will take up arms.” He gestured helplessly. “War is coming, no matter what. But Caerleon is a long ride from here, and it’s after noon already. I can offer lodging to you and your men.”
The other knight set his jaw. “If lodging is all that you’ll offer, then we’re wasting our time here.” He motioned to his men, who turned their horses about and prepared to leave. “I’m disappointed in you, Sir Bedivere. I always thought that you were braver than this.”
“It’s not bravery to waste time on useless politics, Sir Brastias.”
“When politics may be the only way to save our people’s lives, they are not useless.” He nodded to him. “God keep you, sir.”
“And may the gods protect you in your travels.”
Arthur watched as the mounted warband left the courtyard. At a signal from their master, the guards slammed the gate closed and barred the way. Bedivere looked at Kay and said, “Let us hope that your father returns quickly. Things are heating up.”
He turned and walked back toward the keep, and Kay scurried to keep up, asking as they went, “My lord, who is Merlin?”
Something about the name pricked in Arthur’s mind, as if he had heard it before, but he could not remember where. He hurried to catch up with the group. Amren looked at him, his face unreadable, as Arthur fell in.
“He’s the master druid of these islands,” Sir Bedivere replied. “He is a dangerous character. Some say his mother was a nun, and that he was sired by a demon. Others say his mother is a succubus and his father was a Roman centurion. I say he’s powerful, and he’s to be respected but not trusted.”
“If he’s so powerful,” Arthur asked, “then why doesn’t he just proclaim himself to be king? Who could oppose him?”
Bedivere looked at him solemnly as he opened the door to the keep. “Christians. They will never be led by one such as he. Mark my words, the time is coming when that foreign faith will overrun this land, and our sacred ways will be lost.”
Kay clenched his jaw but for once said nothing. Amren went through the door, and Arthur was about to follow when Bedivere caught his shoulder and stopped him. The knight looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“You show no pain.”
“I have none,” Arthur said, shrugging.
“Show me your back,” the man ordered, his voice hushed.
Arthur obeyed, pulling off his tunic and turning to face away from their host. He felt a light touch as Bedivere put his palm upon the unblemished skin.
Amren was the one to explain. “Niniane came to him when he was sitting by the river,” he told his father. “He said she healed him.”
“By Nodens’ hand,” Bedivere breathed. “I would not have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. You may dress again, boy. When she came to you, did she say anything?”
Arthur donned the tunic and turned around. “She asked me why I was sad, and said my eyes were very blue. She also said that I would be a good man and that I would be loved someday.” He blushed. “And she kissed me. On the lips.”
Kay’s mouth fell open in stunned surprise, and Bedivere shook his head slowly. “You are a destined child, I think,” he said, “for one of the Ladies to take such an interest in you.”
Amren whispered, “He is beloved of the gods, Father. He must be.”
“We will sacrifice tonight in thanksgiving,” the knight declared. “For now, come inside. If Brastias came, then Ulfius and others cannot be far behind.” He ushered the boys into the keep and hesitated, his pale eyes scanning the road and the hills beyond. “Trouble comes quickly when it comes.”
When night fell, the household gathered in the courtyard around a central bonfire that had been erected for the purpose of the sacrifice. Bedivere ordered a table to be erected near the fire, and it was set for dinner with the best tableware the knight possessed. Instead of serving at the table, Arthur was seated at their host’s right hand, the guest of honor.
Kay leaned over his foster brother and poured wine into a silver goblet. “Remember that we are Christian,” he whispered to him. “Father will be angry if you participate in these pagan ceremonies.”
“I can’t offend Sir Bedivere,” he whispered back.
His brother frowned. “Offending God is better? Have a care, Arthur.”
He retreated as two huntsmen came into the courtyard, holding leather leads attached to the collar of a high-spirited hunting dog. The animal was muscular and strong, prancing between them with his head up, ears pricked forward in curiosity. Bedivere left the table and went to the dog, crouching to stroke its brown muzzle. The animal wagged its tail in happy greeting.
A trio of silent men in white robes followed the huntsmen and their beast, their hands hidden in the folds of their voluminous sleeves. Their hoods were pulled down over their faces, but long beards chased with white and grey cascaded
over their chests and stomachs. They moved strangely, almost gliding, as if they were only half real. Arthur shuddered, filled with dread.
“Arthur,” the knight called. “Come here. Amren, the plate.”
Amren took up a large golden platter stacked with the best cuts of meat from the table. A serving woman came forward and handed a bowl of milk to Arthur, gesturing for him to take it with him. The boys took their burdens and walked to where Bedivere still stroked the dog’s head, and the animal jumped up on its back legs in eagerness when it smelled the meat. The huntsmen held it back so it could not reach the boys or their offerings.
“Put down the food and milk,” Bedivere directed.
They did as they were told. One of the hooded men passed a wand of oak wrapped in mistletoe through the air above the dishes, intoning a prayer in the druidic tongue. Arthur thought he caught a few words, but not enough to make sense of what was being said. The language tickled down into his mind, and he shivered at the touch of it. Something deep within him seemed to rise up in answer, and he clenched his hands over his fluttering guts.
The dog was given the offerings, and it gobbled them greedily, its tail whipping in delight. Bedivere stroked the dog’s back as it ate. He spoke calmly, his voice carrying across the castle green. “The dog is sacred to Nodens, god of the water, god of healing. It was through Nodens that young Arthur was chosen and blessed. May Nodens be thanked for his intercession, and may his chosen beast take our offering to him in Annwn.”
Abruptly, one of the huntsmen drew his knife and fell upon the dog, slashing its throat. Hot blood splashed out into the bowl, and Bedivere and the other huntsman held the unfortunate animal as it bled out. It struggled in their grip for the last moments of its life, its dark eyes turned to Arthur’s face, looking at the horrified boy with a mixture of confusion, betrayal and an appeal for help. It died still looking up.
“Take the bowl,” Bedivere told him. “Complete the sacrifice.”
Arthur gaped at him, tears in his eyes. “I - what have you - I can’t!”
Amren took up the bowl, now filled with the dog’s blood, and pressed it into Arthur’s hands. “Pour it into the fire,” he whispered.
“But -”
“Do it, or that dog died for nothing.”
Shaking, Arthur took the horrid vessel to the bonfire. He stood as close to the flames as he dared, feeling the heat dry his tears and sear his face. He tossed the offering, bowl and all, into the coals and staggered back until he collided with Bedivere. The knight put his hands on Arthur’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze.
“Well done.”
Across the courtyard, he could see Kay at the outer edge of fire light’s reach, his face a mask of disgust and disapproval. He had never felt so ashamed.
The slowly dying bonfire was still casting flickering light through the window slits when the boys returned to their room to sleep. Kay went silently, refusing to speak to his foster brother. He lay down on his pallet with his back to him, shunning him. Arthur curled up on his side on the pallet he shared with Amren, his face toward the wall. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the dog again, begging him for assistance that he had failed to give. He wrapped his arms around himself and wept as silently as he could.
Amren pressed close to Arthur, wrapping himself around the other boy’s back and encircling his waist with a comforting arm. Arthur welcomed the embrace and leaned back against his companion. The other boy held him in wordless understanding.
When Arthur’s tears ended, the hollowness of his sorrow settled onto him. Amren whispered to him, “You’ve never seen a sacrifice before.”
“No.” He sniffed. “It was horrible.”
After a hesitation, he breathed, “I can comfort you.”
“You already are.”
“I mean… like my father has me do for his politics.”
Arthur froze. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
He had no idea how to respond. He lay in confounded silence as the other boy drew up Arthur’s tunic, baring his body to the darkness. Arthur shivered, chilled by the night air, heated by the touch of Amren’s hand. Amren pressed his palm against Arthur’s stomach, then moved it lower. His body flushed and trembled, and though he knew he should have been telling Amren to stop, he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. The exploring hand reached lower still, until he was cupping Arthur’s sex. He gently stroked the soft hair that was beginning to grow there, curling it between his fingers.
“Do you ever touch yourself?” Amren whispered.
Arthur blushed, embarrassed. He could scarcely breathe, much less speak. On the third attempt, he managed to say, “Yes.”
“You’re big for your age.” He stroked him slowly, and the flesh responded. “More like a man than I expected.”
He could not have spoken another word, even if he’d had more words to say. His breath was catching in his throat, and his heart was pounding. He had never been touched by another person before. He was embarrassed, self-conscious, thrilled and filled with a desire for more, and the combination of emotions made him dizzy. He put a hand over Amren’s fingers.
“Y-you...” he tried.
“Shh.”
“You don’t have to,” he finally managed.
“I want to.”
He touched him more firmly, more rapidly, and the sensation was overwhelming. The final moment came quickly. He lay gasping, amazed he had been able to keep quiet, and Amren kissed his lips.
“I like you.”
Arthur was unable to find his voice to respond. He reached a trembling hand back to his friend, resting it on his thigh and tentatively stroking the soft skin and the firm muscle beneath. Amren did not pull away, so he rolled over to face him. In the dim light, he could see the other boy’s face, calm and almost serene. He looked into Amren’s eyes and slowly, deliberately reached out to return the touch he had received.
It was both familiar and strange to hold another person in his hand. He had come to know his own body in this way, but this was the first time he had ever touched another person. Amren sighed and closed his eyes, welcoming the touch in silence. He put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and squeezed, then stroked his arm, feather-light. The other boy’s breath came quicker, and Arthur thrilled to see Amren experiencing his pleasure.
When his climax came, they fell still again. Arthur lay back down and looked into his friend’s face. He smiled and whispered, “I like you, too.”
The morning meal was taken in the grand hall. Sir Bedivere was already seated at the center of the table when the boys came in, and he beckoned to Arthur.
“Come here, boy. Sit by me.” He obeyed wordlessly, sitting at the knight’s right side. Bedivere smiled. “I want you near me.”
There was something strange in Bedivere’s tone, a hint of emotion that Arthur could not read, but which made him uneasy. He wondered if what he and Amren had done together showed on his face, and if that that was why their host was taking such an interest in him.
“Good morning, my lord,” he greeted finally, remembering his manners.
“Good morning, indeed, young Arthur.” Bedivere nodded to the other two boys. “Please, sit. Eat.”
They did as they were asked, although even Kay, who was always an admirer of food, seemed less than enthusiastic. Amren’s face was a mask, utterly unreadable, as he sat at his father’s other side and calmly took up his spoon. He did not look at Arthur, which was a sort of blessing. He wasn’t sure how he would have reacted if he had.
The group ate in silence, served by ladies from the kitchen who also held their tongues. Bedivere watched Arthur carefully.
“You did well last night in the ceremony,” he finally said.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“So well, in fact, that a druid came at dawn today asking to meet you.”
Arthur’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth, and he looked at his host in surprise. “Me? Why me?”
“Yo
u are noted,” he said simply, as if that explained it all. “And is it not just any druid. You remember that I spoke yesterday of Merlin?”
Kay looked alarmed but hid his face in his mug before Bedivere could see his expression. Arthur took his brother’s alarm and transformed it into his own. He rubbed damp palms on his thighs.
“Merlin?” he echoed, inwardly kicking himself for sounding like such a fool.
“Yes, boy. Merlin.” Bedivere’s tone betrayed a slight annoyance, but then the smooth and artful serenity returned. Something was humming inside of him, and Arthur could almost hear it. It made him nervous and afraid. “The most powerful druid in the land wishes to look upon your face and ask you about your encounter with Niniane.”
He put his spoon aside. “Should I not have spoken to her? Am I in the wrong?”
Bedivere chuckled, but his laughter sounded artificial. “No, boy, you’ve done nothing wrong. We’re merely concerned about the encounter and wish to know more. It’s rare for the daughters of Manawydan to show such interest in happenings on land. If you were younger, an infant, say, then it would make more sense, for the Ladies of the Lake like to run away with babies. This is unusual, and we need to know if it is an omen.”
“That describes your interest,” a new voice in the hall declared. “It does not describe mine.”
In the center of the room, standing alone, a young man with piercing blue eyes stood, wrapped in a black cloak. His features were aquiline and fine, as if they had been molded by a master sculptor who had sought to create the essence of male beauty and had succeeded. He looked at them steadily and waited to be welcomed.
Bedivere did not make him wait for long. He sprang to his feet and stammered, “My lord! You have surprised me.”
“I know.”
The stranger came forward, his black robe sweeping along the mosaic designs of the great hall floor, cresting like waves over the stylized tiled fish that frolicked there. His eyes scanned each of the three boys who were rising to their feet in echo of the knight, their mouths open in amazement. He examined Kay, then Amren, and his eyes fell on Arthur last.
