eighteen

The news rode into Camelot at sundown in the form of a man on horseback. At the entrance to the castle, he dismounted, speaking urgently to the knights guarding the gates. After exchanging meaningful looks, one knight opened the gates, while the other escorted the man into the castle.

It was uncommon procedure for an unsolicited visit from a commoner, but this was something the King needed to hear.

A sorcerer had been found in Camelot.

Like usual, the servants found out about it first.

Gossip spread like wildfire through the castle. Before the messenger had reached the throne room, the groundsmen had told the chamberservants, who told the kitchen staff, who told the servers, who spread it along to anyone who would listen. Soon, clusters of men and women were whispering about it in every corner of the castle.

A sorcerer. A sorcerer hadn't been found in Camelot in over a decade.

King Daniel heard the news shortly after. Though he had retired to his chambers for the night, he reemerged in the Grand Hall, looking slightly disheveled.

The messenger bent his knee and told the King the story in a few rushed sentences: a woman in Henwick, a large village under Camelot's protection, had been caught using magic on her children. (At this, Daniel's nose wrinkled in utter disgust. Her own children.) She had been caught by the local guard, and they would transport her to the castle as soon as the morning made it safe to travel.

King Daniel nodded briefly and commended the messenger for his haste, offered him a safe place to stay for the night, and spent the rest of the evening pacing his quarters, stroking his beard, his mind churning.

He took no pleasure in eliminating magic users from his land. Daniel did not consider himself to be a sadistic man – merely realistic. He had seen the utter havoc magic could wreak on a kingdom, and he was determined to protect Camelot from such a fate.

He had made it clear, over and over, to his citizens, what the punishment for magic would be. Tomorrow, he would be true to his word.

George's grandmother, Sylvia, found out only a few moments later.

The young woman who had taken over George's herb-gathering duties found out from her friends at the castle, and when she dropped by Sylvia's house in the evening, she spilled the news in a rush of excited words. She missed the way Sylvia's hands clenched at the news, the way her gaze grew distant and pained. Sylvia stayed quiet and asked her assistant to leave shortly thereafter, ignoring the young woman's confused expression.

Once she was gone, Sylvia sat heavily at the table, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

She remembered the last time a sorcerer had been put to death in Camelot.

She remembered it every time she closed her eyes.

After letting a moment of dread pass by, Sylvia's concern focused in a far more particularized direction. She sighed deeply and pressed her hands into her forehead briefly.

"He's ready," she told herself. "He has to be."

The two people who most needed to hear the news were two of the last to receive it. Mostly because they were slightly drunk, and completely engrossed in a game of darts.

"He's gonna choke," Clay was saying from the table, to a group of snickering knights. "He always does. Watch."

"I'm not gonna choke," George grumbled, focusing intently on the cork dartboard hanging on the tavern wall.

"Hurry up, George, we don't have all night," Sapnap taunted from his side, having already taken his turn. The knight was smirking, casually tossing a dart from hand to hand as George ignored him and threw his first dart.

Bullseye. Sapnap protested, "beginner's luck," as George turned and raised his eyebrows at the table. "What was that, Clay?"

Clay rolled his eyes as George turned and took aim again – but maybe Sapnap was right, because his second shot was nowhere near as good as his first, and his third dart glanced off the side of the board, cementing his loss. George tilted his head back and groaned in exasperation as Sapnap clapped loudly and whooped, returning to the table victorious.

"This is so stupid," George muttered as he fell back into his chair. Callahan, the tall, mostly silent knight who was sitting next to him, offered him a conciliatory smile while the boisterous Eret boomed "ah, don't worry, George, I'll get you another drink," standing to move towards the bar.

Clay, sitting directly across from him, had a merciless smirk on his face. "Told you," he said smugly, leaning forward.

"Shut up, Clay."

"Aww, George, you're so cute when you're angry," Clay teased, just to fluster George, who was annoyed to feel it work as his heart stuttered awkwardly in his chest.

"You know what, Clay," he said, trying to barrel past the comment, "enough. You and me. Let's do this."

"Oh man, George," said Ponk, a bearded, darker-skinned knight from the end of the table. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Yeah, George, definitely not a good idea," Clay repeated, his smugness growing even more intolerable. "I think you've lost enough for the night."

"What's the matter, scared to lose to your servant?" George snarked right back at him, pulling a number of oohs from the gathered knights. Clay's grin slipped a bit and his eyes narrowed, satisfying George. It was way too easy to get a rise out of him.

"Fine," Clay said, "but if I win, I'm putting you on stables duty for a week."

"Fine," George retorted, "but if I win, you have to do both of our laundry for a month."

This cracked up Ponk and Sapnap as Callahan raised an eyebrow at Clay. The prince's face was almost pink, delighting George, and Clay learned over and snatched the darts from Sapnap, who protested weakly.

"Alright, let's go, then," Clay said with bravado, standing and approaching the dart board. He took his usual position as George stood to stand next to him, and George rolled his eyes as Clay started narrating his actions: "see, George, what you always forget is that it's really in the stance. You have to be consistent, not just lucky."

It was something that George both loved and hated about Clay in equal measure. The way he was the best at everything – and knew he was, and had absolutely no qualms rubbing it in.

So – okay. It wasn't fair for George to do this. It really wasn't. But Clay never lost. It was getting ridiculous. And god, George hated stables duty.

And it was just so easy, when Clay let his first dart fly, to use the tiniest bit of magic to nudge it to the right, so that it hit the 6-point wedge rather than the bullseye.

Clay looked confused, and George smiled patronizingly. "That was pretty consistent, Clay," he said in a sarcastically sweet voice, hearing Sapnap giggle from the table. "You think you can hit the middle of the board next time?"

Clay glared at him. "That was just a warm-up."

George lifted his hands in the air and Clay returned his focus to the board, taking a second longer before throwing another dart.

Thwip. Bullseye. (George had to let it be believable.)

"There we go," Clay muttered under his breath, "two in a row, come on," and brought the third dart to bear, green eyes narrowing in focus. George couldn't help but feel a mixture of annoyance and affection at how seriously Clay took these games, all the time, and really felt like the prince could use a dose of humility, which is why he adjusted the third dart's arc just a little bit again so that it embedded itself on the 5 point wedge.

Eret, Sapnap and Ponk all dissolved into laughter, while Callahan took a surreptitious sip of his drink. Now, Clay looked actually frustrated, but he tried to save face, crossing his arms and turning to George.

"Okay, not my best round, but never underestimate George's ability to choke," he said, sweeping his arm out in invitation.

That really sealed the deal. George stood in front of the board and told each of his darts exactly where he'd like them to go.

Thwip. Thwip. Thwip. Bullseye. Bullseye. Bullseye.

"WHAT THE HELL," Clay shouted as the table absolutely erupted, Sapnap banging his fist against the table with glee while Eret and Ponk roared with laughter. Clay crossed his arms, his forehead wrinkling in a little scowl. "There's no way you didn't just cheat," he said.

"Aww, Clay," George said, "you're so cute when you're angry," and was utterly delighted to see Clay go fully pink under his freckles.

Before their little back-and-forth could go any further, the door to the tavern swung open, and another member of the royal guard – a familiar face, his name was Fundy, he often joined them when he wasn't working night shift – made a beeline for the group of knights. The table slowly quieted when they saw the man's serious expression. He was clearly not coming to join in their fun.

"Prince Clay," he said, "your father is requesting your presence in the Grand Hall."

Clay looked taken aback, but he nodded, placing his darts down on the table. "I'll be right there."

Fundy dipped his head and left quickly, and the group exchanged quiet glances.

"Well, sorry, George," Clay finally sighed, grabbing his jacket, "but I guess we'll just have to call it a wash."

"What?!" George exclaimed. "But I won!"

"Everyone knows wagers are best two out of three," Clay said, because of course he would. "I'll see you guys later."

As Clay left the tavern, George sat and crossed his arms, watching the doors swing shut behind him with a tinge of worry. It was rare for Clay to be summoned to his father's side like that, especially this late.

"Don't worry, George," Sapnap said through a mouthful of tavern peanuts. "Clay's just being a sore loser, as usual."

"Yeah, whatever," George said, pulling himself out of his thoughts. "I feel kinda sorry for him, it must be hard to be so bad at everything."

This pulled a laugh from the table, which brought a genuine smile to George's lips. He didn't know all the knights as well as Clay and Sapnap did, but they treated him as an equal, despite their pretty vast difference in status, and he felt comfortable around them.

His mind felt tugged towards the castle, though, as Clay marched through the chilly autumn evening towards the Grand Hall.

George left the tavern soon under the pretense of going to bed, and was stoking a small fire to life in Dream's room when the doors swung open and the prince entered. He looked a little surprised to see George.

"Did the others leave so early?" Dream asked, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over a chair.

"No, I just got tired from beating you so badly," George joked, but Dream didn't take the bait. Instead, he collapsed onto his back on his bed with a soft groan, rubbing his face and scrubbing through his hair with his hands.

Not for the first time, George felt him distracted by the attractive way Dream moved as he stretched his arms over his head without an inch of self-consciousness, his back arching up from the bed a little as he yawned. Even sprawled out on the bed, looking exhausted, Dream had this natural grace about him, his long limbs moving fluidly.

George felt a small rush of heat in his stomach and quickly snapped his gaze back towards the fire, embarrassed. He had these thoughts... somewhat frequently, more frequently than he would like to admit. They were distracting, and unimportant, he scolded himself internally, and tried to ignore the way his heart skipped half a beat as Dream rolled over on his side, his head propped up on his elbow, his hand in his disheveled hair, inspecting what George was doing.

"What did your father want?" George asked, trying to move past the moment.

Dream's face went serious. He had tired lines at the corners of his eyes, and his forehead was softly furrowed. "A trial is being held tomorrow."

George's eyebrows lifted slightly. A trial wasn't unheard of, but it wasn't especially common. He turned a little, still sitting in front of the fire, and brought one knee to his chest. "What happened?"

"A sorcerer was caught in Henwick," Dream said, and looked up to meet George's gaze just as the servant had to race to keep his face from falling. It clearly didn't work perfectly, as the prince caught his distraught expression, but he just nodded gravely. "Yeah. I know."

"Do you know what happened?" George asked, fighting to keep his voice from trembling.

"No," Dream said. "He didn't give me any details. I don't know if he even knows what happened. They're coming tomorrow, and we'll hold trial. And then we'll have the execution."

George's heart sunk like lead into his stomach and he lost his breath for a moment. When he regained it, he asked, "how can you say that already? What if the person is innocent?"

"You don't get accused of sorcery if you're innocent, George," Dream said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Then what's the point of the trial?"

"We have to hear the evidence, it's how things are done. There's always a chance the execution won't happen, but George, I'd be really surprised. There's no room for magic in Camelot. There can never be. You know this."

George's heart hammered loudly in his chest and he swallowed. "I know," he said weakly, trying to keep a hold on himself.

Dream sighed, seemingly oblivious to George's internal panic, and fell back on the bed, staring up at his ceiling. "Tomorrow is going to be a really long day."

George stood and bit his lip, utterly unsure of what to do. He didn't want to leave. But he didn't know what he wanted to say. Or what he could say.

"Do you want me to come to the trial tomorrow?" was what he came up with. He had accompanied Dream to several trials and court sessions previously, helping to fetch anything the King might need throughout the process.

George wasn't sure whether he wanted Dream to say yes or no, but he didn't have much of a choice when the prince said "yes, definitely. This is... this is pretty new to me. You'll be helpful during, but I'd also like another person's perspective after it's over."

George nodded, feeling his throat sort of thicken. "Okay. Of course."

"Thanks, George," Dream said. He glanced at George and then looked concern at George's expression, so he pushed himself up to a sitting position and said, "George, don't be afraid, okay? The sorcerer is under constant surveillance. She won't get away."

Dream was worried about him, and George knew he should feel touched. But he was worried for exactly the wrong reason, and it just made him feel sick to his stomach. So he just nodded quickly and said, "yes, I know. Thanks, Dream. I – I think I'm gonna go to bed now. Unless you need anything else."

Dream still looked worried, but he shook his head no, and George left abruptly, throwing a quick "goodnight" over his shoulder.

he managed to make it to his room before breaking down.

Sylvia knew the midnight knock at the door would come hours before it did. She had stayed awake to wait for it.

When she opened the door and saw her grandson standing, tear-stricken, in front of her, she knew he had heard the news.

Quickly, he was seated at the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket and given a warm cup of tea. She saw George's shoulders still shaking, either from the chill of the autumn night or from the shock of the news or both, and she bit the inside of her lip as she sat in the armchair adjacent to his, cradling her own cup of tea.

"I don't know what to do, Gran," George said hoarsely, after a long moment of looking into the fire.

Sylvia noticed, once more, what a fine young man her grandson had grown to be. At eighteen, he was somewhat shorter than his friends, but he held himself proudly, with a quiet confidence in the way he carried himself that was entirely deserved. For the past four years, he had been practicing his magic with her, and she was utterly astonished at the pace at which he was learning. Already, he was a better sorcerer than many men twice his age. His understand of magic was intuitive, spiritual rather than merely intellectual. It was intertwined with his soul, a part of him since birth. He treated magic with reverence and appreciation, rather than the greed and malice with which lesser man often approached it. He knew it to be an art form, rather than a weapon. And his time at the castle had instilled him with a fine work ethic, a sense of perspective and humility. He had served his and Prince Clay's dual destinies with care, protecting the man he was sure would grow to be an incredible king.

Sylvia couldn't have been prouder of him. And she couldn't be more scared that every day, he walked into the jaws of the kingdom that would crush him with impunity given the chance.

"I can't stop thinking about mum and dad," George finally whispered, blinking down at his tea.

"Of course not," Sylvia responded, her voice trembling. "I can't, either."

"I know I wasn't there," George said, twisting his hands around the cup, "but... I don't know. It feels like I was. I have... flashes."

Sylvia winced.

"Can you tell me again how it happened?" George finally asked, looking up. His dark eyes looked upset and vulnerable. "I was trying to remember the details, but it's been so long."

Sylvia's heart twisted in her chest. "George... I don't know if I should."

"Please, I..." George took a steadying breath and drew himself up a little. "I want to know."

She wouldn't tell him that it hurt her every time she talked about it, too. George's mother was her child, her baby. Reliving the memory was incredibly painful. But Sylvia was the only carrier of this memory, and she had a duty to him to pass it down. George had been so young, far too young to comprehend what was happening to him. She still remembered him, his wide, dark eyes, his tiny voice, asking questions with no easy answers...

She could answer him, now.