Arthur walks.
The night air is damp, the earth soft beneath his boots, yet his chest is harder than stone. He hears them before he sees them: the coughs of old men, the guttural laughs, the slap of flesh. Something inside him knows, even before the door cracks open.
He looks.
Merlin.
Small, radiant Merlin — pressed to the floorboards of the barn. Her hair sticks to her cheeks with sweat, her thin arms straining as hands twice her age clutch and pull her.
One man behind her, thrusting with animal hunger.
Another forcing his way into her mouth, her lips stretched around him, muffled sounds trapped in her throat.
Others circle, touching, waiting, feeding on her body like dogs around a single bone.
Arthur freezes.
She gasps between movements, eyes half-shut, but not in despair. No — there is devotion in her gaze, twisted and blind. She looks up at them as if fulfilling some sacred rite, her body trembling but obedient.
And the men speak to her in their rasping voices:
"Not sex. Only duty. Only gratitude."
"Save yourself for Arthur. He's the one you love."
She nods, mouth full, tears running, and she believes them.
Arthur can see it: she believes.
His fingers claw the wood of the doorway. Every sound cuts deeper: the wet slap of bodies, the grunts of men, the small choked laugh she gives when another pulls her hips higher.
Her voice, broken and muffled, still insists:
"This… this isn't sex… I'm still his… I'm still pure for Arthur…"
The words crush him more than the sight itself.
He wants to storm in, to tear them apart, to rip her free — yet he does not move. He stands, breath ragged, fury burning cold and sharp. He feels the gift inside him stirring, that cursed power he never dared to claim.
If she would give herself to them, convinced it is nothing…
Then he will show her what something truly is.
Arthur turns from the barn, the sound of her body still echoing in his ears, and the vow takes shape:
He will bind corruption.
He will command it.
And if Merlin wants to stay by his side, she will serve through the grotesque, not the lie.
Arthur does not breathe.
The door stays half-open, and his eyes refuse to close.
Inside, Merlin is passed from one man to the next. She goes from lap to lap, mouth to shaft, hand to groin, as if she were a vessel moving through stations in some obscene rite. Her skin glistens with sweat and seed, her hair matted, her face smeared — yet she laughs. A high, broken laugh, not ashamed, but giddy, as though each touch were part of a childish game.
The men around her join in the laughter, voices cracked by age and drink. They tease her, call her sweet names, treat her not as a woman but as a toy meant to amuse them. Their words sting Arthur more than the sight:
"Easy now, girl, you've got hands enough for all of us."
"That's it, laugh for us, Merlin, laugh like the child you were."
"Save your love for Arthur, eh? This is just service."
Arthur's stomach knots. For the first time, he sees their faces clearly.
There is Brenn, the blacksmith, shoulders broad though his hair has gone to silver. He had once sharpened Arthur's first hunting knife. Now his hands tighten cruelly around Merlin's hips as he presses himself into her from behind.
There is Odran, the miller, fat and red-faced, who used to sneak Arthur extra grain when he was a boy. His thick fingers are stuffed into Merlin's mouth, tugging her cheeks like dough.
There is Caleb, the gravedigger, thin and hollow-eyed, who spoke kindly when Arthur's father died. Now he kneels in front of her, guiding her lips down with a solemnity that looks like prayer.
And there is Tomas, the village elder, beard yellowed, breath sour with ale. He laughs the loudest, slapping Merlin's body as though she were livestock, his words blasphemous:
"Not sex, not sin, only duty — our little saint of the hamlet!"
Arthur's nails cut his palm. Every laugh feels like a knife. Every familiar face is a betrayal.
Merlin turns, sticky, defiled, giggling as if the whole world were a joke. She lets herself fall onto her back, arms wide, as Brenn and Odran pull at her thighs. Her voice trembles with effort but still insists:
"It doesn't count… I'm still pure… I'm Arthur's… only Arthur's…"
The words, meant to protect him, shred him instead.
Arthur staggers back from the door. The sight burns into him, the laughter etches itself deep. For the first time, he feels his power, dark and waiting, clawing at the edges of his chest.
If the men of the village could turn her body into ritual…
Then he would turn ritual into vengeance.