Lot makes a difficult decision

The horizon looked as grim as King Lot felt.

The Camelot army had set up camp a few days ago, a sprawling expanse of scarlet-drenched tents and gilded banners proudly displaying the emblem of the Pendragon: that roaring, mighty dragon, front legs raised, ready to charge. Uther always made his presence known in the loudest, brightest way. You couldn't ignore him even if you wanted to. He wouldn't let you. And an army of thousands camping on the step of your Kingdom was certainly something you couldn't ignore.

They weren't infringing on Lothia's territory; that would no longer be an invitation to war but an outright inciting of it, the first bold step in a bloody, terrible dance. Not that Uther's position was any less bold, and if it were anyone else it would be even stupid. The Camelotian King had set his camp intimidatingly close to the border, foolishly placed right in view of Lot's archers, lining the battlements of his fort. A cocky move, showing Uther was absolutely confident that Lot would not attack. And if he did, he had the power to weather it.

Lot did not like this one bit.

Along with the news of their encampment, he'd received an invitation to come talk. It was far too friendly a request, written by Uther's own hand in that large, crude penmanship of his as if merely inviting him to a pleasant lunch to catch up on.

Lot quickly squeezed his legs and his horse began the steady trot down the hill to the camp. He could see his destination for what it truly was: the executioner's block.

The Lothian Royal convoy was amicably admitted into the camp, with only watchful eyes observing their advance and no drawn swords. The soldiers were in high spirits. How could they not be? They'd been making easy conquests for a while now, adding countries like notches to a belt. Whatever losses they sustained couldn't weight down the taste of victory, couldn't temper the high wave they were soaring.

Lot, for his part, had a taste of bile in his mouth that had risen that morning and could not be washed away by either water or coffee or food, coating his tongue with the awful bitterness of defeat. They arrived to the heart of the camp and Lot dismounted along with his guards and page who would accompany him inside the lurid scarlet tent pitched in front of them - wider and taller than all the others around them, with gilded thread embellishing the red. Lot pulled the flap aside and stepped inside the belly of the beast.

His page scurried in after him, drawing a deep, audible breath more akin to a gasp before one submerges themselves in deep waters and called out: "His Majesty King Lot Luedonus of Lothia!"

A brassy chortle rang throughout the tent. "No need for such formal introductions, old friend!"

Uther Pendragon, king of the swiftly expanding Camelot, received Lot with open arms and an easy grin.

His garb was as casual as his manner: the man was down to a chemise, its neckline dipping low to reveal a hairy chest that might as well be considered its own layer of clothing, like the fur carelessly tossed over his wide shoulders. Uther clasped his shoulder - fingers digging hard so that it faintly smarted even through Lot's cloak and furred vest - and pulled him into a hug, patting his back with enough vigour that it may have dislodged anything badly stuck.

His touch was always a little bit too rough, too strong, like a mouthing dog applying too much force, forgetting its strength in its enthusiasm - though Lot doubted there was ever a moment where Uther was not aware of his power. 

"Alright, everyone out," he jerked his head towards the tent's flap. "This is a meeting between friends, no need for gawkers." 

Eyes turned on Lot. He simply nodded, dismissing his entourage of knights and guards. He was sure - and hoped that not foolishly so - that Uther had no intention of doing him harm. Not now, not yet.

"Come on, Lot," Uther gave his shoulder another mighty squeeze before letting go. He threw himself down on a chair at the table, laid out with pitchers and platters of food, and kicked out the chair next to him with one booted foot. "Sit. Let's have a drink. It's been a while since we've caught up, eh?"

"You've been rather busy lately," Lot supplied, maintaining his expression as neutral as he could. There was a tension in his jaw, and his brow fought to stay smooth and not let itself be puckered by the dread that circled him like a hungry wolf that he could barely keep at bay.

The man slapped his thigh and chortled: "Right you are!" He reached out for a beautiful crystal decanter, half-filled with a golden yellow liquid. "Pear liqueur. Great stuff." 

Uther always did have the best drinks. The liqueur slid down Lot's throat smooth and hot - a pleasant sort of prickling, not the burning sensation that was telltale of poor booze - but it too failed to wash away the acerbic taste of bile in his mouth.

Uther downed the glass in one big gulp, slammed it down with an explosive, satisfied huff and poured himself a second one before Lot could finish half of his. He propped his burly, meaty forearms on the table and leaned forward with a crooked smile as if they were both in on some grand, funny secret.

"Remember when I ascended the throne and I said I'll make my kingdom great? The greatest on the Continent? And we conceded yours will be second best."

Lot remembered. He remembered the words, said late into the night at a point where the alcohol had blurred the world around him to a woolly, gilded, dim dream, senses dulled. They both reeked of wine and whiskey, and there was a savage glint in his eyes as he proclaimed it with utter, cheerful confidence. He'd shouted, "Mark my words!" twice, as if it were a chant, and Lot had thought it at the moment merely a drunken fancy, an excess of booze and enthusiasm. He'd been greatly amused, and eagerly joined in to defend his own kingdom. He had thought it a joke among friends. Among fellow kings. For Uther, it had never been so.

"Well, my friend, I'm doing it." 

He slammed his fist against the table for emphasis, and the decanter swayed and shivered, cowed by such display of might.

Lot carefully placed down his glass, leveling Uther with a steady gaze. "So I've seen. Swallowed all of your little neighbors."

Uther flicked his fingers as if dismissing a vexing fly. "Easy work. They have no army force and they're too afraid to fight. It's almost insulting." The grin he wore was far from insulted. He looked delighted.

"I want you in on it," Uther declared.

"How?"

Uther's grin widened, gaining a sharp edge. "Join my kingdom."

His kingdom. Lot expected this terrible proposition, yet a part of him still hoped these weren't the words he'd hear. His stomach roiled but he kept his composure as he listened to Uther's impasioned speech.

"You keep your land, you keep your castle and your throne. You receive my protection, my might. You become my fist. Ruler over the Duchy of Lothia. Second only to me."

"When you initially said I'd be second to you," Lot said slowly, "you said king, not duke." He shifted in his seat, rolled back his shoulders. "I have an army too, Uther. I am not like the little, feeble countries you collected like shiny rocks."

Uther took the threat as a challenge, greeted it with a smirk. "You do. That's the thing, Lot, you have quite the army. Imagine what we could accomplish if we combined our forces.

"Look, Lot. I consider you my good friend. We've known each other since we were kids. I do not want to fight you, but sometimes you need to apply a little bit of force to get people to see what's good for them."

"And what's good for them is you ruling over everything?" Lot couldn't help the hard tone he spoke with now; the ill-defined dread of the morning had crystallized into horrible realization. He was cornered, and like any cornered animal he wanted to bite. 

"Who else?" Uther threw his arms open and looked around the empty tent as if searching for someone to challenge him, anyone to come declare themselves better than him. "I am a dragonblood."

Lot needed to tread carefully, even as bitter venom spilled and rushed through his veins. "You have dragon friends amongst the clans, too, from what I've heard."

Uther shrugged, bodily. "We have an understanding. A pact."

"Lothia too has an understanding with the dragons within its borders."

The King cocked his head, eyes gleaming as if he found something very amusing. "Do you? I heard things have been rocky since...Well, the Cadmus line-" Uther made a quick, horizontal motion with his index over his throat.

Before Lot could reply - and it was a good thing he swooped in, for Lot was not sure how to reply - Uther said, placatingly, "You don't have to answer now. Think it over. Let me know tomorrow. I'll be here." He tapped the table/drummed his fingers on the table, grin turning sharper till it no longer resembled a smile at all. It was an ugly slit like a gash, a horrible thing to behold that promised only no mercy.

Lot marched out of the tent. Friendship with Uther had always been much like riding a wild horse - dangerous yet exhilarating, constantly in danger of being thrown off. And now not only did Uther throw him off - he stomped him with his hooves and spat on him too.

He stuffed his hands into his leather gloves, huffing and fuming like an angry horse himself as he headed for his waiting convoy. A small island of mossy green among a sea of blood.

"Your Majesty!"

Lot halted and spun around to be met by a familiar man.

Royal Sorcerer Merlin Wyllt stood before him, wearing deep red refinery and a mild smile. "May I have a word with you?" he asked, head bowed in deference.

Lot nodded and let the man approach. He couldn't deny he was intrigued, if only a little. He'd heard much of the man, and he'd met him before too. He was a fascinating figure. A sorcerer - halfling, no less - born into a merchant family which quickly shot through ranks and wealth, by virtue of his magic. It was not surprising at all; that was on course for all fresh magic lines. No, what was so admirable about the man was how swiftly he'd climb from sorcerer to royal adviser.

"I know why my King has called on you," Merlin began, voice low and calm. "And I know he has put you in a difficult position."

"Has your King sent you to speak with me as well?"

Merlin kept on smiling that well-intentioned, patient smile despite Lot's sharp edge. "I merely thought I'd offer you a word of advice."

Lot breathed in, the air carrying a whiff of roast that would usually twist his stomach with hunger. Not now. He gave a quick jerk of his head, allowing the man to continue.

"I'm afraid Uther has been itching for a fight for a while now. It's been easy wins lately. The kingdoms yielded very quickly, with minimal fighting. Sometimes none at all."

Lot looked around himself, at the loitering and talking and laughing people. Of course the camp would reek of such confidence; of course they brewed with such energy.

"You...Well, your army might actually prove a challenge," Merlin said, his smooth, appreciative tone washing over Lot like warm, perfumed water chasing away the tension. 

Merlin's brow furrowed, a tinge of wariness tainting his tone. "Two such great forces colliding...What a clash, indeed." He fell silent, letting a pregnant pause settle between them. Letting the picture paint itself in Lot's mind, in copious and grisly amounts of red like the camp around them. 

Merlin folded his hands before him, caressing a ruby ring with his thumb. "I know what Uther must have told you; that his goal is one big, strong kingdom. This is not just a power play, you see. This is an opportunity for everyone. An opportunity to create one fortified, unified kingdom. A truly powerful country. We share so much, after all, it makes sense - and yet over the years there's been so many squabbles and skirmishes between the lands. It's what Uther wishes to remedy by uniting everyone under the same banner - uniting forces to create something flourishing and prosperous. No matter what it takes."

No matter how much destruction he must sow before he builds it all over. No matter how much blood he spills, because it'll all wash away. Uther must be enjoying this.

"I'll let you return," Merlin finally said, leveling Lot with that tolerant, pleasant smile and black, steady gaze. "Do not rush the decision. We'll be waiting here until tomorrow for your answer, whatever it may be."

Lot was caged, and he wanted to lash out. He wanted to bite and to claw, but he couldn't. He'd only hurt himself in the process - himself, and his land. Lot heard what had happened to those kingdoms that dared to fight Uther, that dared to defend themselves. Entire villages burnt down.

Uther knew that. Merlin knew that. Lot knew that very well, yet an imperiously mullish, viciously galled - and incredibly scared - part of him wanted to just declare war here and now, damn the consequences. Another part of him, level-headed and rational and sober told him that he might as well march back into the tent and tell Uther he surrenders, and avoid all the bloodshed and destruction.

But he knew better than to do the former, and would not demean himself to do the latter now, so he left holding tightly to his dignity.

                                                             ***

Lot returned the next day with a heavy heart hardened by the decision he had to take. It had bled all throughout the night, lanced through by the aching loss of everything he was giving up - and patched itself together by the morning, steeled by the the resolve of knowing that he was doing this for his land, for his people. For his kingdom soon to not be his anymore.

"I'll join you," Lot told Uther that morning in his tent, words weighed down by a cool gravity.

Uther grinned, a smile that said this was exactly the answer he expected. He clasped Lot's hand and squeezed. "Welcome, friend."