"Never get stuck between two people who hate each other; you'll be breaking a sweat."

Personally, Merlin is completely against this plan.

For one, Camelot is not on good standings with any community of magical creatures, and he knows that this specific area of the woods is notorious for supposed 'bandit' attacks. In fact, he has had the pleasure of encountering one of the creatures that live just beyond Camelot's borders, and he has no desire to see them again.

There is also the fact that it had been Esmerion who had come to him, grabbing his arm and dragging him into the nearest empty room. Of all the things Merlin had anticipated during the Princess Elena's visit to Camelot, he had certainly not expected the girl to be outed as a Changeling. Nor had he foreseen that Esmerion would claim to have recognised the princess' scent as that belonging to a faerie. Or a creature of stone, as Esmerion had corrected. Apparently, Changelings are not the creatures that poets write about during drunken bouts of inspiration.

"Did you just say that you don't know how to kill a Changeling?!" Merlin whispers harshly, snatching a handful of the male's red shirt. "You told me you could get rid of it!"

"Anyone can kill a Changeling," Esmerion argues, firmly removing Merlin's hand from the fabric of his shirt. "But if Elena were to go missin', there would be a kingdom-wide search. To kill 'er would be more trouble than it's worth."

"Then what are we doing?" Merlin swats him this time, ignoring the part of him that tells him to not touch the male. "Because I had to tell Gaius to come up with a reason for why I'm missing. Do you have any idea how often he claims I'm at the tavern getting absolutely sloshed?!"

"Often enough, I would say." Esmerion looks at him as though he's eaten something sour, silently vowing that Merlin would regret it if he touched him again. "We need to speak with someone who 'as experience with Changelings. I don't know 'ow to work with them, but I know that their presence is a very bad omen."

"So," Merlin presses, giving Esmerion a desperate look, "who is it?"

"'Ave ye ever 'eard of a Rock Troll?"

Merlin stares at him with a look of bewildered disbelief, having stopped walking entirely to process the news. "A Troll. You want to get help from a Troll."

"That is what I said, is it not?" Esmerion manages to keep his voice level, although his patience is not.

"Are we just going to completely ignore that the last Troll in Camelot tried to take the throne or?" Merlin nearly drops his satchel in his distress and hurriedly fumbles to grab it again.

"Different species," the male says simply, as though that explains everything. He starts walking again, unhindered by the darkness clinging to every leaf and branch on the trees. "Hurry up."

"Do they collect rocks, then?" Merlin continues, jogging to keep up with his long strides. He starts sifting through the items in the satchel Esmerion gave him earlier. "Or... plates?"

"Rock Trolls do not enjoy the thin's we eat, therefore a treat should do nicely."

"Is-" Merlin draws off in surprise and pulls out a boot. "Is this Arthur's?"

"'E's long outgrown it," Esmerion waves him off. "The prince won't be needin' it."

"Why is there silverware in here?" Merlin presses, not really expecting an answer. He pauses for a moment and pulls out a small weatherworn book. After a moment, he recognises it as one of Gaius' and pockets it, shooting the other male a pointed glare.

"Don't read it," Esmerion warns, sparing him a brief glance.

Merlin scrunches his nose with confusion but otherwise says nothing. Instead, he looks around at what little he can see of the forest, wary of everything he cannot see, which coincidentally happens to be nearly everything. The darkness is so thick here, anything could be within it and they would both be none the wiser.

"You, uh," he swallows nervously. "You know where we're going, right?"

"I can smell 'em," Esmerion says in a low voice. "Like water over stone – I'm surprised ye can't smell it yerself."

With that bit of information, Merlin can vaguely make out the describe smell over the overpowering scent of wet and rotting leaves. He can understand now exactly how Esmerion is so sure that they're going in the right direction — the closest river is a mile away — and all he can smell now that he's identified it, is wet rocks. Which, thinking about it, is a questionable smell if the Trolls are made of rocks.

"We're gettin' close," Esmerion warns, holding out a hand to stop Merlin from walking any farther. "Watch yer step, warlock."

Merlin wants to retort about how he's more concerned by what he can't see in the trees around him, but stops short when Esmerion picks up a stick from the ground and tosses it in front of them. The instant it touches the ground, a metal cage snaps shut around it and rockets up into the canopy above. Merlin gulps.

"Not made to injure, just capture," Esmerion says, as though it were any more reassuring. "Come along."

Merlin balks at him, but trails behind the male anyway, eager to not get left behind in an unfamiliar neck of the woods. He doesn't even make a remark when Esmerion turns sharply towards a large and ancient oak tree.

But then he can see the dim glow around its roots, and he wonders whether he ate something strange earlier in the day. Perhaps if he knew what they're getting themselves into, he wouldn't be questioning his decision to follow Esmerion into the woods at night.

Then, to his horror, Esmerion vanishes, disappearing entirely from where he had been standing only seconds before.

A curse echoes throughout the forest, and Merlin jumps out of his skin.

"Mother of Ginubah-!" Esmerion swears, rolling to his feet as he grumbles something about misfortune. About ten feet above him is the forest floor, where he had been before the ground caved in. Around him, the darkness of the cave would almost be suffocating if not for the dim glow of several pink crystals growing in the rock.

Huffing, he calls up to a no doubt worried Merlin, "I'm fine! Mind out for unstable ground!"

He can hear Merlin cursing under his breath, and against his better judgement, he allows his magic to alight his palm with a soft blue flame. A feeling of expectancy blossoms in the pit of his belly, and even after decades of trusting Lady Magic's guidance, he grows uneasy as it gently tugs him in the direction of the darkness.

Suddenly reaching out with his other hand, Esmerion catches the satchel as it falls from Merlin's shoulder, keeping everything inside from smashing on the cave floor. Broken offerings have never done anyone any good.

"I told ye to watch yerself," he scolds, shooting a glare at Merlin as he climbs the rest of the way down. "Are ye done muckin' around?"

"I didn't mean to drop it," Merlin counters, snatching back the bag from the male.

"Ye still did," Esmerion scoffs and turns back to the the awaiting tunnel. "Come on."

He hears Merlin attempt to argue against him, but upon fumbling with his words, the boy hurries to keep pace.

"Where are we?" Merlin chooses to ask, and Esmerion carefully notes the wise decision to not argue.

"Somewhere near their homeland," Esmerion acknowledges, pausing to briefly examine the pattern in which some glowing moss grows. "Magic is stronger in this tunnel than above ground."

Merlin's eyes start glowing gold at those words, although, Esmerion realises, not due to his use of magic but rather the extraordinary amount of it in the cavern. Esmerion suspects that his own eyes are doing just the same.

A shadow rushes through the light of the crystals and Merlin swears almost as foully as Arthur on a bad day, ducking behind Esmerion without much more thought. He snorts at the young warlock and squints through the dull light. The tugging sensation grows stronger.

"Who goes?" He calls in a passive voice, lifting his hand of flame to expand the reach of light. "We mean no 'arm. We seek only guidance in exchange for an offerin'."

The shadow hesitates, then steps out into the soft glow of the crystals.

Esmerion's flame snuffs out immediately and he straightens. "You," he growls, his eyes narrowing sharply.

"So it seems," Draal says with an equal amount of distaste. "What is it that you seek guidance with?"

"A Changeling," Merlin speaks before Esmerion, his voice surprisingly strong. "It's got into the castle as a princess."

Draal snorts, a cloud of hot air escaping his nostrils. Inwardly, he pockets the information for bargaining purposes later and allows himself to focus back on the male that dared to threaten him on first meeting.

"I thought you said you would kill me the last we met."

"Aye, I did. An' I could keep me word if ye so wish-" Esmerion snarls, stepping forward to press his hand on the Troll's chest.

"Do it then," Draal insist, a cruel grin baring his fangs. "And I can promise that my people will not help you."

The young male snarls, baring his teeth in an expression of his annoyance before shaking his head and pulling away from the Troll. However, he doesn't tear his sharp gaze from the creature's golden eyes, fighting the urge to spit in them. He's angry, sure, furious even, but he isn't stupid.

"Please," Merlin speaks at last, trying to place himself between the two, "we need your help."

"With the Impure?" Draal lazily drags his gaze to the warlock, barely heeding him with any attention. "Or the one hiding himself in human flesh?"

Merlin is quick to put the pieces together, glancing over to Esmerion with a glassy mixture of mortification and horror. That one glance practically confirms the Rock Troll's words, the fury in the male's eyes tripling as a deep, inhuman snarl rips itself from his throat. Merlin's heart jumps to his throat while his common sense escapes out his ears, a chill running along his spine.

"Slience, beast," Esmerion snaps, stepping forward once more with the air beginning to crackle around him.

"Then I suggest you stop talking," Draal fires back, looming over the male with ease. "The only beast here is you, after all."

"Why ye—" he starts, chest swelled with outrage, when the Troll uses the exact commanding tone that had been used against him.

"No," Draal snarls, leaning so his face is only a breath away from touching Esmerion's. "You want my help? You do as I say."

"That's preposterous!" Esmerion yowls, his nails digging into the often-broken half-moon crescent scars in his palms. "'Ow are we to know if ye can be trusted?"

"You don't," Draal states simply, dragging a finger under the male's chin to tilt his head higher. "I am not meant to be speaking with you. If the Clan Leader caught wind of your presence, he would not hesitate to have you killed. But, I am here first. So you shall do as I say, or watch your precious kingdom crumble under the rule of an Impure."

Stubborn in his pride, Esmerion does not sway. At his sides, he clenches his trembling fists, a slow trail of autumn orange running down his arms. The air crackles dangerously, raising Merlin's hair to stand on end. None of them need to move to feel the heaviness in the air, the sluggishness one often senses before a massive thunderstorm.

"Fine," the male spits the word like poison after an extended beat of tense silence.

"Then kneel."

"What?!" Esmerion's eyes flare brightly, his outrage making sparks fly freely throughout the cave.

"Prove that you will do as I say," Draal sneers, jerking his head in a way that demands obedience. "And kneel."

Esmerion hates the Troll more than anything in that moment. Draal knows what he is, he can read it in his grin, and he knows how wounding such an action would be to Esmerion's pride. To be knocked around as a plaything, to be made to do what is wished of him is degrading, and if his brother caught wind of it, Esmerion would not put it past the elder male to banish him entirely.

"Do it," a near-quiet voice demands, and a glance to the side reminds both males of the warlock's presence. Merlin, despite his obvious unease with the situation at hand, gives the bronze-haired male a cold and even stare as he bares his teeth in rebuttal. "We need his help."

A low snarl of disdain leaves the male's lips, his eyes narrowed at the warlock as he heeds these words. He rumbles, turning back to face Draal with his head held high and an expression of stone cold defiance. A moment passes, and he bends to one knee.

Esmerion, Last of the Line of Ginubah and Final Heir to his Mother's Circle of Crowns, kneels before a Troll.

Draal at least has the decency to look surprised, like he hadn't anticipated that Esmerion would take a wounded pride over a fallen kingdom. And, really, he hadn't anticipated it. He was going to help them either way, otherwise they wouldn't have been worth the trouble, and telling the creature to kneel was just an urge of pleasure.

Continuing to glare piercing holes into Draal, Esmerion snarls, sickened by the knot in his stomach and by how low to the ground he has been forced to be. In his mind, a Troll should not tower over him, he should tower over it a hundred times over, and merely placing him below a human feels like the equivalent of submitting himself. It's sick and it's wrong, and he hates this Troll entirely.

"Will you help us?"

Hope you enjoyed!