"Sometimes the best places to be are the most dangerous."

Esmerion was tired.

Tired of all the nonsense that magic tends to be, and the intricate ways Destiny weaves her leaves. Tired of playing a fool beneath the whip of a Master. Tired of existing as someone lesser than himself.

His brother expects so little of him, yet the weight of Fate's coil bears down upon his human shoulders like the mass of a dragon.

Merlin thinks he has it rough, but he isn't the one pulling strings to intwine Albion's future. No, Esmerion is the one doing that. And his hands are raw from the work.

In order to escape, the male had taken his leave from Arthur's duelling practice and slipped back into the castle, taking care to not be seen. Arthur had been making a habit of dragging him to the most unnecessary things, and generally kept an eye on him at all times. It had grown to be an annoyance, and Esmerion needed to be free of him.

And so he finds himself hidden in the darkest corner of Uther's wine cellar, back against the cool stone. His feet are bare, a pair of leather boots sitting beside him while he runs his fingers through his hair in frustration. A sheathed sword lays in front of him, still attached to the belt. All the iron is covered by a simple fabric cloth, protecting the wielder from the magic repellent metal.

Esmerion growls with fury, digging his nails into his forearms. The runes encircling his left wrist glow softly as a small rivet of blood runs across them. He hates being human, hates being so weak, so fragile. If he were truly himself, in mind and body, it would take much more than a little pressure to break his skin.

Humans are fickle creatures, greedy and selfish. Their greed is immeasurable, desiring gold and power above all else. And even those with both crave more, many taking on mates as though they are items to be hoarded. So few are the ones that offer sympathy that they offer no influence upon the world.

A hiss leaves his lips, and he cannot tell whether it came from his own throat or just the product of forced air. He wishes it were the former, but instinctively, he knows it's not. The runes in his flesh have been written, and there is no returning from whence he came. He is human now.

The male freezes at a sound, ears pricking if only slightly. Servants are not permitted down here, and the air is stale from the lack of a breeze, so it is impossible that anyone has frequented this place.

"Who goes?" he says, a hand quick to his sword. "Who wanders 'ere unbidden?"

The scuffling sound ceases, the unseen visitor halting their movements. But hastened breaths echo throughout the cellar, wrapping around the barrels of wine like a river of panic, frothing and building as it grows into a torrent.

"I know yer in 'ere somewhere," Esmerion warns, getting to his feet. The scent is unfamiliar to a face, yet known to him in the way that water runs over rocks. "No point in 'idin' anymore."

A shadow, darkened by the lack of light in the cellar, darts across the gap between barrels, passing through the male's vision. It disappears for a moment before darting away again.

Esmerion catches only fleeting glances of the figure as he moves, prowling barefoot with his blade raised. He instinctively bares his teeth and his pupils dilate, filling his irises with deep pits of secrets.

The shadow crosses the barrels again, and the male thrusts his sword out in front of it, blocking its path. It halts, leaning away from the weapon.

He snarls, the sort of snarl that makes the soul of a creature tremble with terror, and leans against the barrel beside him, effectively cornering the figure. Esmerion's hand alights with bright flames, the fire travelling down the iron blade. It does not burn, but it offers light.

The creature-he identifies it as so, for it is clearly not a man-presses itself farther into the corner, sheltering its face from view. It is a creature of stone, coloured the same hue of the sky after a long day of rain. From its squared head sprout a pair of horns, twisting and broad, yet they do not compare to the amethyst-like crystals emerging from its back and shoulders. Around its waist, it wears a kilt, leather and fur embroidered to be fit for a warrior.

Esmerion considers it for a moment, blinking curiously before pulling away. Even as he sheaths his sword, the creature makes not a sound, remaining in the corner where it cowers.

This changes swiftly, as the male looks up from his belt, and a large hand shoves his torso, pinning him to the stone wall.

He grunts as the wind leaves him, blinking as his gaze counters two golden eyes more brilliant than his brother's. The creature snarls, its lip curling to bare the large stone teeth set in its jaw. Its nose wrinkles, offsetting the silver piercing within its nostrils. It does not mean business.

"Yer a Rock Troll." The male tilts his head curiously, unconcerned by the position he's been placed in. "I've only 'eard the legends of yer people."

The Troll growls, pressing Esmerion harder against the stone. "What do you want, fleshbag?"

He grunts, grabbing its hand with his own as he attempts to lessen the pressure. "Ye're straightforward, aren't ye? I want t' know what yer doin' in this plaCE-!"

A yelp of pain leaves him as the Troll presses harder, gritting his teeth at the building pressure on his chest. A snarl of his own slips from his lips, his pupils turning to slits as he considers this creature in a new light. The pure and undeniable fury in his gaze is enough to make the Troll rethink its offense.

"I'm not a patient person, ye should know," he grinds out, slowly lifting the Troll's stone hand from his chest. "Who are ye? An' what are ye doing 'ere?"

Startled and alarmed, the Troll steps away, its wrist still trapped in Esmerion's grip as its back presses against the nearest barrel. Fear shines in its eyes now, doubled in the harsh flicker of pale flames upon the fingers of its opponent.

Esmerion growls lowly, his free hand, happening to be the one alight with fire, carefully pressing on the Troll's bare chest. The fire might burn, it might lash out if he so wishes, and he makes that clear. Char follows his fingertips as he harshly traces a rune, knowing that the promise of agonising death is still there.

"I'll ask once more, shall I?"

The Troll shakes its head, swallowing thickly. "I am Draal."

"Good," Esmerion drawls, a sly grin twisting his lips. "But that answers only one of me questions."

Eyes widening, Draal presses back further against the barrel, making the wood creak in protest. The sweet aroma of aged wine washes over the both of them, filling their noses with the fumes of alcohol.

The male grins, lessening the pressure on the Troll's chest. "Ye're 'ere for the king's drink," he declares, the accusation striking its mark. "Ye could be killed for that."

"According to your king, I should be killed for merely existing," the young Troll snarls, regaining some of his courage as he straightens.

"'E's not me king," Esmerion spits with twice the venom Draal had used. "We're quite in the same boat, you an' I."

"We are nothing alike, fleshbag," the Troll snaps, baring his large teeth with aggression.

Esmerion is quick to remind him of his position, placing a still-flaming hand upon his chest. "I think otherwise, Rock Troll," he hisses. "Ye might be made o' rock an' I o' flesh, but we are more alike than ye could ever think."

Draal looks unsettled, confused even, fidgeting uncomfortably in the flame light. And almost as if to confirm, he hesitantly asks, "You're not human, are you?"

The male grins a wolfish smile that flashes his teeth in a predatory way. "Now ye're gettin' somewhere. No, I am not. An' that alone is enough to warrant me slaughter."

This information takes the Troll a moment to process, not entirely sure what to do with it. But Draal knows that it lines up perfectly with the prey-like instinct that fills him with each breath he inhales of the stranger's scent.

"Now," Esmerion starts, backing off slightly, "I suggest ye don't return 'ere. Jus' don't come back."

Draal eyes him warily, "And if I do?"

"I might be tempted t' take yer 'ead for the king's favour," he grins, knowing that he tells no lie. Keeping a king's favour is a difficult thing to do when one has outlived their purpose on castle grounds.

The young Troll silently weighs this price, judging his options carefully. However, his fear is as clear as glass in his eyes, and it's this detail that tells Esmerion what he is about to do before he even does it.

Esmerion leaps away, but all too slow to avoid the sudden charge. The blow sends him into the wine barrel behind, leaving him to recover on the stone floor with unsteady gasps of breath.

When he looks up, all he can catch is the Troll's shadow as it disappears down the cellar. He snarls, slamming a fist into the stone before jumping to his feet and taking chase. Deep within him, the thrill of hunt arises, warming his heart and bringing a grin to his lips. He has missed this.

Yet, as he turns a corner to slide between two barrels, he encounters a problem. There's a wall, and no way through. At least, not through regular means.

Esmerion can feel the magic humming from within the stone bricks, and he scolds himself for never noticing before. It isn't a form of magic he is familiar with, as all races practice it differently, but it plays with his senses, almost inviting him to test it. Magic has always been playful, however it has never behaved quite like this.

Cautiously, the male places his hands upon the bricks, muttering soft prayers to the Triple Goddess to let him pass. He can feel the stone slowly allow him through, so warm against his skin that it's nearly scalding, yet it lessens its sting with every murmured prayer.

When he opens his eyes, he's startled to find himself in a dark passageway unfamiliar to him. The presence of magic is constant, subtle, but ever present, wrapping around Esmerion's restricted soul like a warm comfort.

His distraction is his downfall, however, and it allows his guard to fall just enough to miss the stone projectile flying toward him. It strikes him in the head, causing him to stumble, disoriented. Something warm dribbles down his forehead, blurring his vision as it drips into his eye.

Esmerion swears, wiping the blood from his eye with a furious snarl. His eyes narrow dangerously and his hands alight with bright flame — an instinct that he doesn't care to fight — as he searches the cavern for the figure. It doesn't take long, the light of the fire reflects off the Troll's crystals like moonlight off water.

Not truly thinking, he throws out his hands, sending two blasts of fire toward the figure. Only once it is too late does he smell the heavy must, the dust in the enclosed space.

The space in front of both of them explodes in flame, the blast knocking the smaller to the ground. The heat is suffocating, and it's a miracle in itself that nobody in the castle felt it.

"Blast it!" Esmerion cries, scrambling to his feet to right the mistake. "Damn, damn, damn, damn!"

In front of him, Draal rears, stumbling back away from the raging wall of fire. His pupils shrink in terror, irises glowing with a rippling reflection of the raging flames.

Instinctively, the male pulls the Troll back, his arms outstretched as he attempts to grasp an idea of where the castle's well is. Even once he feels the element, pushing away all the earth is the greater task, forcing him to abandon the pitiful fight against both elements, and start slamming a fallen stone into the passage wall.

"Are ye jus' gonna stand there or what?!" Esmerion bellows at the standstill Troll, throwing more force against the wall.

Draal stares at him, frozen in terror. Briefly, Esmerion wonders if his childhood stories warned of mine explosions and the dangers they posed.

"Draal!"

When that doesn't rouse the young Troll, he gives up, placing all of his efforts into forming cracks in the wall. Even a small crack will be enough, he figures, if it gets the water through. It will keep the fire from spreading if it is small.

With one last cry of exertion, the stone splinters, tiny, hairline cracks running through the earth. It takes all of Esmerion's focus to pull the water through from the well, easing it into the stonework and in to the cracks. Even with the raging fire burning right next to him, drawing sweat from his brow, he remains rooted to the spot. He knows, within himself, that without this fire, something wouldn't happen. That something important would never flourish in the future. However, he only thinks of the present as he fights to bring the flames down to ash. 

Just as he thinks he has the water under control, something inside the wall collapses, restricting his grasp on it. Esmerion shouts out of frustration, slamming a fist against the stone before turning around to face the sweltering fury of the flames. His soul mourns the energy and magic he will lose for his next actions.

Sucking in a deep breath, Esmerion begins, starting with a gentle circling motion with his hands. He mutters softly beneath his breath, speaking spells he never thought one like himself would ever be in need of. Gradually, as the flames dance to his rhythm, he clenches his fists, tightening his control over the resistant element. The fire swirls in a tight ring, drawing away from the edges of the coal vein, flickering in a tornado-like way.

He can sense Draal's eyes on him now, but he snarls quietly, forcing his attention away from the presence behind. Another snarl leaves him, only this time it's more alike to a gasp, sucking the air from the flames and extinguishing them in one final movement.

Esmerion staggers, fighting for breath in the smoke-filled passageway. Tears fall from his eyes, worsening the sting and causing more to fall in their wake, trailing down his flushed cheeks to land at his feet. With a cough, he turns to the young Troll with a glower alive with the extinguished fire.

"Get out," he says, a warning in his scratchy voice. "Because the next time I see you, I will kill you."

Without hesitation, the Troll named Draal runs away.

Might be trash because it's late and I'm tired, but here you go, some backstory between our lovely couple!