From now on, the story is almost entirely set in the past. I'll try to add something from the present in each one, although I might not manage it- I'm putting them in as it calls for it. The separation is a '.' instead of the scene separator, which is '#'. If anyone can tell me a good way to keep this stupid site from eating my formatting, it would be much appreciated.

Also, this isn't going to be as epically long as I feared, which is good, since it means I'm more likely to actually finish it. Never fear, though, I foresee at least ten chapters. And Balthazar-whump, because beating on him is more fun than I anticipated. And a full-on sorcerer-versus-dragon fight, because I kinda cheated y'all by glossing over a certain encounter in this chapter.

disclaimer: me no own.

#

There was trouble brewing, Balthazar knew. His shoulders had gone tense, as if waiting for a blow to fall on his unguarded back, and every so often he stopped to watch the door.

Some time ago, Maxim had come storming into the tower, raised voice echoing from the courtyard walls. Things had since gotten eerily quiet, and Balthazar was waiting- he wasn't that hard to find, and he simply knew this was some new complaint about him.

Take care of each other, Merlin had said. You will be each other's greatest allies in the trials to come, Merlin had said. To Balthazar alone, he had cautioned patience, and the wisdom to know when to accept an unfair beating and move on. There would be peace, he had promised, if not in the world at large then at least among them.

Sometimes Balthazar wondered if Merlin truly knew what he was about, or if his only option was to hope for the best.

Maxim was standing in the doorway, he could feel it. His right hand curled into a fist, the band of his ring pressing tight against the skin of his palm. They had not yet come to trading blows, either physical or magical, but the recent months had led Balthazar to realize that it was only a matter of time.

"So the master has gone, and left the children to play," the other boy said. He had a cultured accent, for all that he had been raised by a man who stood apart from society's fallacies. Balthazar didn't know where he'd heard it to replicate it, or even if he had; perhaps it was Balthazar's own ignorance that made the difference.

"So it seems," he agreed calmly, trying to unknot muscles painfully tensed. His ring glowed, a defensive spell weaving itself unbidden around him. The magic came so easily to him, who was chosen by Merlin instead of deposited on his doorstep. It wasn't that he was better than the other two, merely that he was stronger where they were not and less skilled where they excelled. They covered the spectrum, Merlin's three apprentices; should they learn to fight side by side, each weakness would be balanced by another's strength.

"Are you aware of what they say about you, down in the village?" Maxim asked. Balthazar could count on one hand the number of times the other boy had called him by name.

"Should I be?" he countered, still keeping his back turned. It irritated Maxim when he did that, and Balthazar freely admitted that irritating Maxim was its own reward.

"They call you the greatest of us," Maxim said, stepping further into the room. From the sound of his voice he was facing the wall, dismissing Balthazar as Balthazar dismissed him. "That you would be the most powerful sorcerer, Veronica and I ever relegated to your shadow. They like you."

A great insult, to be liked by the common people. Balthazar calmly rolled up the scroll he had been reading, tucking it into its protective sheath. Patience was one of his.

"Is that what they say?" he asked finally. Maxim wasn't here for Balthazar to tell him otherwise; his own ego provided all the reassurances he needed. Maxim was here for an entirely different reason.

"But then, they would think that, of a low-born boy," Maxim continued. "It is always the lot of the common man to look above his station in envy."

A sorcerer's apprentice was not a common man by anyone's definition. And Balthazar had been perfectly content with his station, before Merlin; it had been the old man who had had bigger plans for the small boy.

"Such a pity, isn't it, that their hero is an untried boy." There was a whisper of noise; the older boy was carefully paging through a book. "Not having raised his magic once, in defense or attack, not even in frustration against his fellow apprentices."

Even when they deserved it, Balthazar finished for him, and right now one of them was all but getting down on his knees and begging him to try it. Very slowly, he turned to regard the other boy. Maxim was caressing the hilt of his shortsword, into which he had embedded the jewels of the ring he had never much cared to wear. Swordplay was one of his.

Both of them were sitting on thirteen years' worth of resentment, the depth of their anger surprising both the other and themselves. If Balthazar struck first- and he did- it was because Maxim had always had a gift for playing people, and knew how to force Balthazar's hand without tipping his own.

Merlin had learned from Alexandria's example; his library was proofed against destruction, by fire or feuding apprentices. Such forethought served him well that day.

.

In the hallway, trying to ignore the conversation in the living room, Balthazar set the second box upright and sent it on its way. The armchair Becky had been sitting in maneuvered itself carefully into the living room, where an astounded silence reigned.

Back in those days, he thought grimly, he had been a different person. So hesitant, so unsure, with no idea of how the world worked or what his place was in it. He'd still been a farmer's son, then. That boy, so lacking in confidence and self-respect, would not have survived a thousand years on his own, fighting Morganians and wondering if tomorrow was the day he would find the Prime Merlinian, or perhaps die, unable to tell which one appealed more to him.

Veronica called him dragon slayer. She hadn't meant the dragon whose tooth he still had, who had lived probably decades after their encounter. She meant the dragons that lived inside him, that lived inside everyone, wearing a different face for each fear.

He stood up, trying not to wince at the sudden motion. True enough, he was in surprisingly good shape for someone born around the sixth century, but a thousand-plus years of hard living had its price, even for a sorcerer.

The ever-wise Veronica had seen to it that the first completed room was the kitchen; Balthazar set another pot of tea to brewing and leaned against the counter, studying his right hand. Even the nastiest of scars fade, if given enough time. Nothing he'd gotten when he was Dave's age stood a chance of lasting this long. Still, his memory provided all the details flawlessly, and he traced a finger over the unmarked skin, normally shielded by dual layers of heavy cloth and leather.

There was a reason for everything he did, even if no one else quite understood it; that day had taught him to protect his hands.

An opened bag of chips rested on the counter beside him. He scooped it up and picked a few out, munching contentedly and listening to the sound of his own history.

.

The greatest casualty, to Balthazar at least, was his hand. The skin had been scorched, and likely would have blistered and cracked and sloughed off before it was done, save that Veronica had a gift for healing. She had healed him only enough to safeguard against infection, though; the pain, and he had never understood just how exquisitely painful burns could be, was still very much present.

His right hand, also. He wouldn't be able to use it for weeks, if he were lucky. His ring he slipped onto the first finger of his left hand. It felt uncomfortably loose.

He had tolerated Veronica's fussing over him but not the lecture she treated him to; when she had healed him as much as her temper would allow her, he walked out mid-sentence. Maxim hadn't bothered to put in an appearance, no doubt weaving a grand tale to tell Merlin about how Balthazar had viciously attacked him. Merlin would know better than to believe him unquestioningly, but this outright violence was not something he could ignore, or watch from afar.

Two weeks Balthazar avoided his fellow apprentices. He spent the time out wandering, exploring the nearby village and, ironically, making friends amongst the people. He would not let Maxim's jealousy dictate his life. His wounds healed slowly, the hand by far the worst; the skin was baked dry and would not stretch and pull as it should, forcing him to hold his hand stiffly, and the slightest touch or twitch made him gasp.

Seventeen days of this, and the tension was broken by a visit from the village's head-man, bearing a tale of a long-dead beast.

#

Merlin, older than time as far as they were concerned, had never to his apprentices' recollections paid for his food or lodging in coin. He did move quite frequently, but always to someplace close to a village of respectable size, where they had the resources to support him and the patience to tolerate him. He also never kept a staff that they knew of. Perhaps he had, once, but servants demand pay where apprentices do not.

Instead, he had always paid the local community for his intrusion in favors. Fair winds, mellow storms and winters, animals birthing easily, fields and people alike staying clear of the diseases that plagued their neighbors. The people always knew who was to thank for this but few were brave enough to approach the sorcerer. Once in a very rare while, though, something would happen that would require direct intervention. For this the village tended to send its head-man.

Balthazar was in the stables- care of the horses fell solely on him, since animals took to him faster even than to Merlin- when he heard a clatter of hooves within the courtyard. He spared a glance through the door, confirming their visitor, before ducking back the other way into the side door that led into the tower. Once inside the open door he reached out with his right hand, caught himself with a wince, and slapped his left palm to the stonework wall, sending a ripple through the tower. A few moments later Maxim arrived.

"What is it?" he asked, animosity for once put aside in response to the emergency summons.

"A rider from the village," Balthazar replied, and the older boy glanced nervously through the half-open door to the stables. This was the first time a visitor had come to call when Merlin wasn't home to receive them; as his senior apprentice, Maxim would be expected to fill in the role. An intimidating request, to say the least.

"Leave the horse," he ordered after a moment, "and get changed. We'll meet him in the Hall, as sorcerers should."

#

The tower was not, as one might expect, a maze of magic and spells, woven into each other and giving the place a life of its own. Such constant exposure tended to wear on a sorcerer's nerves and made it damnably hard to sleep. There were, of course, such rooms- the practice room and library being the main two- but mostly the tower was disappointingly commonplace.

Merlin's one concession to the power of appearances was what would be the great hall, where this a castle; as it was not, it was simply the Hall. The room breathed magic, both real and the expected nonsense. Old books and half-melted candles littered the room. In one corner was the low skeleton of a reptilian beast from Egypt, long tooth-studded snout grinning. There was a hole in one wall, angled just so that sunlight never shone directly in, and a prairie hawk had used it this spring and built herself a nest in the rafters. Her nestlings watched over the room keenly, occasionally giving their piping screech.

Veronica sailed into the room, dressed as well as the noble she could have been, spine perfectly straight and face serene. Balthazar envied her composure. Most people viewed Merlin's having a female apprentice as a benign quirk but Veronica herself was judged harshly for her lot in life, as if she were to blame for being able to use magic. That she was the cleverest of the three, quickest to learn, and that her male compatriots respected her and perhaps even feared her was of no consequence. Most likely she would be ignored throughout this meeting, as though she were nothing more than a pretty decoration.

She ran a critical eye over him and nodded once in acceptance more than approval. Balthazar simply didn't care about his appearance, and no amount of training or ridiculing would ever make him start. And then Maxim was there, hurriedly waving them to their appropriate spots, and before he could quite settle himself into his own the door creaked open and their guest walked in.

It took courage to come into the home of a sorcerer, even a benevolent one. The man had it in spades, and strode into the room as if he owned the whole tower. His gaze skimmed briefly over the room, then the three apprentices. He settled on Maxim, who was still standing and projecting an air of command.

"Where is your master, boy?" he asked brusquely, and Maxim bristled. The man had a farmer's broad sturdy build and large work-callused hands. He wasn't too much older than they were, but he carried a maturity and experience that the three children lacked. For all their learning, the apprentices were sheltered and doted upon; this man had seen how apathetically cruel life truly was and would not be impressed by them.

"Out," Maxim said shortly, "on a trip that is no affair of yours."

"Fair enough. When is he due back?" came the mild reply. A puppy's harmless yapping, Maxim's words were. Balthazar frowned and shared a glance with Veronica. This encounter was being handled incorrectly, but neither one would say anything. If all else failed, they were very good at presenting a unified front to outsiders.

"You have quite an unusual way of asking a favor," Maxim growled.

"And your master has an unusual way of repaying his debts," the villager snapped back. "I was told we could come address him directly. Not some child."

Balthazar leaned back, slowly. He looked over to Veronica, who gave him a ghost of a smile and a nod. She knew what he was intending.

"If that is what you wish, then you are welcome to present your complaint to him, when he comes back," Maxim snapped.

"Then I will," the villager answered easily, and turned and walked out.

In the shocked silence that followed, Balthazar could easily count the man's steps. Once the heavy, hollow thud of the main door closing had quit echoing, he pushed himself out of his chair and strode across the room.

Maxim's silent, condemning glare followed him out.

#

He wasn't really surprised to find the villager waiting for him, at the bottom of the hill and out of the tower's line of sight.

"I was talking to that young fool, but I was watching the two of you," he said without preamble, turning his horse to walk beside Balthazar's. "Especially you. You're the one my boy says visits the village."

It wasn't a question, so Balthazar ignored it. He chose his words with care, his tone mild and peaceable. "I understand why you would wish to see Merlin, if you came to see him and not us. But while we may be mere apprentices, we are Merlin's apprentices, and when you insult us you insult him." What Veronica would have said, were she here.

The man watched him, dark eyes taking his measure. He had changed before setting out, and rode easily without a saddle. Like Veronica and Maxim, he wore his heritage writ plain across his face, and this was a rare time he was grateful for it.

"It can't hurt," the man decided at length. "But if it needs it, your word you'll ride out for your master?"

"Of course," Balthazar said immediately. They might not find him, but if this was serious enough to need him, they'd certainly look.

"There is a beast plaguing the eastern reaches, just outside your master's command," the farmer began. "It comes and goes, here for days and gone for a season. Our boys see it occasionally, and a few have even been taken by it."

Balthazar frowned, puzzled. No beasts he knew of fit that pattern of behavior- a hungry wolf would take a child, certainly, but in order to reach the eastern border of Merlin's influence, one must ride a day and a half. Not even a shepherd would go that far on foot. And no lone wolf, no matter how hungry, would challenge a horse.

"The last one to see it returned with proof, only yesterday eve," the man continued. "He had a name for the beast, also. He called it dragon."

"Ah." Balthazar nodded once, as if in agreement. The man chuckled darkly.

"Now, I know what you're thinking, boy. I've heard all the same things you have- the last dragon fell during my grandfather's grandfather's day, brought down by the arrow of the crown prince himself."

Balthazar made a noise of agreement, careful not to offer offense. Thus was as he had heard it. The name of the prince himself, having not lived to claim the throne, was an unimportant fact lost to the tides of history in their small war-savaged country. Not that such things mattered to him; Anglo and Briton alike feared and respected the sorcerer, and Merlin had guarantee of a warm welcome on whichever side of the line he should find himself.

"But the boy now says it's a dragon, and I believe him."

Quiet patience, as noticeable and yielding as stone underfoot, was Balthazar's truest strength. Like as not his time was being wasted. He wouldn't know, until he saw what was to offer, and withheld judgment until such time.

"Then I suppose you had best show me."