Chapter Summary: The interrogation leads Merlin and his interrogators into interesting conclusions.
Recap of Named Original Characters:
- Bedivere: A knight of Camelot just recently promoted from squire.
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
Chapter XVIII: A Single Grain of Rice
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
From the corner of his eye, Merlin sees Queen Ygraine and Prince Arthur meeting eyes. The queen glances meaningfully at one of the wooden chairs placed near the center of the tent. Prince Arthur's eyes flash with an emotion Merlin fails to quickly identify. Then, the prince settles down on the chair, movements stiff. The queen seats herself in the chair adjacent to him.
"Wracu was able to mimic you," Balinor begins somberly. Merlin brings his attention back to his own interrogation. "Was there —" He cuts himself off, head whipping to the side of the tent.
Everyone straightens abruptly, alarmed by his reaction.
"Balinor?" Queen Ygraine prompts for an explanation.
"It's nothing. I apologize," he says, posture relaxing a tad. Before they could question him further, he plows on. "Was there someone who approached you in the past few days? Someone who could've gotten strands of your hair, stolen a cup you've used, gathered a dollop of your blood. Think, boy."
Right. While Merlin hasn't truly performed a disguising spell himself, he knows that such enchantments require an essence of the person the caster aims to emulate. He thinks back on all of his interaction in the past few days. Mordred. But he's barely left my side. He couldn't have had the opportunity to meet up with that boggel-man and give him something. Gili. Same as Mordred. Tom. Possibly but would he truly bring Selly to watch the exam if he knew that Wracu would cause chaos and get his child hurt? Levi. Another possibility. But he didn't even get close enough to steal something from me.
Merlin cards a hand through his hair, getting frustrated. A memory flashes by his inner eye.
'Are you hurt? Oh Goddess, I'm really stupid and clumsy. Oh no, your head!' Then, fingers sweep the back of his head, plucking at his hair.
Merlin stills. But he was so earnest and guileless! Could it really be him?
"A name and a description, if you wouldn't mind," Balinor cuts through his meandering thoughts, reading that Merlin has recalled something significant.
"I'm not entirely sure that —" Merlin recalls the words 'I'm sneaking in for a while to see someone' but does not recall the boy interacting with anyone else. Merlin remembers the torrent of unnecessary words, side-tracking conversations and fishing for information without arousing suspicion.
"Robin," he lets out, expression darkening.
Of course. The overly clumsy, talkative, couldn't-hurt-a-fly pretense. Telling a kernel of truth to sell a lie. Merlin berates himself for not immediately recognizing an act he himself often utilizes.
The warlock describes, "A boy. A foot shorter than me, and looking about fifteen summers. Light-brown hair. Wearing very big glasses. Green eyes." Then, Merlin remembers what the clone was wearing during the third test. "He stole my neckerchief!"
"When and where did you encounter him?" Balinor inquires further, leaning forward.
"During the exam's registration. He crashed into me just as we were lining up," Merlin replies, frowning as he tries to remember more. "He approached me again, on the training grounds, just before the tests started."
"On the training grounds?" Lord Tristan repeats sharply, startling the warlock. "He didn't participate in the exam."
It isn't a question but Merlin confirms anyway. "He didn't." Well, Merlin supposes that he did in a way during the third test. "He — He seemed so harmless."
Merlin has been wary of Mordred, of Morgana, of the people who wear his enemies' faces. He has been wary of the wrong people. Unconsciously, he has also been blindly trusting the people who wear his allies' forms. His eyes glides to a glowering Sir Lancelot, to a tensed Sir Isolde, to a regal Queen Ygraine, to a blank-faced Prince Arthur, and to a pondering Balinor.
He recalls his interactions with Mage Gaius, the nonchalant and detached way the mage has treated him. The warlock wanted to talk to Gaius' counterpart, and wanted to impart the whole sorry situation to him. The fact that the mage might not be willing to help him after that has not crossed Merlin's mind. Until now. Until he gazes upon people he calls friends and sees nothing but cold suspicion.
Merlin has no allies here in this realm, and the implications of that is finally sinking in after Wracu's attack.
Gaius wouldn't have allowed Merlin out of his sight for at least a few days after an assault like that on his person. Lancelot would have been asking again and again if there are any awful side-effects of being stabbed with an enchanted blade. Arthur would have called him an idiot for not moving fast enough but would ensure his chores would practically be non-existent for at least a week.
An interrogation like this one would certainly not be taking place.
Merlin ruefully realizes he can't risk telling anyone anything but the vague truth, especially these people of high court and prominent influence. At least, not until he knows the information won't be used against him. Letting out the fact that he knows less than he pretends to would prove dangerous. While these people have no reason to hinder his quest to go home to his Camelot, they also have no reason to believe his ludicrous circumstances. He has no concrete proof of his origins after all, and claiming a ridiculous story to be true is a sure way to be labeled a spy from another kingdom.
Like always, the warlock has to do everything without outside help. Absolutely alone, this time, with not even his mentor to go to for guidance. The notion makes something constrict around his chest.
"Yes, well." Sir Isolde offers the warlock a look that can be construed as pitying, snapping Merlin out of his racing thoughts. "Wracu's disguises all look harmless."
"Why did he target you?" Sir Lancelot demands, eyes narrowed.
Before Merlin can reply himself, Sir Tristan drawls out, "He knows not. Or so he claims."
"It's the truth," the warlock says, cocking a brow. "I can't think of anything I've done that could warrant that kind of attention."
Lord Tristan looks tempted to maim the warlock once more. Possibly because Merlin's words are less than respectful again. Fortunately, Sir Isolde clears her throat, grabbing the attention off of him.
"I believe he may be telling the truth," she says, blue-grey eyes darting to the queen. The queen sends the subtlest of nods.
"What?" Lord Tristan scowls, the lines on his forehead becoming more prominent.
From the secret and secure pockets of her chainmail, she carefully fishes out a folded cream-colored cloth. She unfolds it fully, revealing a pair of distinct earrings. Their uniqueness comes in the form of the silver metal twisting into three knotted triangular shapes, the centers bejeweled with bright sapphires.
Lord Tristan inhales sharply. Balinor's eyes widen fractionally, fingers twitching as if to reach out. Everyone's gaze whips to Prince Arthur as he stands up and reaches Sir Isolde in three limping strides. Sir Isolde holds the earrings steadily under Prince Arthur's scrutiny.
Merlin glances at them all, terribly confused and hoping he'll get an explanation soon.
Sir Isolde continues, voice much softer, "Before dawn broke this morning, a guard saw a — black-cloaked figure skirting around the outside of the citadel walls. The guards chased after him but they lost him eventually. He dropped this— " She glances at the earrings. "— during the chase, however. The knights were called and when we realized what it was, we set out to trace his tracks in the forest."
Prince Arthur picks up one of the jeweled silver and stares at it. "They are fake."
Sir Lancelot and Sir Isolde look taken aback. "Your Highness?"
"They're very good replicas. But these sapphires are diluted gems, not pure." Prince Arthur says, rolling the jewelry between his fingers. "They're not the ones I gifted her," he concludes coldly, dropping the earring back. "It was bait, and you all fell for it."
Gifted her? A million theories pop in Merlin's mind regarding the person the prince is referring to, and how Wracu plays into all of it. The warlock suspects, with alarm, that the böggel-mann had committed a much more personal offense to Prince Arthur rather than being an overall evil entity against Camelot.
Sir Isolde nods grimly, enfolding the jewels in cloth once more. "I figured as much, Your Highness."
"You would have figured it out much sooner had you informed Lord Balinor and I of it," Prince Arthur bites out, a smidge of anger bleeding out from his tone.
Sir Isolde and Sir Lancelot glance at the queen, not saying anything more.
Queen Ygraine sighs. "I ordered them not to tell you both," she admits, eyeing Balinor and Prince Arthur's cool expressions. "It's the Apprentice Exam. I presumed Wracu did it to stir up restlessness among us on an important day. We'll only be playing into his hands if we had informed you." Then, her astute gaze shifts sharply to Merlin, who now realizes he really likes being in the background and being ignored. "Never would I think that Wracu would infiltrate and sabotage the Exam himself."
"We believe Wracu led us away to get a better chance of killing him, Your Majesty." Sir Lancelot points an accusing finger at the warlock. Merlin's getting really tired being accused of things that are in no way his fault.
"Wracu has clearly planned ahead," Sir Isolde adds. "But he could have attacked the boy before he even set foot on the training grounds, if he had already infiltrated the citadel early in the morning. Why wait until the Exam began? Perhaps Merlin here wasn't the original intended target."
Merlin nods vigorously in agreement. Balinor stares at Merlin contemplatively. "Tell us about the De Bois seal."
Merlin keeps his hands to his sides and stutters out, "It—I don't have a De Bois seal."
"The seal was revealed during your registration. That may be the reason as to why Wracu targeted you." Balinor states, ignoring Merlin's claims. "Where did you truly get it?"
Guess they didn't believe me earlier after all. Gods, for once in this world, Merlin wishes he could offer a believable lie. He suppose he just have to do what he usually does with Arthur: offer as little of the truth the best he can and let the other party believe whatever they want.
"I - I was telling the truth. A friend gave it to me. But he didn't tell me where or how he got it." The complete truth because Arthur didn't explicitly tell Merlin that he inherited the sigil. "I truly didn't realize its importance until later on. I didn't want a big commotion over it s - so I lied."
Balinor scrutinizes him intently, gauging the truth of his words.
"And the name of this friend?"
Merlin's gaze shifts to Prince Arthur, who's cold gaze and stiff stance bely nothing. The words are the first ones Arthur's counterpart has directed to him. In any other instance, Merlin would laugh at the irony because the answer to the prince's question is Arthur Pendragon of Camelot.
"I - I'd rather not disclose their identity, Your Highness," Merlin replies, earning surprised and suspicious looks all around. He cannot risk invoking a random noble's name when he lacks the knowledge regarding their status in this world. He lifts his chin and hopes they'll understand that he won't be budging on this. "Nonetheless, I don't think the sigil has anything to do with all of this." Seeing as Wracu couldn't possibly know who gave it to me.
"So someone we know then." Lord Tristan smirks, smug that he has discovered an apparent weakness. "A prominent noble, most likely."
Merlin valiantly resists the urge to roll his eyes because he doubts they'll be able to guess it.
"Someone who would be plunged into huge trouble should we find out they gave it to you . . ." Slowly, Lord Tristan meets eyes with Queen Ygraine. "Why would —" A flash of something unidentifiable passes between them.
Then, as one, both their eyes snap to him. Merlin fidgets uncomfortably as they analyze him from head to toe, taking in his road-worn boots, dusty trousers, and borrowed tunic. Their eyes linger on his face. "Er, my lord, Your Majesty?"
Queen Ygraine leans back on her chair, countenance one of casually unaffected. "I do believe the sigil is unrelated to this, Lord Balinor," she informs them firmly.
Balinor's brows rise while Prince Arthur's furrow into a deep frown. Sir Isolde and Sir Lancelot look as bewildered as Merlin. Although in Merlin's case, if Queen Ygraine won't be pursuing the line of question, he'll be more than thankful.
"Very well," Balinor relents after several seconds of silent conversation with the queen.
A pinch of confusion still persists upon his brows but he lets go of it for now. On the other side of the tent, Prince Arthur remains silent. His unblinking and piercing stare, however, unsettles Merlin further.
"I suppose I should merely say it directly then." Balinor tilts his head, face shifting into an expression akin to disguised disgust. "Merlin, are you — or perhaps — were you a warlock under Wracu's command?"
Sir Isolde hisses, shooting Balinor a disapproving look. Queen Ygraine and Lord Tristan appear unamused but not surprised by Balinor's frank manner.
"No!" Merlin denies vehemently, knowing such a perceived connection would spell trouble for him. "I've never met him before today, much less did anything under his command!"
"And yet he seems to know you by a name you do not present yourself with," Balinor counters.
"I have no idea how he knows that name," Merlin replies, unable to mitigate the scowl he directed at the Court Sorcerer. The implications of the accusation the man is casting upon him will make laying low quite difficult. If rumors of what he's being accused of spread outside the tent, people would be less willing to help Merlin get the information he seeks.
It's only because the warlock is looking directly at Balinor that he sees it. A dramatic shift occurs in Balinor's whole demeanor, his face bathing in astounded stupor. Behind hazel eyes, a spark of something unfurls slowly but surely as he continues gazing at Merlin. The warlock himself blinks rapidly, unable to understand what the look means.
"We will grant you amnesty," Sir Lancelot says, breaking their staring competition. Merlin is surprised to find Sir Lancelot, who has been nothing but brusque to him, speak such reassuring words. Of course, he ruins it by adding roughly, "Provided you have defected and you tell us everything you know."
A headache throbs behind Merlin's eyes. This is getting ridiculous.
When Merlin gazes back to the Court Sorcerer, a wall of blankness greets him. He wonders if he imagined the earlier change.
Merlin's head snaps to Prince Arthur once more when the royal casually asks, "Where is Ealdor?"
"Er, just in the outskirts of Essetir, Your Highness."
"And you've lived there your whole life?"
"Until I was seventeen winters, Your Highness." Until my mother decided to send me to Camelot. "A-After that, I was a lowly servant under a lord's house."
Something flash behind Prince Arthur's eyes. Merlin swallows and braces himself against it. "You are how old?"
"Twenty-four, Your Highness."
"Seven years . . . You had the opportunity to join the Apprentice Exam earlier. Why now?"
Thankfully, Merlin already has an excuse ready for that. "B-Bandits accosted me on the road, and took everything I had. I - I arrived in Camelot two days ago, and needed a job to earn some coin. Someone suggested I try applying as a court apprentice." Deciding it couldn't hurt, he decides to drop a more trustworthy name. "Mordred, one of the applicants, can attest to that."
A hint of surprise tugs at Prince Arthur's expression, and Balinor's voice holds the same hint as he inquires, "So you joined the Exam on a whim?"
"I - I needed the coin." Well, coin is part of the reason.
Although, does he really need to get into the castle now that he knows he will find no help there? He's sure he can find a less troublesome and attention-attracting job elsewhere in the citadel whilst gathering information on how to get home. He can admit to himself that it'll be saddening to never glimpse the alive counterpart of his father though.
He opens his mouth, about to verbally retract his application and hopefully spare him from further investigation.
Raised voices from outside halts their conversation. A moment later, a dark-haired man barely of age strides in, countenance harried. His eyes widen as he takes in the people inside the tent, clearly not expecting some of them to be present. "Y-Your Majesty, Your Highness, my lords," he greets with a bow.
"Sir Galahad." Sir Isolde straightens her shoulders, sensing something amiss.
The man's jade eyes swivel to Sir Isolde. "Sire! I would like to preface this by saying he's conscious and alive and Mage Gaius has assured us that there are no malicious side-effects."
Sir Isolde seems to take little comfort in the words. She looks ready to run out of the tent and attend to whoever Sir Galahad is referring to. So Merlin's not too surprised to hear the name, "Ris? What happened to him?"
Sir Lancelot tenses, gaze snapping to Merlin as if it's somehow his fault even though the warlock has been in the tent with them the whole time.
Sir Galahad glances at the queen, prince and the lords. He swallows before saying, "The böggel-mann attacked Sir Ris before he escaped the citadel."
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
"Come now, hurry. I think they're starting," Lady Morgana beckons as she steps closer to the Pendragon red tent.
Gilli joins her, looking giddy. Mordred follows in a more sedate place, still wondering why Lady Morgana has decided to drag them both into this.
When Lady Morgana had invited them to join her for some harmless espionage, Gilli had readily agreed, excited by the prospect. The mage has never passed on participating in some innocuous mischief. Mordred had been reasonably hesitant. While the druid is awfully curious about the whole deal with Merlin, he had rather not get in trouble with Camelot royalty for hearing something he shouldn't. But he figures that with Lady Morgana as the ringleader of it all, punishment won't be too severe. So he goes with them, if only to ensure Gilli won't walk into something he can't get out of.
An anti-eavesdropping spell envelops the whole tent shortly after their arrival, making Gilli pout. Mordred has thought that would be the end of their little game. Contrary to expectations, Lady Morgana seamlessly performs a spell of her own to counter it, and enhances the volume of speech of the people inside.
Silence reigns for a number of seconds, making Mordred wonder if something had gone wrong. Then,
"Balinor?" The queen's voice rings loud and clear in their ears.
"It's nothing. I apologize." Lord Balinor answers.
"No anti-eavesdropping spell can stand against me," Lady Morgana says, a hint of pride present in her voice.
"I never expected someone of your reputation would do something akin to this," Mordred remarks casually. On the other hand, a lot of events that day went beyond the druid's expectations. Or perhaps this is the norm for city dwellers? For all nineteen years of his life, Mordred has never experienced this level of excitement all in one day.
Lady Morgana smirks. "Dear Mordred, I got my reputation because of doing things like this. Schemers never discuss their plans in the open, I'll have you know."
Mordred nods in acknowledgement of that. One of the first things Mordred learns during their eavesdropping endeavor is that, chillingly, he and Gilli had a close encounter with böggel-mann in disguise. Gilli exchanges a wide-eyed look with the druid at that.
"A De Bois sigil, huh?" Lady Morgana adopts a thoughtful mein.
Merlin is then accused of being part of the böggel-mann's Army.
"Ack, Merlin, part of the Army, really?" Gilli frowns. "That's unlikely."
"Why is that?" Lady Morgana asks, face filled with curiosity.
"I may have only known him for a few days but Merlin's too much of an open book to ever be part of the Army!" Gilli insists. "He's also clueless to a great number of things."
"Could be an act," Lady Morgana points out.
"Could be, I suppose," Mordred replies. "But if it is, it's an act no one in the Army would be able to maintain at a length."
Lady Morgana hums. Mordred does not know if she's convinced. Mordred himself doesn't know if he is.
Merlin has acted in a number of suspicious manner in the short time Mordred has known him. The man performs enchantments no one of his aptitude should know but remains mystified regarding the most common of knowledge. Can a person with a warm-safe-protect sáwle glæm truly be part of a group that mercilessly razes villages to the ground? Mordred knows for certain that sáwle glæms can't be faked. While Merlin has his share of secrets, Mordred can believe for now that his intentions are pure in nature.
A man who can shatter scinncræfte crystals upon touch, unravel the shield of a veteran shieldmaker, effortlessly summon a terrifying hurricane, grow seeds into plants within seconds . . . If the böggel-mann had someone like that under his command, he won't be allowing them near Camelot where they could be captured.
Mordred shudders to think of the destruction those abilities alone could wrought. The druid doubts that's all Merlin is capable of.
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
Ris' unfortunate condition leads to the abrupt end of Merlin's interrogation. While the warlock wishes for the knight's quick recovery, he also can't help the relief that blooms inside his chest. The knights, the prince and the Court Sorcerer exits the tent with one last cursory glance at the man they interrogated.
"Merlin of Ealdor," The queen of Camelot calls out to him after the others have gone. Merlin lowers his gaze, and awaits. "Do you know of Agravaine De Bois?"
Confused by the question that seemingly came out of nowhere, Merlin blurts out without thinking, "Yes, I've met him, Your Majesty." Then, he blanches a little. The Agravaine of this world would have no recollection of such a meeting. "In passing, that is! I doubt he'll remember meeting a lowly servant like me." Merlin suppresses the urge to chuckle nervously.
Queen Ygraine nods as if Merlin's answer is what she expected. "Very good. If anyone else asks, answer the same way, boy."
With that befuddling remark, the queen leaves with Lord Tristan. The warlock decides to think no more of it, having much more important things to do.
He stands there alone for a while, ruminating on what to do next. As always, he needs information — about this realm, about Djinns, about other worlds.
Books, pops brilliantly in his mind. Right. If he can't go to his mentor, he'll need to find documents or tomes that hold the information. As it turns out, he does know one place where there'll be a plethora of them. Camelot's castle library is one of the most wonderful places Merlin has been to, even though Lord Geoffrey glares at him whenever he comes by. Although all magical books have been burned, there's still a ton of useful information to be found whenever Merlin is dealing with the threat to Camelot for that week. And now, in this realm of magic, the warlock is certain he can find all that he needs in this realm's library.
I guess joining the Apprentice Exam wasn't a useless endeavor after all. After getting into the castle with a talisman, he'll have full access to the library. Surely, as someone of White Level, at least one person in Court would pick him as an apprentice. Wracu's assault hasn't ruined his chances, surely. Probably.
With a goal in mind, he heads out of the tent. He almost skewers himself into the hard plates of armor.
Sir Lancelot glares at Merlin, the giant scar on his face becoming intimidatingly prominent. "I am to ensure that you go back with the other applicants."
"Of course, sire." Merlin tries to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. He must have failed somewhat because Sir Lancelot scowls deeply.
"You should watch your mouth, boy. And know your place," Sir Lancelot growls. "You've clearly not learned any manners. I'll be gladly teaching you if you keep it up."
What Merlin wouldn't give to have his gentle and friendly Lancelot here instead of this rude suspicious one. Everyone else seems to be used to the knight's gruff attitude but Merlin still reels whenever terse words come out his not-friend's mouth.
"Sir Lancelot." Both their heads snap to the owner of the voice. Lady Morgana strides towards them with a beatific smile. Merlin is astonished to see Mordred and Gilli trailing just right behind her. "It's wonderful to see you once more. You've grown taller!"
"Lady Morgana," Sir Lancelot grunts out, eyeing her suspiciously because of the direction from whence she came. The applicants are gathered on the opposite side.
Merlin's glad to know Sir Lancelot's grumpy nature isn't limited to his interactions with the warlock.
Together, they start walking towards the other applicants.
"How was the interrogation then?" Mordred asks as if inquiring about the weather.
Merlin smiles, amused despite himself. "I've had worse." Which, unfortunately, is true enough.
In only a few minutes, the five of them reach the resting place of the uninjured applicants. All discussions seem to come to an abrupt halt when they notice Merlin in the midst. The warlock ignores them, and claims a corner for himself. Now that he's not battling wits with queens and princes, exhaustion has him in its tight grasp.
A strange realm, foreign devices and spells, familiar faces, three bloody tests, an unexpected attack, and a tiring inquiry.
He sits down on the ground and sighs. He hopes fervently the rest of the day go smoothly and quickly. Sir Lancelot stands beside the warlock, and crosses his arms. Merlin arches a brow at his continued presence but is far too tired to start another argument.
Mordred, Morgana, and Gilli settle not a foot away from him, glancing at him as if he's about to perform a trick. The warlock redirects his raised brow to them. Unfortunately for them, Merlin has no more tricks to spare.
"Gilli," Mordred begins, finally taking his attention away from Merlin. "You never did tell me what happened with the mage's exam."
The mage brightens considerably. He puffs up his chest. "I am pleased to inform you that you are now best friends with one of Mage Gaius' amazing apprentices."
"Very well done," Morgana says, looking endeared.
"Congratulations, Gilli." Mordred pats his friend's shoulder, a bright grin painting his face. "I do hope you didn't do anything too embarrassing in your Choosing Ceremony. I would hate to disown you."
"I did not!" Gilli denies hotly. "I may have teared up a little. But! That's only because I found out I was going to be apprenticing alongside a rather irritatingly snobbish nobleman."
"Oh, yes, we have one of those as well," Morgana replies with a chuckle.
Mordred asks further details regarding the mage's exam, which Gilli happily provides with vivid descriptions. Merlin sits in silence, opting not to contribute and merely letting their lighthearted conversation wash over him.
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
Eyes the color of baked clay flick to the skies, taking note of the streaks of orange and pink hues. Lithe shoulders lean further onto the trunk of the tree, and an arm comes up to agitatedly push away long blonde curling locks away from a sharp angular face. She crosses her arms once more, growing incredibly impatient as minutes passed by with naught but crickets for company. Her eyes sweep between the thick and tall trees surrounding the clearing but glimpses nothing.
Late. He's late. He's rarely ever late.
Just as she's deciding to comb the whole forest instead of waiting idly by, a dark figure slinks into the clearing like a bad omen, cloak flaring behind them. Wracu, son of Nimueh, walks with graceful and unhurried steps, as if he's still not in Camelot's borders and liable to get caught.
"You're late," she says, trying and failing to sound unconcerned. She straightens up and meets him halfway.
"There were complications," he replies, his unsettlingly garbling voice as nonchalant as ever. He pulls a tattered red cloth from around his neck and stashes it in the folds of his cloak.
How forthcoming. She resists rolling her eyes. Instead, she circles him with brisk steps, eyes gleaming gold. "No tracking spells," she informs him. She does, however, note the tiny tear in the middle of his dirty white tunic, right at the chest. Leaning closer, she sees that the skin underneath colors a dark red but doesn't seem to be bleeding. "What happened with that then? That hole in your tunic."
His hand comes up to touch the said area. "Prince Arthur's parting gift."
She nods curtly and says nothing more on the subject. She places a hand on both of his shoulders, and begins chanting. The wind around them grows sharp, whipping up a whirlwind. The smell of plucked grass and damp earth surround them as the spell reaches its peak. After a minute, the enchantment finishes, and they're gone from the clearing in a blink.
Far away from the borders of Camelot, far away from the swords of its knights and spells of its court magicians, they both materialized. Wracu fixes his cloak and hood with practiced movements. His companion pats down and removes her unruly hair from her face, rather irritated with herself that she has forgotten to tie it before performing the teleportation spell.
"Morgause," Wracu calls out rather suddenly. He pauses for a beat. Then, "Your sister was in Camelot's Apprentice Exam."
"What?" Shock colors Morgause Le Fay's tone, along with a tinge of horror.
"You did not know."
"Of course I didn't!" Morgause snarls. "I would've done all that I could to stop her! That foolish girl," she growls, agitation clawing at her chest.
"I'll not stop you from going back, if you so desire," Wracu says. "I've disrupted the exam. The choosing ceremony would be delayed, and you might be able to drag her away before then. But."
"I'll cast suspicion upon myself," Morgause continues for him. She hasn't been in their home for weeks and suddenly, she's riding into Camelot with the knowledge that her sister is there? Drat it, Morgana. Do you have to make everything difficult?
"Your presence in Camelot mere hours after my departure would likely not be overlooked," he adds. "And the Lady Morgana has . . . She already questions your allegiance."
Oh, Morgause knows. She also knows her sister would never tell a soul of her suspicions, especially not a soul in Camelot.
Morgause settles into contemplative silence, debating on what to do, on what she can do.
Wracu waits for her for a few minutes. Then, he lets out a breath that may have been a sigh had it come from anyone else. "Do what you must. I'm weary and in need of rest."
Of course. Wracu has been consistently and constantly using magic for days with naught but an impersonation totem to help with the overuse. She squashes down the guilt that rises up in her for delaying his much needed rest.
Without waiting for a response, Wracu begins heading west, following the heat of the setting sun. Morgause watches him for a while and makes an abrupt decision. She follows behind him, valiantly curbing down the desire to ride for Camelot.
Wracu shifts his head to her in askance.
"I'll ride home tomorrow to get a viable reason to head for the citadel," she says, voice tight. "It's far too late now."
Wracu nods in approval. Morgause knows that any rash decisions on her part may ruin whatever plans Wracu has set up.
"Besides." She matches his steps, coming forward to walk at his side as her anger and worry cools. She needs a distraction. Thankfully, she has one. "I want to know what happened. Did you get the answers you seek?" Her eyes slide down his whole form, looking for unusual bumps or eerie squirming. "Did you manage to find the Emrys?"
At the last question, Wracu's head whips to her in a quick snap.
"You know anti-eavesdropping spells are useless against me." She has a brow smugly arched and a smirk flitting by her lips.
"It doesn't give you the right to listen in on my conversations with Mother," Wracu replies, though without much heat.
"You woke me up at the dead of night. Told me I need to lay false tracks, and lead the best knights in all of Albion in a merry little chase. I didn't ask questions then. Allow me to do so now," she reminds him dryly. "I don't get why this whole Emrys thing has to be secret anyway. The more the lot of us know, the more we can help."
"Perhaps you're right," Wracu relents after a thoughtful hum, facing forward once more. A gloved hand dips into the darkness of his hood, right where his throat should be. When he speaks, his voice is clearer, less distorted and more human. "But I do not want the others to know of it yet. Ask but my words shall be for your ears only. There's too much I have yet to grasp, too many questions unanswered."
Morgause's eyes widen and her brows lift. "Still?" Rarely has Wracu lacked the information he needs, especially after all the effort he placed and risks he took in getting it. This whole Emrys is a bigger deal than she initially thought. She has thought it would merely be something they can quickly steal from Camelot, and use for their plans. "What exactly is an Emrys?"
"A creature that can take the form of a man," Wracu answers, this time voice pitched chest-poundingly low. He ponders for a moment. "It's possible that this one's a newborn, still guileless to the way of the world."
"The form of a man?" Morgause's jaw slackens. "Is it not a Lamia?"
"Unlikely, given its behavior. It doesn't seem keen to devour anyone," Wracu dismisses. He tweaks his voice once more into a pitch almost like a woman's. "I attempted to force it to reveal its true form but it dodged my blade."
Morgause tries to unpack that statement, mouth working. "It — You — You attempted to stab a newborn?" Morgause feels a tad stupid that it's the first question that escapes her.
"A possible newborn," Wracu counters, a tint of amusement marring his tone. He smoothly steps over a large tree root. His voice's timbre drops again. When he continues, a deep rich baritone flows out, "And you did not sense its power, Morgause. I doubt anything short of a blade burnished by dragon's breath can deal a mortal blow to it." He nods to himself, seemingly satisfied. He lets his hand fall from his throat.
Seems he found a new voice, Morgause thinks, cocking a brow at him. While Wracu changes voices as often as he changes faces, the timing of this particular change seems a tad peculiar.
Morgause turns over Wracu's words in her head. Very few creatures can claim such invincibility. Still, Morgause feels that trying to harm it may not be the best of ideas. If the Emrys is sentient and intelligent enough to pass as human, then, taming it would be much harder if they fail to gain its favor. "But why harm it? Surely you could have just tried and removed the spell it's using for its disguise?"
"I sensed no such spells." Wracu sounds perturbed at the admission. "Therefore, I thought inflicting a major injury would make it drop its disguise." His tone turns sober and serious. "I had the element of surprise. I even enchanted my whole body with a speed spell. Tell me, Morgause, how does one avoid such a well-planned close-ranged attack without preparing or incanting a spell?"
Morgause's eyes grow wide with disbelief. "There must be a spell. Perhaps it countered you with another speed spell?"
Wracu shakes his head. "You and I both know speed spells require at least a minute to prepare. I didn't give Emrys that time, and it didn't chant anything. Yet it moved far too fast, and avoided my dagger."
"Perhaps great speed is an inborn talent for its species?"
"If so, it couldn't have used those abilities in human form."
"Maybe it used a mythical enchantment," Morgause jests, holding back a snort.
To her astonishment, Wracu fails to rebut and seems to be taking her recommendation seriously. She looks at him incredulously. Mythical enchantments are called mythical for a good reason. Could this Emrys be truly powerful enough to invoke one? Morgause's curiosity overwhelms her, and she half-wishes that she has Wracu's fine-tuned sensitivity to the whims of the Old Religion. She desires to solve the puzzle as much as Wracu obviously does.
So she has to ask, "Why didn't you steal it away? We could have studied it further in the stronghold."
"I couldn't," Wracu replies, words clipped and curt. "I desired to do so. It appears human, and hides its aura expertly. Had I not scried for it beforehand, I would have never recognized its voice or the scent of its magic. And by the time I found it, there were too many witnesses, and far too many risks to simply take it away."
"You could have bided your time," Morgause suggests, still confused as to why Wracu failed to do so. "Waited 'till nightfall, get it alone."
"By nightfall, I wouldn't be able to reach Emrys because it would be inside Camelot's castle." Wracu stops, both his words and steps.
To left here, whispers the trees, the grass, the wind, and the sky. If one is not paying attention, one would mistake the words to be their own thoughts, their own decision.
Simultaneously, Wracu and Morgause raise their right hands. "Ontynan," they hiss as one, and release a pulse of their magic in the air.
The compulsion enchantment surrounding the area identifies their magical signature and loosens its grip on them both, flitting by their skins like a soft breeze. They continue heading in a straight path.
"Emrys had participated in the Sorcerers' Apprentice Exam." Wracu drops the implausible fact like it's nothing of the sort.
Shock electrifies Morgause's whole body. "What? How? Why?" A magical creature apprenticing under someone? It's unheard of. No magical creatures need a mentor, especially on the area of magic! Then, an epiphany haunts her. "Morgana, what about Morgana? Is she safe?" While Morgana has surely joined the mages' exam, Morgause can't help the knot of worry from twisting her stomach.
"Morgana is hale. I told you; Emrys isn't keen on devouring or killing anyone." The band around Morgause's chest eases at the words. Wracu continues, "And I have yet to know of Emrys' goals." Wracu tugs at his hood, the only display of irritation he allows himself. "But Emrys had displayed an impressive array of skills; it was surely going to be chosen, and I had to act."
"Had to —" A hysterical realization dawns on Morgause. "Wait, don't tell me you — Did you try to stab the Emrys during the exam? In front of an audience? In front of Camelot's Court Sorcerer himself?"
"I had to act," Wracu repeats firmly.
That was reckless, Morgause wants to say. Four years ago, Wracu wouldn't even consider such a careless action, wouldn't have gone into the citadel alone and without people to help him from the inside. He has always been so calculating, so careful of every decision and consequence. But sometimes, nowadays, he's playing an entirely different tune, and Morgause cares not for it.
"I knew I may be discovered," Wracu continues, unbeknownst to Morgause's turmoil. He gestures to her. "That is why I had to get at least some of the knights out of the citadel to decrease the risk of capture."
"There were still the court's magic-users to contend with," Morgause retorts, a touch of anger sparking in her chest. Him being caught would decimate all their work, all their efforts of several years.
"I already had a plan to escape." He gesticulates at himself. "As you can see by my presence here, it was successful."
"And all this for what?" Morgause snaps at him, annoyed that Wracu is still failing to understand. He shouldn't have taken those risks in the first place. "You don't know what Emrys' true form is, you don't know where it came from, and you certainly don't know how to control it."
"No, I suppose I don't," Wracu replies, a cool and calming force against Morgause's heated countenance. "But we'll have plenty of time to find out once it's out of the citadel's protective spells."
Morgause draws back, surprise extinguishing her anger momentarily. "You think that the Emrys won't stay in the citadel? You told me it was going to be chosen as an apprentice." Morgause still couldn't imagine it. Doesn't Camelot have some device to detect whether an applicant isn't human? Perhaps they themselves couldn't imagine a magical creature just joining and blending in.
Morgause hears the smirk in Wracu's voice when he claims, "I've ensured that the queen herself won't let Emrys anywhere near her castle."
Morgause's eyes narrow. "How?"
Wracu's head turns to her and his tone is just shy of patronizing. "I targeted Emrys and called it by its name in front of several witnesses. No one of court will risk the safety and security of Camelot by teaching someone potentially involved with their enemy. Once the rest of the city learns of what transpired, I doubt Emrys will find a warm welcome." His new voice holds tints of triumph when he says, "I may not have shown them Emrys' real face but no one of Camelot will be taking it as an apprentice."
Morgause understands his logic, understands the long-term consequences of his no doubt improvised actions. But there's one unpredictable thing — well, two things, really — he's neglecting to consider —
A great shadow befalls them both, quelling Morgause's words. In front of them, a crumbling and desolate castle swallows the remaining rays of sunset, bathing them in abrupt darkness. Debris consisting of brick and wood surround the structure, scattered in the pathways and entrances. Age and rain have damaged and stained exterior irreversibly, giving it a haunting look. Morgause had years to get used to the sight but the pressure emitting from it still subdues her when caught off guard.
Wracu walks past the malleable barrier surrounding the entrance. Morgause follows right behind him, lower back tingling as she finishes crossing. Inside the castle is a completely different look. The walls are clean and free of mold, the bricks as if newly formed. Soft carpet lines the spacious hallways, ornate candle holders and chandeliers decorate the ceilings, and all furniture remains undusted. The air is fresh, as if they're still in the middle of the thriving forest. Morgause gratefully breathes it in.
They took no more than a few steps when sharp footfalls echo in their hallway. Wracu and Morgause both cease their treads when Priestess Nimueh rounds off the corner, beauty and lethality in one form. Her long black curls flows like silk behind her, night blue dress swirling with the speed of her strides. The sapphire iris of her left eye and the empty darkness that occupies her right socket pierce them like an arrow.
Skittering far behind her is a mousy boy, almost a man, with a mop of dark brown hair and clad in shabby clothing.
Morgause folds her arms upon her back, and lowers her head and gaze.
Wracu twitches not a muscle as Priestess Nimueh draws near. "Mother —"
A slap reverberates throughout the hallways, deafening and heavy-handed. Wracu's head cracks to the side but he doesn't stumble back nor does he make a sound. His cloak's hood would have fallen back at the force of the assault had it not been enchanted to stay up. Morgause resists the urge to lift her eyes or wince. The mousy boy behind the priestess has no such compunction, grimacing in sympathy.
"What were you thinking?" Priestess Nimueh snarls, features contorted in a way that makes the empty socket of her eye prominent. Her slender hand is still raised in the air, prepared to deal another blow. "Going to Camelot without informing me? Without my permission?"
Morgause's eyes widen. She thought that Priestess Nimueh ordered Wracu to infiltrate Camelot. She goes over the conversation she eavesdropped on the day before; belatedly, she notes that while Wracu mentioned the Emrys being in Camelot, he and Priestess Nimueh discussed no plans regarding sneaking into the citadel to extract the creature. Drat it, Wracu. Have you gone utterly mad?
"I'm sorry, Mother," Wracu says, no emotion present in his new voice. "I acted on impulse. I wanted to know more about it as soon as I could."
Priestess Nimueh doesn't soften; in all the years Morgause have known her, she never does, not even towards her own son. But Priestess Nimueh does place tender hands into the shadows of Wracu's face, and says with a tone still tinged with anger, "I would not know what to do had you been caught, had you been killed."
Wracu grasps one of Priestess Nimueh's wrists in comfort. "I am here," he replies simply.
Priestess Nimueh's lips twists. "You will not do this again." The priestess wills, a threat underlining her words. "Camelot is not a place you should be traipsing about now. They are our enemies, Wracu. They would not hesitate to destroy you."
"I know, Mother," Wracu says, tone still cool and emotionless. "I won't do it again. I'm sorry."
Priestess Nimueh stares at him for a few moments more, gauging the sincerity of his promise. Morgause holds her breath, knowing violence could erupt at any moment.
Priestess Nimueh must have seen something she liked amidst the blackness of Wracu's hood because she pulls back. Her face smooths out. "Rest for now, my son. Tell me of your findings in the morning."
"Of course. Thank you, Mother." Wracu bobs his head. Morgause breathes out, glad to have survived the encounter.
Priestess Nimueh stalks away without another word or another glance. She never even offered Morgause a cursory look. When her footsteps finally die down, the mousy boy that had accompanied her turns to Wracu and Morgause.
"I'm sorry, Lord Wracu," the boy croaks out, wringing his hands. "I tried not to let her find out, I did! She asked and asked, and compelled me to tell her. I'm truly sorry, I couldn't even —"
"Daegal." Wracu interrupts the boy's ramblings. Daegal looks up, biting his lips, face a portrait of contrition. "Prepare my dinner and bring it to my room," Wracu says before striding away himself.
"R-Right away, sire," Daegal calls after Wracu just before he rounds off the corner. The boy then releases a sigh of utmost relief. He turns to Morgause. "And you, my lady? Would you like some supper as well?"
Morgause drops her arms from her back and lifts her head. "I'm fine, Daegal. Tend to Wracu. Get some salve for his cheek."
Daegal nods and bows, and scurries to the kitchen without further questions. Morgause, meanwhile, goes to her assigned room in the crumbling castle to pack her things. In the morn, she will ride to see her mother and father, and find out why Morgana applied for an apprenticeship in Camelot's court. Then, she will ride to the citadel, and drag her sister out of it.
And perhaps, she will find out if Wracu's schemes truly bear fruit.
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
A/N:
"A single grain of rice can tip the scale. One man may be the difference between victory and defeat." – The Emperor, Mulan (1998)
Yeah, I didn't think I would continue this either. But slow and steady wins the race apparently!
Thank you very much to LogicalChocolate, Mijanuary, Megan and Cavendish for the kofis! You guys are the best and I'm glad y'all still enjoying this.
As always, I thank you for all the kudos, favorites, bookmarks, follows, and encouragements! Each comment is important to me and, no joke, I reread them all very often.
I don't answer comments because, well, I begin not doing so and it seemed unfair to start now lol. I'll answer some common questions here instead! If I didn't answer yours, it's because I want to show the answer organically through the story! (And hopefully someday, I will.) Also, you guys don't know how much I WANT to just go there in the comments and discuss theories/speculations. But, well, my theories might be spoiler-ish
And check out Schoernchen new art for chapter 18!
Guest: 'why is Merlin acting as though he's only just heard of the word 'magic'?'
I thought I could show this organically in the story actually or leave things up for interpretation (death of the author and all that). BUT, if you want my interpretation, it's similar to AlzeahXei's interpretation in the reviews, which is AWESOME because, to be honest, I think we have the same brain, my man.
And some of you mentioned truth potions/spells . . . They will be mentioned later on in a vastly different context ;)
Did I promise Wracu's POV in the previous chapter? I did write the scene in his POV initially but man, he's so hard to write apparently. So here, have Morgause's POV instead.
Next update? Hahaha, my schedule (and my muse) is a mess right now so I'm afraid I can't promise anything.
Have a magnificent summer! Stay hydrated!
~ Vividpast
