Chapter Summary: Let's take a look at Merlin's first day as an apprentice.
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Chapter I: There'll Be Magic, There'll Be Fun!
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"Here we are then."
George leads Theo, Mordred, and Merlin into an isolated chamber in the east wing. The three apprentices immediately dodge a yard of frilly cloth that flaps by over their heads. The flying clothing is not the only unusual display in the room.
Bundles of fabric spread in the air, spools of colorful threads tangle together in beautiful patterns, dangerously pointed pins and needles pierce through fabrics without difficulty.
The servant and apprentices pause near the doorway, unwilling to traverse the chaotic area further.
"Sefa!" George calls out. "I've brought apprentices."
A young brunette, adorned with fair skin and freckles on her face, pops out from under one of the desks on the far side of the room. She squints at them, "Already?" She stands up and dusts off the lines of threads clinging to her tight-fit trousers and dirty-white tunic.
"The Apprentice Exam was yesterday," George informs her.
The woman looks taken aback. "It was?" She spins around, eyeing the parchment tacked onto the wall. From what Merlin can see, the tattered paper lists dates and events. "Huh. So it was," the young woman says.
She skips towards the four of them, deftly avoiding the aggressively flapping cloths with the agility that Merlin envies. "Good morning, apprentices!" She greets with a demure smile. "Sefa of Camelot, seamstress of the castle, at your service. As George has probably explained, I am to take your measurements and make your court robes." She unrolls a long and narrow strip of glossy paper marked with lines and numbers. "Who're your mentors then?"
"Lord Balinor," Merlin and Mordred reply in unison while Theo follows with "Lady Jayden."
Sefa's dark green eyes bulge. "Excuse me — I didn't think I heard you correctly," she splutters out. Her gaze remains steadily on Merlin and Mordred.
"We are Lord Balinor's apprentices," the druid repeats, a dash of pride slipping in his tone.
"You —" She sends a wide-eyed look to George, hands flitting in a gesture.
Merlin wonders why everyone seems so surprised to find Lord Balinor taking apprentices. While he may have had only one apprentice in the last fifteen years, surely, they should have expected that he will take a few more eventually.
George merely nods in confirmation. "There's three of them. Lady Morgana will stop by shortly."
"Three —? By the Goddess, have the rules changed since last time?" Sefa grows frantic. Stacks of papers and feathered quills come flying to her with a gesture and a word. "Why did no one tell me? I have to adjust the time! If each one picked three apprentices, the robes won't be ready —" She furiously shuffles through her documents, muttering adjustments. The three apprentices witness her get more and more hysterical.
"Sefa, calm down," George interjects seamlessly. "Lord Balinor has made an exception this year to choose three. The other lords and ladies have picked, at most, two. The rules have remained the same."
The seamstress visibly deflates in relief. "Thank the Goddess for that." Her attention drifts to the apprentices. "Lord Balinor's, huh." Melancholy lines the corners of her smile, and her eyes glimmer in the light. "Let's take your measurements then, shall we?"
She swiftly does just that, a quill moved by an invisible hand scratching out her findings onto a floating piece of parchment. Within a couple of minutes, Sefa declares with a firm nod, "All done." She tidily rolls back her measuring instrument. "Will Lord Balinor be making your robes himself, has he mentioned? Will decrease my workload by a lot if he will."
Merlin blinks rapidly. "Lord—Lord Balinor sews?" The warlock cannot imagine that.
"Quite well, if I might say," the seamstress says around a chuckle. "He told me it's a tradition in his homeland; masters have to provide their apprentices clothing they have sown and bespelled themselves."
The statement piques Merlin's interest beyond measure. Homeland — where exactly is that? What other traditions does Balinor practice?
"I suppose I'll just have to ask him myself," Sefa thinks out loud, plucking the floating parchment and studying the written measurements to ensure its accuracy. "After all, he did make Li —" The words catch on her throat. She clears it. "Expect your robes within two weeks." She tells the three of them, shooting them a friendly smile. Merlin notes the strained quality of it.
"I suppose we're finished here," George remarks, sending Sefa a meaningful look. He beckons the apprentices to the door before Merlin could give voice to his questions. "Let me show you the rest of the castle."
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"— upstairs are the royal bedrooms. Unless you have business with them directly, you're not allowed to be in those hallways. And here —"
Merlin tunes out George's rather redundant explanations. The layout of the castle is more or less the same as that of the castle in his own Camelot. The royal chambers are high upstairs, placed at the least accessible side to decrease the risk of assassination. The servant's quarters are located at the end of the north wing, the guests' opposite that. The only major differences Merlin notes are the addition of the mages' experiment rooms, the scrying chambers, and the sorcerers' indoor training arena. For obvious reasons, those places don't exist in his realm's castle.
Two passing servants carrying freshly washed linens abruptly cease whispering when Merlin and his group walk in earshot. They give the apprentices not-so-subtle looks, and their whispers start anew as soon as the group is far enough away. Merlin hopes the gossip doesn't involve him.
"—entrance to the library, managed by Lord Geoffrey of Monmouth, is right here."
Merlin immediately tunes back in at George's words. George halts in front of and gestures at a closed ornate wooden door. The image of an open book carved at the forefront of the door blatantly declares its purpose.
"I know none of you will be spending much time in there but be warned that Lord Geoffrey has strict rules regarding the use of the books."
Oh, don't Merlin know it. The Lord Geoffrey of his world also has the same predilection; the lord's very possessive of each and every tome.
"Read the instructions at the entrance and carefully follow them," George finishes before resuming his walk. "Now, up ahead is the —"
"Um, can I stay here instead?" Merlin ventures, pointing at the library's door. He wants to start on his research as soon as he can. With any luck, he'll be able to find out a way home by the end of the day.
Theo and Mordred give him inquiring looks. George halts and frowns.
"My duty is to ensure you know all the rules of the castle and to ensure you will not unknowingly break them," he informs them rather snobbily. "I'm afraid I cannot let you out of my sight unless I finish doing so."
"I was a servant before. In a castle like this," Merlin counters immediately. He grasps for information that George has not yet disclosed. "The rules are the same, aren't they? Do not enter the throne room while the k—queen is having an audience. We get our wa— uh, allowance from the steward at the end of every week. Bring the plates and utensils from the dining halls back to the kitchens after using them. Always use servant hallways." Not that Merlin ever does that last one. He needs to always be one step behind Arthur if not directly beside the king.
George looks slightly horrified. "Certainly not! No apprentice should be using the servant hallways."
"Oh, right."
"But other than that, you are correct on all accounts." George stares at Merlin with narrow eyes, a pensive look upon his face. "I am to bring the three of you to your mentors' chambers after lunch for your first lessons. If you are to stay here, I won't have the time to fetch you. I'm afraid I have other duties to attend to in the afternoon."
"I could go on my own by the afternoon," Merlin offers hastily. "Just tell me where his rooms are. I can find my way there."
George appears agreeable to the option. "Very well. I trust you know everything that's important. It'll be a waste of your time if you were to continue with us." He nods to himself. "Lord Balinor's rooms are on the second story, western wing. The third door from the western stairs."
After Merlin acknowledges the information with a nod, George turns and continues leading the other two apprentices. Mordred waves Merlin goodbye while Theo looks in contemplation at the library's door.
Before George and the others could even turn into the next hallway, Merlin hurries and opens the wooden door.
He gapes.
While the library in his realm spans at least ten royal rooms, this world's library is twice as large. It has a bloody second floor, with shelves thrice as tall as Merlin himself. There is no dust or cobwebs, each surface uncannily and impossibly clean. The musty and stale smell is gone, replaced by clear well-ventilated air. Merlin even scents a hint of fruity perfume in the air, calming and soothing.
So this is what it would've looked like with the magic books unburned. The notion that so much knowledge about magic has been lost in his own world saddens Merlin quite a lot.
The warlock finds a lectern just by the entrance, and a crisp parchment lay atop it.
The Rules of the Great Camelot Library reads the first line in large bold letters. Merlin quickly skims through it, not wanting to do something that displeases Lord Geoffrey. Being banned from the library is the last thing he needs. No food or liquids allowed, no running, no performing offensive spells that may damage the books. One needs to get permission from the head librarian to take books out of the library. The east wing section is strictly forbidden to anyone without a written certificate.
All right, the rules seem simple and easy enough to follow. Merlin proceeds further into the vast chamber, gazing up and wondering where he should start.
Someone clears their throat, and Merlin jumps. Lord Geoffrey, sitting behind a desk and sporting fewer gray hairs, stares unimpressed. "How may I help you, young man?"
"Uh, yes. Where are the books on magical creatures, my lord?" Merlin asks eagerly.
Lord Geoffrey taps his lips and hums. "Airborne creatures? Water creatures? Earth ones?"
Merlin thinks it over. The Djinn can float; does that make it an airborne creature? To be certain, he says, "Um, it lives in a lamp . . .?"
"A lamp! A Djinn then?"
Merlin leans forward excitedly. "Yes, a Djinn!"
Lord Geoffrey stands up from his seat, chuckling. "Fascinating creatures, Djinns." He gestures for Merlin to follow him, and Merlin walks a step behind. "Ah, I do remember obsessing over it myself when I was young. If only such a creature could exist, no?"
Merlin falters. "It — It doesn't?"
Lord Geoffrey glances back at him. "I suppose it could. Although, we've no concrete records of anyone ever encountering it." He halts in one of the indistinguishable aisles between shelves and enters it. "Here it is. It's the only book we have regarding it." He pulls out a tome with a deep maroon cover from one of the upper shelves.
Merlin swallows but tries not to feel discouraged as he accepts the book. "Th — Thank you so much, Lord Geoffrey."
Lord Geoffrey nods. "Take care of the books, my boy," he reminds sternly. With that, he leaves Merlin alone in the aisle and goes back to his desk.
The Legends of the Djinn are embossed on the tome's cover.
The book in Merlin's hands is light, containing fifty pages at best. He takes a deep breath, holds the book tightly to himself, and hopes it has the answer he seeks.
He claims a table and a chair near a window facing east with just the right amount of sunlight streaming in. He sits down, flips the book open, and settles in.
The first chapters lay out information Merlin has already learned from Gaius, providing vague descriptions of Djinn's capabilities and purpose. The next ones depict crude and inaccurate illustrations of the Djinn. Merlin certainly doesn't recall the Djinn having a thousand pointy teeth or long claws. The drawings get the blue hair right but definitely not the blue skin. Detailed parables follow, narrating hypothetical scenarios of people meeting the Djinn and making at most three wishes. They read more like cautionary tales parents tell their children than actual encounters. While Merlin is quite entertained by the stories, he's not inclined to treat them as truths.
An hour later, Merlin has finished the book with an exasperated sigh. There's no information on where to find the Djinn or its lamp, just a bunch of stories that Merlin has no use for at all. Could it be that Djinns don't truly exist in this world, unlike in his? Dread pools in his stomach, making him nauseous. Or perhaps the nausea is because it's almost lunch time.
He returns the book to its previous spot and looks through the spines of the others of the same shelf. Surely, there must be something else here. Some other creature that can help? He knows little about creatures beyond what he had fought before.
The Eighteen Earth Creatures of North Bernicia, The Bestiary of Gwilym of Cambria, Beware of Goblins and Gold, Stinging Serkets of the Forest of Brechfa, Bespelled by the Songs of Sirens.
The titles go on and on, and nothing, in particular, catches Merlin's eyes. His heart sinks further and further. It's not that he expected the solution to come easy but it's becoming clear that he may be staying in this world for quite a while.
He shakes off the pessimistic thoughts and begins grabbing books that seem relevant. He'll stumble upon the right one soon enough as long as he keeps pushing forward.
He'll get home to his own Camelot. He has to. The prat of the king there won't survive long without him.
He returns to his claimed desk, arms filled with mountains of books. He gingerly places them down, careful not to make too much noise or drop a single book. After arranging the pile and sitting back down, he cracks another book open and begins his search anew.
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Drat it, drat it, drat it!
Merlin dashes through corridors after corridors. Servants smoothly swerve out of his way, and he shouts apologizes to the few he unluckily bumps into.
Then, he rounds a corner and promptly slams into a wall. He stumbles back, air escaping his lungs at the impact and feet tangling around each other. The ground rushes up to meet him, and he prepares himself to meet it quite painfully.
A hand shoots out, grabs his arm, and pulls him into proper balance. The warlock wobbles flat onto his heel.
"Careful," the wall says.
Merlin's head snaps up at the familiar voice. Prince Arthur Pendragon releases his grip upon Merlin and steps back. His expression is still as blank as ever, eerily reminding the warlock of his dream that very morning.
"Watch where you're going!" From beside the prince, a boy clothed in extravagant clothing sneers.
Merlin glances at the boy and does a double-take. The boy is the splitting image of Clar with short blonde locks and thin lips; if the said girl herself isn't standing next to the boy, Merlin would have thought it is Clar after a gendershifting spell. Clar glares at Merlin like he's a speck of particularly stubborn dirt underneath her boot. Huh, there's two of them.
"Um, sorry, Your Highness." Merlin's eyes widen as he remembers why he is in a hurry in the first place. He plows through the group and begins his sprint once more. "Drat, I'm late!"
"Hey!" The boy calls out, sounding absolutely furious. Merlin ignores him, much more scared of the consequences waiting for him in his mentor's room than whatever a snotty noble boy thinks.
He runs up the stairs, skipping two steps in haste.
Second floor, third door. One, two —
Merlin shoves the third door open with his weight and finally halts.
"S — Sorry I'm late," he pants out, doubled over, and trying to catch his breath.
He hasn't noticed how much time has passed, so focused on leafing through various texts of, frankly, fascinating creatures. Who knew that some species of serkets actually glow in darkness? Or that there exist earthworm-esque creatures the size of houses? Merlin certainly didn't know these until only a few hours ago.
"And you didn't even knock," Balinor primly points out.
The warlock finally straightens from his crouch, lifts his head, and blinks rapidly at the sight that greets him. Morgana sends him an amused glance, and Mordred shoots him one of slight disapproval. Both are seated around a long dining table, grasping tiny crystals in their hands.
Several feet away, behind a desk, seats Balinor. Or who Merlin assumes is Balinor anyway. Piles upon piles of parchments stand in towers on top of the desk, each half as tall as Merlin. About ten pieces of paper hover in the air, quills frenziedly scratching cursive scripts upon them. The whole bustle shields almost all of Balinor, who's bent over another set of forms, from sight.
"I expect you all to be on time for the lessons. And to knock before entering another's room." The Court Sorcerer may have been giving Merlin a chastising look but the papers hindering his face diminish its effect. He places the parchment in his hands on top of the nearest stack before clutching another batch from another tower.
Merlin approaches the occupied desk, glancing around.
Balinor's chambers are roughly the same size as a king's and even adorn more or less the same furniture. A large bed with thick comfortable covers and drapes, a long dining table surrounded by six ornate chairs, two sturdy desks, a huge wardrobe, a privacy screen . . . Various unfamiliar paraphernalia, however, also litter every corner. Colorful gems are fitted into silver rings and bracelets, crystals of motley sizes shine dully on top of tables, stones sculptured into strange shapes lay on top of the dresser, and plenty more bizarre articles are scattered throughout the chambers. Merlin even spies a wooden sculpture of a dragon mid-flight in an inconspicuous corner of Balinor's desk, which causes him to grin a bit.
Merlin senses more than half of the knickknacks to be magical in nature. He feels awed by it all; so many magical items carelessly dispersed around every corner.
"Why do you have so much paperwork? My lord." Merlin peers into the documents in one heap. Even Arthur didn't have this much work in one day.
A feathered quill whizzes before Merlin and starts to prod him incessantly and unmercifully on the chest.
"Wha —" Merlin backs away lest it actually pokes a hole into his borrowed tunic. The quill still follows, jabbing and jabbing like Merlin himself irritates it. Finally, it relents when Merlin nears Morgana and Mordred, who are not even trying to hide their smiles. It hurtles back to the desk to abuse a piece of parchment instead.
"These are secret documents that are not for the eyes of just anyone," Balinor informs him, tone dry.
Oh. That's probably why Morgana and Mordred are a distance away from the paper pile. Merlin, used to working on a fourth of Arthur's paperwork and freely reading what the king has recklessly left on his desk, belatedly recalls that most documents of the court should be hidden away from prying eyes.
The Court Sorcerer stares at Merlin with narrow eyes. His gaze then darts to Mordred and Morgana. After a moment, those same eyes roam the mountains of documents surrounding him.
The frenzied quills and parchment in the air summarily put themselves down on the desk as Balinor gets to his feet. He treads closer to the apprentices.
"Why were you late?" The Court Sorcerer asks of Merlin, lifting a brow. "I was under the assumption that George was accompanying you to ensure you didn't get lost. Yet George only brought Mordred."
"I was in the library. I lost track of time," the warlock answers sheepishly.
The Court Sorcerer's brows rise. "You were late for a lesson, with me, because you were so entranced by the information provided by the library."
Merlin reckons it's a pretty good reason as any. He doesn't know why Balinor sounds so sardonic or why Mordred looks utterly incredulous. Morgana, meanwhile, appears to be unsuccessfully stifling a laugh.
"I see," the Court Sorcerer says after Merlin nods in confirmation. "Take a seat."
The warlock complies, claiming the seat diagonally from Morgana and a chair away from Mordred. Hundreds of crystals the size and length of Merlin's index finger, most transparent but a couple are colored opaque whites, pepper the varnished table's surface. There are also three small boxes joining them in the chaos. One for each apprentice, Merlin assumes, as Morgana and Mordred are placing white crystals into their own boxes.
"Do you know of storage crystals?" When Merlin shakes his head, the Court Sorcerer explains. "They are crystals with the ability to store magical energy. Depending on the quality and size, the crystal can store such energy for a certain period of time. This one—" Balinor picks up one of the colorless crystals. "— can store only a tiny bit of magical energy and can only hold onto it for two weeks at most." Before Merlin's very eyes, pale white speedily saturates the crystal, the movement akin to milk being poured into a cup. "Just focus a tiny bit of magic into it and it will be absorbed. If you push more energy than it can handle, it will shatter." Balinor places down the now white crystal and hands Merlin another colorless one, which the warlock accepts with wide interested eyes. "Your task is to fill up fifty of these with your magic. No spot in the crystal should be without hue. It should be filled up with the exact amount. Place the finish ones in this." Balinor taps the only empty box, the one nearest to Merlin.
From the corner of his eye, Merlin sees Mordred frowning at the teeny transparent section of the crystal in the druid's fingers. Mordred draws it closer to his face, squinting. Morgana's hand darts out to grab the druid's wrist and hurriedly yanks the crystal away from his eyes. Morgana is just in time; a split second later, the said crystal cracks and bursts into three fragments, Mordred having sent a tad too much magic through it. The shards fall from the druid's fingertips in large enough chunks not to stick to skin. Mordred attempts not to look too disheartened. Morgana pats him on the arm in comfort.
Balinor glances at the mess and says, "Be patient. You have a week to finish the task." The fragments float in the air, twirl around and fuse themselves together. Whole and undamaged once more, the hueless crystal gently lays itself back on the table. "Gather the shards, and I'll repair them by the end of each day."
With that, the Court Sorcerer spins around and returns behind his desk. The hubbub begins anew, quills and papers prancing all around him.
Merlin turns his attention to his own assignment, staring at the crystal in his palm. A storage device for magic, huh? He doesn't know the exact practical applications of such tools, but the possibilities intrigue him.
"Here, Merlin." The warlock's head snaps to Morgana, who's offering him a bundle wrapped in cloth. "We didn't see you in the dining hall. We figured you must have skipped lunch."
"Oh, uh." Merlin doesn't know how to feel about the thoughtful gesture, especially coming from a not-enemy. He accepts the package with only the slightest hesitation. "Thank you." He sends her a close-lipped smile.
Morgana smiles back before returning to her crystals. Three sandwiches, padded generously with meat, tomatoes, and cabbages, present themselves as Merlin unfolds the bundle. He helps himself to them when his stomach grumbles promptly in the face of the offering.
He rolls the crystal between fingers, chewing thoughtfully. Balinor may have made the task sound and look easy but the warlock has a feeling it is anything but.
He's proven correct when, not even a full second after he sends the tiniest pulse of magic into the tiny crystal, it shatters without flourish. He carefully places the fragments off onto one side and plucks another unblemished crystal from the pile. The second attempt yields no success nor progress, having the same exact result as the first.
"Get it far from your face, Merlin," Morgana reminds him without even looking when the warlock had unconsciously brought the fifth crystal closer. The said lady herself has shattered two crystals so far but her box speaks of at least fifteen successful attempts.
"Perhaps you should . . . send it more slowly, more gradually," Mordred advises after Merlin has destroyed his twenty-first crystal.
The druid, Merlin observes, encounters trouble of his own. Mordred would release a minuscule amount of magic, enough to fill the crystal halfway. Then, he would send another pulse to fill the rest, but it would be too much this time. His crystal will meet the same fate as Merlin's.
At the very least, four perfectly filled ones gather at the center of the druid's box. Nothing but emptiness still lays within Merlin's.
"I am doing it slowly," the warlock replies, a thread of frustration underlining his words. He hasn't succeeded even once, each crystal shattering as soon as he starts. He knows not what he's doing wrong; the pulses of magic he's releasing is just enough to gather a tiny flame in the palm of his hand. It shouldn't be enough to destroy the crystal.
The chair between Merlin and Mordred scrapes the floor, and the Court Sorcerer seats himself in it. The apprentices startle, not having heard their mentor move from his desk.
"Morgana, what is magic to you? How do you visualize magic when you're performing a spell?" Balinor asks.
Morgana, arranging the crystals in her box with an unnecessary flourish, answers mechanically without looking up. "A sixth sense, my lord. An intangible energy beneath my skin producing tangible results." She looks up in thought. "I visualize it as something akin to threads of light, sparking out from me to accomplish my will."
Balinor nods. He turns to Mordred. "And you, Mordred?"
The druid's brows furrow in contemplation. "Magic is like an extra limb I can flex; I can use it to do things none of my physical limbs can. I see it as akin to soft clay; I can mold it, making it take the shape of whatever I want." Casually, he glances at the Court Sorcerer. When Balinor nods in what seems to be approval, a beaming expression flashes by Mordred's face so briefly that Merlin almost misses it.
"And you, Merlin?" Balinor addresses.
The warlock leans back on his chair and ponders on it. What is magic to him? Something that will get one's head separated from one's shoulders, an art that must be practiced in the shadows, and a skill that can be used to save a kingdom once a week. Other than that?
For Merlin, magic as a sixth sense or an extra limb would . . . not be inaccurate, per se. But the descriptions still feel a tad off. To describe it as such would mean magic is unnatural, separate from the everyday normal. A sixth sense and an extra limb is something mostly unnecessary — a tool useful beyond belief but one a person can live without.
Merlin does not use magic as often as the people in this realm obviously do. However, for him, he can't imagine not feeling it under his skin, coursing through his veins and filling every inch of his being.
The warlock stares at the chaos of crystals at the table, still deep in thought. "Magic is . . . breathing, feeling your lungs expand, and savoring the air." Merlin does just that. "It's when your bones pop and creak when moving. When you speak, and your throat vibrates. It's the sustenance that energizes you after a meal, the darkness you see when you close your eyes, the heartbeat pulsing in your wrist." Merlin nods to himself and lifts his gaze to find three pairs of eyes staring bemusedly at him. Blood rushes to his cheeks, and he stutters out, "S-Sorry, I'm not making any sense, am I?"
The warlock scrambles to find a more eloquent answer, mortified. Before he could rephrase his words, the Court Sorcerer leans forward and asks him with an absolutely serious face, "Merlin, how long have you had magic?"
"I was born with it," the warlock replies almost automatically. At the look of surprise they throw his way, he insists, "It's true." He remembers how Gaius initially reacted to his claim. "My mum told me I used to make things fly around our house when I was but a babe." Oh, he hasn't seen his mum for a while now, he recalls with a pang. When he gets back, he'll force Arthur to give him some time off to visit her.
"That's amazing," Morgana says with awed eyes. Mordred appears similarly impressed. "My magic didn't fully manifest until I was thirteen springs."
Merlin casts her a cursory glance, abruptly recalling how the Morgana of his realm discovered her magic. Guilt arises from the memory; Merlin knows he could have handled that incident better.
The Court Sorcerer straightens. "I apologize, Merlin. It seems I've done you a disservice."
The said warlock, blinks rapidly, bewildered at the sudden apology. "Er — It's all right, my lord . . .?"
Balinor holds out a hand, palm open. "If you would allow me?"
Merlin gives his right arm, which seems to be what Balinor is asking for. The Court Sorcerer encircles his wrist in a firm grip, fingertips resting on the soft flesh of his pulse point.
"Do you feel that?" Balinor asks, amber eyes astutely on Merlin's face.
Merlin stares at his wrist and then looks back up to Balinor. "Feel what?"
The Court Sorcerer hums thoughtfully. Then, "How about this?"
Again, Merlin isn't certain what exactly Balinor is on about. He shakes his head.
After a beat, a spark of something akin to lightning flitters by his skin, producing gooseflesh upon his right arm. He flinches but forces himself to calm immediately; the energy does nothing but passes by.
"Well, I felt that," Merlin says.
"Interesting." The Court Sorcerer releases his hold. "People whose magic manifests before they could even remember usually have low sensitivity when it comes to detecting magic. They're too used to certain amounts of magic that they're incapable of sensing low volumes of it." Balinor's brows furrow. "In turn, releasing lower volumes of magic becomes a herculean task for them. But you . . . you have the lowest sensitivity I've ever encountered."
"Truly?" Morgana's eyes glimmer with intrigue.
Merlin tries not to feel like he has disappointed Balinor in some way. "That— That's not quite a bad thing, is it? What do I have to do to increase my, uh, magic sensitivity?"
"No, not necessarily a bad thing. But this means some of your lessons may need to vary from the others." He adopts a contemplative look. "Very well. Let's try it this way for now."
Balinor teaches Merlin the incantation for repairing the splintered storage crystals. The two other apprentices eagerly listen in, although Balinor warns them that the spell is for Merlin's use alone for now.
"Like pieces of a puzzle, you have to rearrange the shards in a way that seamlessly fits together." Balinor demonstrates the results of doing otherwise. The fixed crystal is misshapen, featuring minuscule unfilled holes. "Furthermore, if you restore it incorrectly, it'll merely be a simple crystal, incapable of storing magic. On the other hand." Here, Balinor untangles the shards once more and fuses them in a more proper manner. "The second it's rebuilt correctly, it'll start absorbing magic again. Repairing them usually is difficult because of this; you have to stop the spell at the exact moment lest you fill it up with your own magic."
Balinor points to the pile of fragments by Merlin's side. "But I want you to do exactly that, Merlin. Repair these crystals and stop the spell only after you've filled it up."
Merlin fervently attempts it, isolating pieces of shards and casting the restoration spell on them. The first try doesn't work too well, the revived crystal a chaos of shapes and still unable to do its purpose. The warlock glances at the Court Sorcerer, and the man merely gestures for him to try again.
The second attempt bears fruit; the crystal fixes itself appropriately and promptly absorbs the residual magic from the spell. Merlin cuts off the spell just in time; the crystal he holds has turned a pure opaque white, no hint of cracks in its facets. A grin climbs unrestrained on his face as he turns the crystal over.
"Well done, Merlin!" Morgana matches his grin, tone brimming with pride.
"And only on the second try." Mordred offers a small smile of his own.
The Court Sorcerer nods, amber eyes glinting with approval. "As I thought. This exercise seems more suited to you." He gets to his feet and addresses the three of them. "Proceed with your own task. Fifty crystals by the end of the week," he reminds them. With that, he goes back to his paperwork.
The tailored task comes easier but no less of a challenge. Fixing the crystal before attempting to fill it up burns off the excess energy that caused the previous crystals to perish. However, like Mordred, Merlin encounters the problem of hueless spots when he stops the restoration spell a bit too early. Of course, attempting to send another pulse result in the crystal's utter destruction.
Morgana and Mordred wordlessly put their own shattered pieces by the warlock's side. The three of them work on their assignment in silence, all too concentrated on their own tasks to start a conversation. The beams of sunlight shift gradually, the room only laden by the sounds of quills scratching, papers crumpling and crystals clinking.
Hours later, Merlin startles as the torches in the chambers flare with fires and crackling noises. He blinks, lifting his head for the first time in a while and realizing that darkness has consumed their surroundings.
"That's enough for today, I think." The Court Sorcerer informs them, head still ducked into a document and hand still writing vigorously on it. "I shall be expecting you again tomorrow, two hours after dawn. Do not be late. The three of you may go."
Merlin looks at his box; eight white crystals twinkle back at him. Meanwhile, fourteen sits innocently in Mordred's while more than twenty clusters in Morgana's. He feels disappointed that he's so far behind.
"Go on then," Balinor prompts, waving them away when they dither.
"Have a pleasant evening, my lord," Morgana bids before heading for the door.
Mordred and Merlin follow her example, walking a step behind her. The Court Sorcerer casts them a brief glance and nods.
Merlin gingerly closes the door behind them. He releases a breath. Going in, he really had no expectations regarding these apprentice lessons. In fact, he gave no time at all to think about it at all, having much more pressing concerns at hand.
The lesson for that day was certainly interesting and informative; it's definitely an exercise that Merlin will continue practicing even after he gets back home. He wonders where he can get storage crystals in his own realm. He reminds himself to ask Balinor the next day.
"Dinner?" Morgana invites them both with a guileless smile.
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Three breaths after the door to his chambers thudded close, Balinor places down the parchments from his grip. He approaches the long table and snatches one filled crystal from a box containing eight. He pockets the aforementioned crystal and grabs a colorless one. With a pulse of magic, the crystal flicks to white. Innocuously, he puts down the newly filled crystal into the box that numbers eight once more.
He returns to his desk and resumes his work.
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A/N:
"For the first time in forever
There'll be magic, there'll be fun!" — Anna, Frozen (2013)
And that's another chapter!
Stay awesome and love you all!
~ Vividpast