Chapter Summary: Balinor and Merlin talk, more or less. Merida and a nighttime visitor talk, more or less.
Warning/s: Non-consensual drug use (kinda). Semi-graphic depictions of transphobia.
EDIT: Sorry, forgot an important warning! Thanks, Duskheart, for pointing it out!
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Chapter IV: A Good Wine to Go With That?
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Balinor pours a hearty amount of dark liquid from the bottle into one of the goblets. After, he nudges the goblet towards a fidgeting Merlin.
Merlin takes it, not really knowing what else to do. "This doesn't contain some sort of truth serum, does it?" The wine is a deep dark red, gleaming like blood in the lights of the fires.
Balinor arches a brow and fills up his own goblet. "Truth serums or anything of ilk are illegal to use on anyone without a proper trial. I'll assume you didn't know that and were not actually accusing me of a heinous crime."
"I — I definitely didn't know that, my lord." Merlin brings the cup to his lips to prevent himself from saying anything more.
Cold saccharine tang bursts at the tip of Merlin's tongue, the wine sweeter than anything he has ever drunk. It barely tastes like wine, the customary sourness overwhelmed by candied sweetness. It's undoubtedly alcohol though because it burns down his throat almost painfully. He covers his mouth and coughs.
Balinor watches him hack out a lung for several moments. "You seem to be getting along with Morgana and Mordred," he points out before taking a long drag of his own drink. He appears unbothered by the wine's utterly unusual taste. "Seeing as you worked together to cause a commotion."
A rather troubling epiphany dawns on Merlin then. Morgana has drenched the three of them in unnoticeable enchantments while Mordred has offered his own silencing spells. Merlin has felt their magic graze his skin, although they never entangled with his own. His magic failed to react at all to those spells cast on him by his not-enemies. Is it because he had been too distracted to properly notice? Or —
Merlin blinks rapidly, another realization sinking its teeth in him. For the past two days, the three of them have been in this same room filling up storage crystals. Their magic mingles in the air because of the crystals each of them had shattered. Merlin has bathed in the remnants of Morgana and Mordred's magic but had never registered them as a threat because of its minuscule amount.
His eyes widen. "Is this first lesson meant to make me get used to their magic?" Merlin recalls confessing to Balinor during the examinations that the magic of those two causes his own to react unpredictably.
The Court Sorcerer lets out a sound that may have been a snort. "Not everything is about you, Merlin."
Merlin's cheeks heat even as he scowls. He turns his attention to his cup and notes that Balinor did not even attempt to directly deny the warlock's claim.
The Court Sorcerer gazes at the warlock, something unidentifiable flashing behind his eyes. Then, he places his cup down and casually says, "Oἷon sύ eἰmi drakonlars."
Merlin splutters, nearly choking on his drink once more. He stutters out, "W-What language is that then?"
"Krύstallos ἐn soe thrix," Balinor says next before taking another drink from his goblet.
Without much thought, Merlin's hand comes up to ruffle his hair and remove said crystal shards. Then, he freezes and curses himself.
"You are a dragonlord," Balinor repeats, in common language this time. He leans forward. "Which parent has the lineage?"
Merlin grimaces, mind debating whether to deny, admit, or attempt to change the subject completely. He figures there's no worming his way out, seeing as he has shown his understanding of dragon-speak. "My — uh, my father, I think." Merlin doesn't exist in this realm. Balinor won't be arriving at the correct assumption. Hopefully. Surely there are other dragonlords in the area that could have potentially sired Merlin. Even though dragonlords are apparently rare in Camelot and its allied kingdoms. Drat, if he knew it was a possibility, Merlin should have claimed the lineage is from his mother's side instead.
"You think?" Balinor's skeptical inquiry draws Merlin out of his swirling thoughts.
"He l-left my mother and me before he knew I existed."
Astonishment crosses Balinor's face. Then, he looks thoughtful. "Do you know his name?"
"Er — My mother didn't talk much about him," Merlin says carefully, keenly aware of the dangerous territory he's treading. He takes another nervous swallow of the saccharine wine. The drink is truly an acquired taste. He's beginning to like it because it serves as a reason to delay answering questions.
"So you've never been taught or guided about the ways of a dragonlord?" Balinor asks, lips pursed in a thin line. Merlin almost shrinks at the disapproval marring his tone.
Merlin shakes his head and looks down at the dark liquid in his goblet. He swallows and decides to confess, "I heard my father's voice though, one time. When I commanded my first dragon. He guided me then." Of course, in the past few days, the warlock hears the sound of his father's voice much more often. He hides a humorless smile behind his goblet.
When Merlin glances up, an inscrutable expression paints Balinor's face. They grow silent for several breaths, drinking overly sweet wine and shooting each other measured glances.
"Tell me about the Questing Beast." Balinor breaks the silence with the demand.
Merlin blinks. "The one I saw during the apprentice test?" When Balinor nods, the warlock frowns. "I saw one, once, a few years ago."
"Where did you see it?"
Merlin opens his mouth. Then, he closes it with a snap, recalling that they perhaps won't find a trace of said Questing Beast in Camelot. "Er—I don't remember exactly. It may not even be there anymore, really." None would be able to support Merlin's assertions anyways.
"Inside Camelot borders perhaps?"
"N-No."
"Southern, eastern, wes — Eastern then," Balinor concludes, eyes sharply on Merlin's face. "Mountain? Woods, desert, cave — A cave in the eastern woods. Hmm."
"What — How are you —" Merlin covers his face with one hand, shocked and a little bit terrified.
"You're very easy to read, Merlin," Balinor replies, his own expression aloof. "The potion helps too."
"Wha —" Merlin's head snaps to the almost empty goblet. Betrayal swiftly courses through him, along with simmering rage. "You said truth potions were illegal!"
"They are. I dosed you and I with an empath-spiller," Balinor admits without a hint of apology.
Indignation flares in Merlin's breast. "What's an empath-spiller?"
"It allows anyone within five feet of you to feel any large shift of your emotions or surface thoughts," Balinor answers before taking the last dregs from his goblet. "It's a mild dose. Very easy to counteract for those who know how to do so." The Court Sorcerer meaningfully at his own empty cup.
Merlin's hands curl into fists, and the warlock grits his teeth. He pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. The duplicity hurts like a stab wound but he only has himself to blame. Merlin has witnessed Balinor's cunningness in the past few days; he shouldn't have let his guard down. He's furious at himself for thinking he can relax around someone far from an ally.
He heads for the door, unable to stand being in the room for much longer.
"Sit down, Merlin, or I'll tear up your apprentice contract here and now," Balinor says, voice cold. "After today, I can no longer give you the benefit of the doubt and overlook whatever it is you're scheming. Sit down."
The warlock bristles, steps faltering. He considers walking away anyway because he loathes being threatened, being told what to do.
He recalls Arthur's voice ordering him not to be stupid. Gaius telling him to think carefully. Gwen and Leon determined to find a compromise. Gwaine and Elyan encouraging him to throw a punch. Lancelot and Perceival whispering that he stays his hand.
Kilgharrah may know how to get Merlin home but the warlock has no doubt that he will need resources inside the castle to do so. The best chance he has of getting home to them lies in the castle. He can't throw it away just like that because Balinor is an infuriating prat. So, Merlin breathes out, attempting to dissipate his anger. He sits back down and crosses his arms, not even trying to hide how unhappy and displeased he is.
Balinor nods in approval, and Merlin curbs the urge to tip Balinor's chair down with a blast of magic.
"Tell me about Emrys."
"It's just a name some people call me," Merlin replies curtly.
"And why does an ancient dragon know it?"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Merlin offers a smile as saccharin as the dosed wine.
Balinor arches a brow and waits, expectant. Merlin sighs heavily. The warlock should definitely not be telling anyone about any prophecies that may or may not exist in this realm. But he needs to be as truthful as possible if he hopes to get out of this interrogation without revealing he does not at all belong in this world.
So he says, "It is what the druids call me."
Balinor blinks rapidly. "The druids? They have a special name for you, do they?"
Heat suffuses Merlin's cheeks and ears. When put that way, the warlock can't help but feel mortified.
"What does it mean?" Balinor asks next.
Merlin drums his fingers on his inner arm. "I don't —" Balinor interrupts him with a look, reminding Merlin that he should give away at least some semblance of the truth. "It means—uh." The most powerful magic-user to have lived and will ever live? Merlin would prefer a less embarrassing and pompous description. "That they recognize my power. And they sort of know me because of it."
"So you have them give you a name in reverence and recognition of you?"
"What? No!" Merlin denies hotly, uncrossing his arms and flailing them for emphasis. "Why would I — They named me themselves! I haven't the faintest why they did! They just started calling me that without warning. I didn't even get a thorough explanation until years later and even then, I— It wasn't even the druids who told me!" Merlin cuts himself off, coming to his senses.
Balinor makes an encouraging gesture. "Go on."
Merlin shoots Balinor a glare and leans back on his chair, mouth pointedly shut.
The Court Sorcerer waits with an expectant air but Merlin refuses to break this time. He has nothing more to say about this Emrys thing and its ridiculousness anyway.
After several moments of silence, Balinor hums. "Tell me why you applied as Camelot's apprentice."
"Coin," Merlin impatiently repeats his excuse because it's partly the truth.
"And what else?"
Merlin's lips purse in a thin line.
"You needed to get into the castle," Balinor assumes. Correctly, that is. "To assassinate someone?" Before Merlin could spew out his indignant protests to that, Balinor continues, "No, that's not it. To spy for Camelot's enemy? To spy and sell the information to Camelot's enemy?"
"Perhaps I just want to learn under one of the best sorcerers in Albion?" Merlin suggests, plastering on an extremely fake grin.
An epiphany flash by Balinor's eyes. "The library. You want access to Camelot's library."
Merlin's grin drops. He shifts in his seat, utterly uncomfortable to be read so easily. This empath-spiller is quite a troublesome potion.
"Why?"
"I've owned one tome of magic my entire life," spills out of Merlin's mouth almost without his bidding. "Camelot's library is huge. Shelves upon shelves about magical creatures, spells and enchantments, and various other fantastical stories I've never even imagined, much less heard of." Merlin doesn't need to feign the yearning in his tone. He could only wish he could take some of those books with him when he gets home. "Who doesn't want access to it?"
Balinor looks thoughtful, staring at Merlin with another inscrutable expression. Merlin stares back, challenging Balinor for another bout if the man so desires.
Balinor takes a deep breath and releases it. "Tell me of Lily of Veelin."
Merlin blinks rapidly. "She's your previous apprentice . . .?"
"And what is your relation to her?"
Merlin frowns. "We . . . share the same mentor?" The warlock makes a puzzled gesture towards Balinor. The Court Sorcerer's stone-hewn face belies nothing. "I haven't met her, if that's what you're asking." Did Merlin mention something that may have indicated that? He knows little of this Lily to form a guess.
"I see." Stiffly, Balinor leans back on his chair and pours another cup of wine into his goblet.
Several beats of silence drench the air around them. Balinor appears lost in thought, and Merlin attempts not to pull him out of it lest harder questions present themselves. The warlock glares at the table, at the dratted cup that he never should have accepted. Was the sweetness part of the potion? He should have guessed. No proper wine would have been that honeyed.
Finally, Balinor's eyes focus. He steadily meets Merlin's gaze. "Very well then. Apprentice lessons in the afternoon. Dragonlord lessons in the evening."
Merlin's jaw drops. "What?"
"Apprentice lessons in the afternoon. Dragonlord lessons in the evening," Balinor repeats before taking a long gulp of his drink.
"I heard you but . . . Dragonlord lessons?" Merlin shoots the Court Sorcerer a disbelieving look.
"Since you've no one, as your elder, it's my duty to help you hone your skills and knowledge as a dragonlord," Balinor explains solemnly.
Try as he might, Merlin can't fight down the note of excitement singing in his veins at the notion. He leans forward, unable to hide his interest. "Is—Is it one of the traditions of your homeland?"
"I suppose." Balinor rolls the half-empty goblet around his palm. He seems a tad more relaxed now that he isn't grilling Merlin for answers. "A dragonlord's power is not to be taken lightly, and it's dangerous to let someone such as yourself go untrained."
"But I've got a handle on it though," Merlin says. As desperate as he is to learn under his not-father, he would rather not waste Balinor's time. Merlin has been a dragonlord for almost five years now after all.
"I doubt it," Balinor says with confidence, and Merlin scowls. "While a lot of it is instinctive, you won't be able to use the full extent of your powers without guidance. There are also etiquettes to be followed, unspoken rules that you're clearly not aware of."
It makes sense. Dragonlords are people with their own practices, separate from the practices of the Old Religion. The impossible chance to learn said traditions here in this realm present itself so enticingly in front of the warlock. In Merlin's world, the knowledge died with his father. As the last dragonlord, Merlin has the duty to learn them and ensure the knowledge will never be lost again.
"Th - Thank you, my lord," Merlin breathes out, the full enormity of the opportunity sinking into him. He can't fight down the delighted grin from climbing his face. "I'll be more than happy to learn whatever you can teach me."
Balinor concedes with a nod, and Merlin belatedly hopes he's not agreeing to anything troublesome.
Merlin holds up a finger, frowning. "But don't think I've forgotten that you've drugged me. You could've just asked, you know."
"And hear more of your lies?" Balinor counters, arching a brow. Merlin stifles a wince. "I'm not after your secrets, Merlin, and, despite everything that has happened, I still believe you mean no harm to Camelot." Well, good to know Merlin has presented himself accurately on that end. "But you have to tell me the truth if you have any desire to remain in the castle." The Court Sorcerer's eyes narrow. "Wracu has singled you out. Do you know what that means?"
"Er — that a maniac wants to kill me?"
"It means that, had I not taken you as my apprentice, no one else in the citadel would be willing to put you under their employ. Or their inns," Balinor informs the warlock, face grave.
Merlin startle. "What? Why?"
"You've been targeted by the böggel-mann himself. People in the citadel won't invite an ill omen such as yourself into their homes," Balinor says as he corks the bottle of wine.
Merlin's jaw works as he contemplates it. This Wracu holds such great power over Camelot's citizens, and Merlin doesn't think the people even realize it. The warlock shudders.
"I believe that's all for tonight, Merlin," Balinor says, pulling Merlin out of his musings. The Court Sorcerer waves a flippant hand. "You may leave."
Irritation blooms in Merlin's chest because he still has questions of his own. But he reckons the empath-spiller hasn't worn off yet, and the warlock can't risk Balinor inquiring deeper.
"My lord," Merlin bids as he stands and heads for the door, tone far from respectful.
He understands why Balinor did it. The Court Sorcerer is merely concerned and rightfully wary of Merlin's intentions. The warlock has been nothing but suspicious throughout his whole stay, if his failure to keep a low profile is any indication. Merlin would have admittedly done the same in Balinor's position.
One thing's for sure though; Merlin won't be accepting any more drinks from Balinor any time soon.
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Merlin stares and blinks at the bundle of clothes folded neatly atop his bed, having returned to his room after hours in the library.
"A servant came and placed that there," Theo answers Merlin's unspoken question. The man doesn't even look up from the parchment he's studying on his desk. "They said the clothes are yours."
"Mine?" The fabrics feel cool and smooth on the pads of Merlin's fingers, and their colors are deep reds, blues, and browns. While some of the tunics' hems wear frayed edges and the colors depict faded versions of themselves, the clothes are no commoner's. "It can't be. They're of noble-make."
Theo shrugs before painstakingly scratching a few more words unto the parchment. "That's what they told me."
Merlin owns no clothes except the ones upon his back. Actually, he owns no other articles in this realm except what he has on him now. His brown overcoat has probably long been burned by now. And that dratted Wracu has stolen his neckerchief.
Merlin accepts the clothes without further questions, if only to be practical. They'll be getting their allowance at the end of the week, and he'll buy what he needs after that.
Merlin asks a servant where to get water for a bath, and the servant helpfully helps him carry buckets of it to his room's tub. Merlin is amazed to experience three filled buckets weighing no more than three sheets of paper.
As he sinks into the soapy and cheerfully bubbly bath, Merlin sighs in relief.
It's been a long eventful day. He can't wait to sleep and get it over with.
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The böggel-mann is a mythical creature used by parents to get their children to behave. Merida herself has once been frightened into cleaning their whole house lest the böggel-mann comes and takes her away.
Merida is seventeen summers now: she's far too old for such nonsense. The böggel-mann doesn't exist, no matter how much people older than her insist that he does. She may still be far too clueless about the ways of the new world she finds herself in, but she knows when people are pulling her leg.
But as she sits in their tiny home surrounded by figures cloaked in browns and less than a foot away from an entity close to the image of Death himself, Merida feels like a helpless and scared child once more. Her mother, sitting close beside her with a sweat-soaked and trembling visage, squeezes her hand to the point of pain. Merida weakly squeezes back, unable to tear her gaze away from the threat right in front of her lest it lunges forward and consumes her. She uses her other hand to shakily scratch the itchy spot at the back of her neck.
The böggel-mann tilts his head to the side like a predator observing prey. The face shrouded by the shadows of his hood greets Merida head-on. Merida stifles the urge to scream and run away because she won't get very far.
"Merida, is it?" The voices of a thousand ghosts screeching emit the words. Merida shudders, dread curdling in her stomach. "I merely desire answers to a few questions."
Merida nods even before the böggel-mann finishes his sentence. She knows not what will happen if she refuses, and she has no plans of finding out.
"You should be dead," the böggel-mann says, tone casual as if stating a fact. Merida's heart almost explodes out of her chest. Her mother releases a strangled gasp, gripping Merida's hand with white knuckles. "Or so I've heard," the böggel-mann continues calmly. "Over a year ago, your mother found that you died in your sleep. Your body was burned." The böggel-mann leans forward, inhumane voice lilting with interest. "And yet here you are. How?"
Merida glances to her side and catches her mother's expression crumpling with sorrow. Merida swallows and scratches her throat. The villagers have tried to keep it a secret — have attempted to hide the fact that a dead woman has arrived in their village just a month prior. Necromancy is strictly forbidden magic or so Merida hears. But none of them wants to deny a grieving mother a second chance with her daughter.
Thankfully, no necromancy is used in this case. Something far stranger explains Merida's continued presence.
"I — I am not of this world," Merida begins, gazing down and rubbing the red spots running along one of her fingers. "I'm not certain how it—it's possible. I grew up with King Uther on the throne instead of Queen Ygraine. The queen died in childbirth in my world. A-And King Uther banned all kinds of magic in the land after that. The—The Merida of this world really did die."
Merida has been too young to remember the Purge but not too ignorant to notice its effects on her village. The difference is stark as soon as she arrived in this land full of magic; their shoulders are less tense, their visage less stressed. People who rarely smiled in her old village do so freely here. Even now, Merida half-fears a legion of red-caped knights will march into their village and burn it down to the ground for their casual use of magic.
"Another world . . ." The böggel-mann sounds slightly incredulous.
Merida scrambles to elaborate, knowing how ridiculous the whole thing sounds. Even now, most of the villagers barely believe her. "A Djinn. A creature that can grant wishes. I wished—I wished for my mother to accept me as a woman."
Merida stares down at her dainty hands and at the pair of assets she didn't have a month ago. She glances at her mother, who gives her a small smile. Merida returns it. When Merida has confessed her desire to have a woman's body instead of the one she was born with, her mother has immediately bought the potions needed. There is no disgust, no resistance, no denial from her mother's counterpart. The Merida of this realm herself has been drinking the brew herself only two months before her untimely death. Her mother has not been surprised by Merida's admission.
The villagers don't bat an eyelid either. They see a young man one day then a young woman the next, and they merely nod. No 'Milda, that son of yours truly is odd, isn't he?' or 'Milda didn't raise that boy right, I tell you'.
With a cup of specifically brewed potion a day, Merida can shed her false skin and gain the one she feels most comfortable with. The acceptance of her mother and the feel of her real self — Merida cannot wish for anything more. "I didn't expect the Djinn to send me to another world for that to happen but—I'm not complaining now."
The böggel-mann hums, bringing Merida back to her current situation. She sobers up and shakes away his meandering thoughts. Merida dabs the sweat beading around her forehead with the sleeve of her dress. She scratches at a tender spot in her hairline, awaiting salvation. Will she and her mother be killed after the böggel-mann is done getting answers? Merida's heart thumps a quick beat in her chest at the notion.
"Emrys. Have you heard the name?" the böggel-mann asks next, gloved hands folding atop their rickety table and head leaning forward.
Merida's brows furrow, attempting to recall anything. Then, she shakes her head. A stray hair tickles her cheek at the movement, and she scratches at the spot. "I'm not familiar with it."
"What about Merlin of Ealdor?"
The next name sparks an immediate memory. "The king's personal manservant was named Merlin. I know not if he's of Ealdor though."
The king arrived in Merida's village just a few months ago on a campaign to survey the lands, bringing with him an entourage of knights and servants. His arrival had been the most exciting event in their village for more than a decade, so Merida won't be forgetting it soon. Nor will she be forgetting the moment when she accidentally witnessed the king's manservant subtly and fearlessly tease the king. The king had turned red in the face and screamed the servant's name in frustrated anger. The manservant dashed away into the crowd, laughing like a loon, before the king could catch him.
"King Uther's manservant?" A tint of shock colors the böggel-mann's inhumane voice.
"King Arthur's," Merida corrects.
"King Arthur." The böggel-mann sits back, processing the information with another thoughtful and inhumane hum. "Tell me of this King Arthur. And his reign."
Merida speaks all that she knows, although she doesn't know much. King Arthur maintains the ban on magic that his father started but he doesn't actively seek out magic-users. She briefly delves into the Purge, of how thousands of magic-users were burned and hunted down. Merida tells the böggel-mann of how the current king elevates commoners to knights and the rumors of him courting a servant. Just in case, Merida also details her brief encounters with the king and his manservant during their visit to her village — how they tease and roughhouse like blood-brothers.
The böggel-mann listens quietly, unmoving. The rest of his men emulate his posture, standing as still as statues and unnerving Merida to no end. When Merida trails off and runs out of words, almost an hour later, the böggel-mann speaks once more.
"Do you wish to go back?"
The question throws Merida but not because it's unfamiliar. She can admit that it's a question she has been asking herself ever since she travelled to this world. She has left behind two childhood friends and a mother who doesn't understand her. She has attained a magic-filled village who loves her as she is and a mother who supports her completely. She weighs what she gained and what she lost every single day of her stay.
"I think— I would not mind staying," she confesses, staring at her hands. The admission feels like a betrayal to all the people she has known all her life, but it is the truth, nonetheless. The Djinn may have granted her wish in an unconventional manner, but it granted the wish all the same.
The böggel-mann remains silent for several strained moments. Then, he reaches into the folds of his night-black cloak. Merida and her mother tenses, holding on to each other and bracing for an attack.
He pulls out a glass bottle the size of his palm and puts it down the table with a resounding thunk. A light pink liquid fills three-fourths of the ornate bottle, almost glowing as the moon beams hit the facets.
"What — What is that then?" Merida's mother ventures out, voice trembling.
"An incentive to keep all that information and my presence here tonight a secret," the böggel-mann replies. "If someone other than me comes looking for answers, you are to tell them lies and never what you've told me now."
Merida breathes a little easier. That means böggel-mann is going to let them live, albeit under his control. It's not ideal but Merida will take that over dying any day.
Then, the böggel-mann says, "You're allergic to flax seeds."
Merida blinks rapidly. "What?"
"Flax seeds are common ingredients of low-level gendershifting potions," the böggel-mann says. He gestures to Merida. "You're allergic to it. You have itchy red spots all over your arms, hands, and face. A couple of weeks more and the effects would be deadly."
Merida touches said spots and winces. Her mother looks at her with concern, her eyes darting on every exposed skin. Something akin to an epiphany flash by her horrified face. She glances at the böggel-mann with wide eyes.
The böggel-mann says nothing in reply to the unasked question. But Merida and her mother know the answer anyway.
The böggel-mann cuts through their whirling thoughts. "A high-level potion—" The böggel-mann slides the bottle to the middle of the table, nearer to Merida. "—contains no trace of flax seeds. A drop or two on your tongue a year shall allow you to keep your current form."
Merida's jaw drops. "A drop a year?"
She stares at the bottle that contains miracles. Low-level potions may be inexpensive, but the long-term cost would burden them greatly. If this high-level potion truly is potent enough to keep Merida in her desired form from merely a drop, then the bottle in front of her must cost at least a thousand gold coins. Furthermore, the bottle must at least contain seventy drops or more — enough to last a lifetime. Merida will never have to buy a single gendershifting potion again.
"A-And you're going to give this to us?" Her mother sounds wary and rightly so. Both of them wait for the catch.
"As an incentive," the böggel-mann repeats. "Make no mistake: if I hear whispers of other worlds outside of your little village, I'll know where to go to ensure no other information gets out."
Merida shivers, gooseflesh prickling her skin.
"Take the potion and keep quiet." The böggel-mann rises to his feet. "Do we have an agreement?"
Merida and her mother nod vigorously. No other choice can be made.
"Good." With a flare of his cloak, the böggel-mann exits their dingy home. His men follow behind him like shadows, quiet and quick.
In five breaths, Merida and her mother are alone again, alive, and unharmed after an encounter with the böggel-mann himself.
Merida reaches out and encloses the wondrous bottle in her palm. Given this and the discovery of her sickness, Merida can't help but think that the böggel-mann's visit is a bit of a blessing in disguise.
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"Another world? Are you really falling for this?"
"Of course not. Necromancy may cause such detailed delusion. It is an unpredictable art."
". . . But why did you give her—"
"I need the delusion to remain and end with her. We never know what Camelot, or any other kingdom would do if they believe that Djinns truly exist. The last thing we need is a conflict of such caliber."
"Shouldn't we do something about her then? No good comes from a living undead."
"No. Let them deal with the consequences of their own hubris."
"Then, what now?"
"We wait."
"We . . . wait?" A noise of disbelief.
"I've wasted far too much effort on gathering information and all I have is a nonsensical fantasy. I doubt we're going to get anything else. So we wait until Emrys is out of the citadel and out of Camelot's protection."
"Shall we guard the citadel's exits?"
A shake of the head. "Too risky and wasteful. I shall take care of everything myself."
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
A/N:
". . . do you know what I'm craving? A little... perspective. That's it. I'd like some fresh, clear, well-seasoned perspective. Can you suggest a good wine to go with that?" – Ego, Ratatouille (2007)
I've rewritten this chapter so much and I'm just tired of it so I just pushed it through. I'm so sorry for the sucky writing.
The magic system in this story may be based on canon but this is where things start to differ vastly. Canon didn't exactly give us much in terms of the magic rules so I'm gonna pretty much be inventing a lot of stuff, especially dragonlord stuff! Makes me sad that wasn't explored much in canon because dragons, man!
Check out Royalprat's artwork of Balinor! It's so awesome!
As usual, the next chapter will come in an uncertain time. 😅. Please point out any glaring errors you might have seen!
Thank you so much for all the kudos, bookmarks, follows, and favorites. All your comments are killing me in a good way. I can neither confirm nor deny any speculation 😁. I am curious though: what specific detail/dialogue do you think is a setup/foreshadowing and has an eventual payoff that hasn't been shown yet?
And finally, some Merlin and (Prince) Arthur interaction in the next chapter!
Hope y'all are forming good habits this pandemic season (unlike me)!
~ Vividpast