Chapter Summary: The prince and the Court Sorcerer theorizes.

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Chapter VI: Remember Me

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As soon as the door of the chamber closes behind Merlin, Arthur spins to favor Balinor a wry look.

"Explain to me what's going on," he demands, letting his demeanor show his displeasure.

Balinor unnecessarily fixes the lapels of his cerulean coat, hands flitting by the triple-moon etchings. "I thought it was rather obvious. I'm teaching a young dragonlord proper traditions that he has not the chance to learn." He lifts a delicate brow at the prince before striding towards an oaken wardrobe in the far end of the room.

Arthur walks half-a-step behind. "Don't play coy with me. Tell me why you're getting cozy with someone we know isn't even remotely trustworthy."

Balinor cracks the dresser open, and Arthur swiftly dodges the wood that nearly hits his face. "I've done no cozying up. Unless we find concrete evidence proving any type of guilt or malice, I am his mentor first and foremost, both in magic and as a dragonlord." Cloths whisper and parchment crackles as Balinor rummage through the cupboard, his face, and actions hidden from Arthur's sight.

Arthur crosses his arms and leans against the wall beside the wardrobe, most of his weight on his right leg. "How did you even find out he's a dragonlord? Did he tell you?" It isn't like the lesson Arthur observed showcased any of this Merlin's alleged dragonlord abilities.

"I had to pull the truth out of his gritted teeth." Balinor closes the dresser door with a brief push of magic, hands full.

Arthur straightens abruptly, gaze honing on the items bundled in the Court Sorcerer's grasp. Pale sapphire fabrics, golden-bronze threads, and a palm-sized wooden box lay gathered in Balinor's arms. The Court Sorcerer himself strides towards his bed with the articles, mien pointedly casual.

Arthur follows behind him, throat unexpectedly tight. "You're — You're making their robes."

"Yes," the Court Sorcerer simply says as if he is not weaving the threads of a seen future himself.

Arthur's gaze lingers on the sapphire color of the fabric, and at the half-formed symbols hemmed with golden fibers. Something in the area of his chest clenches at the familiar hue and runes. The last time he saw them was on a body on a pyre. He stomps down the waves of grief threatening to consume him at the notion. He has no time for it. He won't make time for it.

Balinor carefully spreads out the fabrics on the satin sheets of the bed, smoothing out wrinkles and revealing the still unstitched edges. He puts the wooden box in the far-right corner, out of the way. With a gesture, a parchment-lined with numbers straightens itself in the air in front of him.

Arthur claims the red cushy armchair mere feet away from the bed. He seats himself on it with a sigh, settles his left leg over his right knee, and proceeds to massage the spasming muscles of the lower leg. Sitting on the hard floor for hours has done him no favors.

"Do you need a salve?" Balinor asks, squinting on the writings on the hovering parchment.

"I'm fine," Arthur replies tersely. Swiftly, to prevent any further well-meaning fussing and to distract himself from what Balinor is doing, he badgers, "Tell me how you found out that he's a dragonlord."

A needle and a glinting azure spool bounce out of the wooden box. With a wiggle of Balinor's fingers, a yard of thread unspools itself and journeys through the needle's eye. "Kilgharrah—do you recall the name?"

Arthur frowns in thought. The light of recollection causes him to lift his brows. "The batty old dragon who'll spit fire at me if I don't think before I speak?" The prince has no clue as to why a childhood story is relevant in their conversation.

Balinor looks up, blinking rapidly. Beside him, the needle-thread partner aggressively fights to attach a sleeve into an armhole. "Did I use Kilgharrah's name for that?"

"You did," Arthur says slowly, putting his leg down and leaning back on his chair. "I thought those dragon names were things you made up for bedtime stories. I'm supposing that isn't the case?"

"Kilgharrah is a real and rather irritating acquaintance of mine that happens to be a dragon, yes." The Court Sorcerer summons a pair of scissors and uses it to even the edges of the ragged sleeve currently battling the needle-thread. "He called for me a few days ago."

Balinor narrates the whole incident as he binds a narrow strip of smoothened cloth over the hems of the sleeve. Balinor isn't at all fond of this Kilgharrah, if the way the man sardonically describes the encounter is any indication. Arthur wonders how exactly a dragon and a dragonlord's relationship could be strained. He refrains from inquiring now but promises himself to do so another day.

Then, Balinor recounts how he drags Merlin into an inescapable interrogation.

"You drugged him?" Arthur almost shouts in naked surprise. He stares, appalled, at the Court Sorcerer's placid expression, feeling a lot like he's seeing the man for the first time in his entire life. "What in Goddess' name? Do you know what will happen when people find out that you drugged your own apprentice? With only the two of you in your own chambers?" Arthur stands up, unable to take the news while sitting still. "I have to report you. Wait, why didn't he report you? This happened three days ago, you said?"

The needle-thread proudly shows its work on the armscye. Balinor furrows his thick brows at the ugly stitching, clearly displeased. He undoes the seams with a flash of gold eyes and the needle-thread cuts itself off from the mess. "Because Merlin is woefully ignorant of many important laws in Camelot. That or he doesn't think anyone would believe him over me." Balinor pauses, considering that. Then, he continues blithely, "Of course I didn't drug him. But Merlin seems to believe I am the kind of man who does such a heinous deed, so I let him think it. Told him I dosed him with an empath-spiller."

Arthur, who has read and studied several potion books, incredulously asks, "What on earth is an empath-spiller?"

Balinor shrugs, a smirk dancing by the corners of his mouth. "I know not." Another needle is summoned, this time partnering with a yard of glinting golden thread. They work on embroidering symbols at the hem of the still detached sleeve. "Admittedly, I was merely aiming to get him a tad drunk and maybe loosen his tongue. But he wondered if I placed something in his drink. I merely went along with it."

Arthur sits back down, relief flooding through him. For a moment, he thought he had to rethink his whole life. "You gave him one of your candied wines, didn't you? Even I would believe there was something nasty in it."

The Court Sorcerer turns to Arthur, offense evident in the moue of his mouth. "It is a delicacy."

Arthur nearly snorts in an un-prince-like manner. "It's wine mixed with a ghastly amount of honey. I know you have an absurd taste for sweets but candied wine? Temper yourself occasionally, Balinor."

The Court Sorcerer concedes with a small tilt of his head. He observes the new stitches of the armhole and nods in approval. He snips the excess threads.

"Did you even tell him you didn't actually put anything in his drink?"

Dismissively, Balinor says, "He'll find out soon enough. But it was useful to let him believe I am a man who would do underhanded things to get what he wants." The Court Sorcerer handlessly guides the golden threads to embroider symbols from inside the sleeve. "By believing he drank a potion, Merlin was akin to an open book. He would have figured out there was no potion if he tried to outright lie. But he didn't. Because he believed I truly drugged him. It allowed me to garner a few truths on some matters."

Arthur leans in, not even attempting to hide his interest. "Such as?"

"Emrys is a title, not a name." The Court Sorcerer cuts the excess golden threads as soon as it darns the last details of the runes. "A title the druids have bestowed upon him."

Instantly, Arthur deduces the implications. "Prophecies? This Merlin is involved in prophecies?" The prince supposes it's possible. The apprentice is certainly powerful enough to be involved in a fate-driven plot.

"If it's a devastating one or not remains to be seen. The Spymaster is reaching out to relevant people as we speak." Balinor puts down the robe with the newly attached sleeve and begins a similar work on another robe. "I'm not quite surprised, given what we witnessed earlier."

"Do you really believe that Merlin just carelessly performed a mythical enchantment right before our eyes?" Arthur very much doubts it.

"Do you think he was lying?" Balinor offers the prince a skeptical look. "I'll know more in future lessons with him."

Arthur shrugs and relents on the matter. He gesticulates for Balinor to resume his retelling.

The Court Sorcerer spills the whole interaction to the prince, detailing every wording and gesture this Merlin used. Arthur absorbs every bit of information presented, mind churning and attempting to make sense of the pieces of the puzzle. None of them quite fit, no matter how much he tries. This Merlin continues to mystify him beyond measure.

Finishing the narration half-an-hour later, Balinor glances at Arthur and too casually prompts, "Thoughts?"

Arthur's mouth twists and throws out a lofty suggestion. "A shade?"

Balinor shakes his head. "The castle is protected against it. He wouldn't have been able to enter if that's the case. Besides, his personality is much too complex to be a simple shade."

"A twin brother?" Arthur recommends next, knowing that it's just as unlikely.

"With exactly the same magical signature?" Balinor counters. "No two people can have the exact same magical signature, no matter how closely related they are."

"A mimic."

Balinor factually lists off, attention on the three robes dancing around him, "I already performed a revealing spell on him. Mimics copy their victim's appearance down to the last strand of hair. They can neither change their gender or their age. They're incapable of emulating magical signatures. And . . . their victims have to be currently alive for them to mimic."

Arthur shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant even though he knows Balinor will see right through him. "Shot in the dark, anyway." He slumps down in his chair, dropping his head back and eyes steadying on the stoned ceiling. His voice is low and almost quiet when he asks, tentatively, "Altered memories?"

Cloths shuffle aggressively before silencing completely. Arthur can feel the Court Sorcerer's complete attention on him.

"How difficult is it to fake a death anyway?" the prince mumbles, heart growing heavy with every word that comes out of his mouth.

An isolated part of the surrounding forest, a cloudy gloomy day.

"— the queen would think I've kidnapped you —"

"— get out of the citadel once in a while without knights dogging my steps —"

"— course, I want to spend my day babysitting the crowned prince—"

A visible scowl, a hidden smirk, sapphire earrings glinting in the meager light of the dark skies.

"— my very own best friend, unhappy to spend time with me —!"

"— thur, stop pouting. You look like you've eaten a toad —"

"— ly, stop scowling. Your pretty face will get stuck like that and your suitors —"

— A splutter, a rough shove —

"— murder the heir —"

"— treason! I'll tell your mentor of your devious plans —"

A sudden quiet. An unusual gust of wind. A lack of footfalls behind.

"Lily?"

Arthur opens the eyes he didn't realize he closed just as Balinor quietly replies, "Inborn magical capacity cannot be changed without a temporary enchantment. She was a White Level, but she certainly wasn't capable of shattering scinncræfte crystals. We've proven that Merlin drank no potion nor owned any charms that increased his magical capability during his registration." Slowly, Balinor resumes sewing, an eye gauging the prince's reaction.

Arthur breathes out. A throb spikes in his temples, threatening to be a full-blown headache. He won't admit that his hopes had been raised for a while. "That leaves advanced necromancy."

"Necromancy is an unpredictable art," Balinor adds on, tone pointedly blank and careful. "The intended target may come back vastly different. Physically. Magically. They could have a confusing set of memories thrust upon them, delusions of things that are in no way true. It is a viable explanation given the evidence."

Arthur straightens out of his slump, wide eyes on the Court Sorcerer, who wears such an utterly nonchalant facade. "But?"

Balinor's lips thinned. "No product of necromancy could ever claim the power of a dragonlord."

Contradictions. Paradoxes. Unexplainable nonsensical pieces of a puzzle Arthur could not see the end of. Frustration blossoms upon his breast and he lets out a sound halfway between a growl and a huff. "What then? What in Goddess' name is he?"

A perturbed expression ripples upon the Court Sorcerer's face, no answer forthcoming from him. He runs callused fingers over the length of a robe's sleeve, pondering.

"Are you truly certain he's a dragonlord?" Arthur is unable to completely remove the irritation in his tone. "You said your kind rarely leaves the isles of your homeland."

"It is uncommon for my people to leave the isles but there are more than a handful of us out there in various continents." Balinor cuts a yard of blue fabric and curves it to resemble a hood. Three needles-thread partners eagerly work on permanently shaping it.

Arthur scoffs. "Do you believe that another dragonlord could have settled near Camelot or wherever this Ealdor is and had a son?" Not impossible but highly unlikely, Arthur thinks. According to Arthur's studies, rarely do dragonlords involve themselves with practitioners of the Old Religion and would therefore avoid Camelot and its allies. Balinor, of course, is possibly the only exception. As a jest, the prince throws out, "He's not yours, is he?"

For several silent moments, the Court Sorcerer's focus remains on the swirling cloths and twirling threads.

Arthur's eyes widen, and tension runs through the lines of his shoulders. "Balinor."

"He's not mine."

"You're sure, right?"

Balinor shoots the prince a rueful glance. "As I am certain Merlin's father is most likely dead, I am sure."

Arthur frowns. "I assumed he inherited his abilities through blood trial. Merlin inherited it through the death of his father?"

"Merlin implied he never met his father, so I concluded that is the case."

"Did you know him then? Merlin's father?"

A thoughtful frown briefly crosses Balinor's face. "I know of no one settling nearby. I shall have to talk to the chiefs to find out." Balinor grasps one of the robes and brusquely dusts it off. "Stand up. You should be about Morgana's size."

"You are hilarious, Balinor," Arthur deadpans. He gets to his feet, nonetheless.

The Court Sorcerer throws out the robe in his hand and the prince catches it. Arthur shrugs on the blue cloak over his tunic and extends the sleeves over his wrist. The fabric presses into him with comfortable warmth and undeniable softness. Balinor is yet to enchant the robe with protective and defensive spells but even so, the quality of the work alone would fetch a hefty price. He fingers the embroidered cuff of a sleeve. For a split second, a pang of longing bubbles in his chest, a shadow of a dream long burned to dust clouding his mind. Swiftly, he blows the ashes away.

The robe is definitely not Morgana's. Perhaps it is that third apprentice's — Mordred, if he's remembering correctly. The Court Sorcerer's eyes rove over him, observing the fit of the clothing.

Arthur fixes the low collar over his neck, fingertips brushing over the detailed golden darning of a specific figure. "I never noticed before but for as long as I can remember, you always wear the symbol of the triple moon on your person." Arthur lets his tone lilt in an inquiry. The prince has no memory of any tale that may have explained Balinor's semi-obsession with it.

The prince has always prided himself in keenly interpreting every microexpression that crosses Balinor's face. He has known the man his whole life after all. But at that moment, something even Arthur could not identify flits by Balinor's features. Arthur pauses all movements and blinks.

The Court Sorcerer approaches the prince and silently fusses over the creases of the adorned robe. He pinches portions of the fabric, tightening and loosening areas around Arthur's torso.

Just as Arthur thinks he's not about to get an answer, Balinor speaks with a monotonous voice. "The Old Religion doesn't truly exist in the isles, and none of us is blessed by the Goddess at birth. I only studied Old Religion magic when I traveled to this continent. The triple moon is the first symbol I saw and learned of."

Evidently, there is more to it than that. On any other day, Arthur would needle for more information, unable to tamp down his curiosity. Tonight, however, there has been enough hurt and sorrow uncovered. He shall pry another day, he reminds himself.

Balinor gestures for Arthur to return the robe. The prince removes it from his person and hands it back. As Balinor goes back to making adjustments, Arthur sits back down with another sigh.

Both settle in comfortable quiet for long moments. Only the sounds of fabrics shifting and swishing fill the chambers.

Then, Arthur, after rerunning their previous conversation in his head, realizes he has forgotten to ask a particularly important question. "Tell me your best guess," Arthur says. "About whom or what this Merlin is. I have laid out my theories and I wish to know yours."

Balinor remains silent for a good while. The prince waits, letting the man gather his thoughts.

Then, Balinor opens his mouth and says, "I cannot tell you."

"What?" Arthur almost exclaims, indignation flaring in his chest.

"I cannot tell you directly," Balinor amends, casting a surreptitious glance at the prince. "It involves a tightly kept secret that you cannot know until you are king."

"I'm the crowned prince now. What state secret can be kept from me?" Arthur demands, glaring at the Court Sorcerer.

"A state secret that can endanger the whole of Camelot. Just skirting the topic with you like this can be tantamount to treason," Balinor shoots back, eyes hard. Then, he softens and releases a sigh. "But I loathe to leave you in the dark. It is, after all, the most likely explanation we have right now."

Arthur clenches his jaw, rather irritated with the circling conversation. "Tell me what you can."

"I can only tell you one thing, and I won't answer any of your questions regarding the matter," Balinor says, gaze drifting back to the robes and fabric prancing around him. With a gesture from the Court Sorcerer, they, and their tools all gently settle down on the bed. Then, he turns to Arthur and releases a name.

"Find out what you can about Cornelius Sigan."

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A/N:

"Know that I'm with you the only way that I can be

Until you're in my arms again

Remember me" – Hector, Coco (2017)

Thank you all for all the amazing comments! Some of them made me giggle so hard and cackle like an evil witch. Your speculations are so hardcore, tbh. Hopefully, the payoff of some of the things I set-up will be satisfactory! Although, I'm marking this chapter now: the title serves dual purpose and the 2nd one really won't be evident until later on ;) (God, do you see how much I want to get to the payoffs already?)

This chapter isn't much huh. After the talk with Kilgharrah, I definitely need to speed up the pace of this because *looks at the 150K word count* Jesus Christ. If I ever rewrite this, I can probably cut the whole thing to 100K lol. But I can't deny I am having so much fun writing lore and magic and friendship and planting seeds. I should really do outlines, huh.

This is probably one of the shortest chapters aside from prologues. I got the next one written out. It's longer than this and just needs a little bit of polishing. It'll be up in a few days (I think).

Next Chapter Hint: "My son!" "What."

Y'all keep trudging forward now. Have the bestest of days, everyone!

~ Vividpast