Chapter Summary: Merlin experiences unexpected admonishment. The second week of lessons proceed gruelingly but not for Merlin.
WARNING/S: Implied ableism but nothing graphic.
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Chapter XI: Make a Man Out of You
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"Bu-But I didn't—" Merlin yelps as Sir Lancelot none-too-gently shoves him inside a dungeon cell. He stumbles inside without grace. "Hey, what crime did I even commit?"
Sir Lancelot didn't see a glimpse of Wracu, of that Merlin is sure. Otherwise, Ever-So-Wary Sir Lancelot would have been pointing a sword right at Merlin's face when the knight marched him down the dark and damp dungeons.
Sir Lancelot slams the cell door shut and brusquely locks it from the outside. "Apprentices are forbidden from venturing outside the citadel in the first few weeks of apprenticeship," the knight says, confirming that he indeed witnessed none of Merlin and Wracu's encounter.
Merlin, gripping the bars of his prison, squawks. "No, we aren't! We're just highly encouraged to stay inside the citadel."
Sir Lancelot glares at him. "Why are you wandering around in a suspicious cloak and destroying trees?"
"It was cold. I needed a cloak," Merlin lies shamelessly with a simpering grin. "And the tree deserved it." Wracu deserved the damage more, of course, but he dodged the attack.
Judging by the look Sir Lancelot favors him, the knight has labeled Merlin an incorrigible madman. Merlin tries not to show his glee; Sir Lancelot is just too easy to provoke.
"How did you even know I left the citadel?" Merlin asks. He's quite sure he lost Sir Lancelot in the markets.
"How about you take a guess, Merlin?" a familiar voice wryly interjects.
Dread pools in Merlin's stomach. He struggles to maintain his carefree smile. By the smirk on Sir Lancelot's face, Merlin doesn't succeed. "Lord Balinor. How nice of you to pass by."
Balinor sends Merlin an unimpressed glance as he approaches the cell. "Merlin, how is it that every warning I give you goes in one ear and exits the other?"
"I - uh. I heed your advice most of the time," Merlin replies sheepishly.
Merlin's mind whirs, debating what to tell Balinor about his little trip outside the city; Balinor will surely ask. The warlock has never meant for anyone to find out he even left; he has no excuse prepared.
"Sir Lancelot was kind enough to volunteer his services when the tracking spell pointed outside the city gates," Balinor says. Right. The castle talisman has a tracking spell. It will have been easy for Balinor to figure out Merlin's whereabouts. "Fortunately, he was the one who found you. If it had been me, you would have been lounging in this dungeon as a cat."
"You would have turned me into a cat?" Merlin is simultaneously horrified and amused.
"You would have been less trouble in that form," Balinor replies, his face a portrait of seriousness. Merlin doesn't think he's jesting at all. "What business have you outside the citadel? If you have been visiting family, you would have informed me."
Close to the truth. Close to the truth. "I wished to meet with a — er — scaly friend." Merlin glances meaningfully at Sir Lancelot — an action with a two-fold purpose. Firstly, it's a signal to Balinor why he's hesitant to speak about the subject. Secondly, it serves to disguise any tint of nervousness in his tone.
Balinor's eyes widen fractionally, getting the message. Turning to Sir Lancelot, he firmly requests, "If you can give us some privacy, Sir Lancelot. I wish to speak to my apprentice alone."
After glancing curiously between Balinor and Merlin, Sir Lancelot bows. "My lord." Without another word, he climbs up the stairs and exits the dungeon.
As soon as the knight's footsteps fade away, Balinor narrows his eyes at Merlin. "You met with a dragon?"
Merlin nods repeatedly. "Yes, Kilgharrah."
A hint of astonishment flits by the Court Sorcerer's expression. "He told you his name?"
Merlin hides a wince. "Y-Yes."
"Hmm. Why did you meet with him?"
"I-I wanted to ask more about - about this Emrys thing. He seems to know a lot about it." Merlin attempts to prevent his eyes from shifting to the side. It's partly the truth so no need to be jittery. "To be honest, the druids didn't really explain much to me before."
Intrigue rests on Balinor's solemn face. "And what did he say?"
"He mentioned something about obsolete prophecies about Emrys."
"And these prophecies — what do they entail?" Balinor prods.
"Uh — does it matter? They're no longer relevant."
The Court Sorcerer cocks a brow. "Seeing as you are Emrys, how can it no longer be relevant?"
"Well, you see — the druids called me Emrys but that doesn't mean I really am him." The doubts Merlin had the first time he heard the title pour out with ease.
"You think the druids are mistaken?" Balinor's tone denotes his disbelief regarding the notion. "You told me they gave you that name because they recognize your power."
Merlin shrugs and hopes it doesn't come out as tense. "I may be wrong. I'm not Emrys—" Well, not this world's Emrys, anyway. "—because Emrys doesn't exist at this point in time. That's what Kilgharrah told me. So. The druids must have been mistaken."
"And it didn't occur to you that it was the dragon who was mistaken?"
Merlin blinks rapidly. The idea never occurred to him; Kilgharrah is never wrong. A manipulative arse, yes. But wrong? Never before. "Kilgharrah is the Great Dragon, isn't he?"
An unmistakable snort escapes Balinor's mouth. "Is that what he told you? What nonsense."
Merlin notes that Balinor and Kilgharrah don't seem to get along well. Merlin is awfully curious as to why.
"What does the prophecy contain?" Balinor asks again.
Merlin sighs and decides to just go through with it. What harm can it do anyway? It's not like Balinor will or can do anything with the information. "The prophecy states that Emrys will be born in a dark age to help the people. With peace in the Five Kingdoms, do you think this era is the dark age?"
A contemplative look passes by Balinor's face. "I suppose not." Then, his eyes narrow once more. "Why did my protection charm activate?"
"Your—protection charm?" Merlin stares at Balinor in confusion.
"Your clothes are bespelled with a minor protection spell," Balinor says. "It'll dispel any low-level spells and inform the caster if it is ever activated."
So Wracu was right; there was a protection spell on the clothes. "You mean your clothes? Why did you give them to me anyway?"
The Court Sorcerer arches an unamused brow. "Don't change the subject, Merlin. What did you encounter that you needed protection from?"
Drat, Balinor has seen right through him. Merlin drums his fingers on the bars of his cell, mind trying to come up with the least suspicious explanation.
Wracu attacked me? Merlin knows Balinor will ask every detail of the encounter as soon as Wracu is mentioned; Merlin, however, is not confident enough to lie his way into it without revealing the deal Wracu offered and revealing Merlin's origins. Claiming to have interacted with Wracu and coming out uninjured will also not allay suspicions.
Luckily, another half-truth provides ample reason. "Kilgharrah said he wanted to kill me."
The Court Sorcerer inhales sharply, back straightening. "What?"
"He—He thought I was Emrys, and Emrys wasn't supposed to exist. So, he sought to remedy that." Gods, Merlin amazes even himself. A brilliantly spun lie. "So. So when he ceased trying to kill me, I believed that I wasn't truly Emrys."
"That damned overgrown lizard," Balinor mutters, looking rather annoyed. Merlin has to stifle a laugh. The Court Sorcerer then returns his attention to Merlin. "It's lucky that you're a dragonlord. Our magic is very effective in defending against dragonfire."
Oh, Merlin didn't know that. Well, it's not like he's going to be battling dragons and wyverns any time soon.
"N-Now, I've answered your questions. Can you get me out?" Merlin meaningfully rattles the bars of his cell. "I don't know why Sir Lancelot would lock me in here."
"Certainly. I'll get you out there." Balinor folds his hands upon his back. "In the morning."
Merlin gapes. "In the morning? But —!"
"You've disobeyed me, not only as your mentor in sorcery but also as your elder as a dragonlord." A moue of disapproval presses Balinor's lips into a thin line. "You've endangered yourself by going out of the citadel alone and meeting with a dragon without my permission. A night in the dungeons will not serve as enough punishment but it's a start."
Irritation and indignation bloom in Merlin's chest. "Why do I need permission from you to meet with a dragon? I'm not a child!"
"Then stop acting like one," Balinor shoots back coldly, causing Merlin to flinch. "You've yet to learn proper etiquette when it comes to interacting with dragons and their cousins. You can't just meet with them whenever you want."
Merlin blinks rapidly. "But you met with Kilgharrah without ceremony and —"
"Kilgharrah called for me. As a dragonlord, it is my duty to see what he wants. But dragonlords always have the capability to refuse a dragon's request. The same cannot be said for our dragon-kin." Balinor leans closer, a glint of fury gleaming in his eyes. "Dragonlords can give commands that dragons cannot refuse. Such power can be controlled so that we don't risk hurting dragons. But for an untrained dragonlord like you, you instinctively give out commands instead of requests; dragons are unable to refuse you. Do you think that just, Merlin?"
Merlin swallows, head lowering in full chastisement. He has never thought of it that way.
Back in his world, when he inherited the power of the dragonlord, he has used it without remorse or restraint. That he has been abusing Kilgharrah's free will is a notion that never occurred to him. Although he is glad to have stopped the dragon from attacking Camelot and killing innocents, their interactions after that have always been Merlin forcing Kilgharrah to meet with him and help with the problem of the week.
"I'm — I'm sorry." Merlin will also apologize to Kilgharrah when he gets home. "I never — I never meant to hurt anyone."
The Court Sorcerer stares him down for a few more moments before releasing a sigh tinged with exasperation. "Very well. Now stay here and reflect some more on your wrongdoings. The apprentice lessons are still two hours after dawn tomorrow so rest up."
With one last meaningful and warning glance, Balinor spins around and exits the dungeons without fuss. Merlin watches him go with a sigh, exhaustion, and guilt making their home in his chest.
He observes his bedding for the night. Like the cells in his Camelot, the area is large enough to fit ten people. There's a bucket in one corner and a hay-filled cot in another, looking less than uncomfortable. In the upper right corner, a barred window showcases the twinkling stars of the night sky. The walls are cleaner, though—less moss-ridden and damp.
And there's something strange about the air.
A suffocating quality consumes the space. Although, Merlin can still breathe clearly and without trouble so perhaps it's not about the air. He looks down at his hands before opening and closing his palms. His fingertips tingle unnaturally, inexplicably. Upon closer observation, Merlin finds that his whole body feels a tad tingly — as if tiny wisps of lightning tickle his veins.
"An enchantment . . ." Clearly, there is a spell at work in the area.
Warily, he searches for potential runes around the walls. He finds them easily, carved in the stone near the ceiling of the cell. Why does the cell have an enchantment in it?
Possibly . . . "Forbærnan."
Obediently, a small flame dances upon Merlin's palm. It's tinier than Merlin's usual fire; he must be getting used to controlling the magical energy he outputs. He extinguishes the spell with a thoughtful frown.
Huh. Merlin really thought the runes would prevent him from doing magic. But if it didn't, then . . . Merlin throws a spell at the cell's locked door. "Aliese."
Nothing happens but the bars squeaking softly.
"Tospringe," he tries next, putting more power into it.
The lock summarily clicks, and the door creaks the slightest bit open. Merlin's eyes widen, and he hurriedly shouts another spell to relock his cell. It takes him a while, and he inadvertently inserts more power in the spell than necessary in panic. He doesn't want to get scolded by Balinor again for trying to escape his punishment.
When the cell door has locked itself, he slumps down on the uncomfortable cot with a sigh of relief. "Didn't think that would work."
If the runes don't prevent anyone from using magic inside the cell, what is their purpose? And why won't the makers of this dungeon attempt to bind the prisoner's magic? Like Merlin, anyone who gets imprisoned here can easily unlock the cell with a spell. Seeing as several magic-users runs abound in Camelot, this dungeon doesn't seem at all secure or useful.
In Merlin's world, they don't have enchanted dungeons; anyone with the slightest talent for magic can break out. Maybe he should look into applying binding enchantments when he gets back. It can prevent evil magic-users from easily escaping at the very least.
Perhaps he'll ask Balinor how to implement binding charms. Tomorrow, if Balinor's anger has cooled down.
For now, Merlin sits down on the cot (that is as uncomfortable as it looks) and begins his nightly meditation. Afterward, feeling more unwound and less restless with his magic swirling like waters from a peaceful lake, he lies down on his bed for the night and puts the whole tiresome day behind him.
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"Uh, where are we going?" Merlin asks of Sir Lancelot, following close behind as the knight leads him outside the castle.
"The training grounds," Sir Lancelot grunts out.
"But my lessons —"
"Your lessons will be held there."
Merlin blinks rapidly in surprise. What does Balinor have in store for them this time?
Sir Lancelot and Merlin enter the training grounds where the Apprentice Exam has been held. This time, the stands showcase empty seats, and the dirt ground remains clear of debris. On the left side of the field, knights in light chainmail spar with blunted swords and practice maces. The noise of their weapons clanging and their pained grunts swell boisterously in the area.
The intense training only serves to emphasize the silence and stillness on the right side of the grounds. Three training dummies made of thick straws and sturdy wood stand unbothered, evenly distanced from one another. Two unfamiliar knights hover in front of each. The two of them, an olive-skinned curly-haired female and a tall dark-haired male, gingerly place hauberks and vambraces over a thoughtful Morgana and a bemused Mordred.
The sight causes Merlin to pause in bewilderment. Sir Lancelot makes an irritated sound, grabs Merlin by his arm, and drags him in front of the third dummy.
"What's going on?" Merlin inquires as Sir Lancelot picks up the chainmail and armor parts placed at the foot of the dummy.
Sir Lancelot grunts and merely demands, "Lift your arms." He holds the chainmail aloft.
Merlin's confusion only grows as Sir Lancelot dresses him in armor without explanation. The knight's ministrations are gentle and careful, contrary to the brusque demeanor he has been displaying.
Merlin exchanges questioning glances with Morgana and Mordred. They both shrug in reply. It appears they too have no idea what Balinor has in store for them.
The man himself enters the training grounds soon after, accompanied by Prince Arthur. The knights cease their training, bow, and greet them both. When Balinor and Prince Arthur nod in acknowledgment, they resume their sparring sessions.
"Good, you're all here." Balinor's eyes flick to his three apprentices, acknowledging their donned armor with approval.
Merlin can't help the relief dusting over him; it seems Balinor is no longer angry at him. His relief is short-lived because Balinor begins explaining the lessons for the week.
"Every morning for the rest of the week, your lesson will be held here on the training grounds. Today, knights have helped you with your armor, but you shall be donning them on your own starting tomorrow."
Morgana and Mordred shift uneasily. Merlin scrutinizes the armor assigned to him; it's the same type of armor he has been using when Arthur needs a dummy called Merlin. He will have no trouble slipping it on without help.
Balinor clasps his hands behind his back. "The goal is to destroy the training dummy assigned to you using long-ranged offensive magic. You will be standing about twenty feet away from it. I assume you all know at least one spell appropriate for this exercise?" He glances expectantly at them.
The three apprentices nod in confirmation. Well, that sounds easy enough, Merlin thinks to himself, beginning to smile.
"Very well. You are allowed to use only a minimal amount of magic for your spells. The amount equivalent to the crystals I had you filled up last week."
That may be a bit of a problem for Merlin. He did, however, manage to output a tiny amount of magic last night in the dungeons; perhaps he'll manage it this time.
"All the while, you will be defending yourselves against a knight," Balinor adds casually as if it is no big matter at all. The three apprentices stare at him with shock. The knights, even Sir Lancelot, hide a smirk behind their gloved hands. "You're not allowed to use magic on your opponent. You will instead be using weapons to defend yourself."
Balinor gestures to a table in one corner of the grounds. Upon it, an assortment of throwing daggers, maces, swords, staffs, and spears are arranged.
"Violate any of these rules and you will be running five laps around the whole training grounds." Balinor glances meaningfully at the wide area.
Merlin doesn't think he'll survive those five laps unscathed.
"We are no knights, Lord Balinor," Morgana pipes up, worry furrowing her brows.
For the first time, Merlin realizes that this Morgana may not be as good with physical weapons as her counterpart. Morgana Pendragon is never one to shy away from swords and actively sought to rebel against the idea of being a helpless damsel. Morgana Le Fay, with honed magic within her grasp, has no need to train herself in the art of sword fighting.
"No, you are not knights." Balinor tilts his head to the side in acknowledgment of that. "But there will be situations where you may not have magic at your disposal, where enemies will distract you and burden you. Therefore, I wish to train your response under pressure, to help you get used to thinking quickly on your feet."
Well, Merlin certainly has a lot of experience when it comes to that. His decisions at those moments are not exactly ideal, he admits to himself with a wince. On the other hand, they could have been worse. A lot worse.
A contemplative look mars Morgana's face as she ruminates upon Balinor's response. Mordred, meanwhile, looks uncertain and intimidated by the task laid upon them. Merlin merely sighs: this unexpected lesson is very much in character with Balinor.
Merlin's eyes drift to the prince beside the Court Sorcerer. Prince Arthur has spoken not a word and has not twitched a single muscle. Merlin wonders why the prince is present for this lesson.
Prince Arthur feels his gaze and meets it head-on. Merlin startles and offers an awkward smile. The prince replies with a raised brow and a slight upturn of his lips. Wow, Prince Arthur is truly warming up to Merlin. Merlin can't help but allow a full-blown grin to envelop his face at the notion.
When no other questions appear forthcoming, Balinor speaks his last remarks. "There will be breaks every half-an-hour." A small boon. "Your day may end early if you manage to completely annihilate the training dummy. Now, pick a weapon and begin."
Left with no other choice, the three apprentices approach the lone table to comply. The knights accompany them.
"We'll choose the same type of weapon you do," the female tanned knight, who introduces herself as Sir Gertie, informs them with a flippant wave. "It'll only be fair."
Morgana picks up a wooden staff. "I hope you go easy on me, Sir Gertie."
Sir Gertie grins. "I'm afraid this is also part of the knight's training. I can make no promises, Lady Morgana."
Morgana returns the smile but with a lot less enthusiasm.
"I've never held a weapon in my life," Mordred admits, shifting uncomfortably in his armor.
"A pike would suit you, I think," Mordred's would-be opponent, Sir Galahad, points at said weapons. "A bit unwieldy at the start but it would be perfect for blocking short-ranged attacks."
Mordred takes the well-meaning advice and grabs one of the long spears. Sir Galahad picks the same.
Merlin, because he's oh-so lucky, is partnered up with grumpy Sir Lancelot. "I don't suppose you have any advice for me?"
Sir Lancelot seizes a blunted longsword. "Try not to get hit."
"Sound advice. Thank you, Sire."
Sir Lancelot smirks and turns away from an exasperated Merlin.
The three apprentices trudge into position, twenty feet away from the dummy they're assigned to attack. Between them and their target, a knight blocks and distracts.
The smirk is still on Sir Lancelot's face as Merlin raises his dulled blade. Merlin supposes that Sir Lancelot is gleeful to finally have a chance to beat up the person who's constantly annoying him.
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Balinor observes the beginning of the fight with keen eyes.
Mordred shoots out a tiny ball of lightning from his palm. Sir Galahad, wielding an enchanted pike, merely stabs the crackling ball and consequently dissipates it. Surprise flicks over the young druid's expression. Before he can compose himself, Sir Galahad lunges forward and hits him on his open left flank. Mordred cries out as his back meets the unmerciful ground.
Morgana's staff clashes against Sir Gertie's, producing a teeth-pounding sound. Sir Gertie pushes the lady with a harsh shove, her strength overpowering Morgana. Morgana stumbles but has enough wherewithal to lift her staff to block a quick jab.
As with Merlin —
Balinor blinks rapidly. Beside him, Arthur straightens abruptly, a hint of bewilderment coloring his face.
Merlin swings his sword in an arc, aiming for Sir Lancelot's lower right hip. Sir Lancelot twists to block the assault. Merlin, however, changes his direction at the last second; his blade attacks higher, targeting the knight's right side. Sir Lancelot flinches as the flat end of the blade grazes his armored flank, pushing him back.
Merlin, with his free hand, sends a fireball careening towards the dummy. Sir Lancelot attempts to dissipate the magic with his sword. Merlin, however, expertly blocks the blade before it can make contact with his fireball. Sir Lancelot snarls and pushes Merlin back with all his strength.
Merlin stumbles and nearly falls on his knees. He sweeps his right leg behind and regains his balance quickly — footwork knights are much familiar with. How on earth did Merlin know such a move?
Merlin takes advantage of the momentum of his twirl to swing out another attack. Simultaneously, he casts another fireball in the direction of his dummy.
His movements at this point are inhumanely and impossibly fast.
This time, Sir Lancelot manages to dissipate the spell with an arc of his sword. Merlin frowns but doesn't falter; he goes on offense once more, forcing Sir Lancelot to defend.
"He's holding his own against a knight of Camelot," Arthur remarks lightly, intrigue glimmering in his eyes. "Although, he seems to be using that 'time-slowing' enchantment of his. Shouldn't that be a violation?"
Balinor considers that. He has forbidden them the use of magic against their opponents, but he mentioned nothing against spells upon their own bodies; whether it be an enchantment to increase their agility or strengthen their muscles, Balinor no plans to prohibit such uses. Indeed, the Court Sorcerer wishes to see the defensive magic they will buff themselves with. Balinor wonders if Merlin has yet again figured out the tricks to Balinor's instructions.
Speed spells are performed on oneself, on one's body. Had Balinor been certain that Merlin is using that, he would have no qualms with it. But the use and effects of a 'time-slowing' enchantment bear further study.
Balinor glances at the training dummy assigned to Merlin; its right side is singed and smoking, a large half-circle gap now peering through its straw.
"Merlin." Sir Lancelot and Merlin pause abruptly in their spar as the Court Sorcerer calls out. "Five laps."
Indignation and shock paint Merlin's face. "Wha—But—"
Balinor points at the dummy. "You attacked with too much magic."
Merlin gapes at the dummy for a short while. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he drops his sword and begins his jog around the training grounds. Sir Lancelot's narrow eyes watch Merlin's retreating back. He's likely wondering, like the Court Sorcerer and the prince, how an ungainly apprentice managed to keep him on his toes.
"He just keeps getting interesting, isn't he?" Arthur says with an amused huff. Then, he sobers up and flicks curious eyes at the Court Sorcerer. "Tell me what the Spymaster said."
Ah. So that's why Arthur has joined him in this grueling lesson. Balinor is surprised Arthur has not marched inside his chambers last night to get answers.
Without tearing his eyes from his apprentices, Balinor relays the information the Spymaster has gathered with a low tone. He discusses Mordred's involvement with a prophecy and the confusion over Morgana's impromptu application to the Apprentice Exam.
To anyone else, the prince may look disinterested in Balinor's words. But Balinor knows that Arthur, by the subtle shift of his brows and lips, is absorbing every statement he's hearing.
Balinor pauses when Merlin, flushed and sweating, passes behind them, on the second lap of his punishment. The Court Sorcerer resumes telling Arthur about the prophecy of Emrys and how Ealdor is apparently a burnt-down husk of a village.
"The Spymaster sees this as further evidence that Merlin may indeed be Agravaine's son. I'm sure the ludicrous rumors have reached your ears." Balinor frowns, falling deep in thought. "When Agravaine and Merlin's hairs were put into the blood test, they did nothing to dispel the claims. It is a puzzling result. Merlin is a dragonlord, but Agravaine is most assuredly not."
"Oh," Arthur speaks for the first time in their discussion, face inscrutable. "That's because one of those hairs was mine inked with black."
Astonishment climbs Balinor's spine. "Yours?"
Arthur nods. "Yesterday morning, Uncle Agravaine visited me in my chambers. He wished to know how I fare these past few years. He also seemed unusually interested in my comb and I did see him none-too-subtly steal a few strands from it." Amusement lifts the corners of his lips. "A good spy does not my uncle make."
It takes all of Balinor's will not to gape. "You let him take it? Knowing it will be used for such a nefarious purpose?" Concern flares brightly inside his chest but he knows the prince. He knows Arthur is rarely so reckless. "Arthur, this legitimizes Merlin's claim as the second heir to the throne. What exactly are you planning? Why have you not informed the queen of her brother's duplicity?"
"My mother's focus has shifted, has it not?" Arthur remarks. "It allows us more time to investigate without informing her since her concerns lie elsewhere."
So that is the plan. Balinor cannot say he approves. "Arthur, this may endanger your position on the throne."
Arthur's gaze drifts to the fighting apprentices and knights, seemingly unconcerned with their talk. "Tell me, Balinor. What exactly do you think Uncle Agravaine is planning with all this claim to have Merlin as his son?"
Balinor folds his arms over his back and ponders upon it. "If he were not prone to pranks, I would say he desires to get closer to the throne." Balinor blinks as terrifying epiphany dawn on him. "That by introducing a second heir and subsequently killing off the first, he can be the puppeteer of the king he had placed on the throne. The shadow king of Camelot."
Arthur's gaze whips to him, expression undecipherable. For a beat, neither said anything.
Then, the corners of Arthur's eyes crinkle with mirth, and he covers his mouth to muffle an unprincely chortle. "You give my uncle too much credit, Balinor."
Balinor shoots him a displeased glare. "This is no laughing matter, Your Highness. Your uncle may be planning your assassination attempt as we speak."
Arthur shakes his head, his glee replaced with a small humorless smile. "Firstly, my uncle needs not to kill me to claim Merlin as the main heir."
Balinor, taken aback by the proclamation, demands, "How?"
"More than half of the court's councilors are magic-users, skillful and powerful in their own right. All uncle has to say is this." Arthur smirks. His tone then lilts theatrically. "Would it not be better for Camelot, a land renowned for cultivating great magic-users such as yourselves, to have an heir well-versed in the art of magic? Wouldn't a powerful sorcerer, acknowledged even by our Court Sorcerer, be better suited to lead our people? Someone whole and unhindered, whom our enemies will see no weakness."
Balinor's eyes widen as the remarks fall from Arthur's lips. "Arthur."
The prince dismisses Balinor's concern with a flippant gesture. "My father dropped me on my leg, not on my head. I know such arguments are likely to sway the council."
"They are loyal to you," Balinor says with conviction. "We all are." However, at the back of his mind, Balinor cannot deny that such flowery words may cause rife and divide within the council.
Arthur stays silent for a beat. "I think the queen fears that happening as well after she saw the sigil. She even discouraged you from choosing Merlin as an apprentice."
Balinor nods in agreement. "We must inform the queen of our suspicions. Agravaine —"
Arthur holds up a hand and Balinor trails off. "My uncle has no plans to usurp me or my mother from the throne." There is surety in Arthur's tone that leaves Balinor reeling.
"We have just discussed—"
"I have discussed with you how he may play it, not that he will." The gleam of amusement returns to Arthur's features. "As you said, if my uncle was not prone to pranks, he would be planning just that. But my uncle is prone to pranks. This latest forest fire is just another one of his jests."
"This seems a tad treasonous to be a mere prank," Balinor remarks dryly. "How are we certain that this is all harmless?"
"You say that Uncle Agravaine wishes to be the shadow king of Camelot. For that to happen, the puppet he chooses must be meek, subservient, and easily fooled. My uncle has spoken to Merlin, and he must know by now that Merlin is not any of those. If he places Merlin on the throne, he will have little power at all because Merlin will be no mere puppet to be controlled." Arthur's eyes flick behind. "Isn't that right, Merlin?"
Balinor's head snaps behind them. Merlin stands a mere three feet away, obviously listening in. The apprentice's eyes widen as if he has not expected to be caught. Balinor curses himself for forgetting to put up an anti-eavesdropping spell.
"I've finished my laps!" Merlin blurts out, hands raised and palms forward. "A-And It's the middle of the break you promised us." He gestures at Morgana and Mordred, who are indeed slumped on the ground and drinking water. Neither of their dummies bears a single mark.
"How long have you been sneaking around behind our backs?" Balinor demands, unamused.
"I didn't hear anything!" Merlin insists. Lies, obviously. "Well, anything important. I just wanted to ask Lord Balinor a question, and I swear I didn't mean to eavesdrop. It was just— You were talking about the situation with Ag—Lord Agravaine and it involves me too."
"Peace, Balinor. I knew he was there the moment he chose to listen in," Arthur informs him calmly.
And you let him? Balinor is inwardly puzzled as to the reason why. Fortunately, Arthur does not make him wonder for long.
"So, Merlin, what do you think then?" Arthur's astute gaze rove over Merlin's jittery form. "Is my uncle planning anything treasonous?"
Merlin looks surprised to be asked but only for a moment. He takes a few steps closer to them, a frown forming between his brows. "He told me that he was doing all this to prank his siblings. But he hid the fact that I would be the second heir to the throne when he urged me to play along. And he did ask whether I'm really Lord Balinor's apprentice."
Merlin shakes his head, expression stormy. "I thought Ag — Lord Agravaine was going to use me to indeed be some sort of shadow king, the real ruler behind the throne. That he's going to get rid of the current crowned prince and make me a puppet. I-I don't think this is all harmless, but I don't know Ag—Lord Agravaine well enough to be sure. Regardless, I have plans to confront him soon and let this farce collapse. It's safer for everyone involved if I don't play along further."
Balinor expertly hides the surprise he feels. Merlin has willingly offered more useful information in the past minute than in the past week. All because of one question from the prince of Camelot.
The Court Sorcerer's eyes flick to Arthur. Arthur has included Merlin in the discussion precisely because of this. Balinor remains silent, letting the cunning prince proceed.
The prince's countenance belies nothing but curiosity. "You didn't know that, by claiming to be my uncle's son, you would be in line for the throne?"
Merlin rubs the back of his neck, embarrassment clear. "I thought the line of succession is on the Pendragon's side."
Arthur hums. "Don't let my mother hear you say that. It took her more than two years to properly seize the throne and the succession line."
Merlin nods rapidly, countless questions evident behind his lips. He swallows them all, likely thinking better of it.
"There is one thing I have yet to figure out," Arthur begins casually. "Why did you go along with my uncle's scheme?"
"I wasn't planning on usurping the throne," Merlin hurriedly assures them, as if they don't already know that. "It's just —" He visibly hesitates, a hand twitching up as if to grab his chest. Then, he purposefully put it back to his side. "Uh, he offered me a pouch of gold."
A flash of irritation spikes in Balinor's chest at yet another useless lie.
"The sigil. Your deal with him involves the De Bois sigil you wear around your neck," Arthur states rather than asks.
Surprise flares in Balinor; in the wake of many more incredible discoveries about Merlin, he has forgotten about that certain mystery. Then, he recalls Arthur's implications in a previous discussion regarding Sigan's resurrection spell.
". . .allows the soul to be sealed inside an inanimate object. A crystal, a necklace, jewel, a sigil, or some such."
Balinor's eyes narrow. It is not such a far-fetched notion, but Balinor has grasped the brooch himself. There lies no enchantment upon it.
Merlin attempts and fails to hide a wince. He sighs, fidgeting with the vambrace on his arm. "Look, my friend gave the sigil to me, and none of you believed me when I said it wasn't genuine. Lord Agravaine offered to tell the queen that he gave me the sigil instead."
"Is it truly a fake?" Arthur inquires.
"Yes," Merlin says, gaze shifting to the right. "It's a fake. Think about it, Your Highness. Queen Ygraine didn't give it to me and neither did Lord Agravaine. No member of the De Bois family could have—"
"And Uncle Tristan?" Arthur prompts with a raised brow, immediately noticing the missing name.
"Unc — Tristan?" Merlin's brows furrow, perhaps attempting to recall who that is. After a moment, his mouth drops open as an epiphany and a hint of horror gleams in his eyes. "Oh. That Tristan. He's —" He clears his throat and shakes himself out of his shock. "No, not even him. No De Bois had admitted to bestowing the sigil upon me. It is a forgery, Your Highness."
Indeed, there is no other explanation, no reason to think the sigil is anything but a very well-made copy of the real thing. And yet, Merlin is lying through his teeth; the sigil has a far greater significance than what he's telling.
Arthur sends Merlin a measuring glance, likely detecting the same tells Balinor did. He says nothing of it, however. As much as Balinor desires to prod more regarding this sigil-giving friend of Merlin's, they both know his apprentice will clam up the moment the topic turns to it.
"But that doesn't matter now," Merlin continues with a scowl. "Lord Agravaine has not informed me of the full implications of our deal, and I'll be more than happy to break it off."
"The queen will hound you still about the identity of the forger," Arthur remarks, seeming to go along with the lie.
Merlin frowns, contemplative. "I'll have to do my best to convince the queen of my friend's harmlessness when it comes to it. He-He really didn't mean for the sigil to be mistaken as real."
"I see," Arthur replies with naught an emotion in his tone. He stays silent for a beat before remarking lightly, "It's reassuring that you truly have no designs on the throne, Merlin."
"And I will never have," Merlin adds firmly.
Arthur sends Balinor a look, and the Court Sorcerer immediately gets the message. The prince's subtle interrogation of the sigil matter is finished.
"You desire to ask me something?" Balinor speaks for the first time in their conversation, serving as a distraction while the prince ruminates.
"Oh, yes." Merlin's posture loosens, becoming more relaxed. "The runes in the dungeons. I was just curious as to what they do."
The Court Sorcerer shoots his apprentice a frown. "Can you not infer?" He would have thought it obvious.
Embarrassment paints a red flush on Merlin's cheeks. "Well, I first thought that it would prevent prisoners from doing magic inside the cells. But I was able to cast a spell, so I truly have no clue."
Arthur's head snaps up. Incredulity blossoms inside Balinor's chest.
Merlin takes note of their reactions and warily asks, "What is it?"
"What spell did you perform inside the cell?" Balinor demands.
"I — Just a simple fire spell. And I unlocked the door. But I relocked it again," Merlin answers with earnest assurance as if Balinor is going to start accusing him of treason. "It just seems odd that the dungeons don't have some sort of measure against that."
The fact of the matter is: the dungeons do have such measures.
Balinor says evenly, "The runes prevent just that. No magic-user can access their magic inside, let alone perform spells." No magic-user except Merlin, it seems.
Merlin blinks rapidly. "Huh." Judging by his expression, he immensely regrets bringing up the topic and revealing his ability to surpass the runes' effects.
Balinor resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose to stave off an oncoming headache. Mentally, he tallies a future lesson regarding basic runes with his apprentices.
After a moment, he straightens. With a raised voice, Balinor says to his apprentices, "You have rested enough. Resume your lessons." The Court Sorcerer sends a meaningful glance at Merlin.
Merlin sighs and trods away to spar with Sir Lancelot again. Mordred and Morgana hesitantly get to their feet, faces weary. It has barely been an hour.
"Oh." Merlin pauses and turns to Balinor and Arthur once more. His voice drops to an almost whisper. "I've been invited to Sir Lancelot's nameday celebration tonight. Can we cancel tonight's night lessons?"
Balinor's brows rise to his hairline. "Sir Lancelot invited you?"
"Gwen did, actually. I accepted to spite him," Merlin admits without shame. He gives a cheeky grin. "So, will you give me permission to attend, Lord Balinor?"
The Court Sorcerer nods. "Very well. But we will need to resume tomorrow night."
Merlin nods twice with a grateful smile and practically skips towards the knight he has been endlessly irritating.
Arthur follows Merlin with keen eyes. "He truly is impossible, isn't he?" His expression is blatantly thoughtful.
Balinor releases a sound that is a mix of a sigh and a huff. "He is beyond that now."
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When the sun reaches its peak and the morning wanes, the Court Sorcerer calls the torturous lesson to a close. Prince Arthur is gone from his side, probably off to do some princely duties.
Neither Mordred's nor Morgana's dummies are damaged. Aside from the first fireball, Merlin's dummy remains mostly undamaged too. Sir Lancelot has proven to be a challenging opponent, and only three small fireballs got past him.
The knights help the exhausted apprentices disrobe the armor and padding. Merlin lets Sir Lancelot do the same, although he could have removed the straps himself.
"Oh." Merlin recalls something important as Sir Lancelot folds the tinkling chainmail. "Happy nameday, Sir Lancelot!"
Sir Lancelot glares at Merlin as if the warlock has done him the worst of insults. Nevertheless, Merlin grins in response and moves as if to hug the knight, arms open.
Sir Lancelot skitters away like a deer on soft ground, a tinge of horror in his expression. He growls and storms away without so much as a word. Sir Gertie and Sir Galahad follow behind him, shooting Merlin scandalized looks.
"One of these days, Merlin, we will find you dead on your bed," Mordred, pale skin flushed with strain, says. He has been forced to run five laps after instinctively shoving Sir Galahad away with wind magic.
"Oh, Sir Lancelot won't do that." Morgana, bun hair a sticky mess, defends. "He'll more likely stab you in the middle of the markets than in your sleep. It'll be honorable that way."
"You two say the most comforting words," Merlin shoots back, amused despite himself.
Their mentor casts a cursory glance at their haggard forms. "Refresh yourselves and take your lunch. Come to my quarters in an hour."
With sighs of relief, the three apprentices head back to the castle and do just that.
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Bellies full and clothes anew, Merlin, Mordred, and Morgana enter the Court Sorcerer's chambers with a tint of dread. If this morning's lesson is any indication, more arduous tasks may await them.
Thankfully, they're proven wrong as they enter their mentor's room.
Three pale sapphire robes hang in the air, each gorgeously darned with golden trimmings and ornate symbols. With a gesture of Balinor's hand, the clothes swish towards the three apprentices, who accept them with awe.
The soft fabric slides off Merlin's fingertips, and magic emanates from it in amounts that even he can sense. The robe is of high quality and expertly made, fit enough for even royalty to wear. In fact, Merlin is sure Arthur's tunics are made of the same material as these fabrics.
"Your apprentice robes," Balinor says with a little bit of flourish. He meets each of his apprentice's gaze. "You are required to wear them during lessons and whenever you accompany me outside the castle. Outside of that, do with them as you will. I do encourage you to don them as often as you can. They will protect you from mid-level spells and diminish the impact of any physical attacks. Of course, such spells will need to be reapplied after being used up. I'll teach you how to do so in future lessons." Balinor clasps his hands behind his back. "The robes are also self-cleaning and are enchanted to protect you from extreme temperatures."
Merlin stares at the clothing with even more amazement. He doesn't know how several complex enchantments can be weaved into the simple threads of the robes.
"Thank you, Lord Balinor." Morgana is the first of the apprentices to gather her voice in the face of an overwhelming gift. A meaningful look passes between her and Balinor, which Merlin takes note of. "It is truly a wealthy gift."
Mordred and Merlin stumble over their own offers of gratitude soon after. Balinor nods in acknowledgment, a corner of his lips upturned.
The apprentices wear their respective robes without delay. Merlin smooths down the darned lapels and adjusts the sleeves over his arms. It's a perfect fit and he cannot quite believe his not-father made it himself.
He does suppress a flinch when he feels foreign magic enclosing his whole form, settling above his skin like a paper-thin blanket. Mordred and Morgana seem to have little problem with it, welcoming the sensation with barely contained smiles.
When the apprentices have admired their robes long enough, Balinor cuts through their delight. "Now, for afternoon lessons. Come along."
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A/N:
"You're the saddest bunch I ever met
But you can bet before we're through
Mister, I'll make a man out of you" - General Li Shang, Mulan (1998)
Imma be real with you guys. I thought I will never have the will the continue this story. But then I listened to a Celtic song and here I am with another chapter, several months later. (Now will be a good time for someone to adopt this)
I forgot my tumblr password AND the password of the email I used for it 😢. So for people sending messages in my inbox (if there are any lol), I'm so sorry. I was too lazy months ago to attempt to recover it but now I will try my hardest.
AND yes, the third line (well, fourth actually) dropped in this chapter wahooo (some of you what I'm talking about 😉). About 12 more lines to go lol.
AND yes, this is indeed isekai! My favorite genre, although it wasn't quite as popular when I started this story in 2016 (damn, that was 5 years ago). I hit up and will be hitting up a lot of common tropes/cliches of that genre.
Next up: Merlin helps out a friend, and attends Sir Lancelot's nameday celebration!
Have a magical weekend, dearies!
~ Vividpast