Chapter Summary: Merlin helps out a friend and prepares a gift. There's an unexpected guest at Sir Lancelot's nameday celebration.
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Chapter XII: Dig a Little Deeper
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"This will be our afternoon lessons for a week?"
Merlin notes, with amusement, the hint of a whine slipping in Mordred's tone.
Merlin turns to the third page of The Basics of Magical Theory, eyes quickly skimming through the text denoting basic sources of magic that a magic-user can make use of. It's information that Merlin already knows in a practical sense but has never seen it thoroughly discussed to this extent.
Morgana peers through her own assigned reading: The Organized Chaos of Simple Verbal Spells. "I, for one, am glad we don't have to do more strenuous activities in the afternoon."
"I suppose there is that," Mordred admits begrudgingly, staring at the olden cover of his Basic Magical Terminologies.
Balinor has led them in the Great Camelot Library and handed them three books to finish reading by the end of the week. They each must skim the three books, switching readings once they are done with the one initially assigned to them. After, Balinor has left them to do as they will to complete the tasks. They unanimously decide to claim one of the reading desks in the library in hopes of speeding up their assigned endeavors.
Merlin flips another page, beginning to get fully absorbed in it. "What do you have against books anyway?"
Mordred finally cracks his tome open, his mouth a moue of displeasure. "I have nothing against them. I just think—Lord Balinor could have discussed all these things with us instead."
"These are books for beginners," Morgana says before turning a leaf. "It would be more efficient if we read it and familiarize ourselves with the concepts. I'm certain Lord Balinor has other duties to attend to."
To that, Mordred has no reply.
The three of them fall into a rhythmic silence with only papers rustling and their own calm breathing breaking the silence.
In the sea of intriguing paragraphs, Merlin allows his thoughts to temporarily veer off from his worries. His mind has been buzzing with a thousand concerns: the court's apparent discrimination against Prince Arthur because of the man's disability and lack of magic (for a split second, Merlin has been tempted to set something on fire — preferably, some bigoted councilor's rooms), Agravaine's royalty-related scheme, Wracu's potential trap or help, the fact that he has revealed more of his unusualness to both Balinor and Prince Arthur, and the overall problem of how to get home.
For a little while, Merlin allows himself to breathe and pretend that no trouble chases after his heels.
An hour later, Merlin has consumed one chapter of eight. Only then did Merlin notice the aching crick in his neck. He places his book down, rubbing his nape and deciding to take a short break. All the magical concepts laid down in the tome are simple enough for him to grasp, and he's a bit pleased to finally put labels upon practices he has been using.
His eyes drift to Morgana, who's serenely going through her own book. She appears to be progressing quickly, just a couple of pages behind Merlin. She looks relaxed and contented, expression and countenance off-guard. Merlin tears his gaze away, throat tightening.
Mordred, however, seems to be the opposite. His brows are furrowed, his lips pursed into a thin line. Frustration lines the corners of his blue irises. He has progressed barely ten pages since they started.
"Are the topics there difficult, Mordred?" Merlin asks, glancing worriedly at the cover of the tome Mordred's grasping. If the druid, well-versed in this realm's magic, is having a hard time with it, Merlin loathes to think how he himself will do.
Mordred's head snaps up. Pink dusts his pale cheeks before he lowers his gaze once more. Merlin blinks rapidly at the reaction, having never seen Mordred so obviously flustered.
"It's—It's fine. Not difficult at all," Mordred replies, voice steady despite the red flush creeping to his neck.
Morgana pauses her reading and glances between them. Her gaze lingers on Mordred, a tiny furrow upon her brow.
The druid flips to the next page, not meeting any of their eyes. His blue eyes dart all over the contents of his book in the hopes of escaping scrutiny.
A realization alights Morgana's features. Her eyes soften considerably. "Mordred, Merlin and I are your friends, are we not?"
Mordred looks taken aback at the sudden remark.
Merlin himself feels the same. Friends with his not-enemies. Not close friends, per se, but not quite as distant as mere acquaintances either. Merlin doesn't know how he should feel about that.
"You can tell us anything," Morgana continues, expression still tender. "There will be no judgment among us. And whatever you share shall not go beyond us three." Morgana sends Merlin a meaningful look, and Merlin can't help but nod in earnest agreement.
Mordred lowers his gaze once more, face shuttered for several moments.
Then, he sighs and places down his book. "I can read," the druid begins haltingly. "But—Our clan's teachings are passed down orally. We rarely had use for written words in our camps." Mordred shoots what can be interpreted as a glare at his book. "I can read but—I've little practice and patience with it. I read at a snail's pace compared to others. Gilli usually reads out loud for me."
Mortification keeps his voice low, and expression pained.
"There's no shame in that," Morgana interjects with an understanding smile.
"I know," Mordred says. "It is still a bit embarrassing, given that I was chosen as an apprentice in Camelot's court."
Merlin ponders upon it before tentatively suggesting, "If you bring up your concerns to Lord Balinor, I'm certain he'll make concessions." Their mentor did make improvised lessons for Merlin in the previous week.
Mordred lets out a sigh. "I know. But I don't want anyone else to know about—this."
That, Merlin can understand. Many in Ealdor have asked the help of his mother when they wish to send letters to other villages. Although it is common for those of normal upbringing to never learn how to read or write, they have asked with shame in their countenance.
Mordred truly looks dismayed and a tiny bit lost. It is that sight that leads Merlin to offer without thinking it through, "Would you be willing to let us help in the meanwhile then?"
A frown mars Mordred's brow. "How?"
"You said Gilli reads it aloud. Maybe we can do the same." Merlin gestures at the book in Mordred's hands. He adds, "We'll be saving time too; two people will be going through one book at the same time."
Pronounced hesitation flicker by Mordred's countenance. "I wouldn't wish to impose."
"It's no imposition," Morgana replies. "Merlin and I will take turns so you can decide whose voice you'd like to hear more of." Her voice lilts in a teasing manner, her eyes twinkling with playfulness.
Mordred huffs out a laugh, and even Merlin can't help the upturn of his lips.
"I suppose one chapter wouldn't hurt," Mordred relents eventually.
Morgana accepts the book from Mordred, having decided to take her turn first. Mordred points the paragraph he read last.
Morgana begins without further prompting. "'Stíelan arodscipeas is the term commonly used to describe the willful expulsion of excess magical energy in a short amount of time. It is different from líhtinge in the aspect of urgency and . . .'"
Morgana's voice is whole and smooth, showcasing her experience with courtly life. She doesn't stutter, only pausing to peruse long complicated terminologies. Mordred leans forward, eyes astute and ears eagerly taking in the information. His earlier unsureness is gone, replaced by subtle enthusiasm.
Merlin can't help but listen as well, drawn by the knowledge contained in the book and the pleasant way Morgana is presenting it.
And thus, the Court Sorcerer's three apprentices spend the rest of the afternoon in such a manner.
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As Merlin accepts the book from Morgana to do his turn, a thought occurs to him.
"Wait, weren't you the first one to finish reading our apprentice contract during the choosing ceremony?" Merlin distinctly remembers admiring Mordred on how fast he read it.
Mordred's eyes skitter away.
Morgana arches a delicate brow. "Mordred, tell me you read the contract."
"I'm certain the Court Sorcerer won't put anything in it that's harmful," Mordred replies defensively.
Merlin gapes. "Mordred! Even if that's true, you should have read it before signing it." Arthur has certainly hammered that lesson into Merlin when he helps with the paperwork. "You could have been signing your soul away."
Morgana chuckles. "That is true enough."
Mordred releases a noise of amusement. "All right. I'll read any contract presented to me thoroughly next time."
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After the afternoon lesson has concluded, Merlin walks back to his apprentice chambers to change and prepare for Sir Lancelot's nameday celebration.
Then, he halts abruptly as a terrible notion hits him.
He has no gift prepared.
"Drat," he curses, running a hand through his hair.
With meeting Wracu, being stuck in the dungeons the whole night, and the apprentice lessons, it has completely slipped his mind.
He resumes walking to his chambers, pondering hard as to what to get this Lancelot. He hasn't got much time nor coin, so he can give nothing largely ostentatious or terribly spectacular. Not that Merlin thinks Sir Lancelot would even accept something like that from a man he loathes.
Something simple and easy to acquire . . .
"Oh." Merlin pauses his walk again as a solution pop into his mind.
It's worth a try, Merlin thinks. It won't be the perfect gift but at the very least, Merlin won't come empty-handed. And who knows, Sir Lancelot may even like it.
Merlin snorts and swivels around, heading in an altogether different direction. Namely, his mentor's chambers.
Hopefully, Balinor will humor him this one time.
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Merlin sighs and pushes the tavern door open with his free hand.
The tavern across the street from the blacksmith's shop, Gwen said. The aforementioned tavern is, apparently, the tavern Tom owns. With the way Tom acted the day before, Merlin has been planning to avoid the establishment entirely.
But it's Sir Lancelot's nameday, and he loathes to miss it.
Immediately, rambunctious laughter and boisterous clanking assault Merlin's ears as soon as he enters. It seems the whole tavern has been rented out for the occasion. He doesn't immediately see Tom in the vicinity, but he does spy Selia flitting in between celebrators, letting them pet a grouchy Kelly.
Firelight frolics with the shadows of the furniture and approximately fifty people, and heat emanates from the press of bodies of the already drunk individuals. Merlin recognizes most of them as knights.
"~ Here's a drink to the company and one to my lass! ~" a group of them choruses, horribly off-tune. Sir Gertie is slamming a tankard on the table in a semblance of beat. "~ Let us drink and be merry all out of one glass! ~"
Merlin's mouth twitches into a smile; while the royal feasts he attended are never so rowdy, the celebrations Gwaine holds are equally as unruly.
The warlock traipses around, looking for the man of the night. Past the drunkenly dancing celebrators and singing knights is a large round table fitted to seat at least seven people. A variety of foodstuffs like cakes, bread rolls, sausages, pork, and chicken are placed haphazardly on said table, mugs of ale scattered on the remaining surface.
"Merlin!" From that same table, Gwen waves from her seat. Merlin grins and wastes no time striding towards her.
Cava and Fi, who occupy two of the chairs of the feasting table, greet Merlin enthusiastically as he approaches. Meanwhile, an unfamiliar blank-faced brunette is seated in another chair, donning the clothes of a commoner's. Although, casting him another cursory glance, Merlin finds the brunette a tad familiar. The brunette's azure eyes flick to Merlin before gliding away to concentrate on his tankard.
Sir Lancelot takes up one of the seats, face relaxed in a way that Merlin has never seen before. He wears a simple cream tunic and dark trousers, posture less guarded than usual. It stops Merlin short. It does sadden him slightly to see that lax mien replaced by an unmistakable scowl as soon as the knight catches sight of the warlock.
Merlin pushes the hurt away and boldly seats himself in the empty chair beside Sir Lancelot. He heaves the arm-sized wooden box in his hand onto an empty space of the table. Sir Lancelot growls.
"You made it!" Gwen, dressed in a frilly sleeveless yellow tunic and brown trousers, beams up at him. She places down the wooden utensils in her hands on her unfinished meal to give the newcomer her full attention. Her tresses are loose, cascading around her shoulders in luscious waves. "You're very late though."
Merlin notes, with hidden astonishment, a wooden pendant around her neck shaped in a simple 't' — a prominent symbol particular in the New Religion.
"Sorry," Merlin says sheepishly, tearing his gaze away from the pendant. "I had a hard time finding a proper gift." He taps the wooden box, chest puffing up with pride. It may not be much, but Merlin is proud of it, nonetheless.
"Oh." Curiosity gleams in Gwen's brown eyes. She nudges Sir Lancelot with her shoulder. "Go on, Sir Lancelot, open it!"
"You shouldn't have come," Sir Lancelot grunts out to Merlin instead of complying.
Gwen clicks her tongue in disapproval. "Sir Lancelot, don't be rude."
Gwen's chastisement does not seem to improve the knight's mood. Sir Lancelot glares at Merlin and then at the box in his hands. Merlin is tempted to throw it to Sir Lancelot's head just to mess with him.
"Not to worry, Sir Lancelot." Merlin pushes the box containing his gift nearer the knight. "It's not something that'll bite." His insolent grin does nothing to convince Sir Lancelot of the truthfulness of his statement.
The unfamiliar brunette at their table stifles an obvious snort into his tankard.
"Gwen." Sir Lancelot rather brusquely points an index finger at Merlin, nearly squashing the latter's nose at the gesture. Merlin stares cross-eyed at it. "This insufferable git has offered me nothing but insults and disrespect since we've met."
Gwen cocks a brow, amusement lilting the corners of her mouth. "Is that so?"
"He's not insulting you, Lancelot," the brunette interjects. Merlin's head snaps to the stranger because his voice is very familiar. "He's been teasing you. Like an old friend." Azure eyes give Merlin a meaningful glance.
Heat rushes to Merlin's cheeks. He has been teasing Sir Lancelot all this time but having it pointed out embarrasses him beyond belief. Who is shameless enough to act so comfortably around a grumpy knight who they met just days prior? Merlin, that's who.
The frown upon Sir Lancelot's brows softens considerably. "What?"
Gwen smiles. "Yes, it seems that way to me too."
Merlin waves the whole thing away with a flippant hand and grasps for a change in subject. He pushes the box towards Sir Lancelot again, almost desperately. "I've worked hard to get this, Sir Lancelot. You better appreciate it."
A huff of disbelief escapes Sir Lancelot's lips. He crosses his arms, and merely glares at both Merlin and then at the innocent box. Hmm, maybe Merlin needn't have bothered with a gift after all. The knight doesn't seem keen to accept it.
"I'll open it for you, Sir Lancelot," Gwen offers without hesitation, curiosity overwhelming her. One of her hands is already reaching for it.
Sir Lancelot grasps her bare wrist without thought. After a shocking beat, both scrambles to pull back, cheeks darkening. Merlin has to fight down an amused grin.
Gwen clears her throat and smooths down the nonexistent creases of her trousers.
"It might be dangerous," Sir Lancelot warns after fighting down his blush. Cautiously, he grips the lid of the box.
Merlin splutters in indignation. Before he can say anything in protest to that, Sir Lancelot carefully cracks the box open.
Cold air streams from inside, made more evident in the stuffy atmosphere of the tavern. Merlin knows the spells for keeping things warm and hot but it's the first time he has done a spell to keep something cool. He's pleased that the enchantment is holding until now.
Sir Lancelot peers into the box's contents. His frown disappears, replaced by unguarded astonishment. Gwen, Cava, Fi, and the brunette lean forward in their seats to see what has made the knight so speechless.
Sir Lancelot reaches in and plucks one of the several apricots inside the box. Plump and tinted a perfect ripe orange-red hue, the apricot is cool and firm in Sir Lancelot's hands. Beads of moisture drip from its unblemished skin.
"Oooh." Cava and Fi make simultaneous sounds of awe.
The brunette glances at the apricot with a tint of wonderment.
"Sir Lancelot's favorite fruit!" Gwen squeals. "How on earth did you know, Merlin?"
Lancelot's favorite fruit is apricot. Merlin has just hoped this counterpart has the same preference. "Lucky guess," Merlin answers with a proud grin.
"Apricots aren't in season," Sir Lancelot says, tone blank. His gaze, when he turns it to Merlin, is undecipherable. Merlin's grin falters, wondering if Sir Lancelot dislikes the gift after all.
"Indeed," the brunette confirms Sir Lancelot's remark.
"Well, I encouraged one of the apricot trees to grow fruits out of season with magic," Merlin explains, hands flailing. "There's a copse of apricot trees in the Darkling Woods just a few minutes' walk outside the citadel. Lord Balinor accompanied me." Merlin adds the last statement hurriedly lest Sir Lancelot gets it into his mind to throw the warlock back into the dungeons.
Indeed, when Merlin asked permission to go outside the citadel from the Court Sorcerer, Balinor said he would tag along to make sure Merlin met no trouble.
The enchantment to grow apricots out of season is quite easy once there's already a tree old enough to produce fruits. Balinor has, however, warned him to only seldom do so; to force a plant life to give more than what is natural will shorten its lifespan.
"Each tree has its own duties in its space," Balinor has said. He gestures at the saplings by the apricot tree's base, too little to get to the sun on their own and therefore depends on the fully-grown plant for sustenance. "You must protect these natural processes and disrupt them as little as possible."
"You really do make everything a lesson to be learned, don't you?" Merlin replies with a cheeky grin. Not that he's complaining though.
Balinor has given him a sardonic look. "With you, Merlin, everything has to be a lesson."
Merlin concedes to his point with a shrug.
The field of apricot trees exists in the same place as it did in Merlin's realm. Merlin is glad for it because he's able to get Sir Lancelot a proper gift.
Sir Lancelot's expression, however, remains eerily blank, making Merlin think the apricots are no proper gift at all. The knight's lips are pursed in a thin line, dark eyes practically boring a hole into the cool apricot in his hand.
"Well, don't leave me in suspense, Sir Lancelot," Merlin probes after a few moments, sniffing in mock-offense. He reaches out for the wooden box with both hands, hiding his mortification at having brought a displeasing gift. "I'll take them back if you dislike them."
Sir Lancelot abruptly drags the box closer to him in an almost possessive manner. Merlin blinks rapidly, arms hovering over empty air. Even in the soft light of the tavern torches, Merlin spies the knight's cheeks reddening once more. Gwen, Cava, and Fi badly stifle their titters.
Sir Lancelot clears his throat. "I suppose this is the least you can do for all the disrespect you've given me."
Merlin bites down on the grin threatening to split his face in half. It won't do to embarrass Sir Lancelot further. "I suppose it is."
Sir Lancelot eyes him dubiously before biting into one of the apricots and slowly chewing. Something appreciative flash by Sir Lancelot's features, pleasing Merlin to no end.
"Ooh, apricots!" Sir Isolde, cropped blonde hair askew and cheeks flushed with drink, darts out an arm to steal fruit from the box. She nearly loses said hand to Sir Lancelot's adamant defense. "Come now, Sir Lancelot, share them with us!"
At the Head Knight's exclamation, the other knights summarily congregate to Sir Lancelot's seat. Several of them stumble into place and not one of them appears sober. Sir Lancelot remains unamused and unimpressed.
"Whoa, I've never seen one so perfectly ripe."
"These aren't in season. How'd you get them, Sir Lancelot?"
"Apricots! Apricots! Apricots!"
Sir Lancelot slaps another thieving hand. "Get your hands off —"
"But Sir Lancelot, I've never had apricots before!"
"Happy nameday, Sir Lancelot, the bravest and most generous of us all! Now, let us split up your treasure among friends."
The knights continue to bicker and roughhouse, pushing at each other's drunken forms none-too-gently. Much to Merlin's surprise, Gwen joins in, helping Sir Lancelot protect the apricots and mock scolding some of the bolder thieving knights. As much as the whole thing amuses Merlin, he rather not be a casualty. So, he abandons his seat next to the man of the night and claims the empty one beside the unfamiliar familiar brunette at the feast table. The brunette gives him a cursory glance before taking another gulp from his tankard.
"Why are you in disguise?" Merlin asks the question that's practically consuming his mind as soon as he realizes the brunette's identity.
Against one of the table's legs, an unremarkable wooden cane lean. Merlin sends it a curious glance and wonders why the brunette has not used it before now.
Astonishment flicks by those familiar azure eyes of the brunette. A beat of silence passes between them. Then, the brunette says, "I am, technically, not allowed out of the castle proper unless it's a special occasion. Unfortunately, my mother doesn't consider a knight's nameday celebration as a special occasion."
Merlin's jaw drops open. "So, you snuck out?"
"Yes. On the bed of a royal chamber, there are a bunch of pillows bravely pretending to be the crowned prince of Camelot," the brunette reveals.
"Why aren't you allowed out of the castle?" Merlin inquires next with a frown. Even when Arthur was a prince, he had never been prohibited to go outside or go carousing with his knights.
Prince Arthur Pendragon, features different from his usual but voice unmistakably his, replies casually, "The usual reasons. Potential assassination attempts. Kidnappings. Thieves stealing my coin and beating me up. Tripping and cracking my head open on a small rock."
Merlin stares at the disguised prince, unknowing how to react. For all his words seem like a jest, his expression holds nothing but somberness. Merlin still cannot fully gauge this counterpart's humor or sore spots.
Barring that bewildering moment in the library, this is perhaps the first real opportunity Merlin has to speak with his best friend's counterpart without anyone else to serve as a buffer between them.
Inexplicable curiosity hits the warlock.
These versions of his friends have so far only reminded him of what he's been missing. Perhaps it's time to view them differently.
In the past week, Merlin has successfully differentiated Mordred and Morgana, his fellow apprentices, from the ones he knows. Rarely has he flinched away from them in the past few days, and the wariness he feels in their presence has simmered down. Even his magic has calmed, reacting little to Mordred and Morgana's enchantments.
Mordred and Morgana are not his enemies. And this Prince Arthur is not his friend. The prince is a stranger who Merlin knows little about. That, however, can be remedied.
If Merlin's going to be staying for a while in this realm, he may as well figure out how this oddly different and non-prattish Arthur ticks. No, Prince Arthur is not his friend. Not yet at least.
Merlin has nothing better to do at the moment anyway, so why not re-test his skills in befriending princes?
He throws caution high up in the air and asks, "How're you disguising yourself?"
Prince Arthur cocks a dark brow. "Are you going to be questioning me the whole night, Merlin?"
Merlin shrugs and plucks an empty plate from a nearby pile, along with a wooden fork. "Might as well. It's not every day I encounter a disguised prince of a kingdom."
A cheerful tune from a lute-player rings over the noise of the celebration. It isn't long before people drag partners onto the cleared space of the tavern and begin dancing. The sight of noble knights and simple townspeople twirling and laughing makes Merlin smile.
The bard begins singing cheerfully, and people clap and stomp in beat. It's a dancing jig most are familiar with, even Merlin, so a couple of them sing along.
"~ Oh fishmonger, oh fishmonger ~
~ Come quell your daughter's hunger ~
~ To pull on my horn ~
~ As it rises in the morn ~
~ For 'tis naught but bad luck ~
~ To fu—" The bard stutters upon seeing Selia enthusiastically flouncing amidst the crowd of adults. He hurriedly switches out the lyrics Merlin knew to be too foul for young ears. "—play with a puck ~"
" ~ Lest your grandkid be born ~
~ A hairy young faun ~ "
~ Bleating and braying all day, hey ho ~
~ The fishmonger's daughter, ba ba ~"
The noise level increases significantly, and people have to scoot closer to one other to converse. Merlin does so with his own chair without forethought, dragging it closer to Prince Arthur's.
Prince Arthur hums, giving Merlin an indecipherable look.
Finally, he deigns to answer Merlin's question, "Balinor gifted me an impersonation totem years ago." With the hand not holding a tankard, the prince taps an area in his chest where said totem hangs beneath his garb. "Turns my features slightly different, just enough for me to be unrecognizable. Darkens my hair. Makes my nose a bit smaller, my jaw softer."
Merlin grabs a still steaming bread before pointing out, "Doesn't change your voice though."
"Yes." Prince Arthur looks on at the revelling crowd with blank eyes. "Very few can recognize the prince of Camelot by his voice so there was no need to change it." The fact that Merlin — someone who has spoken with the prince less than five times — did hangs unsaid in the air between them.
The warlock falters in shoving smoked meat onto his plate. He clears his throat and casually continues getting food.
"It-It's a very good disguise," Merlin comments.
Prince Arthur hums again before sipping the last dregs of his drink.
A curious thought occurs to Merlin. His gaze flits between Gwen, who has been given one of the apricots (unsurprising, really) and is currently enjoying it, and Arthur, who's watching the dancing people in the middle of the tavern with an unreadable look.
Merlin wonders whether this Gwen and Arthur have the same deep relationship as their counterparts. It doesn't seem to be the case, seeing how little they're interacting. Besides, the blacksmith really appears to be thoroughly smitten with Sir Lancelot.
Merlin begins partaking in the scrumptious foodstuff as he thinks about it.
Back in his world, Arthur, Lancelot, Gwen — Their situation has been complicated from the start.
Arthur courted Gwen when the former was a prince. Then, Lancelot came and stole half of Gwen's affections. Lancelot, noble as he is, chose to back away and thought Arthur deserves Gwen more than he. But matters of the heart are rarely so simple; Gwen loves them both equally and is caught in the middle.
Merlin is not too sure of what's happening between them now. Arthur and Lancelot's interactions don't seem to be too strained. Arthur hasn't spoken about Gwen to Merlin recently. Neither has Lancelot. And Gwen doesn't come to Merlin for romance-related concerns because she knows he can't help with that, which is, admittedly, true.
Merlin tries to involve himself as little as possible in the whole affair because he has no business butting in; all three are his friends and he's not about to take sides.
Hopefully, he'll get home before any falling out happens; he has to be there for his friends.
Merlin realizes his gaze has rested unconsciously on Sir Lancelot in contemplation; the knight turns to glare at him for the unwanted scrutiny. The warlock replies with a cheeky grin but does shift his gaze away.
"Gruff as always," Merlin mutters before snatching up an ale-filled tankard from a passing barmaid.
"Magic-users, especially those of court, tend to look down on knights."
The warlock's head whips to Prince Arthur, who's still casually watching people clap and dance.
"They think knights, whose only prowess is with physical weapons, are mere vanity decorations. Because of that thinking, Lancelot doesn't tolerate anyone disrespecting any knight's position. He thinks you've been undermining him and knights in general. You should correct his assumptions if you wish him to be less brusque," the prince advises.
"Oh." Merlin has never seen it that way. Sir Lancelot's defensive rudeness seems reasonable now.
He supposes, with powerful magic-users at hand, knights are less valued here in this realm. But, as Balinor has shown with the lessons that very morning, knights aren't mere decorations. They supplement what magic-users lack. Merlin hopes Balinor isn't one of those who look down on the knights.
"So, you and Sir Lancelot close?" the warlock ventures to ask after the prince's defense of Sir Lancelot's attitude.
"Lancelot is a dear friend of mine," Prince Arthur admits without farce or hesitation. His eyes hold unmistakable fondness, even as his expression stays nonchalant, as they glide over the quarrelling knights nearby. "I haven't missed a nameday celebration of his yet and I'm not about to."
Astonishment hits Merlin in the chest. His Arthur will never admit something so sentimental without being in a life-and-death situation. He inwardly shakes his head at yet another useless comparison and swallows a bite of impossibly tender pork. Polly's cooking truly cannot be compared with others.
"Now, it is my turn to inquire," Prince Arthur begins suddenly, eyes still on the frolicking townspeople. "Who exactly do you see when you look at me?"
Merlin chokes on his food. He hurriedly grasps his tankard of ale and chugs it down to smoothen the way of his throat. "Wh-What?" he stutters out after preventing his untimely death.
Prince Arthur, countenance calm and nonchalant, says, "You get this look on your face when you look at certain people. I clearly remind you of someone close to you."
"I-I—" Perhaps Merlin should have just kept to himself. Well, nothing for it now. "You do remind me of my best friend. A bit."
Prince Arthur's face twitches, the thumb tapping the wood of his tankard stilling. Merlin has made a misstep by admitting that, although he doesn't know how. The prince has gone abruptly and eerily still, blue eyes twin chips of ice.
"You remind me of my best friend as well," the prince says, gaze finally turning to Merlin. Seeing how scrutinizing it is, the warlock rather wishes it turns to somewhere else.
Whatever it is the prince is searching for, he clearly doesn't find it in Merlin.
Prince Arthur . . . deflates, for lack of a better word. His shoulders sag and a heavy sigh escapes his lips. His gaze glides away from Merlin and roams the tavern. He flags down a barmaid holding a tray full of ale upon meeting her eyes.
Merlin looks over Prince Arthur in concern. "Are you all right?" He has a strong suspicion that he's the one who caused the usually nonchalant prince's visible distress. Even knowing that, he's still clueless on how to address it.
Then, Merlin recalls what Cava and Fi told him the day before. The prince's closest friend died four years ago . . . Ah. Best friends are sore subjects.
Merlin cannot deny he's curious. What type of person had wiggled their way into the nonchalant prince's façade? But he knows better than to pry right now.
The barmaid replaces Prince Arthur's empty tankard with a filled one before leaving quickly to attend to other patrons.
"Your best friend — Your sigil-giving best friend, I take it," the prince states rather than asks, completely ignoring Merlin's question.
Merlin disguises his nervous swallow by taking a large gulp of ale. He doesn't think refuting Prince Arthur's remark will help him in any way. "Are you some sort of mind-reader? Have you fed me one of those empath-spillers?" The warlock glances down at his mug with uncertainty.
"Empath-spillers don't exist," Prince Arthur says. Speaking over Merlin's bewildered "What!?", he continues, "I merely have a knack for observing things people think remain unnoticed."
Recalling the many ridiculous lies Merlin has managed to slip past his Arthur, he replies with an amused, "Is that so?"
The prince seems to have taken Merlin's statement or tone as a challenge. His body shifts to fully face the warlock, shoulders set in a determined line and eyes a fiery blue. Out of instinct, Merlin leans away in alarm; every fiber of the prince mien seems to be ready to deal a blow.
Then, Prince Arthur speaks in a chopped curt tone that proves Merlin's instincts correct.
"You grew up in a place where the use of magic is discouraged. So, you practiced the arts in secret with very few people knowing."
Merlin's breath caught in his throat.
"You're self-taught, no mentor to guide your learnings. Hence, you learned spells out of order — you have little knowledge of basic enchantments but are very proficient in advanced ones."
The warlock's gaze darts to the side, looking for an escape. But the prince isn't even remotely close to done.
"You are a servant, that much is true. You have the muscles and calluses to prove it. But you're no servant to a lowly noble or merchant. No, judging by how well-fed you are and how pale your complexion is, you're quite taken care of. You worked under someone with high status. A highly regarded knight, a prince, maybe a king even. Someone who knows how to fight with a sword and spars with you often."
"Your Highness—"
"The fact is, Merlin." Prince Arthur's eyes turn icy, his mouth pursing in an angry line. "Many people see the limp and think me deaf as well as dumb. They make the mistake of underestimating me. I advise you not to do the same."
Merlin swallows the hard lump forming in his throat, blood chilling.
Arthur has never been the observant type. No, wait — Merlin's doing his best friend a disservice by describing him as such.
Arthur is a king and has been groomed to be one from birth; he needs to take note of every little shift in the conversation, account for every possible reaction of the party he's speaking with. He scrutinizes everyone and everything that comes within his purview and quickly decides how to act regarding any issue he perceives. Arthur navigates courtly life quite expertly.
But once a person comes into his inner circle, Arthur's scrutiny falls away absolutely. Arthur doesn't trust easily but when he does decide to trust someone, he doesn't hold back. That's why he never saw Agravaine's betrayal coming, never noticed Morgana's duplicity. He trusted them and could never turn a suspicious gaze upon them — not until they explicitly revealed their true colors.
That's why Arthur never questions Merlin's ludicrous lies. Not because the king is unobservant or gullible.
But because the king's trust in Merlin is absolute.
And in the past few minutes, Prince Arthur has shown how little he trusts Merlin.
Both epiphanies are heart-wrenching in completely different ways.
Despite his resolve earlier to see Prince Arthur differently from his king, Merlin can't deny that hurt still sprung in his chest.
The warlock looks down on his half-filled tankard, unable to meet the prince's hard gaze. "I-I wasn't looking down on you." If nothing else, Merlin must convince Prince Arthur of this. "I'm sorry if I acted in any way that made you think that." The warlock rubs the back of his neck, wincing.
The prince levels him with an assessing gaze for a few moments, practically boring a hole into his head. Then, Prince Arthur gives a curt nod and takes a drink from his new mug. He says nothing more.
Merlin knows that the best thing to do now is desert his spot near the prince and mingle with others in merriment. Possibly avoid the prince as much as he can in the future. He, however, needs to figure out one small thing.
"You—You think that—that I came from a place where magic is discouraged?" In a world where magic is the norm, how could Prince Arthur come to that conclusion? What gave Merlin away and how can he prevent others from noticing?
After a tense beat, Prince Arthur replies, "When you wish to placate, you use this gesture." The prince raises both hands in level with his shoulders, palms wide open and fingers unspaced.
Merlin blinks rapidly. ". . . Yes."
"For non-magic-users, they use such a gesture to show that they have no weapons in their hands and ease the worries of their companions. For magic-users, however, their hands are their weapons. With raised arms and palms open like that — it's more or less a threat. People who grew up with magic as commonplace hide their arms on their backs to denote they mean no harm."
That. . . makes a certain amount of sense. Is that why no one in this world is placated whenever Merlin does it?
"Sir Galahad grew up in a small village with only one mage." Prince Arthur nods at the tall knight dancing with utmost seriousness with a flushed tiny Selia. "He almost caused an incident with a visiting entourage when he showed his palms like that."
"B-But that doesn't mean magic is forb—discouraged in my hometown," Merlin points out with a frown.
"I admit it wasn't the first conclusion I came to."
Prince Arthur plucks a bread roll from the center bowl.
"You've a lot of potential, a White Level. Yet you're twenty-four winters and haven't had a single mentor. Even the most sheltered and distant village will send you to your kingdom's court to be taught properly as soon as your magic manifested. And no proper court will hire you as a mere servant had they known your talents. You must've kept your magic a secret. Why? Because you don't wish to involve yourself in courtly affairs or any complicated matters? Clearly not that; you applied to Camelot's Apprentice Exam after all."
The prince takes a bite of his bread and swallows before continuing, "The only other reason I can think of is that magic is not only uncommon but also distrusted in the place where you're from. George, my manservant, told me you know far too few of the spells useful in doing chores. So, you must not be using much magic in your work as a servant. You're also shifty whenever you use ostentatious spells in front of an audience, looking around and hesitating too much. Am I wrong so far, Merlin?"
Stunned doesn't even begin to describe what Merlin is feeling. He is also a bit in awe and fearful of Prince Arthur's observation prowess. And George is Prince Arthur's manservant!? This really is a truly different world.
"Y-You must've been observing me a lot, huh?" Merlin swiftly redirects the topic.
Prince Arthur shrugs as he finishes off his bread. "You've garnered the attention of many people, Merlin."
"Lucky me," the warlock mumbles.
For an insane moment, Merlin considers telling Prince Arthur everything. How he's from another world where Uther lived instead of Ygraine. How the prince's counterpart is already king. How he's trying to get back.
Prince Arthur is already aware of half of Merlin's circumstances. Why not inform him of the rest and ask him for help?
Then, Merlin exhales and comes back to his senses.
The prince has just shown how much he distrusts Merlin. Why on earth will he believe Merlin's ridiculous claims, especially since the warlock has no tangible proof of it? And will he even be willing to help the warlock after? Prince Arthur may even think Merlin mad and lock him up for the safety of others. Or maybe the prince will assume Merlin is mocking him and whatever good graces Merlin has gained with him will disappear.
No, telling Prince Arthur everything is just asking for unnecessary trouble.
But Merlin's so bloody exhausted from doing this on his own, of having no one to confide in and at least listen to him.
He must continue on his own, nonetheless.
Merlin holds on to his tankard and gets to his feet. "Thank you for the conversation, Your Highness. I better not bother you any longer." Merlin forces out a chuckle. "Have a good night."
Prince Arthur makes no move to stop him, and Merlin doesn't wait for a reply. The warlock finds that he can bear the prince's presence no longer tonight.
In the future, he also needs to watch what he says and does in front of Camelot's prince. He has been too careless concerning that.
After putting the princely problems aside, Merlin joins in with the merriment of others. He teases Sir Lancelot some more but ensures the knight knows it is mere teasing and no insult. It may be Merlin's wishful thinking, but he thinks Sir Lancelot's frown and tone are softer this time around.
Merlin discovers considerable differences between Gwen the blacksmith and the lady he knows; this Gwen's slightly crasser in her actions, unashamedly roughhousing with the knights. She's also not afraid to be loud, laughing without reserve.
She's surprisingly a follower of the New Religion and enthusiastically tells Merlin the parables she likes best; a wise king and two babies, a rich man and a poor one, a missing sheep amidst a hundred found ones — all with specific lessons to be learned.
Merlin finds himself utterly endeared, thoroughly enjoying bantering and drinking with her. This Gwen certainly has a higher alcohol tolerance than her counterpart and is not ashamed to show it. Sir Lancelot looks sour at their interactions, causing the warlock to tease him again. The knight looks gladder when Cava and Fi pester Merlin into telling them stories of his lessons.
Merlin relents and relays the crystal lesson without flourish, narrating how utterly exhausting and unremarkable it is. An awed Cava and Fi don't seem to share the same sentiment.
"Lord Balinor is an inspiration to us all Yellow Levels," Fi says with no small amount of admiration after Merlin's retelling.
Merlin blinks rapidly. "Yellow Level?"
"Yes. Didn't you know Lord Balinor's magical capacity is only Yellow Level?" Cava remarks. "I heard the Apprentice Exam was only supposed to accept Light Yellow or even Ivory Level and above. But Lord Balinor revealed himself to be a Yellow Level so the court had to adjust it." Cava claps her hand and grins. "To be a Court Sorcerer at that level . . . How to efficiently use spells given a low magical capacity is a valuable skill to learn. That's why many people would kill for your position, Merlin!"
Merlin has never wondered what Balinor's level is but, given Cava's statements, he admits that his not-father's feats may be worthy of admiration.
He asks for Balinor's other achievements as Camelot's Court Sorcerer. For some of them, Merlin mentally notes down so he can ask his mentor for further details. Some of them, Merlin notes down for teasing-fodder. Balinor has gotten to a lot of mischiefs over the years, much to Merlin's endless surprise.
All the while, the warlock is conscious of the astute blue-eyed gaze piercing him throughout the night.
Really, befriending princes isn't quite as easy as it was in the past.
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
A/N:
"You got to dig a little deeper
For you it's gonna be tough
You got to dig a little deeper
You ain't dug near far enough" – Mama Odie, The Princess and the Frog (2009)
A wild Jaskier appears! This story really is just a crossover of the fandoms I love. We have Hiccup, Toothless, Aziraphale, Crowley, and now Jaskier!
Ah, Selia, the ultimate censor. And yes, Prince Arthur just projected Sherlock right there lol. Balinor likes to place his hands behind his back so actually – he's always telling people, even when he's angry or scolding, that he means no harm.
I cannot recover my previous tumblr :'(. So I created a new one! Come shout at me! vividpast-writing dot tumblr dot com
Thank you for those still tuning in! And don't worry, if I did decide to abandon this, I'm gonna give a very detailed summary of the rest of it – the payoffs of all the foreshadowings I placed shouldn't be left in the air.
For those who'd like to create their own version of this story, please remix all you want! Get some of the plot points or characters from here or there. We're all mixing our creative juices here in this fanfic world. Feel free to let your imagination flow and don't worry about me :D. I wrote this so I could READ it so please write more like this!
Next up: Drunk!Merlin lands himself in a spot of trouble. That non-prattish Prince Arthurs owes him for this one . . .
Keep applying safety measures, everyone!
~ Vividpast