Chapter Summary: A blackout drunk Merlin is a talkative one. The consequences of that occur the morning after.
Warning/s: Non-graphic implication of violence. Brief descriptions of a panic attack.
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Chapter XIII: Drink Up, Me Hearties
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Cheers and drinks flow freely throughout the nameday celebration. Lancelot partakes considerably in the former but little in the latter. He's not overly fond of any substance that may muddy his mind.
The food is inexplicably scrumptious, the music loudly jaunty, and the company is the best in the kingdom. Even though he's one of the very few sober individuals of the night, Lancelot can ask for no better celebration.
His sobriety is, unfortunately, what led him to his current situation.
Lancelot grunts and tightens his grasp on the arm and waist of the bloody drunkard he has the unfortunate duty to accompany home.
Gwen has offered to carry the man herself, sheepish and suspecting she's been the cause of the man's state. They have been drinking together nonstop during the celebration. Lancelot has waved off the offer; he's not letting Gwen anywhere near this mess.
(He has seen how the court apprentice looks at Gwen, charmed and fond and probably already half-in-love. Gwen appears equally as endeared. Lancelot has no right — no right at all to be jealous. But reason has not won out, and something ugly and twisted still snarls in the center of his chest whenever he sees them conversing. It's unbecoming of a knight, especially since —)
The court apprentice in his hold slurs out, "Why's the ground sh'kin. . .?", breaking Lancelot from his self-flagellation.
"Bloody — Stop dragging your feet, damn you." Lancelot adjusts his grip once more.
Merlin tries to obey the command and promptly tangles his feet. He nearly sends both of them tumbling to the ground. Lancelot curses some more after regaining his balance with footwork that almost twisted his ankle. Thankfully, the night is deep, and the streets remain empty; this clumsy display remains unwitnessed by all except one.
Prince Arthur eyes them both with his usual blank facade. His wooden cane — the cane he only uses when in disguise and never in his true form — makes a crisp tok sound on the ground as he matches their pace.
Lancelot glances at darkened alleyways between houses, wondering if he should just abandon this sod somewhere out of the way.
As if reading his mind, Prince Arthur pipes up, "If Balinor finds out we left his precious apprentice out here in the elements, he'll certainly give us that disappointed look."
"Maybe Lord Balinor doesn't have to find out," Lancelot grumbles. Nonetheless, he continues shouldering his burden. No one likes being on the receiving end of Lord Balinor's patented disappointed look, not even the Head Knight.
Besides . . . he did owe Merlin a small favor. The apricots, which Gwen has offered to guard in her own home lest it be feasted upon in the knights' shared chambers, are no small gift. Merlin has risked himself by walking out of the citadel's protective measures just to find fruits that aren't even in season — all for Lancelot, who he met just a week prior. The knight is simultaneously bewildered and touched by the gesture.
The effort and thoughtfulness of the act are not ones Lancelot can take lightly.
Grudgingly, Lancelot admits that his first impression of Merlin being a condescending pompous arse may be incorrect. However, Lancelot is not about to completely retract his judgment either.
Merlin is still a complete arse, just not a condescending one.
"Father doesn't have to find out . . ." the court apprentice mumbles.
Mayhap an idiotic arse who doesn't know when to stop drinking.
Wait.
Lancelot goes through the conversation once more.
A mirthful guffaw lodges itself at the back of his throat. "Tell me, Merlin. Do you see Lord Balinor as a father figure?"
Merlin bobs his head without a glint of hesitation or a gleam of shame, unabashed to admit it.
How bold. Merlin's only been Lord Balinor's apprentice for a week, and he's already of such a mind.
Lancelot can't curb down the giant grin from stretching his face. While Merlin may not remember this, Lancelot will surely do. And he's never going to let the apprentice live it down.
At the corner of his eye, Lancelot witnesses Prince Arthur's eyes widening and mouth parting. When he turns to look directly, however, the prince is wearing his usual blank expression. The knight must have imagined it.
On another cheerful aspect, this court apprentice will probably suffer tremendously when the morning training lessons start on the morrow. All the other knights who've indulged too much will join him in his torment.
The notion warms Lancelot's chest. He'll be sure to be as boisterous as possible in the morning.
At the corner of his eye, Lancelot sees Prince Arthur glancing at the intoxicated apprentice. The prince's eyes gleam with contemplation. Lancelot, familiar with such a look, feels a smidgen of pity for the poor sod in his arms.
"Merlin," Prince Arthur calls out.
"Wh't." The aforementioned man's head lolls as he attempts to lift it.
"Who gave you the De Bois sigil?"
"Y'know who, y'prat." Merlin flails a flippant hand and smacks the prince in the shoulder.
Lancelot nearly chokes on his tongue.
Prince Arthur blinks owlishly, a rare show of surprise. ". . . Did you just call me a prat?"
"Yesh. D'll'phead."
Prince Arthur blinks some more. "What's a dollophead?"
"In tw' words?" Merlin bequeaths them a giant grin. "King Arthur." He rejoins it with a hearty cackle.
Without hesitation and regret, Lancelot promptly drops the apprentice. Such insolence from a mere court apprentice!
Merlin crashes to the ground like a heavy sack of potatoes. "Oww."
"King?" Prince Arthur visibly gathers his composure and arches a brow. "Curious that you would use such a title."
Merlin, head and back flat on the cobblestones, looks up at the prince with squinted eyes. "You're actin' 'dd."
"Am I?"
"And you look different."
"Do I?"
Merlin hums and nods. "Still sound like a prat though."
Lancelot valiantly fights down the urge to kick the downed figure.
"Which royalty did you serve under, Merlin?" The prince probes with a carefully uninterested tone.
"A royal arse," Merlin replies before giggling so hard that he knocks his head on the stones. That doesn't seem to deter his glee in any way.
Something akin to exasperation crosses the prince's countenance. Lancelot physically feels his own patience thinning out. No sensible answer is coming out of this drunkard, all right.
Merlin's blatant disrespect for courtly status leads to Lancelot wondering, once again, if he is truly Lord Agravaine's son. If Merlin has grown up as royalty, it would explain his brazenness when addressing those of higher status. But then again, why would Merlin deny his own birthright?
Then, so suddenly that Lancelot almost wonders if he blanked out for a few minutes, Merlin ceases laughing. He puts his forearm over his face and sighs heavily as if the air has turned into cotton in his lungs.
The corners of his mouth are downturned when he says, "I w'nt to go home."
All manner of expression leaves Prince Arthur's features. Despite Lancelot's dislike for the apprentice, the sorrow in Merlin's tone tightens a band around the knight's chest.
"And where is 'home', Merlin?" the prince of Camelot asks, his tone soft and gentle.
A beat passes. Then, "I don't know." Merlin lets out a shaky exhale. "I don't know."
The court apprentice removes his forearm from over his face; his eyes are red, but no tears seem forthcoming despite the wobbly quality of his voice.
He grunts and wrinkles his nose. "Why 'm I on the gr'nd? H'lp me up, Lanc'lot." Merlin lifts his arms towards the knight, his flushed face expectant. No trace of melancholy remains in his features.
Lancelot is getting whiplash from the abrupt mood changes Merlin is subjecting them to. He witnesses Prince Arthur blinking rapidly in surprise as well.
A growl prowls Lancelot's chest and rises to his throat at the apprentice's presumptuousness. He forgets his earlier pity for the man. "You know what. I think you're better off sleeping off the drink right there. Good night, Merlin."
"Oh. 'll right. G'night, Lancelot." Without further complaint, Merlin drops his arms and closes his eyes. In just three breaths, he begins to snore.
Lancelot stares down at him with no small amount of incredulity.
A soft and unexpected laugh pierces through the silent night air.
Lancelot's head snaps up to the source. Prince Arthur covers his mouth and clears his throat. Lancelot gives him a narrow-eyed stare and wonders.
Prince Arthur has been acting oddly around this Merlin. Lancelot is undoubtedly curious. He, however, doesn't pry; the prince will tell him if he needs to know.
Eventually, after weighing whether he rather risks Lord Balinor's disapproval or an aching back, Lancelot pats Merlin awake and forces him up. The court apprentice has still yet to sober up but at least his legs have ceased turning to soft jelly. Lancelot resumes supporting him by wrapping an arm around his waist and getting under his arm.
Prince Arthur follows right beside them, silent but thoughtful.
Merlin's head bows, his neck unable to support its weight. He keeps mumbling about mucking the stables. Still a nonsensical twat.
The hair at the back of the apprentice's neck parts at his clumsy motion, revealing a raised white scar spanning at least four-fingers length across his nape. Lancelot has glimpsed upon it before the Choosing Ceremony; he has only seen it briefly, but it was remarkable enough to remain in his memory. The knight first thought that someone attempted to take Merlin's head off and left the scar as a remnant.
Upon closer inspection now, however, Lancelot realizes that isn't the case.
It's too even and smooth to have been a grazed assault. It's a purposeful cut — a medical one mayhap. But Lancelot cannot think of a known procedure that necessitated such a marking in that specific place.
To distract himself from the weight currently straining his muscles, the knight gruffs out, "Where'd you get that scar then?" No use spending the rest of their stumbling with Merlin's unintelligible murmurings. At least with this, Lancelot may learn something interesting or entertaining.
Merlin lifts his head and blinks with glazed eyes. "Huh? Which sc'r?"
Rumor has it that Merlin is the owner of several interesting scars. So, Lancelot specifies, "The one at the back of your neck."
"Oh. That." The apprentice frowns. He stares at Lancelot as if the knight has done him a great offense. "D'dn't I t'll you b'fore?"
Lancelot arches a brow. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought Merlin hit his head and concussed himself instead of just being carelessly drunk. He humors the man. "Tell me again."
"F'm'rroh. St'pid snake."
Confusion furrows Lancelot's brows. A snake caused the scar? It looks nothing like fang bites.
Then, the prince's cane resounds prominently in the night. Lancelot's head whips up to see Prince Arthur hastily marching towards them, expression hard.
Despite his sore back, Lancelot straightens up in alarm, prepared to do whatever the prince needs done.
Prince Arthur's arm darts out and his fingertips press firmly on and around the discussed scar.
Merlin grunts and tries to swat the arm away. "St'p that, y'prat."
"Shut up." Lancelot growls at the continued insult to the Prince of Camelot.
The prince doesn't relent, his fingers poking and probing around and over the white line. The knight tightens his grip on the apprentice to keep him still, and lets the prince observe his fill.
After several tense seconds, Prince Arthur exhales and withdraws his hand. Relief softens his visage as he steps back, although a great hint of grimness remains.
"You've been involved in some dangerous enchantments, Merlin."
"I know n'thing 'bout m'gic," Merlin replies promptly and largely without sense once more.
"Dangerous enchantments?" Lancelot asks, still in the dark of whatever epiphany the prince has arrived at.
Somberness paints the prince's face and tone in large strokes. "A fomorroh is a serpentine creature used by High Priestesses of old to enslave minds. It's inserted at the back of the neck." His gaze flits by Merlin's bowed form. "Once placed inside, the victim will lose themselves completely. They'll do everything to fulfill their master's wish; they will neither sleep nor eat nor care about any injuries. Nothing of them will be left except the single-minded determination to act upon their master's last instruction. That Merlin was able to survive and escape that fate is nothing short of a miracle."
Ice floods through Lancelot's veins, and blood rushes through his ears. His breath hitches, his lungs unable to expand enough to take in air.
He isn't aware that such heinous magic can exist.
Perhaps he should be glad that he's only discovering it now.
The scar marring his face throbs just as painfully on the day he received it, mocking him. Echoes of jeers and taunts fill his hearing, and crooked grins consume his mind's eye. He begins smelling grime and excrement and blood and —
"Lancelot. Listen to my voice. Deep breaths."
Lancelot closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and blanks his mind.
When his breathing grows even a few minutes later and the storm in his chest recedes, he opens his eyes.
Prince Arthur's contrite expression greets him. "I apologize. My words were careless."
"'Tis all right, Sire," Lancelot mumbles, ashamed and embarrassed at his loss of composure because of some simple explanation.
Prince Arthur says nothing more on the matter. Merlin, who Lancelot miraculously did not drop amidst all of that, adopts a tiny frown as he stares at the grim knight with bleary eyes.
Merlin has always been all large smiles and insolent wit; it's difficult to believe that the apprentice has gone through such a sinister plot and came out whole. Sympathy pierces through the knight like a dagger before he can squash it.
(He never imagined that he would have something in common with Merlin of all people—)
Another greater concern reverberates in Lancelot's mind.
"And we're sure the enchantment on him is gone?" As the implications of the fomorroh creature sink in, so does the wariness.
"There's no snakehead squirming around the back of his neck so we can rest assured," the prince answers with a nonchalance that Lancelot cannot help but admire.
Lancelot eyes the court apprentice pensively. Clearly, the drink has loosened Merlin's tongue and the prince has realized it earlier, hence the questioning. The knight doubts the apprentice will willingly tell them about the fomorroh otherwise.
The knight resumes his strides and efforts to get both Merlin and him in the castle. Prince Arthur follows right beside them.
Again, Lancelot's previous suspicion comes to the forefront; there is only one High Priestess vicious enough to perform such an abhorrent spell. Merlin is likely a warlock that defected after all.
Lancelot dares not repeat the thought out loud, not without an anti-eavesdropping spell. They're in a public location, and Lancelot's careless accusation will ruin Merlin's reputation if it spreads. As the apprentice's mentor, Lord Balinor's standing may also come under scrutiny.
Lord Balinor is already a topic in the gossip mill for taking the man the böggel-mann targeted as an apprentice. Lancelot is not about to fan those flames.
Prince Arthur seems to have come to the same conclusion; he drops the topic without another word. Perhaps he'll have a word with Merlin in private later on. Lancelot's not oblivious to the unusual interest the prince and the Court Sorcerer have shown this one apprentice.
(The knight cannot help but recall another apprentice years ago who had caught their interest. His chest pains in sympathy once more, and he swiftly banishes the notion from his mind.)
At the very least, Lancelot can be fairly certain that Merlin is no longer working under Priestess Nimueh. After Merlin's experience with the fomorroh, surely, he must wish to work against her.
They stumble into the castle and reach the apprentice chambers in silence. Even Merlin has stopped blabbering, eyes drooping dangerously and body becoming heavier in Lancelot's grasp.
Thankfully, the knight manages to unceremoniously throw the apprentice onto his bed before he could completely fall asleep. Merlin grumbles at the none-too-gentle handling and shifts on the cushion to make himself comfortable.
One of the apprentices sharing the room is fast asleep. The other — Mordred, Lancelot recalls — is squinting over a book with a pulsing blue orb as a light source. Upon witnessing their arrival, he closes his tome and glances at the scene.
His eyes flit over Lancelot and Prince Arthur before settling on Merlin. Lancelot sees no recognition in his countenance when he gazes upon the disguised form of Camelot's prince.
Lancelot wonders, not for the first time, how on earth had Merlin been able to recognize Prince Arthur. Even if Merlin is familiar with the prince's voice, he shouldn't have immediately concluded that a random stranger in the tavern could be a covert prince.
Mordred waves his hand in a small arc, and the blanket underneath Merlin shimmies out. The blanket then proceeds to loosely wrap itself around the drunkard. Merlin pulls it tighter around himself and instantly falls into slumber.
Duty done, Lancelot nods at the only awake apprentice and leaves the chambers with the prince.
"Lancelot," Prince Arthur speaks, breaking the silence. "Tell no one of what we heard tonight."
The knight nods, half-expecting the request. "Of course, Your Highness."
Lancelot may be a knight of Camelot, but his loyalty lies with its prince.
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Merlin strides into the training grounds with a pounding head and squinted eyes. The bright morning light cleaves its way into his head like an axe. By the gods, why can't the sun have mercy on him this one time? The apprentice robes prevent him from getting too hot, but they do nothing to diminish his headache.
Gaius always has a tonic prepared on the rare times Merlin went out to indulge. Unfortunately, Gaius isn't here.
The warlock sighs and cuts off that depressing line of thinking.
"The dungeons and now the tavern?" Morgana smirks in a way reminiscent of her counterpart. The difference is that no trace of malice colors her mien. "Merlin, you truly are embracing life here in Camelot."
"Don't talk too loudly. Please." Merlin massages his temples, his eyes closing in hopes of finding relief. No such luck.
Mordred releases an amused huff before claiming his set of chainmail and armor.
Morgana laughs, high and boisterous. Merlin winces and valiantly resists the urge to turn Morgana's hair bright pink.
Then, the sorceress taps an index finger in the middle of the warlock's forehead. Emerald threads crackle between them.
Merlin's magic surges in alarm, rising to come to his defense.
But relief blossoms from the point of contact, grinding all defensive actions into a halt. Unbidden, Merlin releases a relieved groan as his headache dissipates without a trace.
Morgana withdraws her finger with a smug grin, oblivious to how close she came to being maimed. "You should learn how to remove such pains before overindulging, Merlin."
"Lady Morgana, you are a goddess," Merlin says without missing a beat before sighing happily.
Pink tinges the sorceress' cheeks even as she maintains her calm facade. "Well, you owe me one now, Merlin." With that, she turns to claim her own set of armor.
Merlin blinks rapidly, having never witnessed this counterpart so obviously flustered.
Balinor arrives at the training grounds shortly after. No prince walks at his side this time. He instructs them to use their apprentice robes as padding under their chainmail.
"Please do note that you may not use magic against your opponent. But that doesn't mean you can't use enchantments upon yourselves." Their mentor cocks a meaningful brow.
Realization dawns upon Mordred and Morgana. Merlin nods distractedly, clipping in the right shoulder pad of his assigned armor.
Two new knights come forth as challengers for their lessons, stretching and warming up in front of two training dummies.
Unfortunately for Merlin, Sir Lancelot remains the third knight and his sparring partner for the day. Sir Lancelot meets the warlock's eyes and smirks.
Merlin rolls his eyes before tightening the strap of his vambrace. He double-checks the laces and belts of his chainmail and pads.
"Merlin, I think I might actually hate you," Mordred suddenly proclaims.
"Hmm?" The aforementioned apprentice looks up from the buckle he's adjusting to see a most amusing sight.
Twisted leather buckles, half-inserted greaves, hanging pauldrons, and loose couters adorn various parts of his fellow apprentices' forms. At least they wore the chainmail correctly.
Frustration lines the corners of Mordred's eyes while bewilderment mars Morgana's mien.
Laughter bubbles out of Merlin's mouth before he can stop out. "What are you lot even doing?" He approaches Mordred and loosens the hidden clasps of the greaves to let the druid's leg slide all the way into it.
"Oh," is all Mordred can reply with.
"They can't be expecting us to wear this after teaching it to us only one time." There is a hint of a whine in her tone that Morgana tries and fails to hide.
Merlin shrugs. "Maybe it's part of the lesson." He untangles the straps of Mordred's left vambrace and re-ties them — properly this time.
Merlin helps them don their respective armor in less than a quarter of an hour. With Mordred, it has been a quick session. Morgana's armor, however, has been a little tricky. Her armor is different than what Merlin is used to, and he takes extra care to touch her as little as possible. He need not have helped her put on the cuisses, which Merlin is utterly thankful for.
"Thank you, Merlin," Mordred says with a small smile as he studies the way the straps of his vambraces interweave. "How are you even good at this?"
"Servant, remember?" the warlock reminds them. "I've put armor on my master thousands of times by now, probably." Gods, if Arthur hears Merlin referring to him as 'master', the prat would have laughed himself sick.
Mordred nods. Morgana's eyes light up with intrigue.
"No common knight has a personal manservant. Who was your master then?" the court lady inquires, not bothering to hide her curiosity.
"No one important," Merlin replies with faux flippancy. "Shall we get our weapons?" He swiftly and rather badly changes the subject.
"Finally," one of their sparring partners mutters with an exaggerated sigh after picking their respective weapons.
"We're sorry to keep you waiting," Morgana says with a beatific smile, her previous unsureness when donning armor gone without a trace. Gold envelops her irises, and defensive spells wrap themselves around her petite body. "Shall we start?"
And so, the second day of the grueling lesson commences.
Their mentor has seated himself in the stands, various documents in hand. Occasionally, he looks up to observe their progress. With Mordred and Morgana finally using magic to strengthen themselves and increase the impact of their attacks, their progress has indeed been significant compared to the day before.
Merlin should really learn some of those spells. The one where the pike practically bounces off Mordred's armor seems particularly useful when applied to a careless king. As it is, the warlock can only slow down time to match Sir Lancelot's speed.
Sir Lancelot is no less vicious this morning, barely holding back against a magical apprentice. He's also making a lot of unnecessary noises, stomping loudly, and clanking his armor at every gesture.
After several minutes, an out-of-breath Merlin discovers why.
"By the Goddess, Lady Morgana cured your headache, didn't she?" Lancelot grumbles before lunging forward to jab at Merlin's stomach.
The warlock shoves the blunted sword away with his own, producing a teeth-grinding sound. He sends a small fireball careening beyond Sir Lancelot's head.
The knight attempts to pull back his weapon to dissipate it but is a tad too late; the fireball reaches the dummy unmolested. Sir Lancelot grunts in frustration.
Merlin grins. "I'm sorry that you can't make me suffer more, Sir Lancelot."
Sir Lancelot readies himself once more for another bout, lifting his sword and adopting a guarded stance. A curl of a smirk hides at the corners of his mouth. "But it's not me putting you up to this training, is it? Perhaps you should talk to your father about making the lessons a tad easier for you."
Merlin freezes in utter shock.
Mordred has informed him that Sir Lancelot has dragged his drunken form back to the apprentice chambers. The last thing Merlin recalls the night before was drinking with Gwen and debating the merits of chicken soup as a cure for colds. And then, utter blankness fills his memories until he wakes in the morning with a skull-splitting headache.
Merlin's not one to overindulge, fear of accidentally doing magic in front of a magic-hating populace tempering him. But between long cheerful discussions with Gwen, the knowledge that accidentally doing magic will not send his head flying, and the desire to forget his own complicated transdimensional circumstances, he must have had one drink too many.
What on earth did Merlin ramble about in his drunken state? He's not a talkative drunk; he's mostly a stumbling giggling mess. But then again, this is perhaps the first time he has blacked out from drinking.
Deep in thought and swirling in panic, he's unable to defend himself when Sir Lancelot swipes at his left flank. Merlin stumbles and lands on his bottom on the hard-packed ground.
"Ow. . ." Dull pain bursts from his side and backside, the armor and apprentice robes having minimized most of the damage but not all.
"Are you all right?" No concern laces Sir Lancelot's tone or expression. In fact. he looks practically gleeful. "Perhaps you should let your father take a look at you to make sure." The knight's voice begins to rise, his head turned to the stands where the Court Sorcerer sits with his documents. "Lord Ba—"
Merlin throws out an enchantment in desperation, and Sir Lancelot stumbles back.
The glare the knight sends him is nothing short of scalding.
"Merlin." The Court Sorcerer's sharp voice echoes in the grounds. His eyes are narrowed with disapproval. "Five laps."
Merlin shoots to his feet and nods rapidly, already expecting and even desiring the punishment. At least he'll have time to think and try to remember what the hell happened last night.
Before he begins his laps, he steps closer to the scowling knight and lowers his voice in a frantic whisper. "Wha—Whatever I said, I was drunk and—and they were just drunken ramblings, Sir Lancelot. Pure nonsense."
The smirk returns to Sir Lancelot's expression. "There was a lot of nonsense, all right. But not this one, it seems."
Merlin swallows and promptly begins his run before he can say anything that will make everything worse.
Merlin takes a deep breath as he dashes through his first lap. All right, all right. He can plan through this.
Last night, in some dreadful way, Merlin has admitted his parentage to Sir Lancelot. Or at least somehow implied that Balinor is his father. Which isn't even true, seeing as he's from another realm. But Balinor and he do share the same blood right now.
How can Sir Lancelot believe his words with no doubt? The knight has been suspicious of everything and anything that comes out of his mouth; how is this the one thing Sir Lancelot believed without proof?
Unless . . . Merlin has provided irrefutable proof.
Horror creeps onto him as his legs burn from jogging.
What proof did Merlin show? By the gods, did he reveal his and Balinor's dragonlord status?
No, no. Sir Lancelot made no mention of that. So, if not that, what else could prove that Balinor is his father? And how Merlin can still refute it?
At the very least, this is the least incriminating information Merlin can reveal. Although, it is the most mortifying. The warlock doesn't know how Balinor will react when he hears Merlin claiming to be his son when the man knows for certain that he has sired none.
When Merlin finishes his laps several minutes later, he has come to a solution.
With burning lungs, Merlin takes up his training sword once more and approaches Sir Lancelot, who's practicing his swings while waiting for his sparring partner.
"Wh—What exactly did I say last night?" The warlock needs to be certain.
Sir Lancelot smirks once more. He cocks his head to the side. "Well, Lord Balinor was in the same sentence as fath—"
Merlin slaps a hand over the knight's mouth, the tips of his ears burning hot with mortification. He nervously glances around for eavesdroppers. So far, not even the Court Sorcerer appears to be paying attention to them.
"Lord Balinor is not my father," Merlin says emphatically, unable to help the sliver of desperation from slipping in his tone. "You can go ahead and ask him yourself and he'll deny it."
Seeing as Merlin doesn't exist in this realm, of course Balinor will know nothing of it. Merlin can pass whatever he said the night before as drunken ramblings.
(Although, he really hopes Sir Lancelot won't actually ask his mentor about it because that would be utterly embarrassing.)
Sir Lancelot blinks rapidly, looking nonplussed.
"But think of his reputation, Sir Lancelot. If people think he had a son outside of wedlock, Lord Balinor will be the subject of harsh gossip." If there's one thing Merlin can appeal to, it's the value of honor and discretion in court. The knight doesn't tolerate gossip, which Merlin knows for sure.
Sir Lancelot rolls his eyes. "Peace, Merlin. No one will think you're Lord Balinor's child. You don't even look anything alike."
Merlin splutters with indignation. "But you said — that I — Then, what was that whole thing about!?"
A frown slowly forms upon the knight's brow as Merlin stutters out demands. Then, the light of realization slacks his expression. "Oh. Oh. What!?"
"What?" What's the knight going on about now?
"You're —!" Sir Lancelot cuts himself off and vehemently shakes his head. "No, that's not —" The knight shoots the bewildered Merlin a scrutinizing look, his eyes padding from the top of the apprentice's head down to the boots. Then, he shakes his head once more. "No, never mind. Let's continue training."
Merlin blinks rapidly, puzzled at the off-kilter expression Sir Lancelot is trying and failing to hide. He raises his sword, nonetheless. The less they talk about Merlin's drunk babblings, the better.
They resume their sparring. The knight seems distracted throughout, and Merlin manages to hit his dummy more than five times in the session.
The morning lesson ends without much more fanfare. The three apprentices disrobe their armors with sighs of relief. Even with that, Mordred and Morgana have asked for their resident servant's help.
"You should both know how to put the armor on tomorrow," Merlin says as they set down their weapons.
"You can't be expecting us to learn just by seeing it done twice," Mordred points out.
"Why not? I did it correctly on my third time. Without forgetting anything, not even the sword," Merlin replies.
The three of them banter on their way out of the grounds, discussing whether it's really possible to quickly learn how to put on armor without direct teaching.
Unbeknownst to one warlock, a certain knight's eyes are boring into his departing back. Then, the knight's eyes dart to the Court Sorcerer, who's gathering his documents in the stands and preparing for afternoon court sessions.
Sir Lancelot scrubs his face and mutters, "Bloody scite. I did not need to get involved in this."
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
A/N:
"Drink up, me hearties yo ho~" - Captain Jack Sparrow, Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End (2007)
Thank you so much grilledcheeseandgravityfalls for the kofis! And the kudos, bookmarks, and favorites in this story had been so astounding O.O. Thank you, everyone, for your encouraging words and delicious speculations in the comments ^_^
Hope this chapter was a lot of fun for you. Drunk!Merlin will make more appearances later in the future!
Check out the latest fanarts! No joke, I made one of them my mobile wallpaper and another my lock screen. They're so pretty 😍
I promised trouble but I'm afraid I have to delay that plot point to a future (soon-ish) chapter. I keep re-plotting events so I wrote 10K words for future chapters. Now I just have to write the intervening ones. Wish me luck.
I'll try to update once a week this December. But no promises! I have so many favorite scenes in the next chapters so hopefully that'll motivate me.
Next up: Further history on dragonlords and some light scheming in the background
Let's make this last month of the year a good one!
~ Vividpast