"I swear, Leon, if this is some jest of yours, I'm going to ring your head like a damned bell," Merlin chortles, reaching up to pluck at the blindfold tied around his head. He swears aloud when Leon swats his hand reprovingly.
"Stop that. And you'll not be ringing anything. This is just to make sure that you don't spoil the surprise since I know you're incorrigible."
He aims a kick in the direction of Leon's voice and is satisfied when he makes firm contact with his boot and hears a corresponding yelp from his brother. Sitting back in the chair, he listens to the sound of Leon shuffling around. A part of him very much wants to lift the edge of the blindfold to see what the great clod is doing, but he folds his arms across his chest and waits. Incorrigible, hm.
Finally, though, Leon makes a victorious sound and lightly taps his knuckles against the top of Merlin's head. "Alright, little villain, take a look."
"Maiden's mercy, Leon, I'm nine-and-ten, not a child. Will you stop calling me that silly—" He lifts the blindfold and gasps softly, staring at what lay on the table in front of him.
The quarterstaff is made of polished white ashwood, capped in steel at both ends, narrow steel bands reinforcing along its length with space enough between for handholds. Spread out on a soft cloth beside it is a gleaming row of small throwing knives. Merlin picks one up and feels the weight of it, made to be thrown hard and fast, the blades narrow enough to be hidden with ease. The flat of each blade is etched with subtle, delicate patterns. "Leon…" he murmurs, then stops. He doesn't know what else to say.
"Like you said," Leon says, lips curling up slightly. "You're not a child anymore. You deserve a set of proper weapons, especially now that Mother and Father have gone back to Silverpine."
Merlin stands and takes up the quarterstaff, spinning it lightly from hand to hand so the ends whistle in the air, feeling the balance and weight of it. It's the perfect height for him—he'd outgrown the shorter oak staff three years ago, when he'd grown almost two handspans over the course of a summer. He had quietly despaired of being as small in stature as his mother when he was younger, but to his delight, he now stands almost of height with Leon, who is easily the tallest of the knights. "It's perfect, he remarks, spinning the staff quickly and then slinging it over one shoulder, settling it across his back. It's got more heft than the oak staff, being longer and reinforced with steel, but not so great a difference to unbalance him.
Leon watches with an indulgent smile as Merlin fits the knives into their sheathes and starts stowing them in his clothing. The only blade he actually wears openly is the dagger that had been his six-and-tenth natality gift from Lionel, hooked on his belt. The others, he keeps hidden, up his sleeves, in his boots, under his shirt. One could look at him and not see any of the weapons he carries, and many are foolish enough to not consider the quarterstaff a proper weapon. Leon knows it is. At best, it'll leave a bruise to remember. At worse, it'll crack bones like a kindling twig.
"There you are," the knight remarks once the blades are all stowed away, vanished neatly beneath Merlin's loose-fitting attire. "Prepared to cause trouble to fullest ability, aren't you, villain?"
"Oh, hush, you." Merlin steps forward and embraces his brother tightly, smiling; with Leon sitting down, he's tall enough to rest his chin atop the other man's curly head. "Thank you."
"Yes, yes, get on with you. Go see your mother. I have to go prepare with the rest of the men. The Lady Helen of Mora is coming to sing for the King tonight, we're to escort her to the castle," Leon says, giving Merlin a light push towards the door.
Laughing, he leaves the townhouse and makes his way up to the castle. He knows his way to Gaius's chambers by heart now and has even counted the number of steps from the castle to the townhouse. When he ducks inside, Gaius is already out, but Mother is seated at one of the work benches. Some of her colour is back, mostly in the form of a fever-flush in her cheeks. At least she isn't coughing like she had been the past few days. "Mother, how do you feel?" he asks, leaning down to press his lips to her brow.
"I'm alright." She swats at him lightly, a faint smile playing at her lips. "You and Gaius, the two of you fret worse than I ever have, I swear."
Merlin smiles. "Of course we do, Mother, you're our favourite. Now tell me what all this is and where I should take it," he says, looking at the assorted medicines on the table.
Mother names each one, who it needs to be delivered to, and instructions for taking it as she packs them into the small padded bag made to keep the bottles from breaking against one another. "Oh, here, and this one. This is for the Lady Helen. She'll be performing tonight, it's for her throat," she adds, holding up another vial. "Remember all that?"
He slips the tincture into his pocket. "Yes, Mother, I'll remember it." He slides the bag over his shoulder and leans down to kiss her flushed cheek. "Take your feverfew."
She chortles and tweaks his hair. "Go on with you, nanny goat."
He's only been in the castle itself a handful of times, and usually, he only ever went directly to Gaius's chambers to visit Mother. Still, he manages to find his way around, delivering various remedies to the appropriate nobles and imparting the directions Mother had given him. Some are only meant to be taken in small doses or at certain times, especially when they make a person drowsy or somewhat out of sorts. He saves the sleeping draught for Morgana last.
He's made an unlikely sort of friend in the King's ward and her maidservant. As a knight's bastard, he's not really meant to interact with a highborn lady of Morgana's station. However, a servant like Gwen is far more acceptable, and since Morgana is rarely ever long without her maidservant... Well, some things can't be helped. Merlin wonders if Lionel has received his letter.
He raps his knuckles against her chamber doors. "Lady Morgana?" They've come to a compromise on Morgana insisting on being addressed by name and Merlin needing to follow his ingrained manners.
"Come in, Merlin."
Gwen is setting out two gowns when he enters, and he hears movement from behind the dressing screen. "I've brought your sleeping draught for you," he says, setting it on the table.
"Thank you. How's your mother faring?"
"Recovering. She's stopped coughing, and her fever's down."
"Wonderful news." Morgana's head appears from behind the screen, her shoulders bare and hair hanging loose. "Settle a debate for us, too. Which do you think I should wear to the feast tonight?" she asks, nodding towards the gowns that Gwen has laid out.
Merlin surveys them. One is a deep violet with voluminous sheer sleeves; it'd make fine contrast against her fair skin and dark hair. The other is a deep wine colour with golden embellishment around the waist, without sleeves or shoulders at all, attached to a golden chain that'd clasp around her neck. He isn't going, but he can only imagine some of the other young nobles ogling her with jaws on the floor, falling over each other for the chance to catch her eye.
"Red, my lady," he decides. "Make a night to remember."
Morgana grins. "Excellent answer. Red it is."
He is practicing forms in the courtyard of the townhouse with his new quarterstaff when he recalls the weight in his pocket and curses aloud. The tincture for Lady Helen.
Slinging the staff over his shoulder, he takes off in the direction of the palace, swearing under his breath all the while. Hopefully she'd still be in her chambers, readying for her performance, Maiden have mercy on him. He takes the stairs two at a time up to the guest chambers, nearly tripping himself coming around a corner. "Lady Helen! Lady Helen, I have something..."
No such mercy.
Merlin swears again, kicking at the wall when he sees the chamber empty. Mother's going to have his hide for this. Saying what are surely to be his final prayers, he leans against the wall and catches his breath for a moment, glancing around the lady's chamber. A chill crosses the nape of his neck. His gaze falls on the vanity.
Amongst the Lady Helen's cosmetics and brushes, there is somewhat else, things that don't quite belong in a lady's chamber. Or anywhere in Camelot. Frustration forgotten, Merlin walks further into the chamber, picks up a straw mannikin, and goes entirely still. Magic. He can feel it, prickling over his skin like he's handling stinging nettles with too-thin gloves on, which means its been cast with no kind of good intention. Scowling now, he tugs the twine off the battered journal lying beside it the mannikin and flips it open. It's a spellbook, but it's not like his own. The anger and hatred clings to his fingers when he drags his fingers across the writing, as if it's been absorbed into the ink, and he snatches his hand back, shaking the sting out of his fingers.
He turns and freezes halfway with a jolt when he sees a serving girl, sprawled on the floor where he couldn't see her when he came in. She's unnaturally still and deathly white, but he still bends to touch her throat, seeking a pulse. Her skin is waxy and cold, long-dead. A frigid realisation grips him. Whoever that woman is singing for the King tonight, she is not the Lady Helen of Mora.
He bolts towards the dining hall.
Even as he takes the stairs, he can hear the music, singing in the Old Tongue, and the magic of it sweeps across his skin. This isn't the stinging, seething hatred in the mannikin or the journal; it's thick and warm and coaxing, gentle almost. The thought occurs to him that he should sit down on the stairs, rest for a minute. He's worked hard enough, he deserves to rest. He nearly misses a step and shakes his head hard, dispelling the idea, and his magic coils up through him, pushing back against the deceptively soothing warmth, like sinking into a hot bath...only to be drowned in it.
The hall is dark and full of ringing song when he bursts into it, silvered cobwebs draped across the sleeping nobles. Merlin sees the Not Lady Helen slip a dagger from her sleeve, sees her fixed gaze on the sleeping Prince Arthur. His gaze snaps upwards to the chandelier overhead, the heavy wrought iron directly above her, and raises his eyes just slightly to the chain above it. "Gebrecan," he whispers.
The links burst apart in a shower of iron fragments. The chandelier drops with a crash onto the Not Lady Helen, taking her to the floor; he can hear her bones breaking even despite the clamor of metal on stone. All around, the nobles start to stir and rouse, murmuring in confusion as they glance around the dark hall, pulling the cobwebs from their hair and clothing and pointing at the Not Lady Helen. The glamour she's cast dissipates, a ragged harridan appearing beneath the image of a lovely woman.
She lifts her grey head, her hateful glare seeking out the Prince once more, and Merlin knows what she means to do almost before it happens.
His magic spills out of him in a rush, thunder without sound. Time oozes along like cold honey.
The harridan snatches up the dagger and hurls it with a force belying her age, part rage and part magic, a last outburst. He sees the silvered flash of it, spinning end-over-end towards Prince Arthur.
Merlin gets to him first. Lunging forward, he snatches a handful of the prince's cape and yanks, dragging him clean out of his chair to the floor just as time snaps back into place with a rush of motion and sound.
The dagger slams into the chair, right where the prince's chest would have been, striking so hard that the blade punches clean through the wood, the deadly point protruding from the chairback. Stepping clear of the prince, Merlin's fingers twitch towards one of his knives, but it's redundant. The Not Lady Helen has already collapsed, eyes blank. A bit of blood oozes from her mouth.
"You saved my life," Prince Arthur says as he gets to his feet, staring at Merlin and sounding more confused than thankful.
"So you did," the King says. "A debt such as that must be repaid."
The ban of magic repealed would be pleasant, Merlin thinks but bows his head, murmuring somewhat about it being unnecessary.
Uther's gaze is insistent, almost benevolent; his eyes are blue and green together, Merlin notices absently, marked with brown in the one. "Come now, don't be so modest. You shall be rewarded."
"It is unneeded, your highness, truly," he murmurs. He's never been this close to King Uther before, and he finds it unnerving to say the least, as if he's standing barefoot beside a viper, uncertain if it is sleeping or eyeing up his ankles.
"No, absolutely. This merits something quite special. You shall be awarded with a position in the royal household," the King says, and Merlin goes still in dawning alarm. "You shall be Prince Arthur's manservant."
What? What? Merlin turns his head, gaze seeking out Leon; his brother's near enough to have heard and looks as though someone has just struck him upside the head with something quite heavy, mouth agape.
"Father!" the prince hisses, but the King's already stepped away. People are applauding.
Merlin blows out a breath. "Well, fuck."