"Bescyldian!"

Lancelot wakes up with a little gasp, feeling a sharp ache run through his side. He sits himself up carefully, recognising a soft bed underneath him and fine blankets over him. Memories flicker across his mind: the woods, the winged beast, the young man he had pushed out of the way, the foreign word that still rang in his ears...a glittering darkness.

"Ah, you're awake," says a friendly voice, and he turns his head, absently taking stock of the spacious bedroom he was in, obviously a fine place. Leaning up against the wall is the young man that he had saved. He walks over to Lancelot's side, putting a long-fingered hand on his shoulder. "You have a good scratch, but you'll live. It's a most fortunate thing we managed to escape before it caught the both of us."

"I...I heard you," Lancelot murmurs in an undertone, shaking his head and glancing about as if expecting the King to leap out from behind the draperies. "Bescyl...?" He shakes his head, unable to properly pronounce the word. He knows what it means, however. "You did magic." The young man gazes at him, his blue eyes inscrutable, and Lancelot hastily backtracks, realising his blunder and cursing his own foolishness. "I shan't tell. I swear. You saved my life, I'm in your debt. Thank you." He has no issue with magic and never has, having seen somewhat of it himself in his youth.

One corner of the man's mouth lifts in a crooked smile. "You as well. It might have gotten my head off had you not pushed me out of the way. My name is Merlin." He holds out his hand.

"Lancelot. Am I in Camelot?" he asks, shaking the young man's hand.

"Indeed you are."

He pushes the blankets back and gets to his feet carefully, wincing at the ache in his ribs. With exceeding care, he lifts up his shirt—which isn't actually his, he realises—to look at the scratch on his side. It's swathed in bandages and has a strong herbal scent, meaning he's been treated by someone with some knowledge, thankfully. When he takes a deep breath, the expanding of his ribs aches, but its bearable, more of a discomfort than an outright pain. Letting the shirt down, he walks to the window and gasps softly, looking out at the city of Camelot for the first time. He can't see the castle itself, so he supposes this room must be facing away, and it lies behind him. "Oh, it's beautiful."

"What have you come to Camelot for, Lancelot?" Merlin asks, leaning one shoulder against the wall and watching him with some amusement.

"I wish to be a knight," he replies. "Ever since I was a child, it has been my dream to join the knights of Camelot. It's a foolish dream, I'm certain, given that Camelot's best and bravest already fill its ranks, but I want to try."

Merlin smiles full and white. "I can help you there, then."

Lancelot turns in surprise. "You can? How?"

"My half-brother is a knight. The prince's First Knight, actually," he replies. "And I will speak to Arthur himself. They will love you, the both of them."

He can scarce believe what he's hearing. He laughs a little, awed. "You know Prince Arthur?"

"Oh, yes." He laughs aloud, walking over and clapping a hand against Lancelot's shoulder. "I saw you against that beast, and if there is one thing that Arthur values, it is the kind of courage that borders on foolhardy. He's an expert in it himself," he says, and Lancelot widens his eyes slightly at the flippant tone Merlin uses, so casually insulting the prince. Merlin's smile falters slightly, however, and he casts a sideways look at him. "Tell me, Lancelot...are you a nobleman?"

That pulls another laugh from him. "Me? A noble? No." He snorts. "Good gods, no. Wait, why do you ask?"

The young man's expression sobers. "I'm sorry, Lancelot. Only nobles can serve as knights in Camelot, I'm afraid."

Lancelot exhales heavily, feeling as though he's just been struck in the gut, or if the rug has just been yanked out from beneath his feet. "No," he murmurs, shaking his head, running a hand back through his hair. "Gods' mercy, why?"

Merlin's hand squeezes his shoulder gently, but then something in his face changes, growing more resolute. "Come with me," he says, turning and walking out of the room; confused, Lancelot follows after him. The townhouse, he sees, is spacious and beautiful, though not extravagant, tastefully furnished. A small bear of a dog comes bounding over, plumed tail wagging, and stands in front of Lancelot, investigating him. "Allegra won't bite, just give her a scratch," Merlin reassures without missing a step, walking down a corridor and opening a door. "In here."

He follows after the younger man and gasps as he steps into a library likely worth a lord's ransom, books and scrolls filling up shelves and cubbyholes all the way up to the ceiling. He couldn't even imagine how much some of these must cost. They must be very wealthy indeed. Lancelot sits in the chair that Merlin points to, almost afraid to touch anything. He's never seen so many books in his life. The bear dog Allegra lopes over to him and lays her long muzzle on his thigh, her plumed tail sweeping the floor, and he proffers a hand, scratching her ears once she licks his fingers. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"If you are not a noble..." Merlin walks over to one of the shelves, and he draws a thick tome down. "...I suppose I will simply have to make you one." He sets it down on the table: A History of the Noble Houses of Camelot and Their Lineages.

Lancelot's eyes widen. "What? No, no, I cannot. I wish to be a knight by merit, not by deceit, Merlin—"

"Then you shan't be a knight," the other man cuts him off, not unkindly. "The King's Code decrees that only those of noble birth may serve. Merit aside, if your blood isn't suitably pure, then you will never be a knight of Camelot. Even I could not be one, if I so wished, because I am a bastard."

His shoulders slump in defeat, a breath rushing out of him, and he shakes his head in despair. "Why? Why make such a code?" he asks despondently.

Merlin comes to sit beside him. "During the wars, Uther made the order of the knights to protect the kingdom from those who wished to destroy it. He knew that he would have to trust every man with his life, so he chose them from amongst those who had sworn allegiance to him when he called the banners," he explains, remembering his lessons from childhood; he never desired to be a knight but it was part of his learning nonetheless. "The nobility. Thus the First Code was created, and ever since then, only the sons of noble families may serve. It's utter rubbish, I know, but it is the King's order."

Lancelot stares at the thick book, the blank sheets of vellum beside it. "It is a lie, though. It would be against everything the knights stand for, would it not?"

"Damn the code! The code is wrong," the young man snaps. "You have as much right as any man to be a knight, and this—" He places his hand on the book. "—this is only a way to get yourself an audience, to have them see you. Once that happens, then you will be judged on your merit alone. Do you believe that Arthur judges his men on the renown of their family name? Of course not. Son of a duke or an impoverished lordling, he cares aught for it. If you become a knight, then it will be because you earned that right. Do you know what the word 'noble' means, aside from rank? It means honour. Virtue. Being good."

"Does it not also mean to be honest?" Lancelot muses.

Merlin's mouth quirks. "Three out of four isn't bad." With that, he opens the heavy book and starts turning through the pages, humming to himself. He stops on a page bearing the crest of a noble house. "Lord Eldred of Northumbria. Has a nice ring to it, no?"

Distantly, they hear a door open and shut, and Allegra lets out a happy woof, bounding out of the library. "Merlin?" a man's voice calls, coming closer, and then the owner of said voice fills the doorway. Lancelot swallows hard. This has to be Merlin's half-brother, First Knight to the Prince. He's a large man, a good handspan taller than Lancelot and broad as a tree, wearing mail and the red cloak of Camelot, and he has one hand at rest on the hilt of his longsword. "Ah, I see your companion is awake. You have my thanks for saving my brother."

"He saved mine as well," Lancelot replies, trying not to appear as guilty as he feels, like a small child being caught stealing sweets.

Merlin smiles. "Indeed. Leon, may I introduce you to Lancelot? And Lancelot, this is Sir Leon, my brother." He puts an arm around Lancelot's shoulders, giving him a little shake. "Once he's healed up a bit, Lancelot is going to join the knights."

"Is that so?" Leon nods, seeming accepting, but then he narrows his eyes, arms folding across his chest. "I know that face, Merlin. You can't fool me. What are you plotting over there?" he asks.

"Nothing!" Merlin sounds perfectly offended.

"No?" Crossing the room, he leans over the table to peer at the open book, brow furrowing. "Why are you looking at noble houses, then?" His gaze flickers from the book, to the blank parchment, to Lancelot, and finally to Merlin. He arches an eyebrow at the younger man; Merlin holds his gaze resolutely. "You play a dangerous game."

"I always have."

Eyes darting nervously between the brothers, Lancelot opens his mouth to protest yet again, but Leon holds up a hand, and he snaps his jaw shut without a sound. "Why do you want to be a knight of Camelot?" Leon asks of him, gazing at him with that unreadable expression. "The privilege? The renown?"

Lancelot shakes his head, then seems to find his voice once again. "I want to protect those who cannot protect themselves," he says in a small voice, but then he lifts his chin and continues more firmly. "When I was a boy, my village was attacked by raiders from the northern plains. They were slaughtered where they stood, my father, my mother. Everyone. I alone escaped. I vowed that day that never again would I be helpless in the face of tyranny. I made swordcraft my life. Every waking hour since that day, I devoted to the art of combat, and when I was ready, I set forth for Camelot. And now, it seems, my journey ends."

"It is not over," Merlin says firmly, glaring at him. He turns hard eyes up to Leon. "You know as well as I that the First Code is a bit of elitist nonsense made by a paranoid, oppressive totalitarian."

He had understood nearly all of the individual words and had the feeling that none of them were flattering. Nervously, he glances up at Leon again; the tall man staring at his brother with that same unreadable expression on his face. It is easy how to see he could be the prince's First Knight.

"No."

Lancelot's face falls, and Merlin's brow furrows. "The hell do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean, no." Leon turns the book around and slides it across the table to him. "Lord Eldred of Northumbria is a childhood companion of the King. He knows how many sons the man has, and if he does not recall directly, he will still suspect you." He rifles through the thick pages for a moment, muttering to himself, then stops and taps the page. He turns the book back and pushes it towards Merlin; the crest displayed shows a white seven-point star on a field of sea-blue. "There. House Marbrand from the White Isle. They're a proliferous lot, and they don't keep track of their records. It'd take a dozen scholars a dozen days to even make a start at untangling their lineage."

Lancelot blinks in a few times, looking between them. "But you're…you're a knight, you shouldn't…"

"Oh, I haven't. I wasn't here. I haven't seen you. I certainly couldn't have stopped you." With that, Leon turns and walks out of the room.

Merlin chortles at the look of befuddled dismay on Lancelot's face. "Don't worry, he's quite used to this from me," he reassures. He unfolds the blank vellum and smooths it out flat beside the page. Laying his fingertips against the page and the vellum together, he takes a deep breath, centering himself. "Ic us bisen hræð tán hwanon."

Lancelot makes an awed sound as colour begins to bleed into the vellum as if ink is soaking through an invisible page. The seal of House Marbrand is imprinted perfectly onto the parchment, flawless, and beneath it, spidery threads of ink shape themselves into words.

"Perfect." Merlin holds up the parchment beside the book and nods, pleased with his handiwork; he folds it up and hands it to Lancelot. "I do name you Lancelot of House Marbrand of the White Isle. Go forth and conquer."

He stares at the folded parchment in his hands, uncertain. A part of him wants to hold fast to it, sprint all the way up to the training fields with it now, barefoot and injured as he is; another part of him wants to throw it into the fire and forget having ever seen it at all.

Merlin touches his wrist. "Arthur is still testing the newest recruits. He won't see you until he's done with them. And your ribs need to heal some before I suggest you attempt any serious exertion," he explains gently, as if able to see Lancelot's very thoughts. Perhaps he could. "You will have a few days to decide. Think on it."

He does. He thinks on the First Code and the false seal of nobility resting in the chamber that Merlin and Leon let him have use of whilst he recovered, allowing him to remain as a guest. Merlin, as he learns, not only knows Arthur, but is the Prince's manservant, a truly mind-boggling position for him to have. Another of Merlin's friends, a beautiful young woman by name of Guinevere, comes to take his measurements and has him fitted for suitable livery, as his travelling clothes aren't adequate for meeting the Prince.

And when his unusual new friend comes to bring him to the training fields, Lancelot belts his sword around his waist and takes up the folded sheet of vellum. "Lead the way."

"I cannot take credit for something I did not do, Merlin," Lancelot murmurs in an undertone, glancing around the Hall of Ceremonies. "I have already lied to be here, I do not—"

"Lancelot," Merlin sighs in exasperation even as he smiles, handing him a goblet of ale. His gaze drifts across the hall to land on Arthur, the prince sitting near Morgana and, judging by his enthusiastic gesticulating, describing the attack on the griffin, making the young woman laugh. "I cannot take credit for slaying it without revealing myself, which I will not do considering that I prefer my head to be attached to the rest of my body. So if anything, you are doing me a favour."

Lancelot shakes his head insistently. "It isn't right," he repeats.

"Mm, perhaps. Listen. You said that you were in my debt, yes? Then I claim it now," Merlin says, slinging a friendly arm around his shoulders. "From this moment forward, you have killed the griffin. You'll say no more of it. You will let these nobles and soldiers drink in your name and celebrate your bravery, and you will let Arthur congratulate you and certainly stroke his own ego for having knighted you. And I will consider the matter settled between us, yes?"

He shakes his head once more, though this time from disbelief. "How are you so selfless?" he wonders.

Merlin chuckles. "Largely because I don't consider it altruism. I prefer to call it self-preservation. I meant it when I said I liked having my head attached to the rest of me." He drains the rest of his cup and hands it off to one of the circulating tray-bearing servants. Then, seeing that Lancelot doesn't intend to do anything with it, takes the cup from him and sips it as well. "Do you agree to the terms?"

"I suppose I must." Lancelot laughs as well, unable to help it. "You're an interesting friend to have, Merlin."

"Camelot is an interesting place, as you'll soon find out. Now excuse me whilst I go make sure that Prince Prat doesn't drink himself sodden. He'll be a nightmare tomorrow if he does. Enjoy your celebration, Sir Lancelot." He smiles and claps his shoulder with a wink. "I told you that you would be judged on your merits, didn't I?"

As Merlin slides away neatly, going to speak to Arthur and saying somewhat that made the prince roll his eyes and laugh, another solid arm falls around Lancelot's shoulders, and he glances to see Leon beside him. "He's an incorrigible little whelp, I know, but I've never met someone so damnably devoted to doing what he believes to be right," the tall man chuckles, fondness layering his tone. "Even if he does have to achieve it through some...interesting means."

Lancelot snorts. "That is certainly a diplomatic way of saying it," he muses, watching Merlin make some comment to Arthur that has the blond near choking on wine for laughing. He wonders how it is that Merlin even ended up as the prince's manservant, as it surely wasn't through his well-honed grasp on propriety; perhaps he'll ask in a moment.

"Indeed. I am proud to welcome you to the ranks, Lancelot. Camelot can always use good knights for her defense. I'm certain you'll make friends here," Leon remarks, giving him a smile. "You know, I am inclined to trust Merlin's judgement in most things. If he says you are a good man, I have no cause to repute it. He would not have been so insistent on your becoming a knight if he didn't believe it true. However, I have seen how power and greed can corrupt even the noblest of men." His pleasant expression doesn't slip, nor does the glimmer of humour in his eyes, but abruptly, the amiable hand on Lancelot's shoulder tightens its grip to the point of pain, fingertips digging in hard enough to leave bruises beneath his tunic. "Should you ever breathe a word of my brother's talents and bring him harm for it, I'll have you strangled in your sleep."

Lancelot doesn't think himself a coward, and yet a cold prickle breaks out across his back at those words, the honest truth of them. He opens his mouth, foundering for words. Before he can think of even one to say, Leon has released him and stepped away, going to converse with another group of young nobles. Lancelot stares after the other man, still feeling the ache in his shoulder from the iron-hard grip, and he exhales heavily, shaking his head.

Oh, yes. Living in Camelot is certainly going to be an interesting experience.