Chapter Summary: Merlin tries to make sense of everything.
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Chapter III: A Whole New World
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The air in his lungs vanishes as if sucked out by an oncoming storm. His heart lets out a throbbing and loud beat, and something in his ears pops. The smell of lightning and burning wood sting his nose. Before he could react to any of these sensations, a wave of agony assaults his temples like a thousand needles stabbing his skull. He ceases walking.
"W-What?" His normally aloof composure cracks, and he holds his head in pain. The hood of his cloak, thankfully, does not fall. His covered face has always been his first worry.
"Wracu?" A concerned voice waddles through the noise in his ears, a hand grasping his shoulder. "What on earth is the matter?"
"I-I-I d-don't." The amount of times Wracu stuttered in his life, he could count with one hand. The fact that he does now denotes a situation that is likely life and death.
His companion knows this and panics appropriately. "Wracu? What's happening?" Smooth slim fingers caress his face, unnatural warmth emanating from the points of contact. "Speak to me, child."
The ache in Wracu's head intensifies instead of diminishing, which, he knows, was not her intention. Nevertheless, it is the result.
He wrenches himself out of her grasp, gasping. "Do you not feel it?" Wracu spits out, irritated that she doesn't understand. For a moment, he fears the consequences of using that kind of tone when talking to her. But the throbbing in his head takes any fright away.
"What is it? What are you sensing?"
Power.
Magic so concentrated in a very small vessel.
An abomination that never should have come into existence.
Wracu can almost taste the coy sweetness quality to the undiluted power, forbidden and seducing.
Wracu has always been in tuned with the Old Religion, sensitive to any changes that might tip the already delicate balance in their environment. Sometimes, he even hears soft whispers of the ancients, persuading, tempting, pleading. He has always seen it as a gift. Now, suffering through the enormous pain of the Old Religion crying out, he isn't so sure.
Indeed, what is it? A magical artifact that an arrogant sorcerer seek to create and control? A drýlic creature that has just been born into the world?
Merlin, cries helpless and distant voices.
Wracu straightens abruptly from the crouch he had not realized he was in. The agony in his skull recedes abruptly, and relief blossoms in his chest even though he is utterly confused.
Merlin, echoes once again. Wracu does not have the pain to distract him this time. He stills, mouth parting.
Merlin, the voices insists, desperate. Emrys.
"Wracu!" He is shaken, both literally and figuratively, out of his trance. Nails dig into the flesh of his arms, and he fights off a wince.
"I'm sorry, Mother, for worrying you," he says calmly. He slowly gathers his composure, putting up the cold persona he usually adopts.
"Was that an attack? Did someone try to hex you?" A cold hand cups his jaw and Wracu leans into the touch.
"No, nothing of the sort," he reassures.
He thinks for a moment, trying to make sense of the happenings in the past few minutes.
He does not know what kind of monster has caused the Old Religion to cry for help, from Wracu, no less. He will have to scry to find out more. But there is one thing he is sure of, one thing he knows his companion will be pleased to hear.
He allows his lips to curl into a smirk. "I believe I have found something that can be of use to us."
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"Arthur! You supercilious prat!"
Merlin has been wandering the forest for hours. He calls for the knights and for Arthur. No one answers, of course, else he will not be in the forest anymore.
This forest, the forest the Djinn has sent him to, feels . . . odd. If asked, Merlin cannot pinpoint exactly why. The trees seem more . . . alive? Their leaves are a more vibrant green, their branches a deeper brown than Merlin is used to. The air is lighter too; Merlin feels like he has been inhaling smoke all his life, and is finally tasting unpolluted air. The soil, the plants, the clouds, the sky . . . everything is teeming with unadulterated life, and Merlin feels the energy sinking in his very bones. Everything seems more . . . just more. Have forests always been like this and Merlin is just always too busy (saving Arthur's arse) to appreciate it? He is wary but also strangely reluctant to leave it.
He sighs, dispelling the wandering thoughts. His throat is dry beyond belief and he has not the energy to call out one more time. Scrubbing his face, he lets out another tired sigh. Through the gaps of his fingers, he observes the endless trees once more, not really hoping to find anything familiar. After all, after that all debacle about being inside the lamp and the Djinn tapping his nose, it is clear that the sassy magical creature has transported the warlock somewhere very far away.
Except . . . Merlin straightens and whips around. The copse he is in does look familiar. It is one Arthur and he traverse in their usual hunting trips. Merlin remembers because that particular protruding root always trips him up. He is sure that pine tree is actually out to get him. How can he trip on the same blasted spot every time? There must be some curse or sorcery involved. (He confides this to Gaius one time and never again because of the absolutely quelling look he received in return)
And if Merlin isn't mistaken . . . The servant runs west, growing increasingly giddy as his surroundings become more and more familiar.
At last, he reaches the dirt path that will lead straight to Camelot's gates.
He barely contains a whoop of joy. That Djinn has transported him near Camelot! Though he doesn't know why, he figures some deity up there must love him.
Without another thought, Merlin sets out for Camelot. Arthur and the knights are probably near Milda's village, panicking because of his sudden disappearance. Merlin will never be able to track them down and reach them on foot. He needs supplies and a horse. Maybe he'll even take a few knights.
On second thought, maybe they are on their way back to Camelot. Or maybe they are already in Camelot. It had been early evening when they discovered the Djinn. Merlin glances up and calculates; it's nearing midday. The Djinn did say time works differently inside the lamp, and what might seem like minutes for Merlin might be hours outside the lamp. Merlin hopes he is gone for only a day or two. Arthur will throw a fit if he disappears for more than that. He might send out search parties again to look for a mere servant. Merlin is not ungrateful, truly, but he finds it mortifying to be the cause of such a large fuss.
He walks silently and alone for half-an-hour, tripping on the small rocks once in awhile. He should reach Camelot in two hours if all goes well, and no trouble finds him. Hopefully, Arthur and the knights are waiting there and not killed off by the Djinn or some other magical creature.
His ears pick up horse hooves, the crunch of gravel, and the creaking of a turning wheel. He spins around, alarmed, and promptly gapes.
Passing him is perhaps the most lavish and ridiculous carriage he has ever seen. It looks remarkably like a large pumpkin, bright orange and rounded. Golden ribbons wrap around like vines in its circumference, lazy spiral designs adorning the door. Instead of wooden wheels, bronze tires gleam in the sunlight. The coachman, dressed in an equally extravagant and ostentatious attire, respectfully tips his hat to Merlin as he passes. The servant hurriedly bows in response and acknowledgement. He steps aside so he wouldn't be run over by the carriage.
Then, the door to the carriage opens without a creak, and a grinning girl, a few years younger than Merlin, pops out.
"Hey, peasant!" is the last thing the servant hears before he is pelted in the face by something wet and muddy.
Startled at the unexpected happenstance, Merlin jumps backwards. He, of course, loses his balance and finds himself on the hard cold ground.
Laughter echoes in his ears and Merlin looks up.
"Good one, Clar!" a boy's voice praises.
The girl titters. "What can you expect?" To Merlin, she sneers, "Don't taint the road with your poor presence, scum."
The door closes with an ungodly slam, and before Merlin knows it, the carriage is gone from sight.
What the hell? Merlin sits on the ground, shocked. Did that really happen? Did a couple of snobbish nobles just humiliated and degraded him?
He burns with anger and embarrassment. Those spoiled entitled brats! Oh, Arthur's going to hear about this! One of the things the king of Camelot can't stand is arrogant tweens who need to be knocked down a peg. (Merlin had once teased that it was because Arthur can't stand to be reminded of his previously brattish self. He got sent to the stocks after that.)
His eyes burn gold without him meaning to. A few feet away, a tree inexplicably explodes with a loud screech, shooting splinters everywhere. Merlin barely gets to safety, barely avoids the large chunks of wood headed his way.
He stares at the ragged stump, the only remains of the large oak tree that shattered because of his anger. He gulps. He doesn't know why his magic is out of control lately. But he must tighten his restraint over it if he wants his head between his shoulders. He curls his palms into a fist and takes a very deep breathe. Right. Restraint. Control.
He wipes away the substance on his face. His hands come away coated with sticky green mixture. He shudders, utterly repulsed. What the hell is this? It smells like rotten eggs and feels abnormally hot on his skin. He goes over the potions and mixtures he knows. None of them matches.
Ugh. He better wash it off just in case.
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Detouring to a stream does not delay Merlin as much as he thought. By late afternoon, he arrives at the entrance of the kingdom of Camelot. He sighs in relief as the drawbridge comes to view. Hmm, when did Arthur get new guards for the gate? Merlin does not recognize the men on the battlements nor the ones stationed at the entrance. Actually, the drawbridge is different too. There are no chains on its either sides; there is no way to lift the wooden plank should the enemies come knocking on their door. The metal grate over the arch is in place though, ready to slam down and trap any fugitives. It is a small comfort.
An ominous feeling settles over Merlin, dread pooling in his stomach. There's something very wrong here, his instincts scream at him. And because said instincts have saved him and Arthur from power-hungry sorcerers throughout the years, he opts to listen to them. He carefully backs away from the drawbridge, eyes narrowed.
People passes him by, unhesitatingly entering the city with either their wares and luggage. Some send him curious looks. They do not seem bothered by the same things he is. Which might be reasonable since Merlin recognizes none of them. He has been living in Camelot for seven summers now; while he personally does not know many townspeople, he does know a lot of them by face.
Why are there an influx of newcomers? Why are the guards new? What happen to the drawbridge? What in the name of Camelot is going on?
A notion crosses Merlin's mind, one that makes him lightheaded. What if . . . What if he has been gone not mere hours or days but months, years, decades?
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Tirol of the village of Ludviche, guard stationed on the left side of the entrance, leaves his post. He casually approaches the other armed guard, keeping his face nonchalant.
"Bart, do you see him? Young man with a neckerchief?" he murmurs, eyes not on Bart of the village of Arendelle but on the merchants entering Camelot.
"Aye." Bart rubs his beard, eyes pointedly on the said young man. "Been standing there for a while, isn't he?"
Tirol elbows him and harshly whispers that he be a bit more subtle. Bart huffs but complies. He takes to observing the big spears bestowed upon them when they were assigned as guards. The spears are just for show, really. Apparently, people feel a lot more safer if the guards carry more obvious and more bigger weapons, never mind the practicality of it.
"He looks lost," Bart offers.
"He looks like he's scheming," Tirol counters, ever the pessimist.
Bart snorts but does not exactly disagree. The young man is staring at battlements and entrance with an intense expression, like he is planning how to make a run for it. While it appears his physical prowess is not something to write home about, his magical one might be a different story entirely. Bart pulls out an amber-colored scinncræfte crystal, one as big as an eyeball.
A small scinncræfte crystal is given to any senior guard, a guard who has been working in service for more than fifteen summers. Tirol is only in his fifth summer so it is up to Bart to check. While scinncræfte crystals are more accurate when in contact with the sorcerer or mage, there are some non-obsidian ones which are perfect for long distance measuring.
Bart pins the crystal between his index finger and thumb. He aligns it over his right eye and through its translucency, casts a gaze at the young man - who has not moved an inch. The crystal glows faintly, barely changing color.
"Just enough magical ability to light a candle," Bart remarks, pocketing the crystal once more.
Tirol hums. "He can still cause mischief."
"If that is your reasoning, then we should be arresting every citizen of Camelot," Bart replies with fond exasperation. He then lifts his chin, and shouts, "You! Boy with the red neckerchief!"
The young man bristles, turning to Bart with wide alarmed eyes. Everything about him screams of tension. From a far, Bart does not know if the man plans to fight or run.
"Come here, boy!" Bart beckons him closer. Fight or flight, at least something would finally happen. Bart's becoming bored,
The young man hesitates, glancing at the drawbridge as if it would come to life and whack him in the head. A split second later, he steels himself and pads on the wood. He approaches the guards and gates with obvious trepidation.
"What are you doing?" Tirol hisses.
Bart shrugs. "Maybe he just needs help." For one so young, Tirol is awfully wary of strangers.
"G-Good afternoon, Sires," the young man greets with a small bow.
Oh, how polite. "Good afternoon! What's your name then?"
"M-Merlin."
"Well, Merlin." Tirol does not hide the suspicion in his voice. "What businesses have you in Camelot? You are not a merchant." The guard looks pointedly at his garment.
"Er, no. I'm a servant . . . In the castle, that is." The young man stares at them, watching for their reactions.
Bart reacts by cocking a brow. Tirol's eyes narrow as he asks, "Where's your castle talisman then?"
"My . . . castle talisman?"
"The castle's shielded. You need a talisman to enter it," Tirol replies curtly. "Where's yours?"
"Shielded?" The young man's voice rises in incredulity. "I-I don't - I don't understand - what?"
Bart frowns. That the castle of Camelot is protected is common knowledge to anyone in the city. This young man claims he works in the citadel, and yet he shows surprise at the fact. He exchanges a meaningful glance with Tirol, who is starting to get restless.
"Are you new in the city, Merlin?" Bart asks. "I've never seen you around before."
"Are you new?" The young man blurts out.
Bart's brow rises to his hairline. "I've been a guard here for seventeen summers now."
Something akin to despair flashes in the young man's features. "But I've never seen you before," he whispers, and Bart does not think he meant for them to hear it.
Judging by Tirol's expression, the other guard is gearing for a full-on interrogation.
"Tirol, Bart!" a call comes from above. Both guards look up at the battlements where their supervisor is leaning down. "A message just came in. The Mercia kids are half-an-hour away."
Tirol mutters a curse and Bart grimaces. Aye, the prince and princess of Mercia. The incarnations of the Devil himself.
They are actually supposed to arrive early that morning. But because it's them, they probably got delayed for pranking the various travellers they come across with. The guards did not question their tardiness and are secretly glad for it. And now, it seems their luck has run its course.
Their supervisor matches their enthusiasm. "They want the usual welcome." The usual welcome being: having guards as their footstool, to wash their hideous carriage, to ride those untamed things they called horses as entertainments, and other inhumane things. The guards assigned to them previously describe it as torture they would not wish upon anyone.
Commiserating their bad luck, they fail to notice the young man with the neckerchief slipping away into the gates of Camelot.
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The dread in Merlin is now a heavy stone in his stomach. His heart is probably in the vicinity of his boots. Seventeen summers? Merlin has never encountered that guard before! He takes note of any changes in the guards' guild (one of them might be an assassin or someone equally troublesome). What's more, they don't recognize him or his name. Being a king's servant has earned him a bit of fame among the townspeople (There are ridiculous rumors about him and Arthur too but thankfully, Merlin remains blissfully ignorant). Those guards should have at least an inkling of who he is when he introduced himself. He swallows the lump in his throat.
So, it might be true then. Merlin might not be missing for mere days but decades. Where's Arthur now? Gwaine, Lancelot, Elyan, Leon, and Perceival? Gwen? Are they still alive or have they been killed by some tragedy Merlin could have prevented?
A stall catches Merlin's eye, dragging him out of his miserable thoughts. There is tall man manning it, arranging the colorful phials displayed on his table. The bright colors in the liquids inside the bottles and jars draws attention enough. But the cauldron bubbling on one corner is what Merlin focuses on.
Out of context, the merchant appears to be brewing something magical, what with the mixture turning different shades every few seconds. Furthermore, the fire underneath the cauldron is green. It is something that will definitely catch the sorcery-hating eyes of the populace. Merlin hurriedly approaches the stall, wanting to warn the merchant about the dangerous image he is displaying.
He doesn't expect to see magic being boldly performed in public.
When he observes the marketplace for the first time, he doesn't expect the sight of magic being used in every day chores or activities.
He doesn't expect to be scolded when he implied that magic is forbidden in Camelot.
He doesn't expect the name of Arthur's mother to be uttered when asked about the current year.
He certainly doesn't expect to find that Arthur Pendragon is a prince once more.
He walks away from the potion store, dazed, befuddled, and no little bit scared. He takes in the little children playing with a ball using magic, and he could not process what his eyes are telling him.
Queen Ygraine . . . Had Merlin been transported to the past? No, no, Arthur's mother died when he was born. This Queen Ygraine has been reigning for 25 years, and Arthur has, according to the merchant, already been born. How old is Arthur than? And where is Uther? The queen only takes the mantle when the king is incapacitated or dead, and the heir has yet to come of age. If Ygraine's been queen for decades then, is Uther dead?
Merlin scratches his head, frowning as he tries to make sense of everything. How can Ygraine be alive? Has someone revived her?
There are some things that are beyond my power. I can't bend another's will, bring someone back from the dead, or change something that has happened in the past.
The Djinn's words resounds in his mind. The Djinn cannot revive anyone nor change Ygraine's fate. And since that annoying creature was the one that brought him here, it means -
However, I can transport them to a world where, hmm, their crush loves them back, their dad is alive, or they didn't do that one embarrassing thing that labeled them as losers.
Oh.
Realization kicks Merlin in the gut. He's not in the future nor in the past. His eyes widens, lips parting.
He is in another world, a very different one from where he comes from. A world where magic is legal and used openly in Camelot. It isn't possible; jumping through one world to another in a snap? Surely that'll take a lot of time and power. Oh, who is he kidding? Merlin has encountered, done, and defeated many impossibilites. What's one more? The beginnings of hysteria claw at the corners of his mind, and he suddenly has a hard time breathing.
Because this is his luck, his epiphany is followed by a hard blow to the head. He finds himself face-down on the ground, quickly losing consciousness.
"Oh, scite."
"What happened?" Heavy footsteps shakes the ground, and gravel crunches under boots. Someone kneels and hovers beside him.
"It was Selia! She threw the ball and -"
"It's not my fault! He was standing too near! He should've . . ."
". . . hit a rock . . . a concussion? Do we . . ."
"I can . . . Here's . . "
Darkness pulls him under and Merlin knows no more.
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A/N:
When I started writing this story, I didn't realize I'll be introducing a lot of OCs!
Thank you all for your comments, bookmarks, follows and kudos! I just really need to get this story out of my mind and I didn't realize people will actually like it XD.
Constructive criticisms are very much welcome! Kindly point out any glaring errors!
Hope something happens today that will make you laugh!
~ Vividpast