Chapter Summary: Merlin just wants to get through the third exam unscathed. Apparently, that's too much to ask for.
Warning/s: Brief non-graphic descriptions of a minor injury.
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Chapter XVI: Staring Straight Back at Me
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The Court Sorcerer feels the interest of every person in the training grounds spiking tenfold as the name loudly resounds throughout the area. All, especially his fellow magic-users in court, collectively lean forward, countenance brimming with anticipation. Balinor himself would admit that he's more keen to see the results of this particular applicant's test than most of them.
The owner of the name bristles, eyes guilelessly wide. After a moment, he snaps himself out of his trance and clumsily staggers towards the drawn ring. Every eye follows him.
The tests in every Apprentice Exam have always served a two-fold purpose. In this year, the test of luck was, firstly, supposed to evaluate the applicants' wits. Secondly, it aimed to show whether they, nobles and commoners alike, can overcome the disadvantages of their birthright. While many know the handicaps of being born into a peasant family, very few realizes that growing up in a noble household has its own drawbacks. Complacency runs prominent among most noblemen and noblewomen, their dependency on their status hindering the development of any skills irrelevant to politics or academics. They also tend to underestimate those who they view as lesser, which is an attitude that may prove fatal in their later years and an attitude that's barely tolerated in Camelot's court.
If the applicants fail to think for themselves, however, then their luck may come to play. Those who solved the puzzle may, after all, choose not to share the solution with their fellow applicants. It was exactly what some of the nobles did during the first exam, opting to be tight-lipped once they've figured it out. It was the exact opposite of what this Merlin did with his group; the boy had decided to share the answer with others, and ensured the success of all.
The second test intended to assess the applicants' current magical knowledge, and examine their aptitude for learning magical concepts foreign to them; the latter skill being far more important than the former in the court's eyes. It doesn't matter how much they've learned in the past; if they are unable to absorb new material, then it would be useless to take them as apprentices. The test of magic also had the added bonus of seeing each applicant's ability to work with others. From the start, Balinor and the others had planned to offer their expertise an hour into the test, after watching the applicants scurry around by themselves. Of course, only half-an-hour in, their ruse had been discovered by one brazen applicant.
Now, the said applicant is about to take the third test — a test that is partially designed with someone like him in mind.
The last test had been a source of great contention among those in court. The idea sparked from Dalion, who initially suggested that they create a frightening golem that'll chase the applicants around the grounds. Ivaìr had protested that applicants merely needed to work together and the golem can easily be destroyed, rendering the test useless for their desired purpose. The discussion then revolved around using illusions. The problem was to decide on one singular image that can put even the littlest of fear in each and every applicant.
Balinor knew the first thing that crossed all of their minds. A fluttering cloak the color of a starless night. A face perpetually shrouded in a deep cowl, one no one alive has glimpsed upon. A garbled voice sending chills to anyone who's unlucky enough to hear it.
None of them said it out loud, not with him in earshot.
Jayden had then cleared her throat to dispel the awkward silence and said, "Well, I think applicants will fear different things so why don't we just show illusions tailored to each of them?"
On that note, Mavin lightly suggested using mandrake roots. The vehement argument that ensued spanned almost an hour. In the end, all of them — half of them rather reluctantly, including Balinor himself — agreed that it was the best course of action for the year's Apprentice Exam. Concessions were made and extra steps were taken to ensure that it was safe as possible; the essence of mandrake roots were to be diluted, the illusions can't display too graphically gory scenes, the visions would allow realistic sounds but would be unable to say anything close to coherent.
Of course, there were some unpreventable downsides. While diluted mandrake essence is incapable of accessing one's deepest fears, it can sometimes pluck out someone's surface thoughts and use those. Balinor and the others had debated whether to divulge this fact or not. Eventually, they chose not to because to tell applicants not to think of the things they don't want to see would be rather counterintuitive. On the other hand, it seems keeping such information a secret had not helped some of them.
It is, mayhaps, partially his fault. When they tested the circle a few weeks before, Balinor had consistently seen a wildren and a swarm of bees. He had never expected to see —
He knows not why the illusions changed for him, now of all time. His demonstration had placed the very image that they had hoped to avoid at the forefront of the applicants' minds, causing some of them to struggle against a perturbing vision.
It matters not, he supposes. The only way to truly fail the test to not take it at all. At this point in the exam, those of court are already eyeing the applicants they'll be choosing. They just want to see their chosen's attitude towards adversity, towards things the applicants think they would not be able to overcome, and the third test will show them exactly that. To be an apprentice under Camelot's flag is not for the faint of heart.
The third test's other and subtler goal is to humanize the participants in front of the very people they've impressed. Balinor glances at the audience stands.
In every Apprentice Exam, they have always aimed to include such an aspect. Throughout all the extraordinary and exciting enchantments the applicants perform with vigor, it's good to remind the people watching and the applicants themselves that they are no different than anyone — that magic makes no person more than or less than human.
And with this Merlin's astounding performance at every turn, the Court Sorcerer knows that people need more reminder with him than the others.
The boy's eyes flit to Balinor. The Court Sorcerer, in turn, raises a brow. The boy sighs and looks away. Then, he steps inside the circle in one decisive move. The glowing runes take on a dark hue as they work their magic inwards.
Jayden starts the hourglass.
The first vision appears, and Balinor straightens up in alarm. Beside him, the other magic-users of court draw in a sharp breath.
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Merlin's four companions send him off with encouraging looks and gestures. It bolsters the warlock slightly but still does little to prevent his racing heart from beating out of his chest.
It doesn't help that Merlin can feel hundreds of eyes intensely stabbing him with every step. He belatedly wishes the return of the opaque dome shield around the grounds. That way, he doesn't have to be conscious of the audience as he takes the test. But he figures the reason for its disappearance is for the applicants to be conscious of exactly that, making the third test much harder than it is.
He stumbles towards the circle, mind whirring in preparation whatever it might show him. He glances at the Court Sorcerer, half-hoping that Balinor has summarily fallen asleep on his feet and will thus be missing Merlin's turn in embarrassing himself. No such luck.
The warlock abruptly decides that he really just need to get this over with. He rids himself of any hesitation, takes a solid breath, and hops inside.
All right. Merlin exhales the breath he has been holding as soon the first vision pops into existence before him.
He hears a ripple of shocked gasps and concerned exclamations from everyone watching. He represses the urge to turn and look, eyes steadily on the vision of a hissing creature just in case it attempts to touch him.
"What is that?" one applicant asks, aghast.
"Hell if I know."
"I've never seen the likes of it before."
"It looks completely terrifying."
Merlin understands their confusion and alarm. After all, when Merlin first saw it, he himself was utterly petrified and flabbergasted. Merlin doubts anyone would feel anything else when a beast the size of a house with a head of cobra and a body similar to lion with spots begins chasing you through the undergrowth. Attached to the image of this creature are also several severely bad memories for him.
— Arthur, wan and unconscious, being carried through the courtyard —
— Nimueh, smiling with red-painted lips, holding out a golden chalice —
— His mother, covered in boils, collapsing on the floorboard with wheezing breaths —
— His chest, scorched and raw, with the smell of burning flesh permeating the air —
— A scream, a lightning bolt, and tiny chunks of gore flying through the air —
— Gaius, unmoving against the altar, and oh gods, he was too late, too late —
Merlin winces and quickly swipes away the unbidden flashes in his mind before it could consume him.
But that's it. The creature may have been the precedence of an atrocious period of his life but was never at all harmful or relevant after that. The warlock had easily defeated it after a spell and a flying sword. Merlin has certainly battled against much worse, and gained much worse injuries in doing so.
All in all, for a first vision, it truly is tame and unrevealing. Surely, as a creature of the Old Religion, the vision before him exists even in this realm. It would, therefore, not be strange to know and to fear. Merlin can ask for no better.
Inside the circle, the illusion's forked tongue slithers out from between rows of fangs, slitted eyes narrowing as they continue to assess the prey in front of it. The creature makes no further actions except to continuously flick its tail. Merlin's eyes are cautiously drawn to the movement, anticipating any kind of attack.
A headache lances through his head the moment his gaze settled on the general direction of the tail. He frowns in extreme bafflement, pupils trying to fasten to that certain area but unable to do so. His eyes keep shying away, redirecting themselves to the ground on the left or on the right of it.
What? He lifts a hand to rub his temples. He glances around and notes that he is able to look at anything else without a problem.
Then, the seething creature vanishes, the air sizzles, and the second illusion appears before him.
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The Questing Beast.
Balinor has only seen depictions of it in ancient texts, ones written so long ago that facts had turned into myths.
The appearance of the Questing Beast foreshadows a time of great upheaval, the tomes have warned.
Even knowing that it's merely an illusion, staring at the lifelike monstrous hybrid sends a drop of dread rolling down his spine. In front of him stands a simulacrum of a creature that carries the Old Religion's magic over life and death. The vision is much too vivid, much too precise to simply be something etched on paper.
This boy — this Merlin — has not only seen a real living Questing Beast but lived to tell the tale.
"Where the hell did this boy encounter a dratted Questing Beast?" Dalion has barely kept his voice in a whisper, his whole demeanor agitated. The others of court fare no better, seeing as all of them know the implications of the beast in front of them
Indeed, isn't that the golden question? When? Recently? Where? Within Camelot's borders? How? The inquiries threaten to pour out of him in succession. Balinor wants nothing more than to find answers and find them as soon as possible. The Court Sorcerer looks to the audience stands where he's certain that Ris and his knights are watching avidly, and where, incidentally, another much more capable observer sits hidden in the crowds. Balinor is careful not to gaze directly at the latter's location, no matter how much he desires to know what they have garnered so far. They'll reconvene later anyway, and perhaps Camelot's Spymaster might have some important insight on the matter.
For now, Balinor's eyes hone in on the applicant who caused such a fuss and who holds all the answers.
A De Bois sigil, the ability to shatter measuring crystals, the knowledge of advanced spells yet the lack of proper training, the practically violent reaction to a mere spell combination, and now, a Questing Beast. The mysteries just keep on piling up with no real answers in sight. That interrogation that Ygraine suggested is becoming more and more likely, although Balinor doubts he'll be able to do it as discreetly as she had hoped.
The Court Sorcerer sees relief flits by the boy's face, as if he's glad to not be dealing with something much worse.
Who on earth are you, Merlin of Ealdor?
Something in the air shifts, and Balinor bristles. He surreptitiously glances around, looking for anything amiss. Nothing unusual pops in sight and no one else seems to be bothered, seeing as they're all focused on the applicant inside the circle. It's no surprise; a second illusion has replaced the first. Although it's less disturbing in appearance, it is more perturbing in its implication.
However, Balinor fails to give it his full attention now. Something has changed in the area, and his instincts are screaming at him to find it.
Where? What? What is it?
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Merlin blinks rapidly, jaw slack.
Directly opposite him, feet barely inches away from the blackened arc of the circle, calmly stands himself. It bears his exact resemblance — from the chin to the cheekbones and ears.
All right, maybe Merlin should have seen this coming. After Mordred's turn, the warlock has suspected in the deepest recesses of his mind that something similar will happen to him. Unlike with Mordred, however, Merlin's twin image adorns different garments than the one he's currently wearing; it wears a dirty-white tunic, light brown trousers, and shiny dark boots. Merlin doesn't think he owns any attire even remotely similar to those. In fact, the only familiar piece of clothing is the ratty red neckerchief tied around its neck.
The clone tilts its head at him, dark blue eyes frosty and blank. The action sends a chill down Merlin's spine. While Mordred's double displayed a blatantly obvious threat through its aggressive movements and insane expressions, his twin, on the other hand, emanates callousness and apathy on every miniscule gesture.
The clone eyes the warlock like he's seeing through him — like it has already assessed him and found him not even worth looking at.
Merlin swallows audibly. It's not that frightening but it's definitely disconcerting. He shifts on his heel, silently begging the illusion to stay as it is and not to get worse like Mordred's.
The warlock blinks, eyes closing for the briefest of moments. When he next opens them, the clone's inscrutable face fills his whole vision. It now stands just inches away from him, their breaths intermingling due to close proximity. The warlock inhales sharply as his heart almost explodes out of his chest. At the last second, he fights down the ripple of magic that instinctively desires to defend him; he knows any physically offensive spell will be useless on an illusion.
The wave of gasps that resounds around the grounds denotes similarly frightened reactions to the instantaneous movement.
The warlock immediately begins leaning away, eyes down as he ensures he doesn't accidentally step out of the circle. It may be too late as the illusion is already reaching out with spindly fingers. But Merlin tries to dodge nonetheless, and hopes for the best.
Then, a cool solid hand cages the warlock's arm in a tight unbreakable grip.
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Balinor's eyes catches on to the irregularity he has desperately been searching for. His gaze has glazed over it several times in his hunt for something afoot. But through sheer luck and persistence, he finally found it.
He frowns, utterly befuddled. After a second, the implications sink in and ice races through his veins. In a tiny portion of the mandrake circle's circumference, a sketched rune has been altered and smudged almost unnoticeably. With that certain etching destroyed, it's impossible for the illusion spell to still be active. Balinor reaches out with his magic, and confirms the lack of a spell around and in the circle.
The Court Sorcerer's head snaps up, heart stopping for a beat. Whatever is with Merlin in that circle is no illusion.
Balinor lifts his arm, hazel eyes flaring gold.
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Merlin looks down at the still visible and still present hand clasps around his forearm with the most bewildered expression.
Someone in the crowd demands "What? Why isn't the illusion vanishing?", voicing out the same question on everyone's face.
In Merlin's mind, warning bells are ringing. He abrasively tugs his arm back but the illusion's grip holds true.
Then, it opens its mouth and says with Merlin's voice, "Let's see what you really are, shall we?" Curiosity drips from its very tone even as its expression remains deadened.
The warlock's wide-eyed gaze whips to the clone. None of the other illusions have ever spoken; they produced groans or roars but not one of them has ever uttered a sentence. All the hairs in Merlin's body rise, his instincts screaming at him. This time, the warlock opts to listen to it.
A shlik sound vibrates in the air, and metal glints in the afternoon light. The illusion tries to pull him closer with one hand while the other speedily directs a curved dagger in the air.
Instinctively and in panic, Merlin slows down time. Every sound becomes muted and every movement sluggish. But impossibly, the hand holding the weapon is barely affected, still going by speeds too fast for Merlin to completely follow. The warlock gapes, having never encountered something even slightly impervious to this certain spell before.
Merlin hastily steps away to elude, and simultaneously unleashes an angry gust of wind just as time resumes. The blade loses its momentum and direction but not before bequeathing an inch-deep cut upon Merlin's left side. Merlin hisses, and the clone's eyes widen fractionally in stifled surprise. Merlin's hand flies over the wound in an attempt to soothe the burning and stinging sensation. Merlin supposes he should be thankful the dagger merely grazed him instead of achieving its goal — which, judging by the angle and speed, was to bury itself in the spot underneath his ribs.
The warlock's spell propels his clone away just as another force lifts Merlin's feet off the ground and drags him out of the circle. The clone crosses its arms in front of its face and torso to shield against the lashing winds. It stumbles, boots making indents on the ground as the assault shoves it several feet backwards. Everyone gawks as it skids to a halt several inches outside of the circle with the illusion spell.
Merlin roughly bumps into someone, the spell hauling him away finally ceasing. He bites down a whimper as the impact jostles his wound. Callused hands grasp his shoulders and turns him around.
The Court Sorcerer's hazel eyes runs over the warlock's whole body, taking in the hunched posture and the bloody fingers covering his right side. Balinor's expression darkens. He passes Merlin over to Lady Jayden and Lord Mavin, who promptly attend to his wound.
"It's just a scratch," the warlock insists distractedly as they pry his hand away from the injury. The thing that wears his face and almost stabbed him has stolen most of his attention. Merlin is certain now that it's no sort of illusion. Then, what is it? A person that sneaked into the grounds? Someone who looks exactly like the warlock himself . . .
The magic-users of court begin clustering together with hurried jerky movements. They stand alongside their Court Sorcerer, countenance hostile against the unexpected intruder. At this time, half of the audience have stood up, peering down to get a better look at the situation.
"What happened?"
"I think someone's been hurt!"
"Merlin? Merlin!"
"They said it was safe!"
"That's not an illusion."
"What the hell is going on!?"
Meanwhile, all the applicants trade confused and increasingly frightened looks. Slowly, a sort of realization dawns on them, and they dash away to ensure they are far away from the inexplicable illusion. Most of them seek refuge behind the wall of grim-faced full-fledged magic-users that has formed. Lord Dalion beckons and guides them, ensuring the applicants are safe behind those of court.
Prince Arthur shoots out of his seat, and easily jumps over the barrier between the stands and the grounds. Merlin's eyes are naturally drawn to the movement, and his feet moved almost automatically to approach and stand beside Arthur in the face of potential danger. Fortunately, Lady Jayden's order of "Stay still" knocks him back to his senses.
Instead, the warlock watches from a distance as the prince wrests the curious cylindrical item from his waist. It's twice the size of Prince Arthur's palm and almost as thick as a tankard. The prince presses something in its side, and briskly shakes the whole thing. Merlin realizes with amazement the article is a foldable contraption; the wood quickly springs open in a series of soft clicks, revealing a long curved article with a tense string tied at both ends. A thinner piece, tipped with a sharpened obsidian metal, separates from the rest with a pop, and Prince Arthur snatches it in the air without breaking his gaze away from the possible threat.
In less than three breaths since he landed on the grounds, the prince smoothly nocks a feathered arrow onto a longbow and aims it at the unknown specter.
Merlin stares. He has seen Arthur use a bow and arrow before but only once or twice, and only during knights' training. It's hardly his best friend's first choice of weapon.
"Reveal yourself!" Balinor roars as he pelts out a spell, sounding indescribably furious. Merlin wide-eyed stare whips to him, detecting a hint of the power that commands dragons underlining the vehement tone.
The non-illusion, still composing itself after Merlin's assault, is unable to completely evade Balinor's enchantment. It staggers back as it's hit directly by the spell. Annoyance sweeps by its face, an expression that is both familiar and foreign to Merlin — familiar because he sees it on reflective surfaces, and foreign because he has never seen it outside of them.
Merlin reels back when that same face begins rippling unnaturally, transforming and molding into something else entirely.
It's a disguise, Merlin realizes abruptly, although he should've probably guessed it from the start. Something similar to relief blooms inside him, although he can't exactly explain why.
However, before the transformation could even properly begin, the non-illusion swiftly reaches an arm over one shoulder and unveils a familiar-looking cloak from seemingly out of nowhere.
Merlin's stomach twists because the cloak is made from the darkest black he has ever laid his eyes upon — a hue that has become more and more familiar during the third test.
Silence deafens the whole training grounds as the non-illusion shrouds itself and its features in the smothering shadows of the cloak's hood.
Balinor's eyes widen, a look of pure stupor settling over his slack face. Everyone else seems to be in similar condition, bodies paralyzed with either fright or shock.
Then, the Court Sorcerer's features turn as dark as night, and a word filled with unadulterated contempt falls from his sneering lips. "Wracu."
Three things happen at once.
An arrow whizzes loudly in the air, the string in Prince Arthur's bow vibrating aggressively in the aftermath. A fireball the size of the sun swirls into existence over Balinor's head, and the Court Sorcerer throws it towards the cloaked figure in one emphatic wave. Someone in the audience screams, "It's the bloody böggel-mann!" and violently shatters the quiet.
The dark-cloaked phantom quickly waves leather-gloved hands in a large arc, and a thick golden shield envelopes it in the nick of time. The spinning fireball and speeding arrow hit the barrier with a dull roar and a loud clang. The arrow's obsidian tip fails to pierce, and the fireball smothers itself out after mere seconds.
Wails erupt from the audience stands, and hysteria grips each and everyone in sight. Chaos descends upon them.
"Is it real? Is it really him?"
"Run, run, run, bloody run!"
"Go, go, go, get out of my way!"
"Scite, scite, scite!"
Members of the audience bolt to the exits, shoving each other in terror. Guardians and parents hold their children protectively, uncaring of the people they push in their haste to get their family to safety. Half of the applicants leap over the barrier to get to the stands, and head for the exits themselves.
"Make sure everyone's safe!" Lady Jayden commands to those of court while Balinor prepares another spell. "Prevent a stampede!"
A handful of full-fledged magic-users take off to follow the order as the seats steadily emptied in a frenzy.
Lady Jayden turns to a nearby sorceress and orders succinctly, "Get the mages." The sorceress nods and runs to do just that. Then, she turns to Merlin and places a yellow handkerchief over his wound. "Don't you worry, my boy. We'll just need to wait for a mage, all right?"
Merlin nods, pressing the given cloth over his injury and stifling a pained wince. Being terrible at healing spells, he doesn't even attempt to heal the injury with magic. He's also thankful Lady Jayden doesn't try to do so; tense as he is, he isn't sure how his magic with react to others', no matter how well-intentioned.
The magic-users that remained, meanwhile, prepare their own offensive enchantments. Prince Arthur raises a fist adorn with an arm guard. His arrow, which has fallen motionless onto the ground after its failure, unsticks itself from the soil and flies feather-first into Prince Arthur's open palm.
Merlin goggles. Did . . . Did the prince of Camelot just used magic? While he knows there might be more important things to worry about, he can't help but wonder what kind of expression the prince wears after doing such a thing. His gaze strays to the said prince's face, and he almost takes a step back at what he saw.
Reflected in Prince Arthur's visage is complete and merciless hatred, his blue eyes icy as they glare at the phantom, at the one they had called böggel-mann. At the back of Merlin's mind, he thinks ruefully that he doesn't need the mandrake circle to see one of his fears after all.
"Emrys," a deep distorted inhuman voice reverberates amidst the deafening cacophony. Merlin blanches, gaze returning to the cloaked figure. Even with the shadows befalling its whole facade, the böggel-mann is clearly facing his direction. "We'll meet again." It's a promise and threat wrapped in one.
Only a few days into this realm and somebody is already trying to kill him. Sounds about right, really.
Various eyes flick to Merlin, including Prince Arthur's and Balinor's. Suspicion and bewilderment line their irises, questions that Merlin is in no way prepared to answer practically at the tips of their tongues.
The böggel-mann throws out a spell with a scratchy roar and a forceful gesture, effectively diminishing their desire for answers. The bronze ball at the corner, one that was once their pot for the second test, rolls itself towards the gathered magic-users with impossible speeds and ominous groans. The five nearest magic-users of court perform their own spells to hinder or slow down the heavy object. The remaining applicants shriek and attempt to get out of the way.
Again, Merlin slows down time without a word. He's glad when he sees that even the speeding ball of metal slows down with it. He hits it with a wordless spell of his own, delaying its dangerous arrival by a few seconds. Time resumes. The sorcerers and sorceresses manage to finish their spells and collectively push the weighty ball away from them.
"After him!" Balinor shouts before running forward. Prince Arthur is right at his heels.
Merlin's head whips to the böggel-mann; it's already levitating in the air, descending out of the training grounds and making its escape. Most of the remaining magic-users of court dash to pursue the black-cloaked sorcerer themselves. Merlin takes a step to also do just that; he's not letting his not-father and a version of his best friend face something so sinister without him.
Lady Jayden, one of the three remaining full-fledged magic-users, tuts and grasps one shoulder to hold him back. "My boy, if you don't stay still, I'll be forced to knock you out." She then gestures down. "Come and lie down for a while."
"It's just a scratch," Merlin insists again, trying to get out of her grip. Balinor and the others are already at the exit and the böggel-mann itself is now out of Merlin's sight. He hears someone yell a spell; a bright light erupts and the smell of lightning fills the air.
"Merlin." Mordred, one of the very few applicants who chose to stay, pops out beside the warlock with pursed lips. "A wound inflicted by the böggel-mann's blade is not to be taken lightly."
At that, the warlock pauses. He looks between Lady Jayden's somber face, and Mordred's serious one. Then, he glances down at his side, at the sluggishly bleeding laceration pressed with a now bloodied cloth. Merlin closes his eyes briefly and lets out a breath. He extends his inner senses, searching for anything foreign or unusual within him and his body. It's a spell he does on Arthur once or twice in recent years to check for poisons or heinous enchantments.
The spell he dreaded finding is the first thing he found imbued around his wound.
"There's a reverse healing spell," he says, shock causing his voice to choke up a bit.
Lord Mavin glances at him, mien filled with intrigue. "You're able to sense it?"
"I sure hope so," the warlock blurts out without thinking.
"And why is that?" Lady Jayden asks, face a portrait of casual.
Merlin, realizing the error in his statement, hurriedly amends, "Er — It's just something I've encountered before."
And it's something that made me unintentionally kill my best friend's father, he thinks to himself darkly.
He knows that the curse infused in his injury is the same as the one on the pendant around the old king's neck during Uther's last moments. After that tragedy, Merlin and Gaius have studied the pendant thoroughly for hours. The warlock has ensured he memorized the feel of such a dark enchantment so that he can recognize it should he have the misfortune to encounter it again.
He has thought he would find it upon a friend. He never considered that he himself might be hexed with it. He's doubly thankful now that no one attempted healing spells on him. While Merlin doubts he could have died from that, it would've made the wound infinitely worse.
Had the böggel-mann been successfully in impaling him, he surely would have died with a simple healing spell.
"A mage is coming, don't worry," Lady Jayden reassures, perhaps reading the uneasiness in Merlin's expression. "They'll be able to remove the curse and we'll heal you up in no time."
"But . . ." The warlock's eyes goes to the exit of the training grounds. The cacophony of a fight is distant and unintelligible now. Worry nibbles at Merlin; in the last seven years, he has always been in the center of whatever battle is occurring, secretly saving Arthur and the knights' arses. It feels very strange and troubling to be excluded from a fight for once. "I can still join them. It really is just a scratch."
Lady Jayden tightens her grip on him, further discouraging his trail of thought. "My boy, we don't know what else Wracu has placed upon you. It's safer to be cautious." Lady Jayden herself glances at the ground's entrance. "I'm certain Lord Balinor and the others are more than capable enough to handle the threat."
"You called him by his name," an applicant nearby whispers, awe and terror warring in their face.
Lady Jayden cocks a brow, knowing exactly to whom the applicant is referring. "We shouldn't be afraid of a mere name, my dear." She turns to Merlin again, and says with a hint of command, "Now, are you going to sit down or do I have to force you?"
Merlin doesn't want to know what forcing him entails. Gingerly and reluctantly, he sits down, fighting down the inexplicable urge to follow the battle. He lets reason win out. Lady Jayden is most likely right; in a land where magic is freely practiced, full-fledged sorcerers and sorceresses can surely defeat one evil sorcerer.
No matter how feared this sorcerer is.
Mordred decides to join Merlin down on the ground. The twelve other present applicants, already exhausted after the third test and now more than tired after several terror-filled minutes, figure sitting down truly is a genius idea. Lady Jayden, Lord Mavin, and another full-fledged sorceress stay standing, still tense and alert.
The quiet in the air is bleak. The audience stands lay empty, pieces of cloths and wooden bowls litter the bare seats. On the grounds, the soil has been imprinted with hundreds of angry footfalls. The mandrake circle has lost its form, the ink smeared and in the midst of disappearing. The hourglass of the third test rests shattered on the floor, the cool late afternoon wind blowing away the spilled sand. Where there was once more than seventy people, there are now only seventeen.
It's difficult to believe that just a couple of moments ago, the whole area was boisterous and vivacious.
Merlin barely registers any of this. Thousands of questions distracts him and runs through his mind. Who is this Wracu? Why does he know Merlin as Emrys at a glance when Mordred, a druid, fails to identify the warlock as such? What reason has he to attack Merlin? Merlin has only been in this realm for a few days, and he spent most of that time unconscious! How could he have already offended a prominently nefarious entity of this world?
Merlin has told himself that he will be as uninvolved as possible in this world's affairs. But it seems this world's affairs are determined to involve him nonetheless.
After a few more minutes of silence, the applicant named Danali turns to a fellow peasant born and whispers, "I can't believe I saw the real böggel-mann with my own two eyes."
All ears, including Merlin's, can't help but absentmindedly listen in on the conversation. It's the only break in the tense-filled silence.
"It's an experience I'd rather not have," Theo, Danali's current conversation partner, drawls out.
"Do you . . ." The boy with a bowl cut nervously looks around. "Do you think the böggel-mann's followers are here too?"
There's a pause, everyone contemplating on that. For Merlin, exasperation mixed with dismay grips him. "This böggel-mann has followers?" he can't help but blurt out.
Every applicant's gaze swivels to him with various degrees of bewilderment. The warlock inwardly groans; can't he just ask a question for once without anyone giving him disbelieving looks?
"You don't know about the Warlocks and Witches Army?" A flaxen-haired commoner lifts a skeptical brow.
"Mind your language," a noblewoman scolds, huffing in offense.
The commonborn rolls his eyes hard enough to possibly strain them. "The Army then." He side-eyes Merlin.
In hopes of laying to rest all other inquiries, Merlin says, "My village is really isolated. We barely get any news about anything."
Most of them, especially the nobles, nod, seeming to accept this explanation with little doubt. Some, however, cast him suspicious glances, clearly unconvinced.
The boy with a bowl cut leans closer to Merlin, and explains, "The Army is really just composed of a couple of people. But they're all . . . you-know-whats . . . so they have the strength of an army."
"Composed of warlocks and witches?" Merlin infers guilelessly.
The boy winces, and the nobles all huff in indignation. Merlin belatedly recalls what Mordred and Gilli told him regarding such terms.
"Yes." The boy forges on despite Merlin's misstep. "And they are all under the böggel-mann's command. And his mother's too, of course." His brown eyes dart around. "With the böggel-mann appearing in the middle of the exam . . . some of those in the Army might be here too!"
"It is possible." Morgana, seated to Merlin's right, adorns a contemplative look.
The warlock himself carefully looks around, wondering if another unexpected assault will befall him. Then, "Wait, his mother? The böggel-mann's mother?" Merlin hopes that she isn't going to be trying to kill him too.
The brown-eyed boy blinks rapidly. "The Priestess Nimueh," he states, expression denoting that Merlin should have known this.
Right. It's good that the warlock didn't raise his hopes too high.
So Nimueh's still alive. The mere notion makes his head throb. And her son just tried to kill me.
While Merlin's digesting this information, Mordred speaks up and tells them, "I doubt the böggel-mann will risk one of his followers getting caught inside Camelot's walls. They might be used against him."
"But he'll risk getting caught himself?" Danali asks, incredulous.
Mordred purses his lips. "I think the böggel-mann knows he won't be. Caught, that is."
"Even with the best of Camelot pursuing him?" Morgana asks in turn.
"Perhaps even then," Mordred replies, a tint of bitterness slipping in his tone.
The three magic-users of court press their lips into a thin line but say nothing.
On a lighter note, Mordred adds, "But I'm still hoping today would be the day he ceases roaming freely in the streets."
"Yeah, let's hope for that," Theo says, nodding emphatically.
The others mutter their own resounding agreements. After that, they settle into another fatigue-filled silence.
Merlin's eyes once again flicker to the ground's exit. The apprehension lodged in his chest decreases not one bit.
He rifles through his memories, trying to recall if the Nimueh he knows had a child. Based on the very few interactions he had with the malicious sorceress, she always seems to be working alone. All magic and curses had been her own. No allies came to stand beside her, even as Merlin shouted the fatal spell that destroyed her. In Merlin's world, had she decided not to involve her son in her quest for revenge against Pendragons? Or perhaps she merely didn't have a son? Or maybe . . .
Uther didn't care for the age of those he burned during his crusade, and maybe Nimueh's hatred for Pendragons isn't merely because of her banishment. The thought sickens Merlin, despite the fact that Nimueh had been one of his worst foes.
Then, an epiphany strikes him like lightning, making him lightheaded. It's a realization that he probably should have had sooner.
With people of this realm having children that their versions in Merlin's world did not have, then, it's no surprise that the vice versa might be true — that some people that were born in Merlin's Camelot might not at all exist in this one.
"Mordred." Merlin shifts to face the druid in one quick move. The cut on his side throbs in protest at the action but the warlock has more important matters on his mind.
The druid, in turn, faces him with a hint of surprise. Merlin may not have noticed it but it is the first time the man has called Mordred by his name.
Merlin lowers his voice, ensuring no other can hear his words. He has to know, even if it causes the druid to be suspicious of him. "E - Emrys. Are you familiar with the word?"
Mordred keeps his expression blank. "It is the name the böggel-mann called you."
The warlock suppresses the urge to let out an exasperated breath at the reminder that he has to deal with the fallout of that soon. "Y-Yes, I suppose it is. But have you heard of it before? Before today?"
The druid's brows furrow. "No. Should I have?" The light of realization smoothens the lines of his brows. "Is it prominent noble surname?"
"No," Merlin says, trying to keep his voice steady as his suspicions are confirmed. "I-I don't know. I've also never heard of it before," he tacks on spontaneously. Clueless peasant it is, he thinks wryly.
"All right," Mordred simply says, and Merlin is wholly certain that the druid believes him not one bit.
So Mordred truly doesn't know. Even as a child, the Mordred of his world knows of Emrys, of the prophecies surrounding him. This Mordred is clueless to his identity because those prophecies likely don't exist in this realm.
No recognition had flitted over Balinor's face when Merlin is called during the third test, when the name of his village is mentioned. Of course. Why would the Court Sorcerer of Camelot, a person of obviously high position, visit a small unimportant village just at the borders of Essetir? Without the ban against all magic, what reason has he to run away and seek refuge in the humble home of Hunith of Ealdor?
All the events that lead to Merlin's birth didn't occur at all.
Before the warlock could fully process this realization and what he feels regarding it, a commanding voice breaks the quiet.
"What is going on?"
Everyone lifts their heads, eyes whirling to the ground's entrance.
Queen Ygraine marches in the messy area without hesitation, blue eyes quickly taking in every sign of chaos in sight. Following her are a handful of guards and the blonde noble called Tristan. Further behind them, several people dressed in extravagant and colorful garments walk briskly towards the only people inside the grounds.
Merlin immediately recognizes Gaius — Mage Gaius — to be one of them. Relief floods him at the sight of a familiar face, even if he knows it's not truly his mentor. Then, the warlock spots an anxious Gilli among the crowds of the new arrivals, and recognizes that half of the people are actually mage applicants.
Queen Ygraine and her entourage stop in front of Lady Jayden, who bows shallowly.
"Lady Jayden," the queen speaks, tone not quite angry but definitely not calm. "Where is my Court Sorcerer?"
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
A/N:
"Who is that girl I see
Staring straight, back at me
Why is my reflection someone I don't know
Somehow I cannot hide
Who I am
Though I've tried
When will my reflection show who I am inside
When will my reflection show who I am inside" – Mulan, Mulan (1998)
Y'all: I can't wait to see what Merlin's fears are!
Me, knowing I'll be robbing y'all of such a thing: ( o_o ) (๑•﹏•) （・＿・；)
(Well, I hope this chapter is still somewhat enjoyable)
And I kid you not, I didn't realize the last chapter was cliffhanger (again). I guess it's because I already know what's going to happen that I didn't realize that you guys . . . might not.
You guys put forth such amazing and heartbreaking scenarios (are you all right?). Some of you mentioned writing fanfiction, and I'll just remind you that my note in the first chapter still holds true! This story is up for adoption/expansion! Y'all know I'm only writing this because I also would like to read Clueless-BAMF-FinallyGettingCredit!Merlin (and no one adopted this in the 2 years I left it on hiatus T^T)
Thank you so much Wattleflower, Miajanuary, and Somebody for the kofis! And for the kind compliments you sent my way! And for all you guys who said such kind words and gave me constructive criticisms, thank you! I've reread those more than 150 comments over 5 times now and they always melt my heart.
Constructive criticisms are very much welcome! Please point out any glaring errors and help me improve my writing!
If you enjoy my content, please consider buying me coffee (link in my profile) ;)
Don't let the böggel-mann of your life get you down! You can always win against them!
~ Vividpast