Chapter Summary: Merlin may not have joined the chase but it seems he still has battles to fight. Meanwhile, everyone else faces their own conundrums.
Recap of Named Original Characters:
- Bedivere: A knight of Camelot just recently promoted from squire.
- Galahad: A knight of Camelot just recently promoted from squire.
- Theo: Gray-haired applicant who helps Merlin throughout the tests
- Elise: Another applicant who's friendly to Merlin. The baker's daughter in Merlin's world.
- Clar: Princess of Mercia. An applicant who's not at all friendly towards Merlin.
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Chapter XVII: War Face
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Ris helps an old woman get to her feet, shielding her from the wave of frantic runners with his bulk. The wave passes swiftly, and he sends her on her way not long after.
"May the Goddess bless you, dear," she shouts as she blends into the frenzy once more.
A few feet away, Bedivere steadies a child and a father that lost their footing.
Galahad, expression that of a knight ready for battle, draws nearer to Ris to be heard amidst the cacophony. "Do we join the chase, sire?" He asks solemnly as he watches the Court Sorcerer and other magic-users bolt out of the grounds without another glance back.
Ris is tempted to say yes. Right now, the senior knight knows that the Court Sorcerer is compromised, and has been the moment that dark cloak materialized before their very eyes. But to get between Lord Balinor and his quarry would be folly indeed, and Ris lacks the ability to snap the lord out of this particular bloodlust. He just needs to trust that the magic-users that accompanied the Court Sorcerer will prevent the lord and Prince Arthur from doing something regrettable.
"No," he says instead, hoping he's making the right decision. "Our priority is to get the people to safety."
"But—" Bedivere begins, eyes darting to the commotion following one of Camelot's greatest foes.
"Sir Bedivere, am I clear?" Ris demands, tone lined with command.
Bedivere nods sharply, remembering his place. "Yes, sire."
The three of them calmly head to the nearest exit, not wanting to contribute to the stampede that's quickly forming. They help the people that's been shoved and injured get to their feet, and shield the ones that are being stepped on until they could stand up. Galahad finds a sniffling little boy separated from his parent, and unhesitatingly takes him with them.
"Hey, it's all right. We'll find your Da," the knight soothes as he carries the boy.
The little boy nods, wiping the back of his hand over his runny nose. Galahad looks down, blinking at the revealed creature bundled in the boy's arms.
"This is Kelly." The boy rubs the baby griffin's feathery head. The creature does not open its eyes nor stir in anyway. "Someone kicked her and now she won't wake up." Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, lips wobbling dangerously.
"Well, she's still breathing." Thank the Goddess for Bedivere who chimes in at the right moment. "And griffins are tougher than they look. She'll be all right." Bedivere offers the boy a giant grin in assurance.
That seems to mollify the child slightly, enough that his tears have dried by the time they manage to squeeze out of the training grounds.
"Find his father," Ris tells Galahad, who holds the child more firmly to his chest. To a restless Bedivere, he says, "We'll find anyone too injured to stand and gather them near the grounds." He looks around, and notes with relief that the crowd appears to be thinning out somewhat. "Someone would've called the mages already, and they'll be arriving to tend to the injured."
Both knights under his command spread out to comply to his order without further questions. Ris loses sight of them in the crowds not a moment after. With them gone, the senior knight lets narrow eyes roam around. He jostles in between the panicking people, looking for anyone who needs help.
A teen clad in dirty white tunic catches his gaze. In the midst of all the chaos and movement, the straw-haired boy is standing as still as a statue. His rigid back is to Ris, his front facing the direction everyone is running away from.
Ris approaches him without hesitation, knowing that sometimes shock and fright freezes people in place, rendering them unable to even call for help. In a place as raucous as this, such reactions might prove fatal.
"Hello," the knight says, hand coming up to clasp the boy's shoulder but he thinks better of it at the last moment. Instead, he lets his hand hover. "Do you need any help? It's not safe to stay here."
For one long second, the boy moves not a single muscle. Then, he slowly turns his head to the side. Gold-consumed gaze pierces Ris like a lance, and sets his heart racing.
The knight backs away a step, immediately sensing something amiss. He takes in the boy's whole form, and chilling familiarity slams into him.
The boy's attire is exactly the same one Wracu wore when he disguised himself during the exam, when he wore an applicant's face and tried to stab them.
Ris' hand immediately grasps the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist. That is as far as he gets before a petrifying enchantment locks almost all his muscles into stillness. His drumming heart and panting lungs work doubly as if to make up for his other limbs' sudden immobility. Ris curses himself for letting his guard down, for letting himself be complacent.
"It's certainly not safe here, Sir Knight," the boy says monotonously, completely turning around and facing Ris with a placid expression. The voice is childishly high-pitched but the tone makes the sentence nothing short of ominous.
Ris glares as hard as he can while fighting off the spell coursing through his veins. He recalls the knights' training, the sessions Lord Balinor held to teach them how to shake off such enchantments. Had he encountered a lesser magic-user, he would have broken the hold seconds ago. As it is, he could barely twitch a finger.
Glowing eyes set in a deceivingly boyish face stare right through the knight. Spindly fingers reach for him. "You should be more careful."
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Screams resound in the streets of the citadel as a blur of fluttering black flies by their midst. The sight of the Court Sorcerer, their prince, and several magic-users feverishly chasing the specter further sends the townspeople in a panicked bout.
"What - Who - ?"
"It's the böggel-mann! The böggel-mann is here in the city!"
"What!? How!?"
"Hide in your homes!"
"Get the children off the streets!"
Vendors abandon their wares, children dash on to their houses, and doors and windows slam shut as the commotion reaches them.
Wracu weaves through the alleyways between houses, steps inhumanely quick and movements impossibly agile. Balinor does not let his eyes stray away from him, tracking every gesture and minute twitch. Magic simmers underneath the Court Sorcerer's fingertips and he's furious that he's unable to give it form. The pathways are too narrow and the people around too many to risk throwing out a careless and flamboyant spell. Balinor knows better than to think that Wracu is careening into such alleyways by chance.
He locks eyes with Ivaìr, Ovrel, Alana, and Sweìl. He sharply and speedily signaled directions. The four magic-users nod in reply, and promptly breaks off from the group with silent footfalls.
An arrow whistles through the air, and their enemy swivels to the left without decreasing his speed. The pointed tip misses his shoulder by mere inches. Arthur, letting out panting breaths as he runs, calls the arrow back to him before it could hit anything else.
Dalion swings an arm up as soon as Wracu enters a wider street, roaring out an enchantment. A thick colorless barrier rises meters away, right in the path of their lone enemy. Balinor and two more sorceress throw out fire spells, igniting the barrier and making it a wall of fire.
Wracu, without even lifting a finger for or giving voice to a spell, merely sprints through the flaming wall with nary soot nor burn on his dark cloak. Balinor and the others suppress their bewildered surprise, and continue the pursuit. They throw out various other attacks — a pit opening right under their enemy's feet, projectiles made of ice flying through the air, webs of electricity crackling in the atmosphere. But Wracu merely jumps over or dodges under their assaults, his gait never faltering. He doesn't even take the time to put up counterattacks, determined to reach wherever it is he's heading to.
Directly up ahead and progressively drawing nearer, the archway for the eastern gate looms. Anti-teleportation enchantments suffuse the whole city — enchantments that span only up until the citadel's borders. The moment Wracu crosses the threshold of the gates is the moment they will lose him. Balinor won't let the vile warlock take one step outside these walls. In fact, Balinor will make sure that the only steps Wracu will be taking are towards the waiting pyre.
The guards up at the parapets shout, and scurry with clanking armors. After a short moment, the cold-iron grates slam down over the once welcoming eastern gates with earth-quaking clangs, barring anyone from entering or exiting.
The four magic-users Balinor has ordered ahead block the streets on both sides of the gates. They lift their arms, chanting and forming their own defensive spells.
Nowhere to go,Balinor thinks triumphantly. With the gates shut and magic-users surrounding him on all sides, the warlock has no way to escape now.
Wracu keeps up his pace, giving no indication that he has even noticed the hindrances in his way. He heads towards the closed gates still, and does not change direction even a few feet away from it. Balinor narrows his eyes, embers sparking from his fingertips in preparation for whatever Wracu has planned.
The warlock runs right into iron bars. The dark cloak hits the metal and deflates like a popped rubber ball unto the ground.
Balinor and his men halt abruptly, shock claiming their voices. They stare at the piece of clothing that once covered their enemy, one that now innocuously lies on the ground. The Court Sorcerer marches forward, and plucks the black cloak off of the soil. His eyes swivel to the iron grates, ones that have been bespelled to be impervious to any tampering magic. How? Where did he . . . ?
"We - We've been chasing an illusion," Arthur, with a heaving chest and sweaty demeanor, practically spits out as he catches up with them.
The rage that has slowly been simmering underneath Balinor's skin as the chase went on explodes into a full-force inferno inside his chest. Not again. Red peppers his vision, and his whole frame trembles with fury.
"Search the city!" He bellows, unable to prevent the dragonlord's roar from slipping in his voice. The flimsy cloth in his hands almost garners crescent-shaped rips from his tight grip. "He must be nearby to be able to control the illusion. Go to —"
"There's no need for all of that, is there?" a garbling voice interrupts Balinor's orders.
His head snaps up so fast his neck twinges. The fabric in his hands glides seamlessly to the ground.
On the other side of the barricaded gate, Wracu, clothed in another dark cloak, stands casually atop the dirt road beyond the drawbridge. The warlock tilts his head, leather-clad fingers twitching. For one tense beat, Balinor stares at the featureless shadows that shrouds Wracu's face. The warlock looks back, silent and motionless.
"Open the gates!" Balinor shouts, magic surging through his veins.
Wracu makes one sharp gesture, muttering a spell. Biting winds begin encircling him, dirt and grass kicking up in the air. The Court Sorcerer growls, willing the gates to lift themselves up.
The guards on the parapets comply with Balinor's command as fast as they can, pulling chains and spinning pulleys. Another set of guards rains down spears, axes, and all manner of projectiles upon their enemy outside the gates. All the weapons hit the translucent shield around Wracu before dropping heavily and uselessly to the ground.
Somewhere at the back of Balinor's mind, a familiar voice echoes faintly. Revenge really is exhaustingly endless, isn't it?
I seek justice, not revenge, Balinor answers back with gritted teeth.
The Court Sorcerer sees the dome barrier around Wracu flicker, tearing him out of his one-sided conversation. The teleportation spell is overwhelming the shield, rendering it nil.
Not even a second after, an obsidian-tipped arrow flies past the Court Sorcerer's head, and slips through the opening of the gate's bars.
The arrow heads straight for Wracu's unprotected chest. It would have met its target had the warlock not finished the teleportation spell at that exact moment. Their enemy disappears with one last strong gust, and the projectile smacks into empty air before eventually piercing the soil.
The Court Sorcerer's hands curl into tight fists.
When the gates open up wide enough, Balinor ducks down and strides towards the area disturbed by the whipping whirlwind. Behind him, the others follow swiftly without hesitation.
Balinor crouches down, inspecting the spot where their enemy disappeared using sight, touch, and an analyzation spell.
"He got away." Arthur's tone is eerily monotonous. The prince jerks the arrow that missed its mark off the ground with white-knuckled fingers. "Again."
"He's been using exhaustive spells simultaneously in the past few minutes," Balinor explains curtly, mind already working through the clues he has gathered. He straightens, astute gaze roaming around.
Ivaír concludes with climbing elation, "He won't have the power to teleport far away."
The Court Sorcerer opens his mouth, about to spout off orders and plans to search the forests.
Thunderous clip-clops rumble the ground, making everyone pause and bristle in alarm. Balinor stares at the foliage ahead, magic preparing for another threat. Arthur nocks his arrow once more, and aims it at the direction of the noise.
After a few more moments of the sounds increasingly growing louder, the sources of them burst forth from between the trees. Men and women clad in armor gleaming in the afternoon sun, and armed with weapons soaked with magic sit astride their trained steeds. They reign in their horses as soon they spot Balinor and his group in front of the gates. The array of brown, black and white steeds bray and snort, kicking off dirt as their riders force their stop.
The magic-users breathe out a collective sigh of relief, dispelling their prepared enchantments. Arthur lowers his bow, azure eyes observing the troop of knights gathered before them.
The Court Sorcerer lifts his gaze, and locks eyes with Camelot's Head Knight.
"Your Highness," the Head Knight greets the prince first as she dismounts gracefully. Behind her, her knights do the same, getting to their feet and bowing their heads. "Lord Balinor. Is something the matter, my lords and ladies?" Her blue-grey eyes meander from one rumpled magic-user to the next. "What happened with the Apprentice Exam?"
"Sir Isolde," Balinor returns crisply, countenance cool. A suspicion pierces his mind, sharp and sour. "Would you mind telling me what exactly is going on?"
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Two men with haloes of blonde curls, dressed in robes darned with Pendragon's crests and unfamiliar symbols, stride forward to stand on Lady Jayden's sides. With a suppressed flinch, Merlin recognizes one of the men as Edwin Muirden, face unblemished of burn scars. Worry mars the man's expression and his bright blue eyes quickly flicks over Lady Jayden's form. The other man beside Lady Jayden, one who resembles a much older version of Edwin, emulates Edwin's actions but in a subtler manner.
Merlin supposes he shouldn't have been surprised to see Edwin. Lady Jayden did see him in the mandrake circle, and Merlin's quite sure now regarding the nature of their relationship. Still, Edwin is another not-enemy that Merlin hopes to avoid; even with his changed appearance, he still bears a close resemblance to the man who tried to kill Merlin's mentor.
Lady Jayden casts the two men a cursory look but nothing more, her attention fully on the queen. She begins explaining the whole sorry situation to the queen and mages, tone calm but succinct. Queen Ygraine listens avidly, expression bordering on thunderous. Lady Jayden doesn't mention Merlin by name in the whole discussion nor does she point or gesture to him at any point. Merlin's a tad grateful for it.
"And then Lord Balinor and Prince Arthur chased after him," Lady Jayden concludes.
"Arthur?" The queen's head snaps to the empty ornate chair as if she expects the prince to still be seated there, as if she expects Prince Arthur to merely be idle when a threat to the kingdom materialized before their eyes.
Merlin fails to follow their discussion further as deep blue trousers block his view of them. The warlock cranes his neck up only to meet Mage Gaius' very familiar face wearing a very familiar disapproving expression.
"Give us some space to work," Mage Gaius eyes Mordred and Morgana. They both move away from Merlin in compliance. From the corner of his eye, Merlin sees and hears an agitated Gilli slumping down beside a placid Mordred, and demanding to know what has happened.
With the grace of a man in his prime, Mage Gaius kneels down in front of Merlin without another word. Hands lined with wrinkles comes up to remove the warlock's blood-stained fingers from the cut on his side.
"It has a reverse healing spell," Merlin tells him, letting his hand and the bloodied kerchief fall away from the wound as he begins rambling. "I don't know how. I thought the spell can only be placed on an item, and not directly on someone."
Mage Gaius' head snaps up, leveling Merlin with a calculating look. The warlock closes his mouth with a click, abruptly remembering himself. Behind him, he hears unintelligible murmurs rising. In front of him, full-fledged and apprenticed mages offer him chastising glares or scandalized looks.
"Er — my lord," Merlin adds, tone unintentionally lilting in an almost question.
Mage Gaius pins him with a piercing look for a second longer. Even with the long white hair tied in a plait, and the uncharacteristically elegant clothes, Merlin cannot help see this Gaius as his mentor. Mage Gaius wears the same expression his Gaius does to convey 'I don't know what trouble is brewing but I do know you're at the center of it.'
Merlin pulls his lips into a close-lipped guileless smile in reply. Mage Gaius ignores him and, without preamble, grips the bottom of Merlin's tunic to raise it up. Panic shoots through the warlock; he clasps the old man's hand before his shirt could lift an inch. The abrupt movement agitated the area around the cut, and Merlin lets out a hiss.
Mage Gaius stares at him, disapproval lining his forehead. "Boy, I do need to see the wound to treat it."
Merlin tamps down the hurt that spikes at the brusque way Mage Gaius speaks to him. Instead, he focuses on explaining himself. "Can't we do this somewhere a little, uh, private? My lord." He glances around meaningfully at the people who are badly trying to hide their interest at the proceedings.
Mage Gaius' brows rise to his hairline. Merlin merely gives a helpless little shrug. He knows a commoner asking for privacy is something a tad unusual. There's no room for propriety when one grows up bathing in streams, goes shirtless in summers when the only clothes you have are suited for cold weather, and shares space with several other people during winter. Up until seven years ago, Merlin cares little for privacy at all. But the warlock is also aware of the atypical sets of scars he has gained in recent years, and how they will definitely spark a plethora of questions from anyone who sees them.
At this point, further questions are the last thing Merlin needs.
"Very well," Mage Gaius concedes, finally. He turns to one of the mages waiting patiently behind him. "Prepare a tent."
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The tents used during the exam's registration turn into one enclosed space with a simple wave of the hand. The mages set up the medical tent right outside of the now quiet grounds, and efficiently gather up the injured. Servants bring forth cots, bowls of herbs, piles of clean cloths, and other various knicknacks that the mages might need. Merlin recognizes half of them from Gaius' workshop but the other half is obviously magical in nature.
As everything is being prepared, a handful of sorcerers and sorceresses of court return with less than energetic mein. Trailing behind them are the applicants who bolted away during the chaos.
"Sorry I left you lot behind," Elise greets with sheepish expression as all the applicants reunite.
Theo replies with a wry grin, "The only reason we didn't run away ourselves is because we were too terrified to move." Theo side-eyes a seated Merlin. With the tiniest of smirks, he adds with a hint of teasing, "Well, except for Merlin here, who was too busy getting stabbed by the böggel-mann himself."
The aforementioned injured warlock looks up as he hears his name, gaze tearing away from the glimpses of flapping fabrics and levitating tools.
Elise sends him a curious glance, hundreds of inquiries blatant in the set of her thick brows. Inevitably, she voices one out, "Is your name actually Emrys?"
"I — no. It's Merlin," the warlock stutters out. "I've no idea why that — the böggel-mann called me by that name," he says, sticking to his lie and fervently hoping that it's believable.
Elise blinks rapidly at his answer. "I see," she says, obviously not seeing anything at all. "You might want to think of a better excuse before someone of court asks you the same question."
Drat. Fortunately, before Merlin can spout anything else that might dig him deeper in suspicion, Mage Gaius, along with a couple of mages, approaches with unyielding countenance. Gili shoots Merlin a worried look as the aforementioned magic-users begin shuffling him and the other injured applicants into the humongous tent. Mordred offers Merlin a close-lipped smile, silently wishing him good luck. Merlin stifles a wince, mind whirling once more as Mordred inadvertently reminded him why he needs the luck. Merlin doubts that almost getting stabbed will hinder the mounting questions headed his way. He needs to come up with a believable explanation to fend off the severe suspicions laid upon him.
The warlock then catches the emerald-colored gaze of Morgana Le Fay. For the first time since he has been transported into this strange realm, Merlin sees not a curious, confused or amused look upon the sorceress. Instead, a calculative expression paints Morgana's features, her brows slanted in an almost frown and her lips pursed into a thin flat line. Her posture is casual— too casual, in fact. Merlin shudders, neck prickling in alarm as he remembers another set of malicious green eyes sending him the same look. He tears his eyes away, and follows the mages into the tent. Behind him, the flap closes, hiding him from the eyes of anyone outside.
Inside the tent, the bitter and saccharine smell of smoking herbs and brewing potions sharply assaults Merlin's nose. Hay-filled cots pepper the ground, some already occupied by men and women cradling broken limbs. Mages carefully aid them, applying poultices, giving out potions, and whispering healing spells. Merlin swallows, feeling heavy gazes following his every step. He meets the eyes of some of the applicants lounging on the cots. Clar, favoring a swelling left arm, glares back at him with heated blue eyes. Guilt tugs at Merlin's chest; it is partially his fault why so many people have found themselves inside this tent.
Mage Gaius directs Merlin to one of the most isolated cots with a hand around his arm. As soon as the warlock is properly settled down, the mage tears his tunic in half with a word and a flippant gesture. Merlin yelps in surprise, arms coming up in a futile attempt to draw the torn shirt close.
"The wound's been left unattended long enough, boy," Mage Gaius scolds with a scowl. "Let me see it."
"A little warning would have been nice," Merlin mutters, placing down his arms and gingerly shrugging off his brown jacket.
Blood coats its right side, bright red and already congealing. Merlin sighs softly upon seeing the large hole at the corner; not only would he have a hard time removing the stain, he would also have to find a suitable enough cloth to patch it up. Had he been in his own Camelot, he could just cut up Arthur's old tunics and use those.
Without a word, a young mage, who has been silently standing just beside Mage Gaius, snatches the jacket from Merlin's hands. Before the warlock could protest or indeed, even finish being indignant, the said mage has exited the tent with it. The warlock hopes the mage would give it back later.
Not a moment too soon, Mage Gaius grips the bottom of the split tunic and carefully unsticks the cloth from Merlin's wound. The action produces an unholy squishy sound that nauseates the warlock slightly. Mage Gaius then speedily strips away what remains of the warlock's tunic.
The pendant around Merlin's neck swings, caught in the final piece cloth. The movement draws Mage Gaius' already narrowed eyes. Then, those grey eyes shift their focus to the palm-sized circular burn mark marring the center of Merlin's chest — Nimueh's parting gift. Merlin's hands twitch, and he valiantly fights down the urge to cross his arms. Mage Gaius' gaze traces the other much smaller scars peppering Merlin's torso and arms — the puckered skin near the burn caused by a bandit's spiked mace, the white raised lines inflicted during sword fights and various wall/floor-slamming endeavors.
The warlock bites down every defensive word threatening to spill from his mouth. He's just grateful that the fabric of the tent is at his back, thus hiding the scars upon his back from sight. That Mage Gaius' form is hiding most of his body from the others' view is another plus.
Mage Gaius snaps his gaze away after a long moment. With the tips of his fingers, he begins lightly pressing the area around the wound. The cut throbs dully, agitated by the mage's ministration. But a push at a particular spot emits a sharp painful sensation that travels all the way down Merlin's spine. He hisses, back arching as he instinctively tries to pull away from Mage Gaius' grip.
Mage Gaius nods resolutely, drawing his fingers back. A female mage hands him a pair of metallic tweezers, which he accepts without looking away from the wound.
"Try not to tense," Mage Gaius warns.
Merlin nods stiffly, bracing himself for it. Mage Gaius then leans forward, and carefully wiggles the tweezers into the laceration. Merlin feels the metal poking into skin and muscle, and it isn't a good feeling at all. It's not quite painful but definitely not comfortable. After a few more seconds, it latches onto something. Mage Gaius gingerly pulls the tweezers back.
Between its tongs glints a chip of ragged silver barely the size Merlin's fingernail. Mage Gaius holds it up to the light, humming as he studies it.
"It chipped off from the dagger?" Merlin thinks out loud, squinting and blinking at the tiny piece of metal.
"As it's meant to do, I suppose," Mage Gaius says, a severe frown marring his face. "The bottom's cleanly cut, not jagged. That dagger must have been designed to purposely embed this heavily cursed piece onto the victim once used."
That Wracu really went all out, huh, the warlock thinks to himself dryly.
Grey-blue eyes then swivel to Merlin. "Well, boy, is the hex gone?"
Merlin closes his eyes, searching once more within his body. When he opens them again, he happily informs Mage Gaius, "The reverse healing spell's gone."
"You sense no other enchantments?"
Merlin shakes his head, relieved. "It really must've been all there." He gestures to the broken off dagger piece.
The mage stares at him for a second longer, and Merlin rapidly blinks back at him. Has the warlock said something wrong? Before Merlin could ask his question out loud, Mage Gaius looks away and gives the tweezers with the cursed piece to another mage.
"I'm going to heal the wound now," Mage Gaius informs him curtly. He waits for Merlin to nod before gently placing an open palm on the cut.
Unnatural warmth emanates from the mage's hand, soothing the sting. Merlin feels the familiar threads of Gaius' magic slowly knitting the wound, and the warlock relaxes slightly. When he looks down, he sees the cut seamlessly closing up until not even a scar is left. Mage Gaius takes a clean cloth, wets it with another spell, and wipes away the remaining blood around Merlin's side. Both the warlock and mage observes the area, searching for anything awry.
After a full minute, Mage Gaius hums and pulls back, finding nothing unusual. "You're very lucky, boy." The mage signals to a nearby servant, and the said servant scurries to obey the unsaid order. "Not many can claim to survive a wound with such a hex, no matter how minor."
Yes, not even Uther Pendragon can claim that, Merlin thinks to himself briefly before brutally pushing away the line of thought.
The servant, carrying piles of clothing, approaches Merlin's cot with hurried strides. Her brown eyes dart to Merlin's uncovered torso, widen immensely, and then flicker purposely away. She holds the pile of colorful tunics to Merlin, brown eyes studiously on Merlin's face. The warlock stares at the proffered garments for a confused second before realizing she means for him to get one. He plucks the top one — a long-sleeved tunic that's dyed a deeper and richer blue than Merlin's destroyed one. When he shrugs it on, the soft cottony quality of the tunic further proves that it couldn't belong to a mere commoner. Merlin adjusts the sleeves, feeling awkward to be wearing obvious finery. He always feels such whenever Arthur lends him a couple of his old shirts for banquets or other special occasions. On the other hand, he feels relieved that his actions cause him no pain, and that his scars are now fully hidden from sight.
The servant bows out of the space but not before shooting Merlin a contemplative frown. The warlock doesn't miss it. He knows it won't be the last time he'll be the recipient of such a look.
"I am curious." Merlin's attention whips to Mage Gaius, whose brow is raised incredibly high and whose eyes glitter with unbridled interest. "How did you learn to detect such a heinous curse?"
Merlin sees no reason to lie, especially to a version of his mentor. "I've encountered it before. It was placed on someone I, uh, know."
"Did they survive it?"
Merlin can't prevent the wan smile that stretches his lips. "No. No, they didn't."
Mage Gaius acknowledged that with a solemn nod. "Which mage did you apprentice under?"
Merlin blinks. "I didn't — I haven't apprenticed under anyone."
Mage Gaius looks unimpressed. "Do you expect me to believe that you learned to sense curses all on your own, boy?"
Before Merlin could reply to that, the flap of the tent opens boisterously, stealing everyone's attention and halting all conversations. Queen Ygraine's tense and determined visage enters, followed by Lord Tristan's.
The mages and the wounded bow their heads and murmurs "Your Highness", "Your Majesty" and "My lord". Their eyes trace the queen's path, intrigue evident on their faces.
Almost immediately, the queen's azure eyes hone in on Merlin. The warlock straightens in response to the scrutiny, eyes widening and a lump of nerves forming in his throat. It seems Merlin's involvement in the whole thing has been revealed to Queen Ygraine.
Drat.
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Sir Isolde's expression remains poised and apathetic in the face of Balinor's question. To her credit, however, she doesn't play obtuse. "I believe this will be better discussed with the queen."
Arthur tightens his grip around his bow. Whatever the knights are hiding, it's clear his mother has ordered them to do so. While his mother may hide many things from him, she hides only one thing from her Court Sorcerer.
"I see," Balinor says, the flash of the same realization lighting his eyes. "No matter. I suppose I shall know later." He turns to the magic-users under his command. "We'll split up and search different parts of the forest. If my calculations are correct, at most, Wracu could have only travelled a couple of clicks from here."
"Wracu?" Sir Isolde and her men startles as the name falls from Balinor's lips. "What — Was he here? Inside the citadel?" Their hands flit over their respective weapons. Arthur, however, does not miss Sir Isolde trading significant looks with her second-in-command. The action further confirms Arthur's suspicions regarding the reason for their discrete patrol.
"Yes," the Court Sorcerer says simply before continuing, "We'll split into four groups." Balinor casts an inquiring glance at Arthur. Arthur gives a small nod, stepping further forward to join the group of sorcerers and sorceresses. His left leg throbs horribly in protest because of the strain he has placed on it in the past couple of minutes. He ignores the pain as always, setting it at the back of his mind.
Balinor resumes, "With me to the eastern part: Prince Arthur, Sweìl, Alana —"
"Lord Balinor!" echoes from within the city gates, accompanied by the pounding of horse hooves. A few seconds later, Mage Edwin on horseback emerges, and stops just under the arch. He gives the knights a cursory glance before turning back to Balinor. "The queen has ordered you and Prince Arthur to return immediately."
Arthur curbs the spike of anger that consumes his chest. A similar flash of fury crosses Balinor's features.
"We have a rare chance to capture one of Camelot's greatest enemies, and you want me to waste it?" the Court Sorcerer practically spits out. By his sides, his hands are curling into tight fists.
Mage Edwin shifts on his saddle, pursing his lips in a thin line. "It's an order, my lord, Your Highness." And punishment awaits should you decide to disobey, goes unsaid.
Balinor's jaw clenches. Arthur takes a deep breath. To blatantly disobey the queen's direct order in front of so many witnesses would be tantamount to treason. While Arthur doubts the queen will punish them severely, they would drastically undermine her authority if they go against. Arthur considers the whole situation for one long moment.
They have dawdled far too much now. With the way their enemy cleverly planned their escape from the citadel and lure them in a useless pursuit all around town, it won't be a stretch to claim that he has already planned his escape from the forest too. As much as Arthur wishes to charge into the forest himself and end that warlock with an arrow through the head, he needs to be reasonable. Loathe as he is to admit it, there's a greater chance that they've already lost him.
On the plus side, however, there is one thing that needs their attention back in the citadel.
With stiff movements, he clicks the almost unnoticeable groove located at the top of his bow. The bow and arrow fold with mechanical snaps, and he straps it around his waist after its compression. Balinor watches the prince's actions with a hint of disbelief.
"Lord Balinor." Arthur glances at the magic-users of court, who's all trying to blend into the background and pretend they're hearing nothing of consequence. "Please have your men search and chase after the enemy without us. And perhaps Sir Isolde might let us borrow a few knights to help?" Arthur looks to the Head Knight in askance. Sir Isolde nods in agreement, and promptly turns to her knights to assign their duties.
Balinor shoots the prince a look demanding answers for the abrupt change in his demeanor. Arthur tilts his head, promising an explanation soon. They stare at each other for a silent beat. Then, Balinor rolls his shoulders, forcing them to relax. He unclenches his fists.
The Court Sorcerer and Head Knight quickly coordinate and plot how they would track the enemy. Within minutes, magic-users climb up the steeds along with their accompanying knights. They set out into the forest, and disappear from sight not even a minute after.
Mage Edwin clambers down from his own horse, and leads the remaining people back into the citadel. The Prince of Camelot, the Court Sorcerer, the Head Knight and her second follow in a steady pace right behind him. Arthur resists the urge to rub and soothe the stiff muscles constraining his left leg.
Balinor picks up the dark cloak that the enemy's illusion had been wrapped with. Afterwards, he matches Arthur's steps, and meets his eyes.
"We may not be leading his capture," Arthur answers the unspoken inquiry, making sure the words are for Balinor's ears only. "But we have something inside the citadel that is perhaps a valuable asset to him."
Balinor's brows rise at the proclamation, and then furrow. "What is it then?"
"Not what, but who." Arthur says, eyes hard. "The man he tried to kill."
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"You." Queen Ygraine reaches Merlin's cot in five large strides, her whole body vibrating with an explosion caged only by propriety.
Mage Gaius gracefully gets to his feet, stepping out of her way. Merlin can't help but shoot him a betrayed look.
"Merlin of Ealdor, is it." It's more of a statement than a question.
The warlock bows his head, letting the queen loom over him instead of standing up. "Y-Your Highness." The queen's stare reminds him starkly of King Arthur's — the stare Arthur uses upon criminals standing trial in court. Never has his best friend used it on Merlin, and now, he's starting to understand why those criminals squirm so much under it.
The noble called Tristan clears his throat meaningfully. From the corner of his eye, Merlin spies the noble making a discreet gesture towards the warlock himself. Queen Ygraine's frown deepens as her gaze wanders down in the vicinity of Merlin's neck. Before the warlock can stop himself, his hand comes up to hide the leather cord peeking through his borrowed tunic. Then, he inwardly curses himself for acting in such a suspicious manner.
Queen Ygraine's eyes alight with a realization. Then, those same eyes favor Merlin with a considering glance.
"Who is Emrys?" The queen asks in a tone that indicates she expects a clear and meaningful answer within the second.
"I—" Merlin abruptly decides to take Elise's advice, abandoning his previous excuse. "It's j-just something some people call me, Your Highness."
"And one of these people is Wracu himself?"
From the corner of his eye, Merlin sees more than one person flinch as the name falls from the queen's lips.
"I-I don't know how he came by the name," Merlin stutters out because he has been wondering the same thing. If Mordred, a druid, has no knowledge of Emrys and the attached prophecies, how can this böggel-mann know of Merlin and recognize him on sight?
"Let me guess: you don't know why he attacked you either?" Lord Tristan's tone denotes that he doesn't and he won't believe anything that comes out of Merlin's mouth.
It's a pity because Merlin speaks nothing but the truth when he enunciates, "I have no idea why he's after me."
Lord Tristan grits his teeth, patience thinning dangerously. Merlin braces himself for the oncoming tirade headed his way.
Queen Ygraine squeezes Lord Tristan's shoulder. The noble takes a deep breath, and says nothing more. To Merlin, she asks with a hint of steel, "No idea at all?"
Merlin lifts his head, meeting the queen's stare head-on in the hopes that she may see the truth of his words. "Today is the first time I've encountered him, Your Highness." I've never even heard of him until today. "And I could think of nothing I've done that could've made me his target." Seeing as I've only been here in this realm for a few days!
Queen Ygraine holds his gaze for several long seconds. Then, she lifts a significant brow, and Merlin immediately lowers his eyes once more before he could offend further.
"You say 'some people' call you Emrys." Queen Ygraine crosses her arms, eyes narrowed. "What is it? A last name?"
"No, no, no," Merlin hastily denies. "It — Uh." How to explain a title that means 'the most powerful warlock to have ever walked the earth'? Is it better to just state it like that? Would they even believe him? Or maybe they'll think him an arrogant condescending delusional arse? "Just a nickname that stuck, really," he answers, shrugging as casually as he possibly can.
"Really," Queen Ygraine says, almost in a drawl. She lets out an exhale tinted with controlled anger. "Boy, one of the most dangerous people on all of Albion just snuck into my kingdom and sabotaged one of its most prestigious events — all for an opportunity to kill you. I find it hard to believe that you're clueless as to the whole reason why."
But I am, Merlin almost bites out. Before the warlock could think of a much more diplomatic reply and say it in a much more respectful manner, the tent flap makes a crackling noise once more.
Mage Edwin dashes towards Queen Ygraine. He bows shallowly before leaning closer and whispering something in her ears. Queen Ygraine belies nothing in her expression or countenance as Mage Edwin pulls back and steps away. She glances around, observing the people who abruptly pretended their attention were anywhere but her conversation with the applicant that attracted so much trouble.
"Gaius, is he well enough?" Queen Ygraine asks, astute eyes turning back to Merlin.
Mage Gaius says, "Yes, Your Highness. His injury has been fully healed."
"Good." To Merlin, she more or less commands, "Stand up and follow me, boy."
Without another glance back, Queen Ygraine and Lord Tristan head for the exit. Merlin swallows and clambers to his feet. He wonders if he should run away even though he hasn't done anything wrong (yet). Something of his thoughts must've shown in his expression because Mage Gaius meets his eyes and gestures at the departing queen with a sharp movement of the head.
Merlin follows her, hoping he isn't being led to the dungeons or the execution block.
Outside the tent, applicants, guards and knights mill about. Eyes swivel in the queen's direction as they exit, and mutterings rise in volume. Thankfully, Merlin is too far away to hear their possibly outrageous and offensive speculations.
Another tent is set up a few meters away, this one much smaller and dyed Pendragon red. The guard stationed at its entrance lifts the flap, and Queen Ygraine and Lord Tristan ducks under it. Merlin enters after them.
A second later, he half-wishes that he didn't.
The Court Sorcerer's expression is as blank as fresh parchment but his hazel eyes as fiery as a blazing storm as they met Merlin's. Beside him, Prince Arthur stands, demeanor calm and collected, even as his tense shoulder bely his uneasiness.
Merlin's eyes widen a fraction when his eyes land on the third person because he recognizes another ghost. He supposes that since Tristan — the smuggler they met and is apparently called Ris in this world — is a knight of Camelot, it shouldn't be such a shock that Isolde — a fellow smuggler and Ris' lover in Merlin's world — is in Camelot too. What's a shock, however, is the woman's attire. Isolde is deck out in a full-body armor, complete with a deep red cape darned with the Pendragon's crest, and an ornate heavy-broad sword strapped around her waist. Her hair is cropped close to her ears, blonde locks spiking up in gravity-defying angles. Her form is much more bulkier, much more muscular, and definitely much more intimidating. When the light hits her face at a certain angle, Merlin notices the two tiny scars around her forehead and another under her jaw.
All in all, she looks every bit like Camelot's knight.
So women can be knights here, Merlin thinks with awe. The old Morgana, the one who was once Merlin's friend, would have absolutely loved that. The notion leaves him in an amazed stupor, so much so that he doesn't notice the fourth individual waiting for their arrival.
When he finally does, he experiences his second almost heart attack for the day. He smothers the gasp the threatens to burst from his lips.
The fourth person's dark brown eyes scrutinize Merlin fully from head to toe. But even so, no recognition sparks in his eyes, and the deep frown upon his brow does not abate one bit. Merlin feels a glimmer of hopelessness settle in his chest.
For even if the man adorning a knight's armor fails to recognize him, Merlin cannot say the same, even if the man's appearance vastly differs from the one he knows.
A giant gaping scar bisects the knight's face, starting from his left brow, skimming the corner of his left eye, running to the bridge of his nose, and ending under the right side of his jaw. Merlin imagines it must have been horrible and painful when the wound was fresh, and he's gripped by the sudden urge to find the one responsible for it to pay them back in kind.
Because Lancelot is one of his closest friends, and he can't help but feel a tad protective over this counterpart.
This Lancelot, however, is far too skinny compared the Lancelot he knows; even the bulky armor cannot disguise his scrawny form. His features are more rugged, much more worn out, as if he's carrying the entire world upon his bony shoulders.
"Are you familiar with Sir Lancelot?" Isolde asks, glancing between the two of them.
The question knocks Merlin out of his observations. "S-Sorry, um, he looks like a friend of mine."
Lancelot — Sir Lancelot, that is —scowls. "That's Sir Isolde to you, boy," he growls.
Hurt lances through Merlin's chest. "O-Of course, I apologize. Sir Isolde. Sir Lancelot."
Sir Lancelot nods with mild approval but his scowl does not dissipate. Merlin holds back a disappointed sigh at meeting another not-friend.
Behind Merlin, the tent flap lowers. Almost immediately, a spell burst out from Balinor's fingertips, startling the warlock. A few seconds later, the gold fades from his eyes.
"No one outside this tent will hear us," Balinor says to Queen Ygraine.
To Merlin's ears, it sounds a lot like No one will hear your call for help.
Balinor's attention focuses on Merlin, and the warlock wishes it didn't. In fact, he wishes every individual in the tent didn't slowly shift to face him.
"Merlin of Ealdor," the Court Sorcerer intones. "I believe we have quite a few questions that need answering."
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A/N:
"Don't talk with your mouth full. Now, let's see your war face." – Mushu, Mulan (1998)
Alternative titles for this chapter: The Author Regrets Introducing so Many Characters OR Sorry For the Changing POVs OR Sorry For the Long Sorta Filler Chapter.
Wow, another cliffhanger? I cannot believe! What the hell!
Yeah, sorry, I had to stop because there's just too much going on in this chapter lol. I tried not to make it an info/exposition dump but only you guys can tell me if I was successful ;). As always, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter somewhat.
Now for some of the questions:
1. Yes, the POV in chapter 6 is indeed Wracu's/the böggel-mann's.
2. From miajanuary:
- "you said you kind of already had this chapter in your head for a while. Did this scene inspire the fic?" — The very first scene that popped in my head for this story, unfortunately, didn't make it past the first draft (I'm now starting to realize that I, indeed, have two previous drafts for this story before I even uploaded the first chapter)
- "Is the story changing for your as you are writing?" — My man, since the exam part is technically done, I'll reveal it now. I had no idea what the exams were going to be until it's only a chapter away. I only had the main skeleton (test of luck, test of magic, test of character). After the test of luck was written and uploaded, I was truly at a lost as to what the test of magic was going to be. Same happened with test of character. So yes, the story is changing as I am writing :P
- "Do you pick the chapter titles after writing or before writing?" — Usually after writing! See my answer to second question for the reason why :D. Someday though, I'm gonna run out of appropriate quotes . . .
3. Why did Wracu try to kill Merlin? That would've been answered this chapter if only I haven't deferred Wracu's POV to the next so . . . *inserts click-baity catchphrase here*
4. To RM: merlin - finders . livejournal . c o m (remove spaces) is my treasured place for finding lost Merlin fics. I wouldn't know what to do without it!
Thank you Somebody and cavendish for the kofis! :D
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) ;)
(Belated) Happy Holidays and Have a Happy New Year, my dears!
~ Vividpast