Chapter Summary: Prince Arthur and Balinor share information. Merlin learns what being Agravaine's son truly entails.
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Chapter VIII: Fabulous He
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"Who else knows?" Arthur demands, entering Balinor's chambers without so much as a knock. "That the tomb has been discovered?"
The Court Sorcerer, who has been sewing the finishing touches upon the apprentice robes, spins around in alarm. He casts an anti-eavesdropping spell on the entire room.
"Arthur," he hisses, tone chastising.
The prince claims the same armchair from their discussion the night before. "I mentioned no name."
"It's not difficult to figure out whose tomb you are referring," Balinor retorts with a slight huff. "The queen had nearly forgotten my recent transgression. My paperwork has finally been reduced to its usual. I'd rather not invoke her fury again so soon."
Arthur tilts his head in acknowledgment of that. And yet, he repeats, "So who else knows about it?"
"We have all sworn an oath, Arthur," the Court Sorcerer replies, letting his words and tone impress upon the gravity of the situation. "I told you I would not answer any of your inquiries."
Cornelius Sigan had been one of the most powerful sorcerers to have ever lived. It goes without saying that, even now, fanatics have clamored for every bit of information about him. If said fanatics learn of the existence of the tomb, it would be no laughing matter. Moreover, if they discover what those of court found inside the tomb itself . . .
The prince's eyes transform into two chips of ice, coolly peering at Balinor. "One of those people has perhaps broken the oath."
Balinor stills, a drop of dread rolling down his spine. He ceases his sewing activities, laying down fabric and tools on his bed with a sweep of his hand. When all has settled, he seats himself on the precipice of the said bed, facing the prince with a somber expression. "That is a grave conjecture, Your Highness."
Minutes pass and tensed silence swirl thickly in the air between them. Balinor resists the compulsion to demand an answer, knowing Arthur will give it in his own time. Arthur taps his fingers on the arm of his seat.
Finally, Arthur stills and says, "Let us speak of hypotheticals then. Hypothetically, there exists an enchantment that allows the soul of a being to separate from their physical bodies."
Balinor inhales sharply. The prince has tracked the correct trail after all.
"This enchantment, which may or may not exist, allows the soul to be sealed inside an inanimate object. A crystal, a necklace, jewel, a sigil, or some such," Arthur's eyes boring into Balinor's, gauging his demeanor. "The soul is then capable of possessing a living body, taking it as their own."
The Court Sorcerer stifles any type of reaction he might have shown.
Arthur's gaze narrows. "If this enchantment—again, in a hypothetical manner—has been done once, a long time ago, by a powerful sorcerer, can it be replicated in the present time?"
Balinor takes a moment to organize his words. "It will certainly be a complex spell, but I believe it can be replicated. In theory."
"And this body— this body that this soul would possess, it would match their magical signature should they perform magic?"
Balinor sees Arthur holding his breath. "It would."
The prince exhales. "And their memories?"
"It would be intact. Supposedly."
"Would the body mold to look like their original body?"
"Possibly. This hypothetical enchantment is as unpredictable as advanced necromancy."
Arthur grows silent then.
"What of your conjecture then?" Balinor prods solemnly, crossing his arms. "Why do you allege that there is an oathbreaker?"
"How else did this enchantment fall into the hands of our enemy?" Arthur shoots back, venom dripping from his words as he drops their pretense completely. "For it is Wracu, is it not, that did this to Lily?"
For a moment, the air is punched out of Balinor's lungs at the unminced words. "We do not know for certain, Arthur. This is all supposition. Theories."
"I got as good as a confession from the subject himself," Arthur says calmly, for all the words shake Balinor to the core.
It takes the entirety of Balinor's composure not to gape. "Tell me."
"How do you think I quickly come by the information that I have right now?" Arthur points out. "I just encountered Merlin in the library. When he saw what I was researching, he told me of the possible existence of the tomb and of the enchantment."
"That's —" Balinor has theorized it but he never hoped to get confirmation so soon. "Did he tell you directly? That he has Lily's soul?"
Arthur's lips purse into a thin line. "No."
"Why wouldn't he then? If he truly has Lily's soul and memory?" Balinor counters calmly.
"I don't know!" Anger cracks the prince's visage. "Can it be another enchantment that prevents him from speaking the truth? Or perhaps he doesn't have Lily's memories but just her magic? You said it yourself; this enchantment is unpre—"
Two knocks suddenly fill the air, cutting through Arthur's tirade. Arthur presses his lips together, displeased by the interruption. Balinor opens his mouth to ask for the identity of the individual on the other side of the door.
The knocks are followed by another light but audible tap just below the door's handle. Balinor swallows his words, ears alert. Arthur's eyes widen in similar realization.
Three separate sounds made by a palm instead of a fist resounds on the wood and then another four almost simultaneous rappings.
After a few seconds, nothing but silence greets them. The message is complete.
Arthur's brows furrow. "Wasn't that a bit careless? If anyone other than me was in here . . ."
"You underestimate the Spymaster. He knew you and I were the only occupants," Balinor says distractedly, still deciphering the coded message.
Suddenly, exhaustion grips Balinor in its painful grasp, making his head ache. Sometimes, he truly wishes to leave all this political double-speak and head back home where everyone makes their intentions clear.
"I think . . ." Balinor glances at the door then at Arthur. As loathe as he is to admit it, "This has gotten to the point where we must tell the queen or risk being accused of treasonous conspiracies."
Arthur stiffens. "You know what the queen will do, Balinor. She'll likely banish Merlin from the kingdom. We won't get a chance to solve this mystery if we tell her."
"I'm not suggesting we tell her now. But soon." Moreover, Balinor has no doubt the Spymaster has found something of use already. Keeping information from the queen herself will only make things worse in the long run.
Arthur stands up, unhappiness edging his features. "Very well. Keep me informed regarding the results of the Spymaster's investigations. Goddess knows my mother will try to keep me out of it." The prince exhales, running the pads of his fingers over his arm guard. "If nothing else, at least my encounter with Merlin has made me realize something very important."
The Court Sorcerer arches a brow. "And that is?"
A hint of a smirk hovers over Arthur's lips. "With me, Merlin is certainly more than willing to volunteer information."
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Half-an-hour after the sun sets, Merlin leaves the library and heads for the kitchens.
Glances filled with intrigue and unsubtly murmured conversations heavily pave his way. Merlin tunes them out; he knows Agravaine's claims have reached every ear in the castle. The tale has most assuredly been twisted, as is the nature of gossip. Merlin would rather remain blissfully unaware as to how.
The kitchen boy, when he hands over Merlin's food, lowers his head and gaze. "Your f-food, Sire. My lord. Your Highness," the boy stutters out.
Torn between laughter and sputtering, Merlin gracelessly accepts the tray. The boy must not know how to properly address a noble's supposed son. Your Highness? Merlin fights down a snort.
Merlin brings his food to the dining hall, still amused.
Every boisterous discussion dies a painful death as he enters the doors. Merlin shifts uncomfortably as every eye swivel to him. Then, after taking a deep breath, he strides with faux confidence towards the table Mordred, Gilli Morgana, and Elise already claimed.
Mordred scoots to make space for him. The four people at the table stare as he takes his seat. Merlin looks between them and cocks a brow, daring them to break the silence.
It's Gilli who takes the bait. The mage pushes Mordred aside so he could lean forward with wide awed eyes. "Merlin, I can't believe you would let us think you were a simple commoner."
Merlin starts on his meal, composed of sauteed vegetables, pumpkin soup, and almost a whole chicken. He shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. "Didn't think it was relevant."
"Didn't think it was relevant . . ." Gilli repeats numbly, looking at Merlin as if the warlock suffers from another concussion.
Mordred nudges Gilli back, invoking an indignant squawk from the mage. "I'm sure Merlin has his reasons as to why he would want to keep his status a secret." His azure eyes dart to Merlin, considering. "I suppose it does make sense in retrospect. You've let on so many hints that you are no mere commoner."
Merlin blinks. "I have?"
"Your forgetfulness to tack on titles when addressing those of higher position," Elise pipes up in between bites.
"Your unexpected knowledge of castle build," Mordred follows, two fingers raised.
Gilli rubs his chin. "The fact that bandits would target you on your way to Camelot when you appear to wear nothing but ragged clothes. You must have had a treasure-load on you, didn't you?"
"You are very well-learned for a commoner," Morgana adds with an indulgent smile. "You're much too fair-skinned to have worked under the sun. The calluses in your hands would be more pronounced had you been employed in hard labor."
"Er—" They're truly misinterpreting a lot of the warlock's actions.
Merlin forgets to tack on proper titles because of a certain prat. He knows the castle well enough because he has been working in one for seven years. He has nothing on him as he entered this Camelot because he certainly didn't expect to be sent out so far from home. Merlin gains no calluses upon his hands because he does occasionally use magic for his chores. Merlin is well-learned for a commoner because . . . well, because his mother is well-learned too. Now that Merlin thinks of it, his mother is a tad too educated for a simple woman living in a simple village.
Before Merlin could debate whether he could correct the misconceptions, loud squabbling grabs all their attention.
"Step back. Stay exactly two feet from me!" a shrill voice demands.
"I am two feet away from you, you bloody princess!" a deep and equally irritated voice snarks back.
"Must you two make a scene?" another voice says wryly with a posh and condescending tone.
Theo and Clar stomp towards Merlin's table, food in hand and expressions fuming. Clarence, the unmistakable prince of Mercia and twin brother of Clar, follows behind them. His face denotes he rather be anywhere than a dining hall filled with nobles and commoners alike.
Theo slides into the empty seat beside Elise. To the surprise of everyone around to witness it, Clar sidles beside him. Her brother huffily and carefully seats himself next to her.
"Peasants," Clar and Clarence greet as one with the same patronizing tone. Theo rolls his eyes so hard that Merlin is surprised not to find them on the floor.
Then, simultaneously, the royal siblings turn to Merlin, who nearly drops his fork in astonishment. Clar — with gritted teeth — and Clarence — with a blatant note of disinterest — address, "Your Highness."
Merlin chokes on his spit. Surely these royal siblings know how to properly address a noble's son. 'Your Highness' is not at all proper because "I'm no royalty." And he's not masquerading as one.
Clar sends him a look one would give a village idiot. Clarence mirrors her, although he peppers in a healthy dose of distaste in his expression. Merlin favors them with a challenging look in return. Oh, he loathes these prattish brats.
At the back of his mind, a dark and hysterical suspicion blooms. It simply can't be. "I'm—I'm not royalty, am I? Agravaine is— the queen's brother. Only those of Pendragon blood can be called as such."
All heads in their table whip unequivocally to him, incredulity and disbelief marring their countenance. Merlin's stomach drops to his boots, his heart thumping a nervous beat.
"Oh," Mordred says feebly, his face that of a man who has been slapped by a fish. He visibly steels himself and slowly informs the warlock, "Merlin, you're a prince, second-in-line on the throne of Camelot."
"I'm a what!?" Utensils clatter, and the table rumbles. Outsiders, who were just beginning to settle into their own conversations, find their attention once again stolen by Merlin's entourage. The warlock takes a deep breath, attempts to call his magic back to himself, and tries to ignore the piercing stares.
"Oh dear." Morgana brings up a hand over her mouth. Whether she's hiding a shocked visage of a smiling one, Merlin knows not. "You had no clue, had you?" Amusement shakes her voice. Yes, she's definitely covering up a smile.
"How can I be a prince?" Merlin hisses, looking for some sort of jest in his companions' face. He finds none. "The line for the throne begins with the king's bloodline!" The warlock carefully does not let his gaze linger on the heiress of the said bloodline.
"Queen Ygraine overturned that law twenty-five years ago. She has seized Camelot for herself and her bloodline," Morgana explains patiently, oblivious to Merlin's thoughts. "Hence, she is still queen even though the prince has long been of age. While the queen kept the Pendragon surname, the house of De Bois holds the power to Camelot's throne."
You won't be mistaken as a noble, I assure you, Merlin. Agravaine has told the truth indeed. Because Merlin will be mistaken for royalty.
A shot of anger pierces Merlin's chest. He should not have been fooled by that smarmy lord's carefree act. Underneath all that, Agravaine truly is still the scheming sod that Merlin is acquainted with.
But what purpose does this farce serve? What had Agravaine hoped to gain by claiming Merlin, a commoner who just entered the citadel, as his son? Prince Arthur is still the crowned prince and main heir to the throne. A sneaking suspicion creeps at the back of Merlin's mind. While the game of politics is largely untrodden for the warlock, his role as the king's manservant has made it a slightly familiar one. If Agravaine's plans involve whatever Merlin suspects, then utter disappointment will beat the lord over head soon enough.
"All right. I'll confess now," Merlin says decisively. He's glad to be no longer playing the lord's game. "I'm not actually Lord Agravaine's son."
Clar pauses halfway into sipping a spoonful of soup, staring at Merlin with incredulity. "You find out you're a prince and now you're denying your lineage?" Based on the others' faces, they share the princess' sentiments.
"Lord Agravaine wanted to prank the queen and dragged me into it." Merlin scowls into his half-eaten chicken. "I didn't realize that it involved impersonating royalty. I don't want to get into trouble."
"I . . . see." Morgana looks up in thought. "That makes a certain amount of sense. Lord Agravaine is not above faking an heir for a laugh at his sibling's expense."
"Truly?" Mordred, Gilli, Theo, and Elise appear to be reconsidering their views about nobility and royalty.
Clar levels Merlin with a measured glance. "I should be glad, I suppose, to find that you weren't a genuine heir. My father might get it in his head to forcibly engage me again after I just broke off my previous engagement."
"You and Prince Arthur are no longer betrothed?" Morgana asks, intrigued and astonished.
"Prince Arthur?" Merlin nearly squeaks out. He knows he shouldn't be so surprised to find two royalty engaged. Still, Clar looks to be seventeen summers at the very oldest. Arthur is twenty-seven years, which puts him almost ten years older.
The princess puffs out her chest in pride. "Took a lot of effort but I managed to convince the people involved that it was for the best. Princess Vivienne is certainly a better match for me." Judging by Clar's expression, she is more than pleased with the new arrangement.
"Princess Vivienne!?" Merlin cannot keep getting surprised like this. It isn't good for his heart. "You're betrothed to another woman?"
"And not just any woman." A dreamy look paints itself on Clar's youthful face. "But the most beautiful woman in the land." Then, her expression sours, and she scowls at Theo. "So, don't you go getting any ideas, peasant! I prefer the company of gorgeous and noble ladies."
Merlin has never heard of anyone casually admitting something akin to it in his realm.
Theo sputters, horror painting his stubbled face. "You're ten years younger than me!"
A woman liking another woman and being free to marry her? Merlin knows knights take comfort in each other during long campaigns, but they certainly don't talk about it in the open.
This world truly has some strange customs, Merlin thinks to himself, looking down at his half-finished food in bemusement.
"All right, I'll bite," Elise pipes up after finishing her soup. She turns to Theo, resting her chin upon an open palm. "Why on earth are Princess Clarisse and her brother accompanying you to dinner tonight?"
Both Theo's and Clar's expression crumples with displeasure.
"I am accompanying my sister and no one else, certainly no peasant," Clarence hisses, throwing out a glare. Elise visibly cuts off an eye roll.
Clar sneers. "This is all the madman's fault." She points a fork at Theo's face.
Theo slams his utensils on the table and spits out, "My fault? How could it be my fault when you were the one insulting me—"
"I was merely stating facts—"
"Oh-hoh! Stating facts! You bloody three-copper sorceress—"
Clar's eyes flare gold. "You incorrigible nitwit—"
Theo's irises respond in kind. "Bigoted narrow-minded rascal!"
Merlin, Mordred, Morgana, Gilli and Elise watch the fervid volley, aghast. Bewilderingly, Clarence calmly sips from the mug of ale, uncaring of the shouting match occurring inches away. The commotion draws stares from the other tables as well, their expressions varying degrees of nosy curiosity and displeased annoyance. Well, at least Theo and Clar are taking Merlin away from the unwanted attention.
Clar raises an arm in preparation for a spell while Theo points a palm at her with a growl.
"All right, enough!" Morgana commands, once again coming between them. With a sharp gesture of Morgana's arms, she aims to put a greater distance between them. Gold fades from her eyes when nothing of the sort happened. She blinks rapidly in bewilderment. "Why—Why are you two shackled with a Bonding Cuffs enchantment?"
Morgana's statement seems to at least halt Theo and Clar's incoming attacks to one another. They glare at one another before crossing their arms, comically at the exact same time and in the exact same manner.
"What's a Bonding Cuffs enchantment?" Merlin asks of Mordred, keeping his voice low so as not to let the others know of his obliviousness.
"It's an enchantment that prevents two or more people from physically separating for more than a set distance," Mordred, used to the questions by now, answers quickly. His eyes are still on the two co-apprentices. Amusement and intrigue dance in the corner of his expression.
Merlin blinks rapidly. "What would—Why does a spell like that exist?"
Mordred shrugs. "Bounty hunters use it to bind their bounty to themselves, so they won't escape. Nowadays, however, lovers commonly use it among themselves to prove their devotion."
Oh. Merlin now knows why everyone looks so giddy at the notion.
Theo sighs, tensed shoulders dropping. "Lady Jayden grew tired of us sniping at one another during lessons. She shackled us to force us to spend the day off together and 'be the best of friends by next week'." The gray-haired man clearly does not think this a good tactic, judging by the annoyed snarl upon his face.
"I can easily break the Cuffs, of course," Clar interjects, a growl in her throat. She glares at her pumpkin soup as if it has spat on her. "But that stupid mentor told us that if she found the enchantment broken two days from now, she won't bring us with her on the journey to heal the drought."
"Don't call Lady Jayden stupid."
"Oh, then I suppose this —" Clar gesticulates at Theo, herself, and the minutiae space between them. "— is a very splendid idea, isn't it?"
Theo's lips purse into a thin line. "Well, Lady Jayden seems to be feeling a little unwell lately." He has no other retort to offer.
"How is this supposed to work anyway?" Clar whines in frustration, pulling at her blonde hair. "How am I to bathe with you in the room? We can't sleep with only a bloody two-feet distance. And where are we supposed to sleep anyway? We both occupy different apprentice quarters."
Theo blinks owlishly as if the problems presented have not occurred to him before.
"I don't mind if Theo sleeps in our chambers," Elise offers with a smirk, clearly only speaking to prod Clar deeper into irritation.
"Well, of course, you wouldn't mind. You're a peasant," Clar replies viciously without missing a beat, causing Elise to scowl. "Us of noble and royal bearing find it inappropriate to share rooms with someone of the opposite gender."
Clarence nods in agreement, delicately sipping at his soup.
"You can't sleep in our chambers," Mordred points out. Without looking, he slaps away Gilli's hand when the mage attempts to filch a large piece of the chicken from the druid's plate. The mage rubs the assaulted hand, lower lip jutting out as he stares at his own empty plate. Mordred sighs and drops the almost stolen piece onto Gilli's plate. Gilli smirks and gobbles it up.
"Perhaps you can ask for another room for two nights?" Morgana recommends. With an indulgent smile, she holds out her untouched pumpkin soup to Gilli, who enthusiastically accepts it. "You'll still need a chaperone though."
"I am their chaperone." Clarence does not appear at all pleased with his role. "Have to make sure my sister's virtue is intact for her new betrothed."
Clar digs her elbows into her brother's ribs on her way to pick up her dropped fork. Clarence rubs the abused spot with a wince.
Their dinner continues with a lot more quibbling and activity. Just watching them exhausts Merlin to no end. At many points, Theo and Clar seem to be on the verge of coming to blows. Luckily, Merlin and the others manage to de-escalate the quarrel every time. Eventually, after much debate, Theo and Clar run out of energy for the night. They reluctantly decide to speak to the steward and get a shared room for the next two days, a displeased Clarence in tow.
After separating from the others, Merlin heads immediately to Agravaine's chambers to give the sly lord an awful time.
Unfortunately, a passing servant informs Merlin that "If you're looking for your father, Your Highness, he is currently dining with the queen and Lord Tristan." Their confrontation will have to wait.
The warlock stalks to his apprentice chambers, body still vibrating with restless energy and wrath that has nowhere to go. Thankfully, he knows of one activity to settle him. He sits on his bed, crosses his legs, and begins meditating.
There you go, Balinor. I know how to follow instructions is Merlin's last thought before he empties his mind. His eyes flutter close, his muscles relax, and his lungs take on a regular pattern of breathing.
It may have been hours, or it may have been mere minutes but eventually, Merlin calms himself enough. His magic languidly swirls inside him like fallen leaves on a windy day, applying a balm to his stressed nerves. Ever since the lesson the night before, his magic feels . . . different. It's subtle but Merlin knows something has changed. Before, his magic has been tightly coiled rope threatening to snap at the slightest provocation. Now, however, it has loosened and spread itself evenly throughout his whole body, flowing like a mollified stream. But this sort of equilibrium is evident only when he meditates. He has yet to replicate it outside of that.
Merlin's eyes flutter open, his meditating session done. He almost jumps when the sight of Mordred's very blue eyes greets him.
Mordred, seated on his own bed and facing the warlock, has clearly been staring at Merlin for some time. Merlin sends the druid a dubious look as he rearranges his limbs to get more comfortable.
"I thought you would be with Gilli," Merlin says slowly when Mordred continued observing him in silence and without much expression.
"He wanted to turn in early," Mordred replies, eyes still unnervingly on the warlock. "What were you doing just now?"
"Er — meditating?"
Mordred cocks his head to the side. "Why?"
Merlin shrugs. "Lord Balinor told me to. Half-an-hour every day."
"Why do you need to meditate?"
"To better control my magic, I suppose." Merlin rubs the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed to admit his lack of command over something that should be instinctive.
A contemplative look crosses the druid's face. "When you were meditating, your aura was . . . I've never seen anything like it." Something akin to awe drips in his tone.
Interest piqued; Merlin leans forward. "What did it look like?"
The druid lifts a hand, palm up. "I'm not certain I can recreate the colors properly but—" After a flash of gold eyes, something incredible swirls into existence right above Mordred's fingers.
Whorls of lights, hues ranging from the deep color of a rainbow to a deep and rich gold, shifts in the air. The colors twist and seamlessly blend, lazily chasing one another. They're texturized like beams of sunlight, ethereal in the air.
"Usually, an aura or a magical signature depicts a unique color." Mordred's softly spoken words snaps Merlin out of his reverence of the floating lights. "I can see now that your aura is a lightning blue tint. Earlier, however, something like this surrounded you."
"Truly?" Merlin stares in amazement at the spectacle the druid is still producing. He feels kind of proud that the materialization of his magic looks so fascinating. Then, "Can you teach me how to do that spell?"
Merlin knows that magic can exhibit beauty beyond his own imagination, but he has never seen such a perfect example up until now. He'll be more than willing to learn it.
Mordred blinks rapidly at question. Then, he smiles ever so slightly. "Certainly. It's quite easy."
For the next half-an-hour, the druid patiently guides the warlock through the enchantment. It is not difficult to learn, as Mordred said, but for Merlin, it takes a lot of effort to prevent it from exploding into sparkles of colors.
Within an hour, Merlin successfully creates the same swirling colors. It's not as smooth or as pretty as the one Mordred did but it's close enough. He grins and laughs a bit as he manipulates the colorful beams of lights. It is truly a beautiful spell.
A gratified smile hovers over Mordred's lips at Merlin's delight.
"Can I use this to líhtinge?" Merlin asks. He has been gathering up a list of possible spells he can use.
"It's not a strong enough spell," the druid tells him, head tilting to the side. "Because you're White Level, you need something complicated enough to expel more energy." Mordred does another spell. The fires on the torches of their room flare stronger, adopting a strange purple hue. "My weakest elemental affinity is for fire, so I use fire spells to líhtinge. It causes me to release more magic in my efforts." The torches flicker back to their normal state after a moment.
"Affinity, huh?" Merlin taps his fingers on his thigh, thinking. What type of magic is he the weakest in? Healing magic, but Merlin can't exactly do those spells often without anyone injured. As a dragonlord, his affinity for fire is probably the strongest, as Balinor mentioned. "I don't know many spells involving earth, I suppose."
Mordred sends Merlin an amused look. "With the ability to grow plants in seconds, I don't think earth spells are your weakest affinity, Merlin." Mordred pauses and hums. "You also produced that impressive whirlwind, so wind magic probably won't give you a tough time. How about spells involving water or ice?"
"Ice?"
With a gesture, Mordred fetches the pitcher of water by one of the desks in the room. He smirks. "Oh, ice is fun."
The druid then begins teaching the warlock various enchantments — from hovering small globs of liquid to creating ice sculptures using only a cup of water. The control needed to perform the spells without making a mess is enormous, and Mordred does it all so effortlessly. Merlin is again envious of the druid's mastery over his own magic. The warlock attempts to replicate Mordred and knows he's doing so with a lot less finesse. The druid doesn't seem to mind, serenely and helpfully offering advice to hone the spellwork.
The hours pass by with spell after spell and a puddle of water growing between their beds. At one point, a sphere of floating water exploded between them, soaking their faces and the fronts of their tunics.
"Drat, sorry!" Merlin hastily says, swiping away the wet hair plastered to his forehead.
Mordred wipes away the liquid out of his eyes and chuckles. "I did the same when I was starting out with this spell. It's a bit pleasing to see you do something normal once in a while, Merlin."
Merlin sniffs in mock offense. "I resent that."
Eventually, they decide that is their cue to cease the lessons for the night. They clean themselves up, replacing their damp tunics and drying their hair with muttered enchantments. They suffocate the fires of the torches and turn in for the night.
"Mordred," Merlin calls out as they both lie in their respective beds.
Mordred shifts to face him, expression inquiring. Under the soft moonlight streaming from the gaps of the curtains, Mordred looks unbearably young and so much like the child Merlin found in the markets an eternity ago. Something in the area of Merlin's chest pangs, recalling the brief hours where he did not see the druid child as a future enemy.
"Thank you. For tonight," Merlin says, his voice a whisper.
Mordred smiles, wide and pleased. "Not a problem, Merlin. We're fellow apprentices after all."
Merlin finds himself returning the smile.
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Merlin wakes up with the sun still touching the horizon.
He stretches his limbs and yawns widely. His mind automatically plans out the rest of his day.
Breakfast. Pay back Tom, the inn-owner who sheltered and fed him, with his newly received allowance. Buy a cloak. Sneak out of the citadel and meet with Kilgharrah. Figure out a way to get home. Give Agravaine a piece of his mind before he leaves this realm.
"Busy day," Merlin mutters.
He gives a slumbering Mordred a cursory glance before getting to his feet. He scratches his disheveled hair and sighs.
"Better get started then."
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A/N:
"Prince Ali, fabulous he, Ali Ababwa
Show some respect, boy, genuflect
Down on one knee
Now, try your best to stay calm
Brush up your friday salaam
Then come and meet his spectacular coterie!" – Genie, Aladdin (1992)
Long time, no see, readers who are still tuning in. I know, I know, it's short but next chapter is longer (and much more informative), I promise!
OMG, did you guys see/listen to the heartwarming podfic of Wrongendoftheforest? I nearly cried T^T. And also, there are new artworks by Royalprat and Schoernchen! (All of these are linked in my profile) Check them out! These wonderful pieces inspired me so much and really allowed to breeze through this chapter and the next. Thank you all so much .
And for those magnificent speculative readers, (some) answers are finally coming!
Next Chapter Hint: Merlin does some side-quests on his day off. And meets an awesome counterpart!
Happy Chocolates' Day to all!
~ Vividpast