Chapter Summary: Merlin aims to make trouble for the prince. But he's not the only kind of trouble coming for Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot.
Warning/s: Mentioned accidental deaths. Brief gory imagery of a bloody injury.
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Chapter XVII: Always Speaks (His) Mind
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The first drinking game Gilli proposes . . . does not last long.
Merlin would like to claim that it's primarily not his fault.
"We tell three statements about ourselves. Two of them are true and one is a lie. The others have to guess which one is which. Those who get it wrong will drink from their tankard!" Gilli raises his own full mug and laughs. "All right, all right, I'll start." He taps his chin in thought. "I once got kicked by a horse in the ribs. I met a fae when I was a child. I fell into a deep pit once and survived for three days in it when I was eight summers."
The rest of them exchange bewildered glances. Mordred hides a smile behind his hand.
"Those all sound like lies," Theo mutters sourly.
"Don't they?" Gilli looks gleeful to have baffled them all. "Come now, guess which ones are the truth!"
"Er — I don't think you can survive being kicked in the ribs by a horse," Merlin guesses first. He has, unfortunately, witnessed a few stablehands suffer that very fate. It's a very painful and relatively quick death.
"If you've met a fae, I doubt they would have let you go," Prince Arthur answers next. "They're known to be tricky creatures who keep humans for entertainment."
Morgana and Theo agree with the prince. Sir Lancelot mumbles that no eight-year-old can survive a pit for three days.
Lastly, Mordred, as Gilli's friend, confidently answers with a smirk. "You've never been kicked by a horse."
"Merlin and Mordred are right," Gilli reveals with a grin. "The rest of you, drink up!"
"No! How did you escape a fae?" Theo protests vehemently as the others take a drink.
Gilli elaborates on the lucky encounter — how that particular fae was kind to children and weak to Gilli's tears. The fae has taken pity on the lost Gilli and guided him home.
"I glimpsed upon the fae before it disappeared," Mordred adds with a smile. "They are truly beautiful and enchanting."
Being the first one to guess correctly, they decide that Merlin takes his turn. The warlock fumbles to give out three statements for the game. He takes a moment to think it through, and to make sure he won't be revealing anything dubious.
"I was once thrown in a dungeon for calling a royal an arse." Here, he glances at Prince Arthur with a small smile. "I sat on a throne chair once. I can slow down time."
Theo snorts. "You had at me at the first two but the third one's obviously the lie."
Gilli's nose wrinkles. "You're not very good at this, Merlin."
The said warlock lets out an indignant sound, especially since they got it wrong.
"No, no." Prince Arthur interrupts, his gaze uncomfortably assessing Merlin. "I believe the second statement's the lie."
A frown furrows Mordred's brow before he speaks, "All right. I pick the first one as the lie. You wouldn't be thrown to the dungeons: you would have gotten a flogging for insulting royalty."
Gilli gapes at the druid for a moment before snapping his mouth shut. "Fine, we'll humor you, Merlin. The third one's obviously the lie."
Morgana adopts a contemplative look. "You are indeed powerful, Merlin. But controlling time is another matter entirely. I believe the third one's the lie as well."
After Sir Lancelot mimics the prince's answer, Merlin reveals, "I've never sat on a throne chair. Was tempted to, once. But my friends would have teased me until I died if they found out." More specifically, Arthur would probably get a kick out of it and would humiliate his manservant to no end.
Merlin attempts to voice out the question he's been itching to ask. But Gilli beats him to it.
"I still don't believe it." The mage shakes his head, a severe frown upon his visage. "Prove it!"
Merlin blinks rapidly. "Prove what?"
Gilli lifts his chin. "That you can slow down time."
"I wouldn't mind seeing it for myself," Mordred remarks, interest gleaming in his facade.
"I as well." Morgana leans forward, jade eyes glinting with both challenge and curiosity.
Theo pops a piece of steamed bun into his mouth before huffing. "Look, Merlin, you're amazing, yes. But there's no way you're able to perform a mythical enchantment."
"A mythical enchantment?" Merlin glances between his companions, once again wondering what on earth they're going on about.
"Let me guess, Merlin." Prince Arthur interjects with another scrutinizing look. "You have no idea what mythical enchantments are, do you?"
Merlin clears his throat. "Well, judging by their labels, they are enchantments that are quite difficult to do."
"'Difficult to do'." Theo chuckles. "That's the understatement of the decade!"
"They're enchantments theorized by mage scholars," Gilli begins, his tone that of a lecture. "To reach the stars in the night, turn night into day, control time at will — Given the current magical advancements, enchantments to do such things can exist. Theoretically, speaking. But the vast amount of power and the complex webs of magic needed to do so is impossible to achieve, even if thousands of high-level magic-users pool their resources to try."
Merlin admits that slowing down time does take up all of his concentration, and he certainly cannot maintain it indefinitely. But —
Thinking out loud, he says with furrowed brows, "Needing a thousand magic-users just to perform it once seems a bit of an exaggeration."
"Oh-hoh!" A mix of disbelief and intrigue gleams in Gilli's whole facade as he lifts his tankard of ale. "All right, Merlin. It's time to prove what you speak."
"Gilli, don't —"
Mordred's protest comes a second too late.
His mage friend has already thrown his drink — tankard and all — towards one guileless warlock.
Rude, Merlin thinks as time slows around him. Splashes of ale hang in the air, and the tankard hovers in between. Mordred's arm is lifted, in the midst of belatedly stopping his friend's antics. Morgana, Theo, Sir Lancelot are in the midst of leaning away from areas where the ale may land, their expressions varying degrees of amusement, panic, and disgust.
Prince Arthur, eerily, is still staring directly at the warlock.
Yes, Merlin should have gone back to his chambers and slept early.
Why does he need to prove that he can slow down time? Given the supposed and troublesome impossibility of it, he should've just claimed it as a jest.
With a resigned sigh, he plucks the tankard from the air and scoops every drop of floating ale.
Then, he resumes time and lets the ale splash back down to the bottom of the mug.
Everyone at the table startles at the sound.
Merlin considers throwing the ale back at Gilli for revenge but decides to pity the poor barmaid that'll clean it up. He heavily sets the tankard back on the table and leans back on his chair.
"Don't waste the ale," Merlin says. He crosses his arms and grins brightly. "Now, I'm done with my turn. Who's next?"
"W-Wait, wait, did you actually slow down time?" A bug-eyed Theo whips his head between Gilli's filled tankard and the warlock.
"No. I just sped up my movements," Merlin lies confidently, recalling Prince Arthur's remark when the warlock first showed him the time-slowing enchantment.
"And now, you're denying it!?" Gilli practically shouts, looking one twitch away from full-blown hysteria. "You said—And then with the ale—!"
"It was a jest. I can't actually slow down time," Merlin waves away, knowing that proclaiming so will cease any questions on that end. He really isn't in the mood for it.
Without warning, Mordred chucks a wooden fork right at Merlin's face.
It would have taken out Merlin's eye if he hadn't slowed down time once again and snatched the offending utensil an inch from his nose.
"Oi." Merlin glowers in warning at the druid, pointing the fork at him.
Sir Lancelot tenses as if readying for a fight to break out.
Remorseless, Mordred offers a disarming smile. "Speed spells take at least a minute to prepare. You had no warning at all when Gilli threw the drink at you."
Prince Arthur arches a brow. "If you were wrong, you could have seriously injured him."
"I believe in Merlin's powers," is Mordred's flimsy and rather ghastly excuse.
The fork flies for the second time that night, heading towards Mordred. With a flash of golden eyes, the druid halts the wooden tool midair, several inches away from skimming his curls.
"And I believe in your powers too, Mordred," Merlin replies, his smile as saccharine as honey.
A smirk curls the corners of the druid's mouth as he finally puts the fork to rest.
"If—" Merlin's gaze snaps to Theo and Morgana, a glare in place. "—you fling those at me, I will throw them back at you at twice the speed."
Morgana places down an empty plate and uselessly fusses over it, pretending she had no other plans other than to eat from it. The spoon in Theo's hand wobbles before he dips it in a small bowl stew and begins his second round of dinner.
"So . . . you can truly control time?" For the first time that night, Sir Lancelot speaks out of his own accord, curiosity getting the better of him.
"No. As I said, it was just a jest," Merlin claims again.
"After what we've witnessed, it just sounds like you're lying about that," Gilli mutters. "And you've told two lies if that's the case!"
Merlin gives a flippant shrug. "I really am bad at this game."
"Why hide your skills, Merlin?" Prince Arthur's smile contains a predatory note. "I would think controlling time is a skill a magic-user would brag about."
Merlin's responding smile is as fake as Gwaine's promises to avoid the tavern. "I can wordlessly incant speed spells in less than a minute, and that's why it seems like a time-slowing enchantment."
The warlock thinks he's getting quite good at improvising excuses about his magical abilities.
"That's amazing in and of itself!" Theo exclaims, gaping at Merlin.
Or maybe not.
Mordred takes a drink from his cup before challenging, "I do quite a good speed spell. I would very much like to race with you, Merlin." By his expression, the druid is willing to persuade Merlin for hours to get him to agree.
"Er — race?"
"An excellent idea," Prince Arthur shamelessly adds firewood to the flames. "Let me add stakes to the competition." He glances between Mordred and Merlin. "I know a lot of people in the castle. What would you wish for? Goose-feathered beds? Ownership of a particular book?"
"Wait, goose-feathered beds?" Theo startles into action, eyes gleaming with delight. "I'll join in the competition as well!"
Merlin doesn't know what Prince Arthur's goal is with this scheme but he's not at all amused by it.
He should really refuse; participating in a race seems a troublesome way to gain attention. Then, he realizes that, even in a race, he doesn't think any of them will really know whether he slows time or not. They will find no concrete proof that he's not just using an efficient speed spell.
So, he takes advantage of it. It's only proper to knock down this Arthur a peg.
"If I win, I wish to watch you muck the royal stables for an hour," the warlock says with the sweetest smile possible, his gaze directly at the disguised prince.
Sir Lancelot chokes on his ale. Morgana's eyes widen with incredulity. Mordred, Gilli, and Theo send Merlin a look that denotes concern and bewilderment over the flow of the warlock's mind.
Prince Arthur's composure visibly falters. "W-What?"
"You muck the stables for an hour." Merlin leans forward, casually propping an elbow and resting his chin on his palm. "And I'll be there to ensure you do a proper job of it. That's what I would like as my reward."
The Prince of Camelot opens his mouth. After a few soundless moments, he snaps it close. Merlin swallows a childish snicker.
"M—Merlin, I think that's quite a rude request to make of Sir Lancelot's friend," Morgana stutters out. Merlin makes an abrupt realization; she doesn't know that the warlock has already figured out Wart's real identity.
"I'll say," Sir Lancelot growls out, shooting Merlin fire-hot glares. Unlike Morgana, the knight knows of Merlin's knowledge regarding the matter.
The warlock gives a flippant shrug, unmoved by their none-too-subtle scolding. "It's just a suggestion, of course. But it really is the only reward that'll get me to participate in a race."
"I'll do it," Prince Arthur suddenly speaks. A hint of hesitation mars the edges of his facade, but he doesn't take his words back. "But you'll have to win five consecutive times for it."
"Sire—" The sharp look the prince sends Sir Lancelot snaps the latter's mouth shut.
None but Merlin seems to notice the slip.
Merlin is tempted to provoke the prince some more — to ask if he is such an important person that Merlin has to win many times just to get him to do a slightly laborious task. But he figures he has pushed enough; he can't have the prince backing away.
Besides, in the midst of their discussions, a very important epiphany occurs to the warlock.
During Wracu's attack on him at the Apprentice Exam, the man's movements have been unusually and inhumanely fast. The dagger that Merlin could have avoided entirely still injured him despite the time-slowing enchantment.
On the other hand, the dagger failed to injure him as fatally as Wracu wanted.
Speed spells are not as effective as time-slowing ones. Merlin grins.
Winning five consecutive times will be no problem at all.
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Somehow, the whole tavern gets involved in their little competition.
One of the patrons overheard the details and excitedly invited everyone else to witness it. Tables and chairs are shoved to the side to make space, and betting pools spring into existence. Coins change hands and drunkards slam their tankards onto wood with enthusiasm.
The barkeep and her people seem exasperated but do little to interfere; the talk of the race has brought in more customers for the night in their establishment.
Merlin is beginning to feel overwhelmed by it all.
Morgana also volunteered to participate in the race. Merlin partly thinks it's to prevent him from winning and having the prince of Camelot muck the stables. She will have competed in vain, Merlin thinks.
All participants name their desired rewards — a bigger wardrobe for Morgana, full access to the magically heated baths built underneath the castle for Mordred (which, what? Merlin's Camelot has nothing amazing like that!), and a goose-feather mattress for Theo.
Gilli stands at one far end of the tavern, holding up a strip of bright red cloth that the participants will have to snatch from him as proof of their win.
On either side of the straight path empty of any articles, patrons cheer and jeer, encouraging the competitor they have betted for and booing the ones they have not.
Merlin absent-mindedly wonders how many bets on him winning.
Assigned as the barker to start the race, Sir Lancelot unhappily strides in the appropriate place.
"Participants, begin your spells," the knight intones.
Immediately, Mordred, Theo, and Morgana incant speed spells upon their bodies. Their eyes glow golden, and their skins emit a mild gold-tinged mist.
Merlin watches them with interest. So, this is the effect of the speed spell? Listening closely to the incantations, Merlin notes to try one of the speed spells later. After winning five consecutive times, that is.
A full minute later, Sir Lancelot speaks once more, "Ready yourselves." He cast a glare at Merlin as if every single unfortunate happenstance in the world is his fault.
Merlin grins in response. The rest of the participants tense their shoulders in preparation.
"Three . . . two . . . run!"
Time slows around the warlock.
Droplets of ale and mead hang in the air. All noises cease, the patrons' mouths still wide open with cheers.
Mordred, Theo, Morgana move speedily despite Merlin's spell. The gradual flow of time has made it obvious that they are dashing at different speeds. Morgana is slightly ahead while Theo is lagging behind. What determines their speed? Their magical prowess, the efficiency of the casted spell, the state of their physical forms? Or is it about the spell they muttered?
In the span of five of Merlin's breaths, Morgana is already halfway across the tavern, the skirt of her dress fanning out. Merlin snaps back to himself, ceasing his observations and running ahead.
Before, he can only hold the time-slowing enchantment for a few precious seconds — not enough to really scrutinize anything around him. Now, however, he has time to truly observe his fill. That'll definitely be useful when wheedling out assassins in the crowd.
In five quick steps, the warlock has overtaken the speedy Morgana. In another seven, he steals the cloth from Gilli's hands. He holds it high above his head.
Time resumes.
The noises return abruptly, making Merlin flinch.
Sir Lancelot blinks, flummoxed, at the participant holding the winning cloth the second he finished speaking.
Morgana, Mordred, and Theo skitter to a halt just before a startled Gilli.
"Goooo —! Huh?"
"Wha's happened?"
"I think I blacked out."
"I blinked and missed it!"
"I betted on that goofy lad! I won, wohoo!"
"M—Merlin, you git." Theo doubles over, arduously trying to catch his breath. Mordred and Morgana look no better, cheeks flushed and sweat dotting their brows. "You can slow down time!"
"Who, me?" The warlock blinks faux guilelessly. "Slowing down time is impossible. That was just a very good speed spell."
Theo groans in frustration.
Merlin glances around and locks gazes with the disguised Prince Arthur, who's sitting down in a corner and casually nursing a mug of ale.
The warlock sends him a cheeky grin, shaking the bright red cloth in his hand.
The prince arches a skeptical brow and takes an unperturbed drink.
Merlin takes that as the challenge it is. Let's see how long you can remain unphased, you prat.
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Merlin is also the champion of the next four races.
Losing bettors have cried out in frustration. Given that they've witnessed each race with their very own eyes, they cannot claim that any cheating occurred.
Mordred sighs in disappointment while Theo curses up a storm. Morgana bestows a wide-eyed glance at the seated prince, looking like she's watching a tragedy happening right before her eyes.
After five gruelling races, other groups of friends and magic-users have taken up the competition for themselves. More bets are made as new participants stir up the previously discouraged gamblers.
Morgana, Mordred, and Theo retire with exhausted visages.
Sadly, Merlin's triumph isn't without consequences.
The warlock stumbles into his previous seat, black spots dancing in his vision. Nausea roils within his stomach, threatening to dispose of his dinner. He bows his head between his arms, eyes clenched shut in an attempt to stop the world from spinning.
He has begun feeling lightheaded during the fourth race. After participating in the fifth, the dizziness has only grown worse. After a while, a head-splitting ache also joins in between his temples.
The time-slowing enchantment, apparently, has its price after too much use. How many times has he used it in the past hour alone? Merlin has never used the spell this frivolously before; it's the first time he's experiencing such effects.
In fact, it is mayhap the first time he's experiencing a negative aftereffect after using any type of magic.
Someone nudges his arm. A tankard settles near his hand. "Drink."
"I'm going to throw up if I drink any more ale," Merlin mumbles.
"It's water."
That, Merlin immediately accepts. He drinks the proffered water in one large gulp, wetting his throat. He feels slightly better. At least, the black spots have left his vision.
"Don't think you'll escape mucking the stables with this, Wart," Merlin warns the helpful offeror of the refreshing drink.
Prince Arthur sighs. "Your insolence truly knows no bounds, Merlin."
Merlin smiles brightly. "Thank you. I've practiced a lot."
Prince Arthur's gaze drifts to the noise of the next competition. "I honestly didn't think you could perform that enchantment five times. It seems I've underestimated you once more, Merlin."
"Yes." Merlin sniffs. "You did." The warlock may have gotten the worst headache of his life but it's all worth it to see this prince humbled.
Prince Arthur gives him a measuring glance. "Although, I see that often use of it is not without effects."
Merlin pointedly ignores that, unwilling to what his hardheadedness has cost him.
Sir Lancelot heaves himself down on the seat on Merlin's other side, face grim. "I shall do the mucking in place of —"
"No," Merlin denies without hesitation, causing the knight to scowl. "I have named my reward. As an honorable man, I'm certain Wart will have no problem fulfilling it himself."
Prince Arthur sighs once more. "Of course, I'll honor it."
"I still can't believe you asked for that as your reward." Theo claims his previous seat and his half-full tankard.
Morgana and Mordred have to shuffle to new seats, given that Prince Arthur and Sir Lancelot have stolen theirs.
Gilli huffily sits beside Mordred, "You could have asked for something much more fulfilling!"
"Witnessing Wart muck the stables is fulfilling enough for me," Merlin replies without farce.
"You are one very odd man," Gilli mumbles, loud enough for Merlin to hear.
With nothing better to do, they resume their previous drinking game of two truths and one lie. Because of the persisting headache, Merlin is in no mood for it and opts only to listen instead of participating.
The others leave him be, having learned their lesson about poking a slumbering and seemingly harmless bear.
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Merlin learns several things about his companions that night. Frankly, there is a handful of information he could have happily lived without.
Gilli and Theo are singing and dancing drunks, unabashedly flailing their limbs and belting out an off-tune melody. Fortunately for them, Merlin's headache has quickly dissipated after a moment's rest or they will have found their belts, inexplicably, unable to hold onto their trousers.
Morgana is an affectionate and troublesome drunk, hugging everyone and everything that she comes across. Merlin has once been caught in her grasp, and she gushes about wishing to pet an adorable white-winged creature in a picnic. Thankfully, Merlin is able to extract himself away from her fairly quickly. Their group has to take turns to guard her all throughout the night to make sure she doesn't get herself into trouble.
Mordred can drink every single patron in the tavern under the table and still be a bright-eyed sober twat. The flush across his cheeks and the occasional slurred word are the only indications that he has imbibed.
Prince Arthur does not even finish one full cup and has thus saved himself from drunken embarrassment.
Merlin, however, has not failed to notice the prince's subtle nudges to get the warlock drunk. A particular challenge to prod his pride, a suggestion to encourage Merlin to swiftly empty his mug, a certain look that has that strangling impulse rise within the warlock . . .
For the most part, Merlin arches a knowing brow at the attempts and lets out pointed little remarks that leave a hint of a scowl upon Prince Arthur's usually nonchalant facade. Merlin also takes every opportunity to remind the royal of the excrement-filled task waiting for him in the near future.
Merlin needs to think of a proper schedule for that. The mere notion warms his heart.
That, however, is the only good thing that comes out of conversing with Prince Arthur.
When they speak to one another, it's not quite friendly banter. Their words are too sharp, and their tones are too harsh for that.
It tires Merlin out, truly, so he tries to speak as little as possible to the hostile company.
He sorely misses the Arthur who (sometimes) fondly calls him an idiot.
The last thing Merlin learns about his current companions is this:
Sir Lancelot finally drinks the last dregs of his ale — the only cup of ale ordered for him the whole night. He sways in his seat, bumping shoulders with a giggling Merlin, who's heard the best jest about royalty from Morgana — a jest that will reach Arthur's ears as soon as Merlin gets home.
The warlock turns to the knight just in time to witness his eyelids drooping close and his body surrendering to the pull of gravity.
Merlin yelps, arms shooting out to grab the knight's shoulders. Prince Arthur starts from his seat, clearly desiring to help but too far away to do so. Thankfully, on Sir Lancelot's other side, Mordred manages to halt the knight's descent and prevent him from smashing his head on the corner of the table.
Sir Lancelot, apparently, is a passed-out drunk. And an extreme lightweight.
After witnessing such a startling happenstance, their group decides that it's high time to head back to the castle and turn in for the night.
With Mordred assigned in Morgana-duty while Gilli and Theo kept each other's drunken arses stable, it falls to Merlin to take care of the slumbering knight.
Seeing as Sir Lancelot cannot waken no matter the means, Merlin opts to carry the knight on his back. He's lighter than Merlin expected. The wrong assumption nearly sends them both to the ground because the warlock accounted for more weight.
Merlin has honestly carried heavier bags of equipment. He's not going to let that particular sentiment reach Sir Lancelot's ears.
After ensuring their unconscious companion's comfort, they stumble out of the tavern and begin their jittery pace towards the castle.
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"~ There was a fair and youthful man ~
~ Called Pierre Le Blanc was he ~
~ Who loved a girl called Marianne ~
~ Who lived in far Ismere. ~
~ One day there came by messenger ~
~ A letter in her hand ~
~ That begged him come and marry her ~
~ And travel across the land. ~
~ 'Ho-ho!' said Pierre, 'My fortune's fair ~
~ My lady calls to me!' ~
~ He packed his bags upon his mare ~
~ And off on the quest went he. ~"
Gilli, Theo, and even Mordred and Morgana chorus a cheerful tune into the deep and silent night. Their boots unevenly scrape against the cobblestones as they sway together in a drunken dance. Ahead of them, the castle looms, torchlit hallways peeking out of its stone-carved windows.
Merlin is just glad their voices are much less grating than before. That, or he's just getting used to it. He shakes his head in fond exasperation at their antics.
He hikes Sir Lancelot further up his back when he feels the knight slipping down. Cheek squished atop Merlin's shoulder, the knight mumbles something unintelligible.
"Honestly, why would you even drink if you know you're going to pass out?" Merlin chastises the knight lightly, clicking his tongue. "Should've informed us at least."
In reply, Sir Lancelot lets out an obnoxious snore.
Prince Arthur, trudging with the help of a cane, suddenly speaks for the first time since Sir Lancelot has fallen unconscious. "The blame lies with me. Lancelot never imbibes, not even in his own nameday celebration." Guilt easily sketches itself upon the prince's facade. "He aimed to help me in my scheme. He is not to blame."
Merlin blinks rapidly, surprised at the admission. Then, he arches a brow. "Your scheme?"
"To get you drunk."
Again, astonishment flashes inside Merlin's chest. He has known about it, of course, but he never thought Prince Arthur would actually confess to it. "Noble of you to admit it, at least," he snarks. "Poor Sir Lancelot caught up in all of it."
After commiserating Sir Lancelot's bad luck for a moment, Merlin then sharply turns to the prince, eyes narrowed. "Why exactly were you trying to get me drunk? What do you want?"
The warlock is tired of beating around the bush and fighting wits with this royalty. After this, Merlin will stick to his vow of avoiding the prince like he's the plague. After watching the prat muck the stables, of course. He wonders if there's any way to retract Prince Arthur's invitation to dragonlord lessons.
Prince Arthur's gaze drifts to the singing group before returning to Merlin once he's determined they're too busy to pay attention. "I'm beginning to think I'm going about this the wrong way. So let me lay it out, Merlin. Four years ago, my best friend was killed. Today, I saw her ghost walking the streets of the citadel."
Chills run down Merlin's spine. Although he doesn't know why, something akin to dread and anticipation begins to churn his stomach.
Wide-eyed, he stares in shock at the utterly blank-faced prince. "What?"
"Except, it was a very strange ghost," the prince continues nonchalantly. The only cracks in his mask are the tenseness around the corners of his eyes. "She was barely twenty when she died, and yet the ghost I saw was years older – an image of the young woman she never got to be."
The words of the last statement are soft and almost quiet, so filled with silent pain that Merlin's chest pangs.
"I lost her in the crowds. We tried to track her down, asking around houses and inns. We came across the tavern where you were." Fiery azure eyes meet Merlin's, determined and unyielding. "And coincidentally, Merlin, the ghost of my best friend was donning the same exact clothes you're wearing right now."
Merlin freezes in place. Prince Arthur, as calm as the eye of a storm, halts with him, just a step away. Their companions slowly stumble on, oblivious to the tension brewing between the duo.
Several million thoughts run rampant inside Merlin's mind. Lightheadedness assaults him and yet he finds himself completely sober.
Prince Arthur saw me in my woman form and . . . he thought —
As it is with Merlin's luck, he never gets the time to fully process the onslaught of information presented to him.
Three consecutive occurrences steal all of his attention.
The warning bells atop the castle battlements ring loudly and distinctively across the entire citadel. Their heads instinctively snap up to the source of the noise, concerned but not yet alarmed. The singing abruptly ceases.
Sir Lancelot startles awake at the boisterous sound and flails himself out of Merlin's hold. The warlock attempts to catch him and fails, leading to the knight's rough landing on the stones. Sir Lancelot groans in pain; his bottom and tailbone have absorbed all the impact of his fall.
Just as Merlin is crouching down to help and apologize, he hears a trilling sound cutting through the air.
It's a very familiar sound. It's one he heard for the first time in a banquet with Mary Collins pinned underneath a chandelier.
Merlin immediately slows down time.
Agony instantly crackles in his head. Gods, what? His previous overuse of the spell appears to still be taking its toll.
He takes a moment to breathe out and push against the pain. Then, he lunges forward without further delay.
The delay, however, has already cost him an invaluable half-a-second.
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
Just as Arthur thought he's finally getting some answers, the world conspires to prevent him from doing so.
A faint whistle pings the air, quickly growing louder and louder. It's nearly drowned out by the warning bells, but Arthur hears it all the same.
Alarm ripples through the prince.
Before he can react—if he even has time for a reaction— a blur of an apprentice tackles him onto the ground without preamble. His cane ricochets out of his fingers.
He catches himself on his elbows and electrified pain climbs his arms as they hit the unforgiving cobblestones. He bites down a cry when Merlin lands heavily on his torso. The apprentice releases a shaky gasp in turn.
"Sire!" Lancelot, awake and fully sober, hurriedly approaches them both.
"Merlin! Wart!"
Several sets of footsteps thunder towards them.
"Wha—What just happened?"
In the distance, someone curses colorfully, and pounding footfalls fade away. Lancelot's head whips in the direction of the noise, his hand grasping the nonexistent sword around his waist out of instinct.
"Wait, wasn't that Jaren? I thought he left the citadel."
"What did he throw?"
"Should we chase after him?"
Arthur notes these things only distantly. A terrifying sight steals all of his attention. His eyes drift down to the apprentice's shoulder.
And to the glinting dagger embedded deep into it.
The dagger that would have been deep into Arthur's heart had Merlin not propelled him out of the way.
Thick and dark blood streams in rivulets from the apprentice's arm and onto the prince's tunic. The prince can almost taste its metallic tang. The acrid smell of rot accompanied it, setting Arthur's heart pumping with dread. Arthur watches with numb horror as black veins climb up from Merlin's shoulder to the column of neck and throat.
A fatal curse to thoroughly eliminate the target, leaving nothing to chance.
With hitching breaths, the apprentice lifts his head and locks gazes with the frozen prince. Dark veins web the skin of his cheeks, crawling across his nose and turning the whites of his eyes obsidian.
With bloodless lips, Merlin opens his mouth and screams.
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
A/N:
"Uh, how 'bout a girl who's got a brain
Who always speaks her mind? (Nah!)" – Mulan, Mulan (1998)
The song, which is a hilarious ditty, is called "Pierre and Marianne" by Heather Dale.
As I finished this, I thought to myself: Should I upload this now without starting the next chapter and leave readers with a cliffhanger for potentially many weeks? And the answer is yes. I am sorry T^T.
And we have another work inspired by this story! Go check out Everything That Could Have Been - The Mirror of Seledeth by talesofcamelot. It promises to be a very interesting story with lots of angst potential T^T.
Next up: Of course, Merlin won't die . . . will he?
Hydrate yourself and make it a great week!
~ Vividpast