Chapter Summary: Come back, Merlin. Come back to us.
Warning/s: Slight romanticization of death. Brief gory imagery.
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Chapter XVIII: Tick, Tick, Tick
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A sea of darkness, endless and expanding beyond the horizon.
"— bloody hurry! He won't —"
He has no body in this sea, only a floating consciousness. Lost but unafraid.
"—Gaius! What do you need —"
There's no pain here, only silence and numbness. No problems and no conundrums can catch him because he's flying away from their grasp. He drifts and drifts in the expanse, aimless.
"— no counterspell. The Forrotian Cwealm is too —"
Irritation sparks. Why is everyone so loud? Let him enjoy the peace he rarely has time for. He hugs the bubbling darkness, and the writhing abyss languidly embraces him back.
"—not working. It's too late —"
Shhhhh, he wants to say. But he has no mouth to say it with.
"—lin! Do you hear me!? If you die, I'll —"
Die? Who's dying?
The potential answer to the question worries him, forcing him to pull away from the blackness for a moment. Is it one of his friends? His mother? Gaius?
"—linor, let him suffer no more —"
"— tinctures to help him pass on painlessly —"
The darkness abates, only slightly. Weight introduces itself into his consciousness, leisurely dragging him down. But I want to keep floating.
"Emrys, you fool."
Shut up, Kilgharrah. He's in no mood for the dragon's bewildering riddles, especially since someone close to him is apparently at Death's door.
Another voice whispers in his mind, a low baritone that echoes and lingers. Distant, out-of-reach but reaching out. Familiar but . . . the rough edges have been softened, gentled by dismay and yearning.
Come back, Merlin. Come back to us.
Everything stills, the world holding its breath. Then —
Merlin slams back into his body, and unadulterated agony rips through his whole being. He instantly misses the numbness that he's dragged out of.
Oh. I'm dying.
Gold spills in his vision, pouring out of every inch of his skin and filling the breath in his lungs. Power sings in his veins, indescribably furious and completely beyond control. It cools the torment between his bones, cleanses the abnormality burning his blood.
Merlin opens his mouth and heaves out a cloud of black ink, wrenching out the revolting wrongness that afflicted him.
Out, out, GET OUT!
The wrongness sticks to the back of his throat like tar, thick and clogging and relentless. But he yanks and yanks until every bitter taste of it is out of his being.
Livid at the agony and trouble it caused him, he clutches the writhing and coiling ink in the air with both hands and crushes it out of existence.
When naught a trace of it is left, he lets out a satisfied sigh and grows lax with fulfilled exhaustion.
"What the bloody hell?" is the last thing he hears before numb darkness takes him once more.
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"Look inside yourself," the voice of Cornelius Sigan cajoles. "You've yet to discover your true power. Let me help you."
An enchanting blue mist heads straight for him, and he inhales it unwillingly. Another's mind fights his, scratching and clawing for dominance over his body.
He struggles and shoves and lashes back. His magic is his own, and he's not letting a malicious sorcerer use it for evil.
He grapples with the blue mist, and his enemy is nearly reaching triumph —
Something snaps and breaks and spills out.
Power rises like a prowling beast, snarling against the invasion. Wrath swells in his being at the impudence of the measly existence rebelling against him.
"Oh." The intruder's voice is filled with unspoken and frightening realizations. The prey finally discovers its place and position in the cycle of nature.
"GET OUT!" the beast bellows before biting down and consuming a part of the intruder's soul.
The existence named Sigan scrambles to escape before the power engulfs him completely. His soul flows, unwillingly, into his previous crystal cage. He is too shaken and afraid to resist.
The beast snarls, unable to calm down even after the attacker has fled. There is one more enemy — a writhing black ink wreaking havoc inside his veins.
"OUT!"
The black ink releases an inexplicable attack, curdling his blood and invoking waves of pain. The beast growls and howls, tearing apart the hex without mercy.
"OUT! GET OUT!"
"Everything's all right now, Merlin." A gentle touch upon his forehead, an equally gentler voice. "The hex is no more."
The beast, however, is not mollified. He knows that voice, and he knows the owner of it is no friend of his.
A halo of blonde curls, burns at the side of one face, glinting blue eyes.
Edwin Muirden. Another impudent foe.
The beast gnashes his teeth and shoves out his power in golden waves.
"Ack!" The touch disappears. Glass shatters and items fall from their shelves. "Scite! Swefe!"
Blackness and drowsiness assault the beast. The beast swats away the attempts to tame him.
"Swefe! Swefe! Why the hell isn't it working!? Come help me or he's going to destroy the whole workroom!"
More spells try to chain him down. The beast resists them all, fighting and rebelling against the current of unconsciousness.
A door slams open. "What in Goddess' name are you lot doing?"
The beast pauses, instantly recognizing the voice.
"Your Highness, stay back! It's dangerous —"
A gentle hand clasps his flailing wrist, and the familiarity of the touch floods into him.
The beast relaxes. The enemies have been defeated, and Arthur will know what to do next. Or the king will wake him if ever any help is needed.
Soon enough, darkness overwhelms the beast, and he slumbers restlessly.
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"Kill Arthur Pendragon." Eyes the color of venom and envy bore into him.
Morgana's smirk is wide and vicious as she lodges a fomorroh head at the back of his neck. Merlin struggles and shouts and oh gods, why isn't he using magic, he can't let himself be controlled —
"Shhhh, Merlin." Her voice attempts to console, faux gentle and soothing. "It's all right. It's just a dream. Just a dream."
No, it's not just a dream. He resists and flails. Arthur will be in grave danger from him, and Arthur's death will be his fault. No, no, no!
"Let go!" he roars, lightning at his fingertips.
A breathless gasp. A clatter of glass and wood. Thundering footsteps.
"Calm him or he's going to hurt himself!"
The command and voice pierce through the fog in his mind ever so slightly. He relaxes a bit, comforted by the fact that his mentor's nearby. "Gaius?"
Blissful blackness welcomes him in its embrace before he hears a reply.
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"Merlin."
"Hmm?" He looks up from the tax document he's skimming to find a bloodied king seated across the other side of the desk.
The sight of blood streaming down from the corners of Arthur's eyes and mouth freezes Merlin where he sits. There's a palm-size hole in the middle of the king's torso where his heart used to be. Now, only strips of pink muscles and white bone peak through, congealing and painting the king's blue tunic a gory red.
"Do you think it easy to betray me?" More dark red pours out Arthur's mouth as he speaks. He appears to not mind any of this, fingers steepled together and stance casual. "Do you think me a fool who you can manipulate any way you want?"
Merlin wants to reach out, to help Arthur and heal the mortal wounds. But all his limbs are nailed into place, and he cannot move an inch.
He opens his mouth to defend himself, to ask Arthur to seek help. But all that comes out is deafening and culpable silence.
"My death—" The king's dimmed blue eyes pierces Merlin like a lance. Hatred and fury swim in their dark depths. "—will be on your head, sorcerer."
Merlin feels like it's his own heart that's been torn out of his chest. He wants to scream and reach out —
"Peace, Merlin." A warm touch upon his cool forehead. Calm spreads from the point of contact, flowing from his head and streaming through his limbs. He sighs, rigid muscles relaxing. "No hurt will reach you here. You are safe."
The words bring no comfort, but the tone and voice do. Merlin lets himself be lulled into a dreamless sleep, consoled by a fatherly touch.
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Merlin wakes with a pounding head, leaden limbs, and crusty eyes. Something also probably died in his mouth.
Ornamented crimson canopies eventually come into focus as he blinks away the fog in his vision. He tries to recall why he's feeling like a mace smashed into his chest and arrives at a blank memory.
Has he been poisoned again? Probably because of Arthur again. That prat just cannot keep himself out of trouble.
Oh. He's in another realm right now, far away from the trouble-magnet king.
Merlin shifts to try and sit up. All his muscles and joints promptly remind him how bad of an idea this is by throbbing in mind-numbing agony. He doesn't bite down the loud and embarrassing whimper in time.
A movement to his left has him snapping his head in its direction.
Sir Lancelot, dressed in sleeping wear and seated on a wooden chair, leans forward with an arm outstretched. On his other arm, he cradles an open book, which appears to be telling quite an interesting tale because the knight's eyes don't drift away from it even as he reaches out to the bedridden man.
With calloused fingers and gentle movements, Sir Lancelot strokes Merlin's hair as if soothing a sleepy child. "Shhh. It's all right, it's all right," the knight even says with a soft and pacifying tone.
With frozen limbs and wide disbelieving eyes, Merlin mutters roughly, "What the hell?"
Sir Lancelot's head whips up and away from his book. He retracts his hand quickly as if burned. "You're awake. And lucid." Red sweeps over the knight's cheeks and the tips of his ears adopt a pink hue.
"I am. I think." The lucid part is debatable because Merlin has just witnessed grouchy Sir Lancelot stroke his hair and console him.
The knight replies with a glare. "I was doing my duty. Don't read anything into it."
"Duty?"
Sir Lancelot sets down his book on the small ornate drawer by the bed and leans back on his chair. "You kept having nightmares and your magic kept wreaking havoc in the room. Very few things could calm you down and I—" He clears his throat, red tinging his cheeks once more. His sharp and accusing look attempts to offset the effect of the blush and fails miserably. "I appear to be one of the handful of people you see as — not an enemy."
"Huh."
Merlin doesn't know whether to be ashamed of the loss of control with his magic, worried at the potentially unwelcomed revelations caused by his delirium, or mortified that people had to watch over him in his sleep.
One thing's for certain; he's overjoyed to be clear-headed right now and end the whole endeavor.
"Wha—" Merlin coughs, dry throat finally having enough of his continued use of it.
To Merlin's endless surprise, Sir Lancelot scrambles to the long table in the middle of the room and pours water into a goblet.
Merlin takes the time to observe the room he has found himself in. The bright morning light filters through the gaps of thick red curtains, bathing the gold-rimmed furniture. A dining area, a canopied bed fit for five adults, a dressing screen, an almost ceiling-high wardrobe, a door to an antechamber for personal servants — this is no simple guestroom. Merlin recognizes the chamber as one of the royal rooms.
Why on earth am I sleeping here?
Sir Lancelot finally returns with the water and helps Merlin prop himself up. The mere attempt of sitting up sends pangs of pain across all of Merlin's muscles and leaves him panting for air. Sir Lancelot hands him the goblet, and Merlin gratefully gulps it down. The knight has to help him lift the cup to his lips, much to his embarrassment.
"More?" Sir Lancelot asks with furrowed brows after Merlin has emptied the goblet.
Merlin gives him a concerned look, beginning to feel unsettled by Sir Lancelot's unusually fussy behavior. He shakes his head in answer to the question, and the knight sets the empty goblet aside.
"Why am I so weak?" Merlin mumbles, opening and closing his palms. Even the tips of his fingers tingle uncomfortably.
There's also a strange feeling inside his head. Aside from a headache, there's . . . nothing — an empty space where something should be. Now what that something is, Merlin has no idea.
Sir Lancelot scoffs, breaking Merlin out of his inward observations. "It's a miracle you're moving at all. Or alive for that matter."
Merlin's head snaps up in shock. "What? What happened?"
Unmistakable concern furrows the knight's brows. "You don't remember?"
"I —" Merlin attempts to recall with an aching head, his brows knitting together and eyes lowering. "We were out drinking, and . . . we were returning to the castle and — Arthur!" Merlin recalls the dagger swiftly heading towards the prince's chest. "Is he injured? Where is he?"
"His Highness is hale and unscathed." The words make Merlin slump in relief. Sir Lancelot's lips purse into a thin line. "Thanks to you."
The knight's tone is so somber that the warlock can't help but quip, "Well, don't sound too bleak about it. I rather thought the prince coming out unharmed is a good thing."
"I didn't mean—"
The door to the chambers creaks open, making them both pause. The familiar figure of the Court Sorcerer trudges in and summarily halts when his hazel eyes catch on to the conscious man upon the bed.
The pause lasts a mere breath. Balinor snaps himself out of his surprise and hurriedly strides towards the bedridden apprentice.
The Court Sorcerer shoots Sir Lancelot a look hinting accusation. "You're supposed to call for us as soon as he regains consciousness."
He settles himself on the side of the bed and clasps Merlin's left wrist, his thumb pressing upon the apprentice's pulse point. Merlin blinks rapidly in response.
Sir Lancelot bows his head, chastised. "I apologize, my lord."
"I just woke up," Merlin claims in defense of the knight.
"Call for the mages," the Court Sorcerer orders Sir Lancelot.
"As you command, sire." Without another word but with one last concerned glance at Merlin, the knight exits the chambers.
Balinor lifts Merlin's head with a finger on his chin and peers into the apprentice's eyes. "Are you experiencing any dizziness? Blurry vision, intense headaches —"
As his mentor continues to list off ridiculous symptoms, Merlin can't help but notice the stark differences in Balinor's features from the last time he saw the man. Dark circles surround his mentor's eyes, and his cheekbones appear much more prominent. There is a distinctive slump in his demeanor, exhaustion pulling his usual upright posture down.
Abruptly, Merlin recalls Theo's remarks about their mentors' risk of being overworked.
"I'm fine. Just a small headache." Merlin waves away his mentor's almost flailing hands before frowning in concern. "Are you fine? You look like you've been drowning in paperwork again."
Balinor leans back and arches a brow. "For ten days, I did have to look after an idiot of an apprentice."
A scowl touches Merlin's brows before the rest of the statement sinks in. "Wait, ten days? I've been asleep for ten days!?" Dismay lances through him. Even after being poisoned by the Mortaeus flower, he had been unconscious for less than a week. "I've missed so many apprentice and dragonlord lessons."
"Your priorities continue to amaze me," Balinor says dryly.
"Yes, well . . ." Given that Merlin will have to go home soon, he wishes to learn as much as he can about magical theories and dragonlord culture.
He clears his throat. "Why did I sleep for ten days? I just got stabbed." Merlin's gaze slides to his left arm— the arm that caught the dagger. He doesn't feel bandages underneath the sleeve of his tunic. Upon further thought, he doesn't even feel any open wounds in that area at all.
"You 'just' got —" Balinor pinches the bridge of his nose. "No, given that a bloody serket stung you before, I suppose a light stabbing isn't a big matter for you."
Every aching muscle in Merlin's body freezes. "How—How did you —"
"But this wasn't just a light stabbing, Merlin." Balinor continues, his tone grim and solemn. "The blade had been bespelled with the curse of Forrotian Cwealm."
The emphasis on the curse's name implies that its effects should be common knowledge.
"That's — That's horrible," Merlin reacts a beat too late, scrounging up some measure of revulsion in his tone.
Balinor's narrowed eyes find his. "You don't know what Forrotian Cwealm is." A statement, not a question.
"I—" Merlin considers his options and decides the truth is the only valid one. "I don't know what Forrotian Cwealm is," he admits with a resigned sigh.
The Court Sorcerer nods in acknowledgment. Then, he elaborates, "It's a curse created by soaking the item — the dagger — in the light of thirteen full moons and performing a long string of spells. Quite an arduous and time-consuming enchantment. The curse only activates once — only on one victim. But the reward for the caster's patience and hard work is absolute lethality. Forrotian Cwealm poisons every drop of blood in the victim's veins in mere minutes."
Balinor's tone is monotonous but there is tension in the corners of his eyes and his knuckles are white from where they are fisted on his lap. "The curse mainly works by corrupting the victim's innate magic and making it turn against their flesh. Their own magic attacks them from the inside and there will be no way and no time to shield from it."
"T—That is horrible." This time, Merlin doesn't have to fake the horror and consternation.
That explains why Merlin feels like he has been run over by a wheelbarrow.
"A painful and a most absolute death, especially for those with high magical capacities." Balinor squeezes his eyes shut and breathes out. Then, he opens them and meets Merlin's aghast gaze. "I don't know how you pulled off another miracle, Merlin, but I . . . I am very glad for it."
And Merlin sees it — sees the remnants of fear denting Balinor's usual uptight mien, sees the relief painting every corner of his exhausted visage.
Warmth blossoms in Merlin's chest, painted with a dash of guilt. He doesn't think that he did enough to earn such a show of care from his mentor.
A knock interrupts them before Merlin can formulate a reply that doesn't sound teary.
Balinor visibly composes himself before saying, "Enter."
Sir Lancelot and seven court mages enter the chambers.
The counterpart of Edwin Muirden eyes Merlin uneasily. "Is he lucid, my lord?"
"Yes, I am," Merlin answers with a raised brow.
"Don't blame us for being cautious, boy." Mage Gaius strides towards the bed with a huff. Balinor vacates his spot to allow the mages more space to work. "You destroyed part of our healing chambers in your delirium."
Merlin opens and closes his mouth like a landed fish. "I did what?"
The mages set to work, prodding and probing Merlin's heavy limbs and aching muscles without further hesitation. They ask him questions about how he feels and any more symptoms he's experiencing. Merlin answers them dutifully, wishing to get the whole inspection over with.
Usually, it's only Gaius and Gwen who fuss over him whenever he's injured. Arthur and the rest of his friends will stay back and tease him for getting himself into trouble.
The warlock is not used to all this unnecessary commotion.
Merlin wonders if he should mention the odd empty feeling in his head. He thinks better of it, not wanting to extend the fuss. He attributes the strange feeling to the slight dizziness still fizzing in his head.
As the minutes tick by, Merlin can't help but notice the awe and excitement flitting through the mages' expressions as they observe him. A handful of them scritches extensive notes upon parchments, seeming to jot down Merlin's every move. The warlock feels perturbed and a bit irritated.
"Don't crowd him," Balinor says.
More than half of the mages step back to allow Merlin breathing room.
When Mage Gaius nods in satisfaction, half an hour later, he tells the others, "Allow us some privacy."
The mages leave without questions, although some seem disappointed at the dismissal. Sir Lancelot follows right behind them and closes the door firmly on his way out.
Notably, Balinor continues standing in one corner of the room. Clearly, the dismissal doesn't apply to him because Mage Gaius begins speaking.
"Merlin, we have questions that need answers, and we will be more than pleased to get them from you," Mage Gaius says rather ominously.
It reminds Merlin of the tone Gaius uses whenever he's about to scold the warlock for some foolish act or another.
"Am I—Am I in trouble?" Of course, anything involving the prince of Camelot will land Merlin in strife.
Mage Gaius frowns in confusion. "Far from it, boy. You could have been the first-in-line for the throne had you merely done nothing. Instead, you saved your cousin without a moment's thought."
Merlin chokes on his own spit. He has forgotten the whole 'Agravaine's son and second prince' matter. Merlin has hoped everyone else has forgotten it too, but apparently, his hopes are in vain.
On the other hand, that little 'prank' explains why he's somehow recuperating in the royal rooms.
Merlin meets Balinor's eyes, silently asking the man why he didn't make the matter clear to others. Merlin has already proclaimed that he isn't Agravaine's son to the Court Sorcerer and Prince Arthur. Balinor shakes his head, and Merlin knows not what to make of that response.
"We want to know how you survive the curse of Forrotian Cwealm," Mage Gaius says, snapping Merlin out of his silent communication with his mentor. "Since its invention ten years ago, no one has ever discovered a counterspell for it. Whatever you did is a miracle we hope to replicate in the future to counterattack such assaults. So, tell us."
Anticipation gleams in Mage Gaius countenance as he awaits Merlin's answers.
Answers that Merlin does not have.
Merlin rummages through his memory. All he can recall is excruciating pain and uncontrollable anger. Was there a chantless spell? What exactly did I do?
"He doesn't know," Balinor says after the silence has gone for too long.
Mage Gaius sends the man an irritated glance. "Let the lad answer."
"I—I really don't know," Merlin finally admits. "I was in so much pain, that's all I can remember."
Something in Balinor's expression twists.
"Surely you must remember something," Mage Gaius frowns in disappointment.
Merlin wants to do anything to remove that frown; Gaius has never favored him with such a disappointed look since the warlock's decision to fight a prattish prince in the markets.
Merlin thinks back once more, trying to grasp something.
"Might be an instinctive type of magic," the Court Sorcerer interjects once more. "One that only he can do. You saw what happened, Gaius."
Mage Gaius adopts a thoughtful look. "That is likely the case." To Merlin, he asks, "Will you allow me to look into your mind and see for myself?"
Merlin flinches back. "L—Look into my mind?"
Balinor straightens. "Gaius." A warning lilts his tone.
Mage Gaius is quick to assure Merlin. "Not to worry, boy. I won't be able to see anything you don't want to show. You'll have to open a door to the memories I'd like to view lest I won't be able to access it."
The Court Sorcerer marches closer, a severe frown upon his face. "Gaius, he has just woken up. The stress of memory-sharing is no mere trifle."
Mage Gaius's dark blue eyes meet the Court Sorcerer's hazel ones. For quite a long time, both stare at each other without blinking or moving. Merlin resists the urge to mumble a witty comment to break the tension.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mage Gaius looks away and clears his throat. "Very well. It's best that you recover some more before we try. And perhaps you'll remember something on your own in the meanwhile."
"I'll be sure to inform you if that happens," Merlin promises with a small smile.
Mage Gaius appears satisfied with that. He pulls out a vial containing a dark viscous liquid from his robes and hands it to Merlin. The warlock sighs, accepts the tincture, uncorks it, and drinks it all in one gulp in an attempt not to let a drop of it touch his tongue. The attempt fails.
He gags and hands back the empty vial.
"At least someone accepts my potions without changing their taste." Mage Gaius nods in approval.
Changing its taste is an option? Merlin would very much like that for next time. When Merlin sees Balinor none-too-subtly rolling his eyes, the warlock realizes who the jibe is for.
Well, the Court Sorcerer can't be blamed. Gaius' potions, no matter which realm, are just too foul.
"That should drastically reduce the muscle pain and headache. But do not strain yourself, boy. The lack of pain does not mean you are already hale." With that, the mage heaves himself up from his seat and excuses himself from the room.
Merlin holds up an arm, and the pitcher of water from the dining table obediently floats towards his expectant hand. He pours water into the empty goblet by the nightstand and hurriedly drinks from it to remove the revolting slimy taste at the back of his throat.
Balinor watches him, a hint of relief softening the corners of his eyes. "I see that you can still use your magic at will. That's very promising."
Merlin pauses in drinking, eyes widening with shock. "Wait, there was a chance I wouldn't be able to?"
"I told you: Forrotian Cwealm corrupts the victim's innate magic. We considered the probability that, even if you survived it, your magic would be too impaired for you to utilize when fully conscious."
Merlin shudders at the implication. He closes his eyes, trying to get into that meditative state and feel his magic. While his body feels feeble and lethargic, his magic is anything but. Golden threads languish in his veins with every pump of his heart, whole and eager to be used. Thank the gods. He supposes ten days is enough for his magic to recover from such a vicious attack.
Before he can sink further into meditation, the door creaks open. His eyes snap open just in time to see Sir Lancelot's head peeking in.
The knight clears his throat. "I promised I would ask . . . Are you up for visitors? Some people would like to witness how you're doing with their own eyes." Then, Sir Lancelot glances at the silent sentry that is the Court Sorcerer, as if asking for his permission as well.
"Er, sure," Merlin finds no reason to decline.
Sir Lancelot nods and then glances at the Court Sorcerer. "Lord Ivaír is calling for you, my lord."
Balinor immediately straightens, countenance grim. He says to Merlin, "I'll return shortly."
"You should rest," is Merlin's reply, unable to prevent himself from worrying.
The Court Sorcerer sends him a wry look before he leaves with Sir Lancelot.
Barely three breaths after the Court Sorcerer closes the door, Mordred, Morgana, Gilli, Theo, and Clar burst into the room.
"Merlin, you impossibly resilient git," Theo greets with a grin.
To the bedridden man's surprise, a somber Mordred comes forward and engulfs him in a tight embrace. Merlin bristles for a short moment before awkwardly patting the druid's back. After Mordred pulls back, Morgana, with a wobbling lower lip, takes her turn. A teary-eyed Gilli doesn't miss out and almost squeezes the life out of Merlin.
Theo, thankfully, merely claps a hand on his shoulder to express his relief.
Merlin is embarrassed and, at the same time, touched at the shows of concern.
Clar wrinkles her nose after the whole sentimental display is over with. "I hope you don't expect me to do any of that."
Merlin doesn't expect her to be here at all.
"Oh, Merlin, it was something out of a nightmare!" Gilli cries out. "You were throwing up blood everywhere and your veins were turning black, and we didn't know what was happening —"
Mordred digs an elbow into his friend's ribs, making Gilli's babbling halt with an 'oof'. "I'm sure Merlin doesn't want to be reminded of that."
"I barely remember anything at all," Merlin says with a frown. "Did I really throw up blood?"
"Yes. All over the prince of Camelot's front, to boot!" Gilli narrates with a wince. Then, his eyes widened. His voice drops in a conspiratorial whisper. "Merlin, don't be too surprised but . . . Wart was actually Prince Arthur Pendragon in disguise."
Everyone's gaze swivels to Merlin for his reaction. Merlin blinks up at them.
"You knew." There's a hint of a smile curling Morgana's lips. "You knew and still told him to muck the stables."
Merlin sniffs. "Well, someone has to teach the prince the very important job of cleaning the stables."
Theo cackles. Mordred, Morgana, and Gilli try and fail to hide their smiles.
Clar scowls. "You lot just love disrespecting royalty, don't you? See if you're still smiling after I tattle all of this to Queen Ygraine."
Merlin rolls his eyes, dismissing the threat. "Why are you even visiting me?"
"I have to, don't I?" Clar screeches. "You're the 'Second Prince of Camelot' and as a Princess of Mercia, I have to pretend to care about your well-being."
Merlin arches a brow. "I told you I'm no royalty."
"Well, you should have bloody told everyone else!" Clar exclaims, thoroughly riled up. "Your 'father' is stirring up conspiracies all over the place."
Dread forms a solid ball in the warlock's stomach. "Conspiracies?"
"Very few people believe it, of course." Morgana is quick to assure. "But it is very troublesome nonetheless."
"What is Ag — Lord Agravaine saying?" Merlin nearly demands, glancing between them.
Mordred sighs. "Look, Merlin, we all witnessed what happened that night. We know the original target of that dagger was Wart — Prince Arthur. We know you pushed him out of the way and saved his life. But . . ."
"But Prince Arthur was in disguise," Morgana continues. "And Lord Agravaine is bringing up some interesting points . . . How could the assassin possibly know it was Prince Arthur underneath that face? How could the first prince be the original target?"
Merlin frowns as there is an easy explanation for that. "The assassin could have been stalking the prince from the start and found out that he disguises himself when going outside the castle. He even went out last week— no, three weeks ago, I suppose—to Sir Lancelot's nameday celebration."
Clar nods in agreement. "That is the only reasonable conclusion." Then, she scowls. "But some people in this citadel are imbeciles."
Theo smirks. "Now, look who's insulting royalty."
Clar squawks in indignation. The fact that she doesn't attack Theo outright is a testament to the closeness Gilli had hinted at before.
Morgana cuts in and keeps the conversation on track. "Lord Agravaine is implying that — well, he says the target of the assassination may have been you."
"What? That's ridiculous." Merlin can't help but laugh a bit. This is what Agravaine has been cooking up?
"In the eyes of the people, you have just recently been revealed as the second heir to the throne." Mordred favors him with a pitying look. "Furthermore, you are a famous magic-user, acknowledged even by the Court Sorcerer. Lord Agravaine says that certain people — like the first heir — may have been alarmed by your presence in court."
Epiphany hits Merlin like lightning. His jaw drops open. "Lord Agravaine is claiming that Prince Arthur planned all of this? That he planned to assassinate me because I'm threatening his position?"
"He didn't say it outright lest he'll be tried for treason," Clar says with a huff. "But the implications in his words are clear enough."
"The—The prince was standing right next to me. If he really planned it, he would risk getting caught in the crossfire!"
"Or he was ensuring you were standing in the right spot and distracting you while his associate prepares to throw the knife," Gilli brightly suggests.
Merlin shoots him a glare. The others shake their heads.
Gilli clears his throat. "All right, no more jests. This is a serious matter."
If this is happening to someone else, Merlin would have laughed himself sick. It is, however, happening to him, so he finds no humor in it. He drops his face onto his open palms and groans in frustration.
Drat, this is all his fault. He should have known Agravaine would be up to no good when the lord proposed the sigil deal to him. How could that man attempt to frame his own nephew? Has he no shame or conscience at all, in both realms?
Another notion slips into his mind.
Could Agravaine have been responsible for the assassination? If it had been successful, Merlin would be the first heir to the throne. Now that it wasn't, Agravaine is spinning his own tale out of it and further endangering Prince Arthur's status.
Merlin's hands clench into fists, and anger ripples through his chest.
"Whoa, Merlin, calm down!" Theo's panicked voice snaps the warlock out of mentally socking Agravaine in the jaw.
The stools, tables, and dressers in the room cease shaking as Merlin breathes out. The rest of them breathe a collective sigh of relief.
"Well." Clar sends unamused looks to everyone in the chamber. "Now that I've shown my concern, I have more important things to see to. I rather not stay near a volatile invalid." With that, she turns on her heel and heads for the door.
Theo rolls his eyes. The rest merely ignore her.
"Should I be expecting your brother's visit?" Merlin wonders if he can deny entrance to the brattish prince.
Without turning around or even halting her strides, Clar throws out, "My brother will be seen favoring Prince Arthur's side while I will be favoring yours. We can't be seen being biased towards one or the other." A second after that, the door slams close.
Thank the gods for that then.
"What happened to the assassin?" Merlin asks to those remaining. "Were they caught?" The warlock needs to find out if Agravaine truly is behind all this.
"Yes, they were caught almost immediately," Morgana reassures him.
Merlin listens avidly as his visitors narrate every detail they know of the whole situation.
"The court didn't want any misinformation to spread so they pretty much revealed everything to everyone," Gilli mentions off-handedly. "I guess they're taking the spread of conspiracies seriously."
Jaren, the assassin, wheedled his way into the Apprentice Exam and was chosen as Lord Ivaír's apprentice. Just a week after the Exam, he was discovered as a spy of Tir Mor. He was locked in the dungeons for questioning while the court pretended that they had sent him away so as not to alarm the castle residents. Then, he managed to escape, got ahold of the bespelled dagger he had stashed out of the way in advance, and attempted to kill the prince.
Midway through, four servants usher into the room, bringing with them steaming plates of sliced venison, fat rolls of sausages, a mouth-watering cauldron of mushroom soup. Another servant carries pitchers of water and fruit juice. They set the dishes, utensils, and drinks down on the empty dining table.
"We have brought lunch for you and your companions, Your Highness," one of the servants intones.
Merlin doesn't protest the title, knowing it'll be useless.
That same servant places a small wooden table upon Merlin's lap while another puts a bowl of creamy soup and fruit juice on it. A third servant leans forward with a napkin to lay flat upon his chest to prevent stains.
"I can do it." Merlin snatches the cloth from the servant's hands. "Th—Thank you. I can do the rest myself." Please go now.
The servant tilts her head. "Won't you need assistance to eat?"
"No, thank you!" Merlin almost screams. "I'll eat on my own."
Morgana and Mordred cover their mouths and release strange-sounding coughs. Theo and Gilli adorn grins that practically split their faces in half.
The servant nods. "The mages advise light food for the next couple of meals, Your Highness. Call for us if you need anything." She then gestures at a small handbell laying innocuously by his bedside.
Merlin glances at it, noting the runes carved in the metal of the dome. When the last of servants exits the room, the warlock breathes out in respite.
Theo whistles, padding towards the dining table. "Are you sure you'd like to give up all these privileges, Merlin? You can just continue pretending to be Lord Agravaine's son." In only a few seconds, his plate is already a mountain of food.
Mordred, Morgana, and Gilli decide to partake as well, gathering over the small banquet in the dining area.
"Being a prince is more trouble than it's worth," Merlin mumbles before sipping a spoonful of soup. The delicious aroma of the mushrooms and seasonings awaken his sleeping stomach. He happily feeds it with another spoonful. "Why would Tir Mor want the Crown Prince of Camelot dead?" Merlin asks, getting back to their discussion.
Tir Mor has maintained a good relationship with Camelot on both realms, as far as Merlin knows.
"The court of Tir Mor is denying culpability," Morgana replies after drinking from her goblet. "The crown claims Jaren has acted on his own."
"Did he?"
Mordred hums, his eyes scanning the set of pitchers of different fruit juices. "A truth spell has been used on the assassin. Unless he has an extreme immunity to it, he claims to have received orders to kill the Crown Prince of Camelot from the first princess herself."
So Agravaine truly isn't behind it. He merely took the opportunity to cause discord. The fact does nothing to lessen Merlin's wrath towards the conniving git.
"And the motive? Why would the princess want Prince Arthur dead?" the warlock prods.
Mordred shrugs. "We don't know yet, and the court asks everyone not to speculate."
Merlin nods. It is a precarious situation; one wrong rumor reaching the wrong ears could spell devastating war.
Theo pauses in eating, looking up in thought. "You know, it's very odd. The curse of Forrotian Cwealm is usually used against magic-users. It's most effective on us after all. That Prince Arthur isn't one is common knowledge. Why would the assassin use that spell out of all spells to kill a non-magic-user?"
"Goddess!" Gilli exclaims, dropping his fork. "Maybe Merlin really was the target after all!"
It is a curious point indeed but it's one that benefits no one if brought up. Merlin, as the man closest to Prince Arthur at that time, is quite certain the blade would have pierced the prince's chest without mercy. Merlin wasn't even an afterthought in the assassin's mind.
"Don't mention that to anyone else," Merlin warns them. "We can't fan the flames of Lord Agravaine's claims."
All of them nod in solemn agreement. They then proceed to the lighter topic that is the delectability of their lunch.
Merlin resists the urge to groan once more.
In any realm, saving princes just piles on a mountain of nuisances on him.
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
A/N:
"Pressure like a tick, tick, tick
'Til it's ready to blow
Whoa ~" – Luisa Madrigal, Encanto (2021)
Thank you Pfannkuchenpferd and grilledcheeseandgravityfalls for your very generous donations 3 3!
Welcome, new readers! Welcome back, regulars! Thank you for still tuning in :D.
I love Encanto. That's it, that's all I have to say, lol.
Next up: Another heartbreaking realization, a glimpse of another familiar face, and we find out what is up with Prince Arthur. Why hasn't that prince visited Merlin, his savior!?
Hopefully, the next chapter will be up in less than a month hehe.
Remember to do something that excites you at least once a week, no matter how minor it is! Have an enjoyable day today!
~ Vividpast