Chapter Summary: Prince Arthur makes decisions he regrets and yet he can't say for sure he won't make them again if given another chance. Merlin, similarly, struggles with another weighty decision, and he may make the right one yet.
Warning/s: Brief gory imagery
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Chapter XXI: For the Right Reasons
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Arthur always presents himself as an unflappable royalty whose indifferent demeanor easily provokes uneasiness within his enemies.
As black blood soaks through the material of his tunic and his trembling hands drip with the same slick substance, his nonchalant visage shatters against the nightmarish reality he has found himself in.
The mages shout and scream, hurrying to and fro to fetch potions after potions. Sorcerers and sorceresses endlessly perform enchantments and charms, suffusing the atmosphere with tenuous magical energy.
Balinor yells orders in the middle of them all, his face twisted with fury and urgency. There is no terror. Not yet.
The Court Sorcerer's glowing hands, stained with the same damning and rotting blood, presses flat against the chest of a form writhing in agony.
Atop a hospital cot and in the middle of the frenzy, Merlin of Ealdor convulses. His limbs are stiff and flailing uncontrollably, his head beating against the pillow of the cot. His eyes roll to the back of his skull, two pools of corrupted black. Gray colors his complexion, dark veins shooting across his skin like ink spilling upon pallid parchment. Black blood dribbles from the corners of his mouth and stains his gritted teeth.
The dagger has been pulled out of his arm, showing a gory wound brimming with the foulest hex in existence.
Arthur's gaze returns to the Court Sorcerer, whose shouts have only grown louder.
He's your son, Arthur thinks numbly.
"Wha — Who're you?" Lady Ires shoots him a suspicious look. "Unless you're injured, please go out and stay out of the way."
Arthur grips the impersonation totem underneath his tunic and twists the pendant. His disguise falls away.
Lady Ires' eyes widen. "Your—Your Highness! I apologize for my rudeness."
She pulls him into one of the cots and sits him down. Arthur lets her, his gaze still on the man currently dying in his place. Lady Ires lifts an arm to flag down another mage, but the prince stops her.
"I'm uninjured," he says. His voice doesn't feel like it belongs to him. "He saved my life. The dagger was meant for me."
Again, surprise enters Lady Ires' eyes. But she doesn't tear any mages away from their desperate actions to save Balinor's apprentice.
Desperate and useless actions.
"There is no counterspell. The Forrotian Cwealm is too potent to stop!" Mage Gaius voices out what everyone in the chambers already knows.
Abrupt silence follows the exclamation. Mages halt their manic movements.
Balinor's expression twists. Denial wreathes across his face. Neither he nor his subordinates cease pouring their magic into Merlin to replace the corrupted magical energy killing him from the inside.
He's your son. Arthur watches as they continue the temporary measure that will keep Merlin alive for only minutes more. And it's my fault he's dying.
"It's not working," Mage Gregor says in the sudden quiet. "It's too late, Lord Balinor. Please —"
"We stop when I say so!" the Court Sorcerer bellows with an ineffable and guttural voice, making everyone within hearing range flinch. "Get the Geclænsung potions!"
The command kicks the mages back into action. Balinor continues pumping vast amounts of his magic into his apprentice's heart.
A memory lances through the forefront of Arthur's mind like an arrow strike. Of Balinor trying to pump a heart into beating once more — a heart that has long since stopped inside the cold corpse that once held the life of his best friend. Arthur didn't stop him then, just as desperate as him to produce a pulse.
He won't be the one to stop him now.
He's your son, and the dagger was meant for me.
There's terror in Balinor's expression now. An uncharacteristic terror that overwhelms his entire being. Arthur feels that same terror rising within him.
"Don't you dare, Merlin!" Balinor shouts as Merlin's convulsions slow, as his eyes fully close. "Do you hear me!? If you die, I'll —" Balinor swallows and falters, uncertainty and fright finally claiming his facade.
Denial is done coursing through him, leaving only ice-cold reality.
He's your son. Arthur grips the wood of the cot he's sitting on, knuckles turning white. Splinters dig into his fingertips. The blood is tacky on his chest and slippery on his palms. The pungent smell of iron fills the air. You have to keep fighting for him. You can't give up!
Mage Gaius places a gentle hand on the Court Sorcerer's shoulder, pity and sorrow marring his visage. "Balinor, let him suffer no more."
"He must be in extreme agony," another mage says, voice soft. "We can give him tinctures to help him pass on painlessly."
He's your son. He has to tell Balinor now. The words, however, get stuck in Arthur's throat. You're letting him die. But it's simply not true. Merlin's death is certain the moment the cursed dagger buried itself into his arm.
Balinor lifts his trembling hands off of his apprentice's chest. Unbearable grief lines his face, a glossy sheen upon his hazel eyes.
Those who don't know the Court Sorcerer well would think him a cool and composed man who's unmoved by anything and everything. But everyone in this room has been present four years ago when a heart-wrenching incident broke every composure Balinor had built up.
Tonight, history repeats its vicious cycle.
He was your son. Cold resolve settles in Arthur's heart even as guilt and anguish poison his insides. And you will never know. I will keep it from you as long as I live. We will mourn your apprentice and never your son.
Then, Merlin — impossible paradoxical stubborn Merlin — opens his eyes and pulls off a miracle.
Golden light bathes the whole chamber, and Merlin survives.
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In the first few days after his discovery of Merlin's parentage, Arthur has kept quiet, observing and studying the apprentice. While the blood test is proof enough, they still have no idea what or who exactly Merlin is.
Arthur has no plan to present his findings to Balinor only to find his supposed son to be a spy or a product of necromancy.
The fact that Merlin hasn't told Balinor is suspicious enough. What reason has he for keeping his parentage a secret? Balinor is an honorable man, and no one would be ashamed to claim him as their father. Or is it the other way around? Is Merlin afraid that Balinor will deny him or be disappointed in him?
Arthur has planned to corner the apprentice and get answers once and for all.
Then, Merlin saves his life and nearly dies in the process. All plans of confrontation fade from Arthur's mind.
No spy would risk their lives and their mission for anyone, and no product of necromancy can showcase such painful dying convulsions.
In that one action, Merlin has proven every suspicion Arthur has harbored false.
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The queen will be confining Arthur to his quarters soon to keep him safe and away from the political waves rippling across the kingdoms. This will perhaps be his first and last chance to visit Merlin without undue consequence. So, he has taken the opportunity to sneak into the healing chambers to see how their resident dagger pincushion fares.
Arthur arrives just in time to witness Merlin in the throes of an intense night terror. Thankfully, they calm him fairly quickly and without much damage. This time.
Given the uncontrollable way Merlin's magic lashes out, they've considered placing dampening bracelets upon his wrists to somewhat contain his magic. Balinor has agreed if only to prevent Merlin from hurting himself.
The bracelets shatter in a thousand pieces the next time Merlin's magic surges. After destroying five pairs of the bracelets, the mages suggest going for stronger tools to cage Merlin's magic — like magic-binding shackles.
Balinor draws the line there. They cannot completely steal away the only source that fought against the Forrotian Cwealm, not when they still don't know if the curse has completely perished.
Arthur thinks that Balinor has another unvoiced concern regarding it. Merlin has once unintentionally revealed to Balinor and Arthur that the dungeon runes have little to no effect on him. Magic-binding shackles may also prove ineffective. The place to test that theory is not in front of the eyes of several magic-users whose curiosity and fascination have already been piqued by Merlin's impossible survival.
The line between awe and intimidation is a narrow one. The fact that normal means of magic-user containment may not work on Merlin will blur that line further.
Given that, Merlin's magic remains uncontained, intermittently wreaking havoc.
In his often-confused state, the apprentice treats very few people as allies, seeing everyone as a threat more often than not. Mage Gaius' presence, surprisingly, mostly calms him but the Court Mage can't be around all the time. Balinor's soothing voice also tends to placate the apprentice but, like the Court Mage, the Court Sorcerer has duties he cannot escape from.
When his name falls from Merlin's lips after the nightmare has passed, Arthur realizes he's inexplicably included in that very short list. The apprentice's voice curls familiarly around each syllable, his struggles ceasing almost immediately as soon as Arthur touches him.
The mages pointedly and collectively ignore the slip, going about their duties.
That Merlin is prone to nightmares isn't that much of a surprise given what he has gone through. The effects of the curse of Forrotian Cwealm are not something a magic-user lives through, let alone shrug off so easily.
Merlin, however, seems to be dreaming about different things each time. Or so say the more talkative mages in the castle.
They speak of the other possible causes of his nightmares.
Tiny but deep indents in the left of his heart caused by a spiked mace embedding into flesh and pulling skin and muscle with its exit. A palm-sized burn marking the center of his chest, puckered and reddened. An unnatural dip at the base of his back shaped in the unmistakable contour of a serket's venomous tail. Shoulder blades lined with an overarching scar, the skin scraped raw and healed over. Several other lacerations on his front and back, minor wounds in disquieting quantity.
A thin white line at the back of his neck which once held a fomorroh. But that one, only Arthur and Lancelot know. The prince is still waiting for the right time to speak to Balinor and Merlin regarding it.
Merlin's whole body is a map of scars, each telling their own terrible stories.
Balinor has a scathing remark ready for anyone he hears gossiping about his apprentice's wounds. His actions curb the rumors somewhat; very few people want to cross an agitated Court Sorcerer.
Fewer still want to invoke Arthur's cold ire. Balinor's not the only one fighting to keep the rumors contained.
The Court Sorcerer himself arrives in the chambers just minutes after Arthur and takes over the mages' duties. Soon, only the Court Sorcerer and prince of Camelot remain in the private healing room of the 'second prince' of Camelot.
"Do you think Merlin has someone out there?" Arthur asks, leaning against the door of the chamber. "Romantically, I mean."
Balinor pauses in dabbing his sleeping apprentice's sweaty forehead with a clean towel to send him an arched brow. "An interesting question, coming from you."
Arthur shrugs as casually as he can. "Just wondering. It's been four days, yet no one has come riding through the citadel gates and demanding to see him."
A part of Arthur has been expecting — or perhaps merely hoping — that a properly aged woman will arrive to see her ill son. A woman Balinor will recognize on sight. A woman whose mere presence will reveal it all.
But he supposes that's a coward's wish.
"Perhaps the news has yet to reach his village," Balinor reasons, running the warm wet cloth through Merlin's sweat-soaked hair. Dark locks stick out and curl at the edges, making Merlin adopt a boyish look. The apprentice slumbers on, oblivious.
"You mean the village that burnt down," Arthur replies wryly.
To that, Balinor has no response. Arthur's left leg twinges as he shifts his position. He walks to a nearby rickety chair and settles on it, letting his feet rest.
Arthur allows the silence to linger for a few more moments.
"Did you have someone?" Arthur finally asks the very question he has been aiming to ask, keeping his tone casual and largely uninterested. "Romantically."
The Court Sorcerer stills for the briefest moment. Then, he resumes wiping down Merlin's head and neck. "Is that the main question you've been leading up to?"
Again, Arthur forces a casual shrug. "Just curious." He has not been subtle enough, it seems. He keeps up his blithe act, nonetheless. "You never mentioned any romantic attachments to me, now that I look back on it. Have you no interest in that sort of thing?"
Balinor sets down the wet cloth and grabs a dry one. He begins drying Merlin's hair, movements gentle and careful. He could have done it much more efficiently with a whispered spell, Arthur thinks. He doesn't say it out loud.
— With gentle and only slightly trembling fingers, Balinor braids yellow flowers into her hair, preparing her for the funeral pyre —
— Arthur mechanically washes her cold unmoving hands with flower-scented water, numb and unbelieving to it all —
"I had someone once," Balinor intones after a pregnant silence, dragging Arthur out of his memories. Something unfamiliar flits the Court Sorcerer's features.
Except, Arthur has seen it once before. When Arthur asked about Balinor's semi-obsession with the symbol of the triple moon, that very same expression surfaced in the man's visage.
Oh.
With context, Arthur identifies the emotion Balinor is attempting to allay, to hide, to pretend not to feel.
"It was a long time ago," Balinor says with a note of decisiveness. "I barely even remember what she looks like."
Heartbreak.
The fact that Balinor sews the symbol of the triple moon on every piece of clothing he owns likely has something to do with this unknown woman. Arthur silently reels at his realization. Even after all these years, her influence on the Court Sorcerer is evident and undeniable.
Furthermore, she has somehow broken Balinor's heart.
Arthur is unaware that the possibility even exists. In his mind, Balinor has always seemed to be above such feelings, such foreign sentiments. But perhaps that's Arthur's mistake. The Court Sorcerer is a human like any other, capable of heartbreak and grief.
Was she Merlin's mother? Arthur wonders but doesn't ask out loud.
The Court Sorcerer says nothing more, continuing his ministrations upon his apprentice. Arthur pries no longer, feeling inexplicably melancholic and conflicted.
The prince's eyes land on the man on the crux of it all.
Merlin sleeps peacefully, unknowing of the apprehensions surrounding him.
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After the assassination attempt, Arthur has kept his silence mostly because he is still very fearful of Merlin's survival.
No one has ever survived the curse of the Forrotian Cwealm, and Merlin may yet relapse. Arthur is not going to tell Balinor only for his newly discovered son to slip away before his very eyes.
Lancelot follows his lead, and no word of Merlin's true parentage passes his lips. He has seen the knight being tempted to speak out as Uncle Agravaine's prank shakes up the court and seemingly tarnishes the crowned prince's reputation. One sharp and warning look from Arthur, however, stills the knight's tongue.
Merlin wakes, and Arthur feels like he can finally breathe.
The all-consuming guilt still languishes in his chest, and he can hardly bear to look at the apprentice. There is no blame, no accusation, no loathing in Merlin's eyes, and Arthur thinks that's worse. Arthur knows what to do with blame and hatred. He knows not what to do with . . . this.
Merlin has nearly died for a man that has been nothing but hostile to him, and he barely looks like he cares.
Arthur wishes he can go outside and watch his arrows hit something; it would alleviate the irritation blooming in him whenever he speaks with Merlin for any length of time.
Merlin is simply infuriating in many different ways.
Like father, like son, Arthur supposes.
Now that Merlin is clearly on the mend, Arthur wants to tell Balinor. He has kept it from the man long enough. It doesn't matter what or who Merlin is, only that he is Balinor's child.
Arthur never meant for a confrontation such as this. He has planned for a peaceful talk, a gentle persuading to convince Merlin to tell Balinor himself.
The involvement of Lily in the whole matter dissolves each and every one of Arthur's plans.
"He'll mourn her twice over," Merlin says.
Arthur suddenly understands why Merlin has kept the truth hidden.
"The daughter he never saw grow up and the daughter he outlived."
The son he never saw grow up. And the son he would have outlived. The son he would have witnessed die.
The moment dying convulsions grasp Merlin's form, Arthur resolves never to tell Balinor the truth — a resolve he knows even then to be inconceivably wrong. Yet, had Merlin died, he is unsure whether he would have retracted the decision, or he would have gone through with it.
Merlin, however, lived. Arthur thought he wouldn't face such a difficult choice again.
And yet, here they are.
Not a twin brother. Not a mimic. Not a shade. Not any spell of necromancy. If Cornelius Sigan's forbidden resurrection spell has indeed been used, then —
"Are you Lily?" Arthur asks after minutes of silence, his voice steadier than he feels. "Do you remember being Lily?"
Balinor and Arthur have never asked outright, wary of alerting Merlin of their findings. But the time for caution and suspicion is long gone. Arthur desires answers, and he is determined to get them.
Surprise widens Merlin's eyes before a storm of emotions consume them. He is Lily yet not. How can that be? Arthur realizes that the answers to his questions are much more complicated than he can possibly know.
"Tell me," Arthur demands, striding closer, chest bubbling with emotions he cannot even begin to parse. "Tell me the whole truth, Merlin. If Lily was indeed Balinor's daughter, then how do you fit into all of this? How—"
A knock resounds from the door, putting everything into an abrupt halt.
Both their heads whip to the source of the sound.
Alarm ripples through Merlin's form. "I'll tell you everything. Everything. I promise." His voice falls into a harsh whisper. "Not now. Soon. Once there's time, once no one is around to overhear." His panicked stormy-blue eyes meet Arthur's. "Please. Lord Balinor cannot know."
A second knock nearly sends Merlin into a full-body flinch. His pleading gaze, however, remains on Arthur.
Bewilderment swamps the prince, and his mind struggles to make sense of it all.
— "Ah, the great Prince of Camelot. Always thinking, always calculating" —
— Stormy-blue eyes glitter with amusement and fondness —
— "Take a step back, Arthur, and trust me" —
Without thinking it through, Arthur gives a conceding nod.
Merlin nearly collapses in his bed with respite. Then, as if fearing Arthur will change his mind, the apprentice hurriedly calls out, "C-Come in!"
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Servants pour in the chambers, carrying an array of breakfast dishes. Merlin can't even appreciate the smells they brought in with them.
"I'll tell you everything. Everything, I promise," the warlock has vowed carelessly.
He doesn't know whether he'll break it or fulfill it. He's prepared to promise anything as long as he can stop Prince Arthur from spilling the truth to the Court Sorcerer.
The servants pause upon seeing Prince Arthur looming over the bed. They proceed with their tasks after sending them both cursory glances.
Prince Arthur promptly sweeps away their chess game, freeing up an area for a servant to place a bowl of potato soup and a goblet of water upon Merlin's table. Merlin clears his dry throat and thanks them.
After pointing out the handbell near the bed once more, most of the servants leave them without further fuss. Two male servants, however, remain to sweep and tidy the quarters. The two of them are trying and failing to hide their curiosity regarding Prince Arthur's presence in the room.
They could not be curious for long because the prince heads out of the room. He leaves his chessboard on the dining table.
Merlin starts on his breakfast after the door has closed behind the prince, his pounding heartbeat eventually slowing down. His talk with Prince Arthur has done nothing for his nerves and has now added to his ever-growing list of problems.
Everything has completely spiralled out of his control in such a short amount of time.
He needs to invent a new story to tell Prince Arthur in the near future. A story with no holes that will explain everything. He gulps at the almost insurmountable task before him.
Why don't you just tell him the truth? comes a niggling whisper in his mind.
Merlin immediately dismisses the idea. Or tries to, anyway.
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Merlin asks a servant for a quill and inkpot. The servant only hands him a quill. Right. Quills in this realm need not be dipped in ink.
After the servants leave with remnants of his breakfast, no one comes in to guard him.
He hurriedly fetches the wordle parchment from the drawer beside the bed.
I'm awake but still not well enough to stand. Will you tell me what you discovered about portals? he writes as the fourth line.
The warlock puts down the quill and prepares to stash the parchment back into the drawer. Black ink, however, swells right underneath his words as he's folding it.
Merlin flinches back in surprise as letters appear as if being written by a ghostly hand.
I rather tell you in person, come in the böggel-mann's ugly handwriting.
Merlin sighs. He figures Wracu won't release information without extracting a price.
Then, more words spill in ink.
Have you thought about asking your mentor about portals?
Merlin swallows the sudden lump in his throat. He knows exactly what Wracu is asking and urging him to do.
It's not about trusting or distrusting his mentor. Not anymore.
But.
Access to a lot of information and connections to magic-users of the highest ranks, Wracu has listed as reasons to confide his origins to Balinor.
Merlin can think of one other person who fits the criteria.
Someone who has eloquently answered every magic-related question Merlin has asked. Someone who's actively studying magic and has mountains of tomes in his quarters to prove it. Someone whose influence and connections in a court full of magic-users are irrefutable.
Merlin gives a vehement shake of his head to dislodge the idea. Something in him cringes at the mere thought of baring the full truth to —
But why does a part of him shrivel away from the idea? It's a practical notion and worthy of consideration.
— Eyes twin chips of blue ice, grief and ire swimming in their depths —
— "Magic is pure evil, and I'll never lose sight of that again." —
Before Merlin can fully think it through, he has fetched the quill once more.
Do you think Prince Arthur Pendragon knows a lot about portals?
A hysterical part of his mind cannot believe he's asking an enemy for advice. Loath as he is to admit it, Wracu is perhaps the best person to ask; the böggel-mann is the only one with extensive knowledge of both this realm and Merlin's.
Merlin waits. He waits for several moments before an answer comes. When it does, he finds himself nonplussed.
Do you trust him?
The quill's nib hovers over the parchment. Prince Arthur's calculative maneuverings in their every encounter flash to the forefront of his mind.
Not really, Merlin eventually replies.
Then you know the answer to your question.
Merlin frowns. I didn't trust Lord Balinor. Yet you told me to. And I also don't trust you.
Prince Arthur Pendragon is known to reciprocate the trust you give him in equal measure. You give him none and he will give you none. And our alliance is based on mutual benefit, not trust.
The warlock does not trust Prince Arthur and therefore the prince will not trust him and help him in return. Can't saving the prat's life be enough to garner some measure of trust at least?
Merlin pauses as another notion occurs to him. Perhaps he does have that trust. He has, however, taken no steps to reach out and test it. The thought clings to him, encouraging him to go over every conversation with the prince after he woke up from his ten-day sleep.
Wracu adds, The Prince of Camelot can be your greatest ally but he can easily be your most formidable foe. I rather you do not take any risks.
Three breaths after Merlin finishes reading the last line, every remark related to Prince Arthur blots out. A wall of black now colors a good portion of the parchment. Right. Probably not a good idea to have that part of the conversation exposed for anyone's sight.
Write to me once you're feeling better, is the böggel-mann's last statement.
Write to me when we can meet, Merlin interprets.
I will, he simply answers.
The warlock hides the parchment and quill inside the drawer. He lets his head fall onto a goose-feathered pillow, his eyes on the crimson-colored canopies decorating his bed.
Surprisingly, Wracu has helped him come to a decision regarding that troublesome and niggling idea.
In a way that the böggel-mann probably never expected.
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Balinor arrives mere minutes later, looking more exhausted than he had been yesterday. His pallor is paler, the grays in his hair even more prominent.
For one terrifying moment, Merlin suspects that the prince has gone directly to him and now he knows. Thankfully, Merlin comes to his senses. Balinor won't be as calm as he is right now, surely. He would have been immediately demanding answers.
"A-Are you all right?" are the first words out of Merlin's mouth.
The Court Sorcerer ignores the question and glances around. He seems rather irritated to find Merlin with no one to watch over him. "How long have you been alone?"
"Just a few minutes. Did you even rest?"
"We are on the brink of war," Balinor says, claiming a seat and pulling out a pile of documents. "No one has time to rest."
A frisson of fear tugs at Merlin's ribs. "Is it that bad?" Then, he mutters. "Of course it is. Another kingdom's heir just attempted to kill off the crowned prince of Camelot."
"Princess Seren has been publicly disowned as of last night," Balinor informs him. "But Ygraine's out for blood. That's not going to be enough to appease her. Tir Mor has to give us more to calm her wrath." The Court Sorcerer straightens, seeming to come to his senses. Merlin receives a warning glance. "Not a word of that to anyone."
Balinor must be more tired than he lets on if he's slipping up like this. "Yes, sire," Merlin replies with an unconvincing smile just to tease his mentor.
Balinor pins him with a suspicious stare while Merlin continues to smile in a mock-guileless manner.
The door creaks open and interrupts them.
Prince Arthur pauses at the entrance, a small book in hand. He glances between the Court Sorcerer and his apprentice, something unidentifiable in his eyes.
Merlin bristles, unknowingly holding his breath. The prince's gaze then focuses on the bedridden apprentice, a clear message in his look. Merlin exhales: Prince Arthur is not planning to recede his promise this morning.
The prince proceeds further into the quarters, and Balinor lets out a breath tinted with exasperation. "Arthur, return to your room."
"No," is the prince's simple answer. He sets down the book in his hand atop the wooden table still on Merlin's lap and cracks it open.
Quick and Simple Anti-Eavesdropping Spells declares the heading of the page he has chosen. Prince Arthur taps it with an index finger before striding away to take his place near the windowsill. He stares out to the bustling city beneath, hands folded upon his back.
Prince Arthur wants Merlin to learn these spells for their future talk. Even though he has already made his decision, Merlin finds the idea daunting. He leans forward and begins reading, nonetheless.
Balinor gives Merlin and the book a curious look. Then, he turns to address the prince basking in the sunlight. "Your mother and a few councilors plan to visit Merlin during lunch. You cannot be seen here."
The warlock startles at the information. "The queen plans to visit me?"
"You are her 'nephew' after all," Balinor says dryly.
"Precisely why I should be here now," Prince Arthur replies. After a beat, he heads for the dining table and claims the chair beside Balinor. "Merlin and I have a plan to implement."
Merlin's head snaps to him. "We're going to do it today?" After the whirlwind Prince Arthur has made of his morning, Merlin prefers to have more time to prepare for another stressful maneuvering.
But then again, for Merlin, life is just one trouble after another. He shouldn't be surprised to be thrust into another delicate situation so soon.
"The queen and her councilors will be gathered in your quarters, and there will be no better audience for our little play," Prince Arthur reasons. He drags the chessboard lying undisturbed on the table towards him and starts noisily arranging the pieces.
Merlin sighs, fighting off the exhaustion already encroaching at the mere idea of the tribulation ahead. "Might as well get it over with."
Balinor's eyes narrow, skepticism emitting from his countenance. "What plan is this?"
"Merlin here wishes to opt out of Uncle Agravaine's little prank," Prince Arthur says before stealing away Balinor's parchments and pushing the chessboard in front of him. Merlin scowls at the flippant way Prince Arthur is still treating the whole thing. "I have come to help him prove that Uncle didn't give him the sigil."
"Give me that." With a severe frown, Balinor reaches out to snatch the documents from Prince Arthur's hands. Or attempts to, anyway.
"One game," Prince Arthur says. He places the parchments firmly out of the Court Sorcerer's reach.
Balinor sighs the sigh of a man too tired to argue. He moves a chestnut pawn forward.
Merlin watches their game for a while, his new book momentarily forgotten. It doesn't take him long to realize that Balinor is utterly abysmal at chess, perhaps even worse than Merlin himself. Prince Arthur doesn't seem to mind the lack of challenge presented by his current opponent.
"Why didn't you tell the court that I wasn't Lord Agravaine's son?" Merlin addresses the question to his mentor. He already knows Prince Arthur didn't refute the claim because the royal thinks it all a harmless jest.
"You were given better care and accommodations as royalty," the Court Sorcerer answers, watching numbly as Prince Arthur captures his queen nine moves into the game. "And I can't exactly dispute Lord Agravaine's vehement claims without proof that you're not his son. It'll be my word against his, and I rather not test who the queen will believe."
From the corner of his eye, Merlin sees Prince Arthur shifting to scrutinize his response to Balinor's words. He stifles any visible response that will display his guilt.
"So, what does this plan of yours entail?" The Court Sorcerer's gaze switches between the apprentice and the prince, simultaneously curious and dubious.
"Er, I think it's better you know little about it," Merlin says. "Just in case it all goes wrong, you can deny involvement."
Prince Arthur's brows rise to his hairline, rook hovering midair. "But you're willing to involve me?"
"Well, the plan can't work very well without you, can it?" Merlin retorts. "And you've agreed to it knowing full well what we plan to do! But, um, you can still choose not to do it, of course." The warlock hurriedly adds the last statement, afraid to overstep given their conflict that morning.
Prince Arthur hums, directing his gaze to the chessboard once more. "I'm prepared to play my part. This should be entertaining at least."
Merlin shoots an offended look at the prince. This whole situation shouldn't amuse anyone, let alone the main target of Agravaine's scheme.
Balinor interjects. "I still wish to know." A concerned frown pinches his brows. In the chessboard, Prince Arthur mercilessly captures his last priestess. "I can't have you two doing something dangerous or treasonous."
Prince Arthur waves a dismissive hand. "Nothing treasonous." Then, he pauses. "Well, perhaps a little bit."
Alarm flickers through Balinor's mien.
Merlin, used to doing something treasonous to the crown of Camelot every other day, nods in agreement. "Just a little bit."
Before the Court Sorcerer can voice his protest, a knock interrupts them. A delegation of court mages and their apprentices enter the room in a small procession. From the back, Gilli, garbed in his lavender apprentice robes, gives a cheerful and enthusiastic wave. Prince Clarence, dressed in a similar manner, rolls his eyes at Gilli's antics.
Balinor stays silent but the look he bestows upon his apprentice indicates they'll be discussing it further later. Merlin hopes that discussion never comes; he has had enough scolding from his mentor to last a lifetime.
The new arrivals collectively pause upon noticing the crowned prince playing chess with the Court Sorcerer when the former should have been confined to his own quarters.
Mage Gaius is the first to compose himself. "Your Highness," he greets. Mage Edwin adds his own formal greeting, and the seven apprentices follow suit.
"Lord Gaius. Lord Edwin. Apprentices." Prince Arthur tilts his head in acknowledgment.
None of them verbally questions his presence but their expressions ask enough. Prince Arthur does not provide an answer and merely locks his opponent in a check. The Court Sorcerer examines the board before using a pawn to save his king.
After a pregnant pause, the mages turn to offer greetings to Merlin and then to the Court Sorcerer, by order of their supposed rank. Merlin stumbles to emulate Prince Arthur's exact words while the Court Sorcerer merely gives a solemn nod.
As the mages draw near, Merlin piles away his new book with the others of its kind atop the drawer.
"Prince Merlin, we are here to conduct a small lesson for our apprentices," Mage Gaius announces. "May we start?"
❤•°o.O`•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´ ◇ⓛⓞⓥⓔ◇ `•.¸¸.•´´¯`••.¸¸.•´´¯`•´O.o°•❤
A/N:
"Sometimes, we do the wrong things for the right reasons." – Mr. Ping, Kung Fu Panda (2008)
Thank you so much (again, wow!) RainandBlankets and grilledcheeseandgravityfalls for the kofis!
Go check out i-like-chicken-wings' artbreeders for Morgana, Mordred and Lily! They're all so pretty 😭 (link in my profile)
I debated whether to include the mage lessons in this chapter, but I realize I needed it to pad out the next one lol. So now, so many things are going to happen in the next chapter and I'm not too sure that's a good thing.
Next up: The mage lessons. The Plan™ implemented.
A snippet because I don't know when it'll be up lmao:
Queen Ygraine's sharp gaze snaps to her son. Soft murmurs ripple from the councilors. Tristan and Agravaine stare at their nephew, interests thoroughly piqued.
Unhidden astonishment colors Morgana's and Mordred's features, and they clearly desire to hear more of the story.
Balinor closes his eyes, lowers his head, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Have a productive and awesome week, y'all!
~ Vividpast