A/N: Thank you to my lovely reviewers! Your support was what got this chapter written, even though I should be studying for finals and all.
I most certainly do not own Merlin.
Chapter 2
Merlin woke with a start as the door banged open, and threw himself out of the bed wildly (Sigan, doors don't stop magical assassins! You need… Too powerful by far, Cornelius. Watch your back.). He whirled around, the syllables for a shield already on his lips, only to be confronted by an unarmed, flummoxed knight carrying a burlap sack. Sheepishly, deducing from the knight's gaping mouth that this quick response was very uncharacteristic of "Merlin", Merlin gingerly sat down on the bed and nervously laughed.
After a beat of uncomfortable silence, the blond knight cleared his throat. "Well, I must commend you on your prompt reactions, Merlin," he drawled, convincingly nonchalant, but Merlin noted the slight awkward undertone. He wondered, briefly, how he knew this particular knight so well that his subtle inflections were imprinted onto Merlin's subconscious.
"If only you could be this… punctual for everything," the knight continued derisively, hefting the burlap bag in his hand. "Since, you see, you haven't been attending your duties lately," the man upended the bag over the bed and a pile of armor rained down next to Merlin with a clamor of metal. "My armor's become dull; polish it for me."
Although Merlin faintly felt that this state of affairs was normal, a dark and vicious anger twisted in his gut. He was no man's servant! Although they had debased him, torn him down to his very soul, he was power incarnate. How could he not be, when magic hummed through his veins?
"I'm not your manservant!" The denial burst out of him, fueled by fleeting memories of scorn and distain and mortal men sneering at him, like their nobility, inherited, was better than his, carved painstakingly from bedrock.
The knight visibly flinched backwards, as if physically struck. Panic flooded Merlin's mind, washing the fragments of memory back into oblivion. That was idiotic, Merlin thought fearfully, a part of him already cataloguing the exits. Obviously that outburst was uncharacteristic; the man would suspect, question, interrogate….
"Well," the knight said, regaining his composure. "You are my manservant again, actually, since I've declared it so while you were lazing about in bed. Your only competition was, well, unsatisfactory in many aspects." His eyes brightened and his mouth quirked upward, subtly inviting Merlin to share in the joke.
The brief relief that Merlin felt at the easy acceptance of his outburst was quickly drowned by another wave of hot rage. How dare this brat assert such casual superiority over him? Magic rose in his throat, hot and churning with anger. However, another thread of emotion ran under the blind rage, permeating it with calm peace amusement because this was normal and familiar, the comfortable heckling of a friend. Gradually, the magic subsided and Merlin swallowed thickly, fighting down another surge of irritation at the sight of the man's disgustingly bemused expression. The knight should be pleading with Merlin for mercy for his insolence…
"Who do you think you are?" The cold, biting question left Merlin's lips before he could catch it and he internally winced as the knight's expression closed off and turned thunderous.
"Who I am?" the blond's voice was frigid, but a layer of hurt and confusion surged under the icy distain. "I'm the prince of Camelot, Merlin. I allow you liberties, but you forget your place." He raised one hand, trembling with rage, and Merlin flinched away from him instinctually, remembering both casual slaps and the purposeful pummeling of armored hands. At Merlin's recoil, the prince froze, a measure of the cold anger draining from his bearing, leaving only an aching confusion. He lowered his hand slowly, and swallowed thickly, a flash of some unnamable emotion flitting briefly across his features. He stared searchingly at Merlin for a moment more and then abruptly spun on his heel.
"Just polish my armor, Merlin," he threw out over his shoulder, opening the door and hurriedly exiting the workroom.
Merlin blinked, stunned by the quick succession of events. He was only barely beginning to recover from the fear that had gripped his heart when the prince (Do you know who I am?... Bow to your prince, Sigan), the prince of Camelot, had taken offense at his outburst, and suddenly he was alone again, without any punishment besides a perfunctory command to polish armor.
That was a simple enough task to complete. Merlin rose to his feet and pivoted towards the bed, his hand already outstretched and the harsh syllables of the language of the Old Religion falling from his lips. His eyes flashed gold black and then he was falling….
He watched as his wife's corpse was consumed in the pyre and he could hear one of the lords' sniveling servants behind him. "They say it's foul play," the man whispered in a grating, nasal voice. "A warning to Lord Sigan, to watch his steps around the king." He gritted his teeth and the magic churned…
He was dancing with Will through the trees. "Watch, Will," he cried, and spread his arms wide, golden butterflies forming on his fingertips. With one firm flap of his arms, the butterflies burst into motion, creating a funnel of delicate, metallic bodies as he laughed with joy, eyes burning as gold as his creations…
He gasped for air, vaguely noting that he was curled on the floor, the armor glinting tantalizing on the bed above him…
He stared at his mother in horror, because she must know that Camelot is where the sorcerers burn, and he could no more give up his magic than he could stop breathing. The chairs rattled ominously, and as the table quivered, he faintly thought that this proved his point exactly…
He shook his head, bracing one arm on the stone and heaving his throbbing body towards the bed. He must have crumpled to the floor…
The magic poured out of his hands, but his mother's panicked screams were tapering off and he hadn't even cleared the wreckage yet. The fire leapt higher and a scream of frustration, pain, rage, fear, tore itself out of his throat as his house burned. But this was nothing compared to when he later found her charred body in the ashes of their possessions…
His breath came in shuddering gasps, and with an effort, he stumbled to his feet, unsteady and befuddled. The room swam in his vision and a consuming need to run escape breathe gripped him. It felt too hot confining within the stone walls. He staggered to the door and out into the corridors, unaware of his surroundings and the curious faces of the people who passed him. The world cracked and shattered around him, memories fusing with perceptions and blurring together into a stream of incomprehensible images.
Eventually, he stumbled out into the sunshine. The battlements of the castle were tinged with orange from the afternoon sun, but he could see that the market was still bustling with people. Instinctually, he turned from the milling people and wandered towards the forest. As he came to the edge of the trees, he could feel the constant panic of the last few days slide off of his shoulders. Under the shadows of overhanging branches, it didn't particularly matter who he was, as there was no one here that he had to fool.
He didn't know how long he meandered through the forest, simply allowing his thoughts to settle and his vision to stop spinning. As the sky faded to a deep red, he sunk down under an enormous oak in the center of a clearing to rest his feet and reflect on his situation.
Obviously, he decided, this state of affairs could not continue. There was a fundamental issue with his mind and his magic, and it wasn't improving. He could not interact instinctually with others, as it seemed that he often had several widely varying impulses simultaneously, and the use of his magic only compounded the problem. Ideally, he would search through a library for information relating to this strange affliction, but he would have to interact with people to gain access to it. He simply would have to muddle through, he supposed, and attempt to repair his mind on his own.
He settled against the tree and closed his eyes, hoping that he wasn't attacked or discovered while he was examining his mind. Going back to the castle was out of the question, as he would inevitably be interrupted and questioned about his continuing abnormal behavior.
With a steadying breath, he called up his memories and plunged into the swirling tempest of his mind, praying that this half-cocked plan would actually succeed.