A/N: This took a ridiculous amount of time to write, considering how little is in it. It's longer than the last one, though, which is something. Tell me what you think at the end, please!

By the way, do you know how weird it is to like Merlin fanfiction and Harry Potter fanfiction at the same time? I find myself having Arthur say, "Merlin's beard, you're a sorcerer!" or Merlin cursing with "Holy Merlin!". Can we say 'confusing'?

Something I forgot last chapter:

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Merlin. Surprise, surprise.

The sorcerer's next appearance came a few days later. Arthur and his knights were once again training, this time with throwing knives, but the focus was more on banter than improving skill.

"Hey, Leon!" Arthur called. "A gold coin says you can't make the bulls-eye from here!"

The older knight grinned and stepped up to take the offered dagger. A single flick of his wrist sent it flying, and it came to a thud, dead center, in the wood circle across the field.

A grinning Leon turned back to the prince. "Two coins say you can't make it from fifty feet!"

The bets continued to grow in value, knights roaring uproariously whenever someone would miss the target. Arthur was twenty coins richer than he already was when a new bet was called.

"I bet thirty coins that you can't hit a moving target, sire!"

Arthur looked around, raising his eyebrows at the man who offered the challenge. "Just where are we going to get a moving target?" he drawled lazily. "Shall we draw a bullseye on some poultry, perhaps?"

The man—Sir Horth—grinned. "I'm sure a servant can carry a target fast enough for our needs." When Arthur frowned, he cocked his head cheekily. "Afraid you can't do it? Sire?" The title was tacked on to the end, almost like an insult, and the prince felt his blood quicken in irritation. Without another word, he strode to the side, where the usual gathering of commoners was watching.

"You!" The boy indicated jumped at being singled out, and paled dramatically when told what was expected of him. Reluctantly, he took the target and began to shuffle sideways.

"Faster!" Horth called, and Arthur felt his dislike of the man shoot up a notch. Silently, he turned back to the boy—running jerkily now—and drew back his arm, knife in hand.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?"

The voice came abruptly from the sidelines, and everyone stopped their activities and turned, as one, towards the source. Arthur gave a mental, but no less heartfelt, groan when he saw the culprit.

The young sorcerer stepped into the field with a scowl on his face and his hands on his hips. "Would you like to explain what that was? Because it looked like you were about to throw a dagger at that boy! I suppose you can give me an explanation?"

Shock, Arthur reflected, was undoubtedly the only reason no one spoke up.

"I get that you're ridiculously arrogant, puffed up with pride, confident in your skill… I'll even concede that if you threw that knife, you probably wouldn't have hurt anyone." The boy had a pained look on his face, like he found even this small admittance distasteful.

"But," he continued with a glare, "you don't have the right to gamble someone else's life on your abilities. What if a bird dive-bombed you when you were throwing and messed up your aim? What if someone shouted at you and made you lose concentration? What if you missed?"

Arthur glanced at his companions uncomfortably. Now that he thought of it… but this was a sorcerer, dang it! Of course he was lying!

Said sorcerer got a glint in his eye.

"You know what," he said with sarcasm dripping from every word, "maybe I'm being unfair. You're knights of Camelot! It's vital to the safety of the kingdom that you can hit a moving target. Maybe I should make up for ruining your practice."

There was a lot of uncertain mumblings at that declaration. Arthur frowned. What could this mean? More importantly, why hadn't someone apprehended the magician by now?

"I know just how to apologize," the boy said with an unseemly smirk. "You can throw your fancy little knives at me instead! In fact, I'll make the deal sweeter—anyone who hits me can take me to the dungeons as they please!"

Several knights perked up at this. Uther had been highly disappointed when no trace of the sorcerer could be found after the interrupted execution. Further rage had been incurred when the chopping block had been found in the library, innocently holding a vase of flowers and refusing to budge. If the culprit could be apprehended, perhaps some faith could be restored in the knights.

The ringing silence left by the announcement was broken when Sir Horth scowled and flung a knife at the boy. It was essentially ineffective, for the raven-haired young man just flashed his eyes gold and the blade stopped mid-rotation before falling to the earth.

"You have to wait until I start moving," the sorcerer scolded before beginning to skip in a circle around the knights.

If an outsider happened upon the scene, they would have found it quite comical: a lanky, large-eared teenager skipping around a group of tall, brawny knights, all cursing furiously and throwing daggers at him only to be thwarted by magic.

It was almost an hour before the boy seemed to tire of his game. With a wave of his hand, all of the blades vanished, reappearing on the weapons racks on the sidelines. It was an almost regretful look that slid onto his face as he stopped skipping, but the knights were all too happy to have an excuse to stop.

A slight smile could be made out as the mysterious young man gave his parting words.

"You all look tired, don't you? I hope the practice was worth it." No one missed the double meaning there.

"Oh, and for the record…"

Arthur held his breath. Surely there couldn't be more?

"My name's Emrys."

Then, he disappeared.

A/N: My minions, while bringing forth this chapter, I sensed a beast of unspeakable horror approaching: a PLOT! Yes, this story may evolve to be more than crack! Be faithful little minions and review to give me your thoughts on this unforseen development.