Chapter VI: The Would-be Knight

"Niiiice beastie," Merlin crooned, backing away slowly. "Be a nice bird-cat thing and don't eat me. You wouldn't like me anyways. Skin and bones, see?"

The creature, which appeared to be some sort of eagle-lion hybrid with attitude problems, snapped its beak in Merlin's direction. It pawed at the ground, then charged.

Merlin waited until the last second before flinging himself out of the way. "Bad beastie!" he yelled. "Bad, horrible—" His rebuke ended in a yelp as he rolled away from the creature's sharp talons.

Time slowed. Merlin climbed to his feet, darted away from the frozen creature. Time sped up again.

He could have run. He was hardly a professional monster-killer—that was what Arthur and the knights were for (when they weren't out hunting innocent sorcerers, that is). But someone had sent that afanc, and Merlin was willing to bet that two obviously supernatural creatures attacking the same city twice in a month and a half were connected. He wouldn't be surprised if Kilgharrah's mysterious sorceress was behind this one, too. The dragon hadn't found her yet, so it was very likely that she was indeed the culprit.

If this thing, whatever it was, was after him, then it was his responsibility to destroy it.

Fortunately, Merlin had been practicing.

"Forbaerne!" the warlock cried, thrusting out his hand. Flames shot from his fingertips, singeing the monster's feathers, setting its fur alight. Merlin smiled. Kilgharrah had told him that when in doubt, fire was always a good choice of weapon. The warlock had half-believed that this tip was born from a dragon's prejudice, but apparently not.

But the sorcerous flames didn't last long. The creature reared, claws flashing.

Someone yanked him out of the way.

Merlin's blood ran cold. He went rigid, sweat beading at his brows, a lump the size of an apple congealing in his throat. He forgot all about the creature, even though its talons had cut through his kerchief, even though it was screaming its fury at a deafening volume.

Someone had seen him use magic. Please oh please oh please be Gaius….

The young sorcerer finally dared to turn his head. A moan of despair escaped his throat.

The person who had grabbed him was nothing like Gaius. Muscled and tanned, with curly dark hair and stubble on the bottom of his handsome face, he had the look of a fighter. One of the guards, perhaps, or even worse—a knight. Merlin could have wept.

White-hot pain lanced through his arm, followed by a gush of sticky wetness. Merlin cried out, jerked away. He and the other man fell. The warlock scrambled away, away, not from the creature but from a fellow human being. In mere moments, he was halfway across the small clearing, his back against a tree.

The beast lunged towards the stranger.

"Scildan!"

Merlin cast the spell by instinct. A golden shield materialized between the monster and the man. The beast bounced off with a shriek of fury.

"Handy trick, that," the soldier muttered.

Blood gushed down Merlin's mangled arm. His heart was still racing from the knowledge that oh, gods and goddesses, no, this person had seen him do magic, he'd seen the magic, he knew. But he had more immediate problems than the stranger's presence. That rapid heartbeat the maybe-knight inspired meant that he would lose consciousness soon from blood loss, and then the lion-thing would probably eat them both. Already black spots danced on the edge of his vision.

"Forbaerne!"

The creature danced away.

The stranger drew a sword. Merlin backed away, clutching at his bleeding arm. He'd researched how to defeat creatures of magic, talking with Gaius and Kilgharrah and reading through his magic book and sneaking other books from the library. The sight of the stranger's blade jogged a memory from his panicking mind.

"Bregdan anweald gafeluec."

No result. The stranger stepped in front of the wounded sorcerer, crouching and ready to fight. He didn't know that his sword might not affect the creature, that it might bounce off the magical hide like a ball from the ground.

"Bregdan… anweald gafeluec!"

The last thing Merlin saw before the blackness took him was the stranger's sword bursting into flame.

Merlin did not wake up in the dungeons.

He'd expected to, assuming he'd wake up at all. Between the beast and the soldier, his continued survival hadn't seemed particularly likely. But here he was, awake and alive and rather confused.

He woke up in the forest with his neckerchief bound around his wounded arm and a bag propped under his head as a pillow. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the stranger was sitting against a tree watching him because he knew Merlin had magic, he knew, he knew, he knew—

Merlin began to hyperventilate. A soldier, a complete stranger who had seen him use magic. Not just magic, powerful magic, magic meant to kill. Never mind that it was a monster trying to kill him, that the beast would have slain them both if Merlin hadn't intervened. He had used magic and he'd been seen and he was going to die and—oh. Oh, he was going to pass out again. Stupid blood loss.

The stranger held up his hands. He looked a bit alarmed by Merlin's rapid breathing and uncontrollable trembling. "I'm not going to hurt you," he announced in the soft, soothing tone of someone trying to reassure a skittish horse. "My name's Lancelot. What's yours?"

"Nobody!" Merlin blurted. "I am absolutely nobody! I'm a nonexistent figment of your imagination, and this entire battle was just a hallucination. You saw absolutely nothing."

Lancelot looked very alarmed. "I… see."

"No you didn't."

"Right." Lancelot's alarm was not fading. If anything, it was becoming more pronounced. "Are you all right?"

"I can't be all right because I don't exist," Merlin babbled, "but if I did exist, I'd tell you that I'd just had my arm sliced open from that whatever-it-was and you know about my magic and you're going to try to kill me and everyone I love and no, no, I'm not all right." He started to scoot away. "I think I'm going to be sick."

To his surprise, Lancelot also backed away. His arms remained in the air, fingers splayed to show that his hands were empty of weapons. "If you existed, I'd point out that you just saved my life when it would have been easier to let me die. I saw you. I could betray you… but you still let me live." He smiled, warm and grateful.

"But you actually didn't do that because you don't exist, so I suppose that the monster just vanished." He paused, frowned. "You might want to take care of that, by the way. If someone finds that corpse, they'll see that it was killed by magic. Or," he corrected himself, "they'll think it was killed by magic, but it clearly wasn't because you're the only sorcerer around here and you're just a figment of my overactive, battle-addled imagination."

Merlin dared to breathe again. He no longer felt the need to vomit. "You're quite right," he noted. Still feeling exceptionally uncomfortable (did Lancelot have to stare at him like that?), he mumbled, "Forbaerne."

The creature's corpse erupted once again in fire. This time, without any distractions, Merlin kept his spell active until nothing was left of the beast but blackened bones. Merlin stretched out his hand. For a moment he let it hang there, then he pulled it into a fist.

The monster's bones disintegrated, leaving nothing but ash on the breeze.

Lancelot gave a low whistle. Merlin jumped. Acutely conscious of the gold not yet faded from his eyes, he met the soldier's gaze.

There was a long and very uncomfortable silence.

Finally Lancelot shifted, cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "Well. I suppose that, since you are clearly a hallucination created in the depths of my mind and don't really exist, you should probably vanish back into the ether now."

Merlin nodded cautiously.

"After all," Lancelot continued, "I'm going to assume that my hallucination was caused from the stress of battle. Now that the battle is over and the beast… er… mysteriously disintegrated for no apparent reason… my hallucination can just… go… do whatever it is hallucinations do."

"So you agree that I don't exist?" Merlin asked.

"You saved my life," Lancelot explained, "and at great risk to yourself."

"So I don't exist."

"Of course not," the soldier agreed.

And Merlin believed him.

The warlock's face broke into a wide, relieved grin. "Oh, thank all the gods and goddesses," he breathed. Tension drained from his shoulders, leaving him limp. "I was afraid that—that you'd think I was real and then you'd go tell Uther and—well, that would be bad. But you know that I'm not real, so I'll just be going now." He climbed to his feet and started leaving.

"If you did exist," Lancelot noted, "I'd thank you and wish you well."

Merlin froze again. "If I existed," he replied, "I'd thank you for that and for saving my nonexistent life. I would greatly appreciate everything."

"As would I." Lancelot cracked a grin. "It's almost too bad that you don't exist."

"Don't say that," Merlin cautioned. "If I existed, you'd have to kill me."

Lancelot's smile faded. "Right," he muttered. Then, "I'm leaving now."

"Good. So am I."

Merlin wanted to sprint back to Gaius like a child after a nightmare, but he forced himself to walk instead, gathering the mushrooms his mentor had requested along the way. He was acutely aware of everything around him: the birdsong, insects buzzing, the wind occasionally whispering through the pine needles, the dull agony in his arm. He'd have to bind that up the second he got back. Something stepped on a twig. Merlin jumped, spun around, but it was only a squirrel. Laughing nervously at himself, the warlock continued on.

Okay. Okay. He had a problem here. A complete stranger had seen him use magic. That was bad. That was really very bad. But, he told himself, there was good news too. Well, okay, it wasn't exactly good news as much as a not-completely-unmitigated disaster, but there was still a silver lining on this black cloud.

Lancelot hadn't shown any interest in killing him. According to the laws of Camelot, he would have been well within his rights; any citizen could kill a sorcerer and escape prosecution. It was the only legal form of vigilantism in the kingdom. If Lancelot had murdered him before he regained consciousness, no one would have protested.

Assuming that Lancelot told people in the first place. It would have been so, so easy, Merlin realized, suddenly feeling very cold, to just kill him and be done with it. The soldier wouldn't have had to report to the king, wouldn't have had to explain a dead manservant to the prince. He could have made it look like the monster had killed a man before dying under mysterious circumstances.

But Lancelot hadn't done that. Instead, he'd bandaged Merlin's injured arm, made him as comfortable as possible, and asked if he was all right. Best of all, he'd asked who Merlin was.

He didn't know. He didn't recognize the sorcerer as Arthur's oddball manservant.

So, theoretically, if Merlin kept his head down for the next few weeks, Lancelot might forget the sorcerer's face. He certainly wouldn't forget that he'd met a sorcerer—that would be too much to hope for—but maybe, just maybe, Merlin's angular features and unfortunate ears would fade from his mind. And, the warlock decided, he would start growing out some facial hair. A short beard would help disguise the sharpness of his chin, the distinctive shape of his face. His scalp hair as well, get it to cover his ears…. He could get a tan too. He'd probably look very different. Unrecognizable, perhaps, especially if Lancelot was bad with faces.

Which meant that there was no need to mention this little incident to Gaius. Gaius would tell his mother and then his mother would be furious and he really didn't want to deal with that. His mother could be very frightening when she was angry. Gaius was the same, though he'd probably express disapproval more than actual rage. He was very good at expressing disapproval. The physician's ward didn't want to deal with that either.

Merlin fully intended to go through with that plan. After binding up his arm with fresh linens, he went through his spell book looking for incantations to make his fair skin tan instead of burn, to grow out his hair more quickly. He was just preparing to cast the hair spell when Gaius called his name.

"Coming!" the warlock yelled.

By the time he was done cleaning that accursed leech tank, he was far too exhausted to do anything but collapse into bed. Then he woke up late and didn't have time to cast his spells because he had to sprint to the kitchens, grab Arthur's breakfast, and watch the prat eat the delicious, wonderful-smelling meal while his stomach whined in protest.

Then Arthur dragged him out to the training fields and started training for jousting, which, as far as Merlin could tell, was merely an excuse to charge at his poor helpless manservant with a lance. Merlin hated holding the jousting ring. Couldn't they have made a pole or something to hold it so he didn't have to? But, he reflected glumly, even if there was a pole like that, Arthur would probably still insist on torturing his servant. He was just sadistic like that.

Take now, for instance. The prat had gone and knocked Merlin off his feet. The warlock fell onto his backside. He tried to catch himself, but his left arm was still wounded and his right arm got tangled up in the ring. His head slammed against the ground.

Merlin's ears rang. His brain felt like it was going to slosh right out of his nose. He groaned theatrically.

"Get up, Merlin," Arthur ordered.

Merlin groaned again and flopped onto his belly. "Do I have to?" he whined. "You've hit the ring about fifty times this morning. Could you maybe find something else to do? Preferably something that doesn't involve me standing still while you come at me with a dangerous pointy object."

"Well, if you insist."

Arthur sounded way too cheerful. Merlin peered up, eyes narrow with suspicion. "You can help me practice swordplay," the prince proclaimed.

The warlock dropped his head.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders. "Get up, Merlin," Arthur repeated. "I know how much you adore sparring."

"…I hate you."

Arthur, curse him, laughed. He slapped the now-upright warlock on his back, grinning unrepentantly. "You did say you wanted to do something else. Preferably something that doesn't involve you standing still while I come at you with a dangerous pointy object."

"Yes," the manservant grumbled, "me flailing about while you come at me with another kind of dangerous pointy object is exactly what I had in mind."

"That's the spirit, Merlin!" Still wearing that accursed grin, he pointed towards the storage unit knights used for practice weapons. "Now go get us some practice swords."

Grumbling, Merlin obeyed.

He knew his way around the weapons shed (Arthur insisted it wasn't a shed, but Merlin knew a shed when he saw one) by now. It would be sad if he didn't, considering how often Arthur was on the practice field. Thanks to this familiarity, he found two wooden practice swords in mere moments. The warlock pushed open the door, fixed his eyes on his prince.

Arthur was engaged in a lively conversation with Lancelot.

Merlin's blood ran cold. The practice swords tumbled from his numb arms.

He was not going out there.

There was another door out of the weapons shed, one that didn't lead through the training fields. Merlin half-stumbled, half-ran through that door. Before he knew it, he was in the medical ward.

Gaius knew who had entered even without looking up from his book. "Merlin? Aren't you supposed to be on the practice field?"

The sorcerer swallowed, closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his mask was at full strength. He really, really did not want Gaius to know about Lancelot. "Technically, yes," he announced, voice light with false cheer. "Except I got tired of Arthur charging at me with pointy objects. Why can't he go beat up a knight or something?"

The physician chuckled. "I believe it's because he wants you to be capable of defending yourself."

"I'm very capable of defending myself," Merlin sniffed. His wounded arm throbbed. Liar.

"But Arthur doesn't know that. This is his way of showing you that he cares."

Merlin snorted. "No, I think it's his way of showing that he's a prat."

Gaius rolled his eyes. "Well, if you insist on avoiding those duties, you can grind herbs for me."

Merlin's arm twanged again. Good thing he was right-handed. "What do you need ground?"

"Start with the yarrow. We'll see how long that takes."

"Okay." The warlock made his way over to Gaius's herb bundles. After plucking a bundle of dried yarrow, he ambled over to the mortar and pestle. "So, are you going to tell me yet?"

"Merlin…."

"Because she's tried to kill me, and I don't think she's going to stop. If Kilgharrah had found her already, it'd be different, but he hasn't. There's no telling when she'll attack again."

"I have already told you everything you need to know about her," the physician protested.

"No you didn't. You didn't tell me her name or where to find her or anything at all, really."

"I don't want you to go seeking her out, Merlin," Gaius explained for what felt like the five hundredth time. "She is very dangerous."

"So we'll let her dictate our encounters?"

"Tell me honestly, Merlin. If I gave you her name, would you or would you not search for her?"

Merlin didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"You have incredible raw power," Gaius told him, "but very few spells, little experience, and a dangerous dearth of sense."

"Hey!"

"The sorceress who sent the afanc was raised by the High Priestesses of the Old Religion. She grew up using magic openly under the tutelage of some of the most powerful women in the world. She has had decades to perfect her skill. Decades, Merlin. You can't compete with that."

"Look," the warlock sighed, "if she weren't intent on killing me or even if Kilgharrah had found her, I'd—"

The door opened. Merlin fell silent.

Arthur and Lancelot strode into the room. The latter was holding tight to a wounded arm; the former's cheek had been cut and was still drizzling blood. Naturally, both rough-and-tough save-the-world guys were grinning from ear to ear.

Merlin did not squeak. What the hell was Lancelot doing here? He'd never even seen the man before yesterday, but now the soldier was practically stalking him. Maybe he was stalking him. Maybe he'd figured out who Merlin was and spilled the beans to Arthur and they were here to arrest him and Gaius and then they'd send soldiers after his poor mother and then they'd all die.

Or maybe he was just spectacularly unlucky and a wee bit paranoid.

Whatever the case may be, Merlin had no intention of letting Lancelot spot him. He slid out of his chair and under the table. Not the best hiding place, he knew, but it wasn't like he had any other options. Besides, he'd get to his room as soon as he could.

Except that Gaius, who had no idea why Lancelot's presence was bad news, said, "Merlin, get out from under there and fetch me some bandages."

Arthur and Lancelot turned, stared. The prince made some arch comment, but Merlin didn't hear it. He was frozen, his gaze riveted on Lancelot's face.

The soldier's eyes bulged. His jaw sagged ever so slightly. His eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

"Merlin!" Arthur barked.

The warlock jumped, banging his head against the table. "Um… yes?"

"Bandages. Now."

"Okay." Face burning, eyes still not turning from Lancelot's still-stunned face, the warlock crawled out from under the table, made his way over to Gaius's collection of wrappings. If his hands shook a little as he picked them up, nobody noticed.

"Gaius," Arthur said, "this is Lancelot. He's here to try to become a knight. Lancelot, this is Gaius, our court physician, and Merlin, my lazy sod of a manservant."

Lancelot jerked. "Your manservant?" he repeated faintly.

"I know," Arthur groaned, "and yes, he is every bit as stupid as he looks."

"Which is still considerably smarter than you," Merlin shot back.

Lancelot choked.

"Enough, Merlin," Gaius scolded. "I still don't have those bandages."

"Right. Sorry." He hastened over to his guardian, handed over the linens. "Here."

Gaius accepted them with a nod of gratitude. "We need more water, Merlin. These wounds need to be cleaned."

Merlin gave a mock salute and made his escape.

The warlock took a long while to fetch water, so lost was he in his thoughts. Lancelot… it didn't look like the man would betray him, and Merlin knew full well that his terror was irrational. But then, since when had fear been subject to reason? His mother had taught him fear as soon as he could comprehend what terror was. It was written in his bones, in his blood: don't let them know, don't let anybody know. Keep the magic secret. He had lived by that dictate literally his entire life, and like a claustrophobe who knew, logically, that small spaces couldn't hurt him, he couldn't shake his irrational, visceral fear.

Of course, the warlock admitted to himself as he trudged through the halls of Camelot, his fear was a bit more logical than claustrophobia. He'd seen sorcerers die, heard people cursing his kind for years. He had grown up listening to stories about friends betraying friends when they learned that their companion had magic. Not to mention that one time in Carmarthen….

But, he reminded himself, heart fluttering with hope, Will had accepted him, Will and Gaius and Hunith. Perhaps, if he was very lucky, Lancelot would be like Will. It would be… nice, he decided, to have someone like Will around.

With that thought buoying him, the warlock picked up his pace.

Arthur grumbled something about lazy servants and how long does it take to get water, anyways? but Merlin paid no attention to him except to note that he was not accusing his dogsbody of sorcery. He glanced at Lancelot. The knight-in-training shook his head almost imperceptibly. Merlin smiled, inclined his own head in thanks.

"So," he began, "you're here to become a knight?"

"Yes," Lancelot replied. "I've wanted to be a knight my entire life and trained for it since I could hold a sword. Now I've reached my majority and can finally, finally fulfill that dream."

"Assuming my father lets you," Arthur grumbled.

"What?"

"It's not a slight on your skills," the prince hastily explained. "You're quite good with the sword. Not every man can wound me. You've clearly worked hard at your training." He gave Merlin a significant look, which the servant ignored. "The problem is with the First Code of Camelot, which says that only noblemen may become knights."

"Oh," said Lancelot softly.

"I think," Arthur continued, "it's because most commoners don't have the time or means to practice swordplay and he doesn't want them practicing constantly instead of tilling the fields. But since you already have the skills and don't have any land to cultivate, I'm certain he'll make an exception."

"Want to bet?" Merlin muttered.

"I think I will, Merlin," Arthur decided. "After all, it's not like he's my father whom I've known my entire life."

Merlin hadn't expected Arthur to take him up on the bet, but now that he had, he certainly wasn't going to let the opportunity go to waste. "If I win, you'll stop trying to kill me for a fortnight."

"What?" Lancelot yelped.

"Merlin, Merlin," Arthur chuckled, "if I were trying to kill you, you'd be dead."

"Then why do you keep charging at me with deadly pointy things?"

"Because I'm refining my skills as a knight, that's why." He smirked. "When I win, you're to stop complaining about your chores for a fortnight."

"I don't think he could survive that," Gaius chuckled.

"Deal," Merlin said, sticking out his hand. His prince clasped it. They shook, each certain that he had the better end of the bargain.

Lancelot raised his eyebrows at them. "I'm not sure if I appreciate my life's work getting turned into gambling fodder."

Merlin flushed. "Oh. Didn't think of that. Sorry."

Lancelot smiled. "It's fine. I just hope you understand that I hope you lose."

"He will," Arthur assured him. "Almost done, Gaius?"

"No. I am done."

"Excellent." The prince rose to his feet. "Come on then, Lancelot, Merlin. This is his lunch hour. We can ask for an exception now. It won't take more than ten minutes."

And he was right. Ten minutes later, Merlin had won their bet, and Lancelot's dreams were no more.

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein a New Character is Introduced and Learns that Merlin Does, In Fact, Exist, Despite His Repeated Claims to the Contrary"

And so the griffin is taken care of and a new character arrives. Hi, Lance! *waves*

There was a reference to one of the more well-known Arthurian myths here. Can anybody spot it?

Since I don't have a lot of notes on the chapter itself, I'd like to explain a bit about the cover art. You'll see later why Merlin's crystal is gold instead of blue, so don't ask. The Pendragon crest, normally gold on red, is green on black to represent new life appearing in a place of death. The title ties into that theme as well. A quickening is the first motion of a baby in the womb, the first stirrings of something as yet unborn.

Next update: August 28. Wherein we get Lancelot's POV and his decision. See you then!

-Antares