Chapter XXVIII: A Duel to the Death

As Merlin stood in the tent, nervously fidgeting within his illusory armor, he reflected that this idea had seemed a lot better when he wasn't in imminent danger of dying. In fact, it seemed that the closer his imminent death, the worse of an idea it seemed. Funny how that worked.

So the warlock tried to convince himself that he could do this. Hadn't he been training with Arthur and Leon all winter? Couldn't he slow time? Didn't he have a magic sword? All that he really had to do was not die before he landed a blow (or after, he supposed, but he was really just taking this one step at a time), and he was good at not dying. He'd done it for almost twenty years!

Merlin groaned. This encouraging himself thing really wasn't working out too well.

The warlock shifted his weight from foot to foot. He stared at the floor, then started when he noticed that the bangs hanging over his eyes were blond. He grimaced. Of course his bangs were blond now. What else could he expect when he had disguised himself as Arthur?

When Gaius had told him that Arthur was drugged, Merlin's initial impulse had been to find a spell to counter his friend's sleep. Gaius had put a stop to it, though, pointing out that such spells were hard to find and often came with side effects. It wouldn't do to wake Arthur only to have him collapse with exhaustion in the middle of the fight. So Merlin had thought for a couple minutes before using an illusion spell to make himself look like Arthur.

It was weird, impersonating someone he knew. He had gotten used to his Emrys disguise over the winter, but he had created 'Emrys' from scratch. His alibi had his own mannerisms and backstory, not to mention a few personality differences (though, Merlin supposed, it was really just revealing parts of himself that he had to keep hidden as Merlin the manservant) that would hopefully throw anyone who knew him as Merlin off the scent. Pretending to be Arthur was a lot more difficult. He was just glad that 'Arthur' had managed to avoid conversations so far, and now he was safely in his tent. All he had to do was wait here until it was time to fight, and nobody could possibly notice that he wasn't actually Arthur.

Then Uther came in.

Merlin went rigid. Despite the fact that 'Arthur' was clad in armor from head to toe with only his visor open, he felt naked under the king's penetrating gaze. He thought of Edwin Muirden tied to the stake. His heart gave a nervous little stutter before he could banish the sight and smell (oh, gods, the smell) from his mind, but it was too late. His throat was completely dry, and he had to clench his fists to keep his hands from trembling.

"Arthur," the king said softly.

That's right, Merlin told himself. He thinks you're Arthur. He has no reason to not think that you're Arthur. Even though you're nervous, that's acceptable Arthur behavior because despite his arrogance, he knows he might die today. Just calm down and remember to disguise your voice when you have to say anything to him. Oh. Oh, I should probably say something to him.

The warlock swallowed once, forced a sickly smile. "I'm sorry?" he said. "I didn't hear you."

"I said," Uther repeated, slowly and clearly, "that I will take your place."

Now that Merlin was marginally calmer, he noticed that the king was garbed for battle: old iron armor, scarred but strong, with a thick wooden shield on his arm and a long, plain-handled sword at his hip.

"But you can't," Merlin blurted.

"I am your father and your king. You will obey me in this!"

This was not good at all. Merlin hadn't expected Uther to confront 'Arthur' in the tents, hadn't expected him to interfere anymore now that his first scheme had been thwarted. He really should have. The real Arthur did not inherit his stubbornness from Ygraine, after all.

"But," Merlin babbled, his thoughts scrambling as he searched for something that Arthur would say, "but, the Code—"

"Hang the Code!" Uther bellowed. "You are my heir. You are my son, and I love you more than anything else in the world."

…aaaand this was beginning to get awkward.

Then Uther hugged him, and Merlin nearly dropped his disguise in shock.

Fortunately, Arthur was emotionally stunted enough that Merlin's open-mouthed gawking and incoherent spluttering was completely in character. The warlock stood there rigid in the king's arms, frozen and horrified and embarrassed all at once, praying that Uther would let him go but too stunned to realize that he could probably escape on his own. The only part of his mind still capable of rational thought reflected that he was really not paid enough for this.

Finally, thankfully, the trumpets sounded. Merlin could have wept with relief. "That's my cue!" he babbled, disentangling himself from Uther's embrace. If his voice was higher in pitch than Arthur's was supposed to be, he didn't notice as he carried on. "That's my cue, all right. So now I have to go and… um… do knightly princely stuff. Bye!"

And with that, he sprinted from the tent.

The fight wouldn't begin for a few more minutes—it would seem the trumpets were a false alarm—but there was no way Merlin was going back into that tent. What if Uther hugged him again? He didn't think he could handle that. Dragons were fine and dandy, prophecies were annoyingly cryptic but not too much of a burden, but hugs from Uther? Hugs from Uther? Just… no.

So Merlin stayed in the public eye, praying to every god he could name that Uther wouldn't display his affection so publically. One of those gods was in a good mood that day, so there were no more hugs. However, Uther still came out all armed and armored to argue with his 'son' about which of them should fight. But Merlin could be stubborn too, and short of physically dragging 'Arthur' off the field, there was nothing that Uther could do. With a face so morose that Merlin actually felt sorry for him, Uther retreated to his place in the stands… but not before telling 'Arthur' how proud he was.

Needless to say, Merlin was extremely relieved when the king left.

Uther's concern had been extremely disturbing, but it had one good side effect: Merlin had been so occupied with not panicking over the king's behavior that he'd forgotten to fear his real opponent. Now, though, he had nothing to distract him from the professionally trained, heavily armored, potentially indestructible wraith that was going to try to kill him.

Swallowing hard, the warlock studied his opponent, trying to see him as Sir Leon would. That heavy armor would make him slow, and it was old and dented and a bit rusty too. Tristan's sword was long and wicked sharp, but there were nicks in the blade and he very much doubted that it had been burnished in a dragon's breath.

"It only takes one well-aimed blow to kill a man," Arthur had said.

That was all he needed. According to Kilgharrah, the sword's magic would take care of the rest. All he had to do was land one blow on the knight's flesh, and one more threat would be gone from Camelot.

Merlin's hands tightened on Excalibur's hilt. Beneath the illusion of gauntlets, his knuckles were white with strain. Yet, somehow, he felt a little bit better.

Tristan didn't know how Merlin fought. Perhaps he knew Arthur's style, which would confuse him when Merlin did things completely differently. And Merlin had seen how Tristan fought: ruthlessly, powerfully, and completely without fear.

Uther was talking now, giving a little speech about honor and knights and that sort of thing. Merlin didn't pay attention until he heard, "…begin!"

Tristan du Bois wasted no time. With a horrible snick, he drew his blade from the scabbard. Merlin did the same and tried to ignore how his hands were shaking.

Arthur would have done a couple flourishes, loosening up his wrists while giving the crowd a show. Merlin, though, kept Excalibur still. He bent his knees, shifted into the combat-ready position that Leon and Arthur had drilled into him over the past few months.

The knight charged.

Merlin whirled aside, letting his enemy's momentum past. The warlock completed his circle, lunged forward, but Tristan had already spun himself about. His nameless blade met Excalibur with a loud clang. Merlin bent his knees, letting them absorb some of the force of the blow. He changed the bend into a bounce, throwing his weight into the blow, hoping that his pushing would knock away the other fighter's sword.

Tristan knew exactly what his adversary was up to. He let his arms go slack. Merlin fell forward, face impacting the knight's breastplate.

The wraith raised his sword.

Somehow, Merlin managed to stumble aside. He stepped on the knight's foot as he did so, and Tristan jerked it off the ground. That gave Merlin an idea. As soon as he regained his balance, he slashed at Tristan's face. The knight automatically raised his sword to deflect the blow, years of training overpowering the knowledge that he couldn't be killed. As steel met steel, Merlin hooked his opponent's ankle with his foot, then jerked his leg back.

Tristan du Bois stumbled.

Excalibur sliced through Tristan's armor like a dinner knife would cut through butter. Merlin had aimed for a weak spot, the place where neck and shoulder meet, and either the sword's magic let it cut through steel or the warlock was a lot stronger than he thought, because in mere moments the blade was cutting into flesh.

The wraith burst into flames. They poured through his visor, blazed at the break, turned the rest of the armor cherry-red from the heat. Tristan screamed, a high thin terrible sound. Smoke wafted up from beneath his helm.

Then it was over. Tristan collapsed, his body crumbling to ash within his red armor, his shrieking silenced.

Merlin stared at the steaming corpse in stunned silence. Kilgharrah hadn't warned him that the sword's magic would be so… flashy. Swallowing hard in sudden fear, he pulled Excalibur from the body. It was completely clean, no blood or ash marring the blade, and the steel was cool to Merlin's touch.

Hopefully, that fire show wasn't visible from the stands. He really didn't want to explain why one nick from a totally-not-magical-at-all sword wielded by a totally-not-magical-and-not-an-imposter prince had made his opponent burst into flames.

The audience started cheering then. Like Merlin, they had initially been frozen in shock and disbelief, but now they were cheering, shouting, exulting. "ARTHUR! ARTHUR!" they cried, and "PENDRAGON!" and "PRINCE!" A thousand hands or more were clapping, some fast and some slow, all thrilled.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of Merlin's mouth. He'd never really understood Arthur's love of tourneys, but now he did. It was exhilarating, hearing the crowds cheering for something you'd done, even if they had gotten the name wrong. Grinning widely, he lifted his sword as though to salute. He turned slowly, giving each section time to see his borrowed face, taking time to see everybody cheering him on. But even as he turned, some of the people were falling silent, their joy giving way to confusion.

A hand grabbed Merlin's shoulder, whirled him around.

Prince Arthur Pendragon glowered at him through narrowed eyes. "Who the hell are you?"

Arthur came to awareness slowly, his mind drifting through that drowsy half-state between slumber and awareness. He could vaguely feel that he was warm and comfortable in his featherbed, that his limbs were leaden and motionless. It was a good leadenness, though, and he didn't want to leave it.

Yet despite his desire to continue drifting, Arthur found himself becoming more and more alert. He could feel the blankets above him and the sheets and pillow below, and his limbs didn't feel quite so heavy. And he was thirsty. Hungry, too, and there was a vague whispering doubt in the corner of his mind.

Finally, his body's demands were too much. Blinking blearily despite the dimness of the room (the curtains were closed and no candles were lit, but there was light streaming through the fabric illuminating motes of dust), Arthur forced himself out of his nice warm bed and stumbled over to the bedside table, which had a jug on it. The water within was lukewarm, but drinking it helped clear his head.

There was something important, Arthur knew, something he had forgotten. His room seemed peaceful enough, but if he strained his ears, he could make out a great clamor from somewhere on the grounds. Frowning, the prince forced his sleepy mind to remember what had happened. Let's see: dinner with Father and Morgana, deciding to turn in early, Gaius with his sleeping draught….

The knight.

Suddenly Arthur wasn't sleepy anymore.

He had to fight to the death today. He'd picked up the gauntlet, but now he'd overslept and—what time was it? It couldn't possibly be noon. Merlin would have—

Actually, he would not put it past his idiot manservant to deliberately not wake him up. "For your protection," the dolt would say, or some other such tripe. Maybe "You looked really sleepy" or "You need all your strength to fight today."

Arthur made a mental note to throw Merlin into the stocks before running towards the window.

His view of the tourney ring was not spectacular, but even he could see that it was packed to its fullest capacity. That was the source of the noise he'd briefly noticed earlier: the shouting, cheering crowd. They were acting like someone was in the ring, like someone was putting on a show and maybe dying because Arthur had overslept and another had taken his place.

Horrified, praying desperately that it wasn't true, Arthur looked to the sun. It was high in the sky, casting miniscule shadows towards the east. Slightly after noon, then. Maybe it wasn't too late.

Cursing, Arthur grabbed his sword-belt and sprinted out of his room. He didn't take time to change from yesterday's rumpled garments. He didn't have time to change. He might not even have enough time to put on his armor.

Once he exited the castle, Arthur forced himself to slow to a walk. He could hardly fight the mystery knight if he showed up red-faced and out of breath. If he survived the next few minutes, he was going to kill Gaius for giving him such a potent sleeping draught.

Wait.

Gaius had been court physician since before Arthur's birth. Moreover, he had been providing Morgana with sleeping draughts for the better part of a decade. He knew exactly what he was doing, which meant that he'd overdosed Arthur on purpose. Which meant that the king had commanded him. Which might mean that….

"No," Arthur heard himself whisper. No, he wouldn't. It was some random knight in the ring, he told himself, and winced away from the hope that someone else's father might die today. It was a shameful thought indeed, but there was a part of him that wanted it to be anyone but Uther. Oh, his royal father was skilled at arms, but he was getting on in years and didn't practice like the knights did. He was strong, yes, but was he strong enough? Arthur feared that the answer was no.

If his father was in the ring with that thing….

But it wasn't his father in the ring.

Arthur slowed to a stop, gawking in stunned disbelief at the person who stood over the stranger knight's armor, turning slowly to take in the crowd. Who the hell…?

The prince knew full well that he had no siblings, and he certainly didn't have an identical twin brother who was apparently good enough with the sword to take out the mystery knight. He didn't have any cousins either, and it certainly wasn't him out there wearing Arthur's armor Arthur's face with Arthur's enemy dead at his feet.

Well, at least it wasn't his father out there.

Confused and maybe a little bit panicky, Arthur stomped out into the ring. The peasants who noticed his approach fell silent, their cheers petering off into a confusion much like Arthur's own. The quiet spread as more and more people noticed him, shouts turning to whispers as people asked their neighbors what was going on. The false Arthur didn't notice, though, too occupied with his role.

He only noticed when the real Arthur grabbed him, yanked him around, and snapped, "Who the hell are you?"

If the man hadn't been wearing Arthur's face, the prince might have been amused by his expression of guilt. As it was, seeing his own blue eyes go wide and his own jaw sag was downright disturbing.

"Um," not-Arthur said, "I'm the prince of Camelot?"

"No you're not!" Arthur yelled (and despite what Morgana would say later, it was a yell, not a shriek. Shrieks were for girls and Merlin).

"SORCERER!" bellowed a familiar voice. Arthur and not-Arthur simultaneously turned to the royal box, where Uther had risen to his feet. The king's face was red with rage.

Not-Arthur groaned. "And here I was hoping to escape unnoticed," he muttered. "Should have known better." Whatever magic had changed his appearance dissolved, revealing him to be an ordinary-looking young man a couple years younger than Arthur. After quickly sheathing his sword, the spellbinder snorted. "Warlock, actually," he called back.

"GUARDS!" Uther roared. "ARREST HIM!"

The sorcerer—warlock—rolled his eyes. They were bright yellow, Arthur noticed, even though he didn't seem to be doing any magic at the moment. Was that because he was a warlock, or was he casting a spell that Arthur couldn't see?

Uther wasn't the only one shouting, though his voice somehow carried above the rest. A few people in the crowd were screaming, others were shouting whatever came into their heads, and quite a few of them were jostling and trying to escape. It was pandemonium.

By now, a few guards had managed to elbow their way into the arena. Their swords remained sheathed, but that would change in just a few steps. Some were already gripping their sword-hilts in their mailed hands.

The guards reminded Arthur that he, too, had a sword. Quick as a wink, he unsheathed it, dropped himself into a combat-ready position.

His reinforcements were just a few feet away from the spellbinder when they collided with a shimmering golden shield. The force of impact revealed the barrier's shape, a simple dome of golden light less than two feet above Arthur's head.

"Who are you?" the prince demanded again.

This time, the warlock actually smiled. "My name is Emrys," he said, "and I'm your guiding light."

And then he was gone, vanishing without an incantation or the whirlwind that usually accompanied magical transportation. He was simply there one moment and gone the next, leaving no trace of himself behind…

…except for a very familiar globe of light.

Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Uther Hugs a Warlock (Much to Said Warlock's Horror) Instead of Killing Him."

If you look back to last chapter, you'll note that Merlin is technically not breaking his oath. I made sure to word it very specifically. According to the letter of the oath, "No one but Arthur and myself will use Excalibur and Beóthaich." Loopholes! And hey, better Merlin than Uther.

Next update: The fallout from Merlin's latest stunt and, perhaps, the appearance of an old friend. It will HOPEFULLY be up on August 20. However, I'm moving and starting grad school, so it might be a bit late. I'll try, though.

-Antares