Author's note: My story yesterday made me crave some very fluffy and clichéd "Uncle Merlin" fic, so here it is: self-indulgence to the max! 💖 And yes, I saw the comments about a sequel/companion piece to the epistolary, but I don't think I will add to it, sorry! I truly appreciate your enthusiasm, though! 💖


Door 17: Magic

Merlin knew, as soon as he entered his chambers, that someone else was there.

His magic had sensed the intruder. He was hiding in the sideroom of the tower, somewhere near Merlin's overflowing desk.

As carefully as possible, Merlin closed the door behind him, then moved forward on quiet feet, crossing the main chambers and sneaking into the workroom.

The intruder, he sensed, was hiding under the desk. He was doing a poor job of keeping himself disguised. Merlin could hear him snivelling.

Slowly, Merlin snuck forward, until he was but two steps away from the table.

"I know you're there," he said.

The snivelling stopped, followed by a moment of heavy silence.

Merlin waited patiently.

At last, there was a shuffling sound, the rustling of clothes, and then a head of dark, tightly-curled hair popped up from under the desk, red-rimmed eyes blinking at Merlin from behind a haphazardly stacked mountain of scrolls. "How did you know I was here? I was being really quiet."

Merlin smiled. "I have my ways, Your Highness."

Amhar screwed up his flushed nose. "Don't call me that," he muttered and stepped around the desk.

The Prince was tall for his age, though the recurring growth spurts had left him lean. Gangly, almost, now that he was perhaps but a year away from entering adolescence. He had inherited Gwen's colouring and looked exactly like Elyan when he smiled, but like this, with his mouth twisted and his arms crossed before his chest, he was Arthur, through and through.

Of course, Arthur wouldn't have been caught dead crying in Merlin's chambers. He would have been mortified.

"Would you like something to drink?" Merlin offered, gesturing at the archway to the main chamber. "There's spiced wine."

Amhar rubbed his eyes. "Ugh," he said. "I don't like wine." He could sound as petulant as Arthur on his worst days, but Merlin knew for a fact that it was for show more often than not.

"This one, you will like," Merlin assured him. "It's very light and sweet. It's little more than grape juice with cloves and cinnamon."

Amhar sniffed. "Fine," he said and wiped his nose on his gold-embroidered sleeve. Gwen would have scolded him for it had she seen, but Merlin knew better than to pick at Amhar when he was already upset, especially over something so inconsequential.

Arthur bristled and lashed out when you prodded at him in a moment of weakness. Amhar retreated, curled up like a frightened hedgehog and refused to speak.

That was the opposite of what Merlin wanted. Amhar had come to him upset. Clearly, he needed to talk.

They settled down at the small dining table by the frost-edged window, with Merlin pouring Amhar half a cup of the spiced wine, easily warmed up with a spark of magic. Amhar thanked him, raised to be polite to everyone, be they nobility, peasantry or someone stuck in between, like Merlin.

As Merlin served himself, Amhar raised the chalice to his mouth, blowing at the steam before taking a sip, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he put it down again. "You're right," he said. "This is good."

Merlin smiled back at him, then took a sip of his own wine, both of them falling quiet.

Merlin knew better than to ask Amhar outright what was wrong. Nothing, he would say and never speak of it again. In his own time, however, he would reveal what exactly it was that was bothering him. He always did, if you gave him a moment.

It took a long moment, today. By the time Amhar spoke up again, Merlin had almost finished his wine.

"Uncle Merlin," said Amhar, very quietly. "When did you know you had magic?"

Merlin stilled with his chalice half-way to his mouth. He had not expected this topic.

"Well," he replied, with some delay, and slowly put down his cup. "I've always known, actually. I was born with it."

Amhar nodded slowly. He wasn't looking at Merlin, but fiddling with his empty cup. "Are all sorcerers born with it?"

"They are born with the potential for magic," Merlin explained. "Most don't know of their abilities for years and years, unless they seek to try a spell, or their powers are drawn out at random in a dire situation."

Again, Amhar nodded. "But not everyone has magic," he concluded.

"No, not everyone," Merlin confirmed. "And many who do have so little of it, they can barely lift a feather from the ground. It's rare to have enough of it to cast a spell, and even rarer to be powerful enough to use it, say, to transform something, to heal someone like Sir Mordred does, or to fight."

Amhar's eyes flickered upwards. "Fight," he said. "Like you do? For Father?"

"And Camelot," Merlin agreed.

Amhar looked away again, thumbing at the rim of his chalice. He was chewing on his lower lip, clearly ruminating over what he had learned, and Merlin let him, giving him some privacy by looking out of the window.

The view from his tower was quite nice this time of year. The lower town lay right below, covered in a fine coating of white snow. If he squinted, he could even make out the very edge of the Darkling Woods beyond the city wall.

"Can we check if I have magic?"

Merlin started. So badly, in fact, that he nearly upended his chalice and spilled the last remains of his wine. "What?" he exclaimed, shocked.

Amhar was looking at him with a determined expression now, his chin jutted out and his mouth set into a grim line. He looked eerily like Arthur again and that spooked Merlin even more than his words had, suddenly thrown back over a decade ago, to a fateful night in which he had laid himself bare before his King and confessed his secrets. Arthur had looked at him then, too, just like this – hard and stoic.

"Why—why would we do that?" Merlin asked faintly.

"I want to know," said Amhar. He couldn't quite pull off Arthur's authority with his voice still bright and clear, but he was making a decent impression of him. "If I've got any."

Merlin's stomach twisted itself into a knot. His hand started trembling around the chalice and he had to make a conscious effort to stop it.

He reminded himself that Uther was long dead. He reminded himself, too, that Arthur had allowed magic to return, that he had accepted Merlin and his kind, changed the laws and worked tirelessly ever since to make amends for what his father had done.

And still.

Still.

It was one thing to allow sorcerers in the kingdom and at court. It was another matter entirely to have Merlin teach the future Crown Prince to use a spell.

"Amhar, I don't think—" Merlin started, his throat constricting.

"No!" Amhar cut him off, his eyes narrowing. Ironically, he always looked more like Gwen when he started ordering people about in earnest. "I want to know. Teach me a spell. Now!"

Merlin swallowed. "Amhar," he tried again, leaning back in his chair. "Where is this coming from?"

"None of your business!" Amhar snapped, in a tone that would have sent a servant cowering, or scrambling to obey. "Teach me a spell! That's an order from the Prince!"

It was a good attempt at being a royal prat. Of course, he stood no chance against Merlin, who had years of training in defying one. "No," he said simply and emptied the last of his wine.

Amhar scowled. "Why not?" he demanded.

"First of all, because I would never teach you magic without your mother's blessing as well as the King's explicit permission—"

"He's not afraid of magic anymore," Amhar interrupted.

"Second," Merlin went on, speaking right over him, "because there's something you're not telling me, and I would never teach anyone a spell without knowing what they want to use it for."

At that, Amhar clicked his jaw shut and looked away.

"Ah," said Merlin and fell quiet. Another round of waiting it would be.

It took even longer than the last time, enough time to have Merlin calm the last of his nerves. It was silly, perhaps, how the topic of magic could still spook him so thoroughly. But years of hiding had left scars. Patched over now, and soothed by Arthur's steadfast support, the way he looked at Merlin with unwavering trust, but still there, quick to itch and ache in moments of doubt.

"I was hoping," Amhar said at last, speaking at the table again rather than to Merlin, "that I could use it to fight."

"And whom would you need to fight with magic?"

"Lionel," Amhar revealed. "And Gavin, and Hector…"

Things snapped into place then, and Merlin's heart squeezed painfully as he was overswept by a wave of compassion. "This is about what happened at training the other day, isn't it?" he asked, ever so gently.

Amhar's face crumpled. "I'm weak," he said. His voice had started wobbling. "I lose. Always. And Father, he saw. He saw that I couldn't beat them!"

"He didn't expect you to."

"Of course he did!"

"You're twelve," Merlin said.

"I'm the Prince," Amhar retorted angrily, but he was rubbing at his eyes again, and sniffling, too.

"Who has only just started squiring for Sir Gwaine this summer," Merlin continued for him. "Nobody expects you to defeat grown men weeks shy of receiving their knighthood. Not your father, or anyone else."

"Father defeated fully trained knights at thirteen!"

"Because Uther was more concerned with grooming a ruthless warrior than raising a happy son!" Merlin retorted, much more sharply and loudly than he had meant to.

Amhar's head snapped up, his eyes wide and glistening.

"Sorry," Merlin said at once, slumping in his chair. "I didn't mean to shout at you."

"It's fine," said Amhar, and sniffed again.

Taking a deep breath, Merlin reached out, offering Amhar a hand, who took it at once, squeezing it. Always so openly affectionate, something Merlin knew was still difficult for Arthur.

"Nobody, not even your father, expects you to beat the likes of Hector and Lionel," Merlin stressed. "Especially Hector. He's almost as big as his father, and we all know Sir Percival is descended from giants."

"Is he, really?" Amhar asked, with just a bit of childlike wonder.

"I'm quite sure of it, yes," Merlin said and squeezed Amhar's hand again before letting go. "Now," he continued, "if you want to try and see if you've got a spark of magic in you, you may go to your father and mother and ask them if I may teach you a spell. If they allow it, I will show you how to summon a butterfly."

Amhar frowned. "A butterfly? But Uncle—"

Merlin squashed his protests with a raised hand. "I will not teach you to fight, and that is final."

Amhar let out a huff and crossed his arms again.

Gods, but he really looked like Arthur when he was like this. So much that it made Merlin's eyes sting a little.

"Fine," Amhar muttered at last and slipped from the chair, making for the door.

"You might also ask your mother for some advice, if you want to learn how to become a better fighter," Merlin called after him.

Amhar paused and turned. "Mother? Why?"

Merlin smiled. "The Queen knows her way around a sword," he said. "She grew up around them, after all."

"But Father is the best fighter in the realm," Amhar replied, frowning. "Shouldn't I ask him ?"

"You are light and nimble," Merlin replied. "As is your mother. She knows how to use that to her advantage against an opponent stronger and bigger than her. Believe me, she's fierce with a blade. I've seen her cut down bandits twice her size before."

Amhar looked at him in disbelief, though that lasted only briefly. Just a moment later, he broke into an excited grin. "I'll ask her, then!" he said eagerly and ran for the chamber door. There, he stopped, adding, "About the magic, too. I'd still like to see if I have any."

With that, he was gone, leaving Merlin to sit at the table, smiling.

And rubbing his eyes a little, too, like Amhar had done. His chest was hurting something awful.

"Teach the Prince of Camelot magic," he whispered to himself.

How the times had changed.