Chapter Text
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Balinor resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as the ache between his eyes worsen.
After several days of avid negotiation, Ygraine has opened her court and counsel once more to the townspeople of significant standing. Several individuals, with varying degrees of patience, line up in front of the doors of the Third Great Hall – a structure isolated from the main castle and hence, does not enjoy the protection of the castle shield. Dozens of guards, knights and sorcerers accompany the queen and her advisors in hopes of providing the needed security.
Although the ventilation of the Hall is quite decent, the smell of sweat and stale dampness linger in the air, nauseating Balinor. Thankfully, the heat of the crowd and the heating runes carved across the ceiling beams alleviate the chill in the air somewhat, maintaining a comfortable temperature.
Inside the Third Great Hall, a farmer with a great deal of land and his neighbor squabble with voices that resound across the walls.
“— broke into my house and performed some sort of hex upon me!”
“I did no such thing!” His neighbor retorts, her face red from indignation. “You dare tell lies in the court of the queen!”
The farmer sneers at her. “Is it such a coincidence that I’m unable to use my magic the day after we argued!?” He turns to the queen, his whole countenance emitting despair. “Your Majesty, until now my magic has yet to return to me. I fear I’ve lost it forever and I seek justice and reparations from the culprit.”
The queen remains impassive in the face of their argument. “Tell us in detail why you suspect her.”
Amidst the throbbing headache, Balinor tries to think. He glances between the farmer and the accused as they explain their sides.
This is the third instance of missing magic that Balinor has heard in the past couple of days. The first has said their magic has been spluttering in and out of existence for a week before winking out completely. The second has woken up in his bed after an uneventful night with an empty feeling and no magic at his fingertips.
Others may have not noted the pattern and, indeed, perhaps each of these cases are unrelated. The first magic-user has bashfully confessed that they drank an unknown concoction to increase their ‘charm’ while the second has recalled meeting and offending what could have possibly been a fae. These occurrences are the likely explanation for their disorder.
As the Court Sorcerer, however, he must ensure that no insidious schemes are afoot.
After several minutes of discussion, the queen rules that the farmer’s accusation against his neighbor is unjustified, having found no concrete proof of her wrongdoing. The neighbor sighs in relief while the farmer leaves dissatisfied.
As the open court ends later in that day, Balinor delays Jayden.
“Thrice, people have claimed to have lost their magic,” he begins.
Knowing him for years, Jayden immediately grasps his line of thinking. “Once is negligible, twice may be a coincidence. But three times is likely a pattern.” Then, something lightens the colors of her eyes and slackens her expression.
Balinor sends her a questioning frown.
Jayden waves her hand flippantly, her expression returning to normal. “Apologies, I’ve been feeling unwell lately. My mind wandered off.”
Concern bubbles up in Balinor’s chest. “You’ve been feeling unwell for almost a month now.”
Laughter lines Jayden’s features as she assures, “It’s a trivial matter. With all the excitement, we truly didn’t have time to rest.”
Balinor nods in understanding. “I had wanted you to investigate the matter but —“
“What ails me won’t get in the way,” Jayden interjects with a determined air. “Rest assured, Balinor. I’ll look into this thoroughly.”
Since his second-in-command has spoken, the Court Sorcerer relents and pries no longer. Without further delay, Balinor heads to the chambers he has been spending most of his time in the recent month.
Outside the royal chamber, a waiting Gaius turns to him with an amber-colored vial in hand.
The mage hands Balinor the potion. "For your headache."
Balinor raises a brow but isn't truly surprised that Gaius has noticed it during open court. He accepts the vial, downs it in one gulp, and stifles a grimace at the taste similar to troll food. Belatedly, he regrets not fetching a cup of water or honeyed wine.
True to its function, Balinor's head clears of pain almost immediately. He lets out a breath tinged with relief.
"My thanks, Gaius."
Gaius nods and takes the empty vial back. "A good potion, however, cannot replace proper rest," he replies pointedly with an arched brow.
Balinor is aware of what Gaius is implying and has no fear of admitting, “I ask for a sleeping tonic for tonight.”
Gaius seems pleased that he would cave in so easily but Balinor has no compunction regarding it. After all, he has been planning to go to the mage rooms and fetch a tonic later in the day.
Nightmares have plagued his dreams in some nights in the past weeks, filled with deadened stormy-blue eyes, slackened pale hands, and inky blood spilling between his fingertips. The face he sees switches between one apprentice to another, calling out to him in hope and despair. In these times, he is reminded of one of the reasons why he never planned to take another apprentice after Lily.
His dream the night before has him standing in a forest, the sky bright blue and cloudless — no hint at all of what tragedy the trees hide in their midst. He hears a cry in Arthur’s voice, and runs and runs with the knowledge that, no matter how he hurries, he cannot stop the blow that fate has already dealt.
He wakes before he reaches his destination. It’s a quieter nightmare than the others but it does not ache any less.
This whole incident has dredged up some unpleasant memories and his rest does not remain undisturbed.
“I’ll have one delivered to your rooms,” Gaius promises.
Balinor thanks him once more. Without any more delay, they both enter the royal chambers.
“You have sparring lessons with the other apprentices!?” Merlin’s exclamation greets them and covers the noise of their entrance.
The apprentice has been walking around the room in doddering treads and has ceased his steps in shock. On his either side, two other apprentices stand close, ready to provide support.
Morgana adds, “In preparation for the Apprentice Tournament. It’ll start on the morrow.”
“I reckon it’ll be easier than sparring with knights,” Mordred says with a satisfied smile. “At least we’ll be able to use magic on our opponents.”
“I —“ Merlin stops, finally noticing his new visitors. His eyes brighten as he turns to his mentor. “Lord Balinor —“
“No,” comes out of Balinor’s mouth without missing a beat.
Morgana and Mordred lower their heads and send their greetings to both Balinor and Gaius in an appropriate and respectful manner, unlike a certain apprentice.
Merlin frowns, indignant. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You wish to join the sparring lessons and perhaps the Apprentice Tournament itself,” Balinor remarks dryly.
Shock and disbelief fills Merlin’s features. “I’m not joining the tournament?”
The other two apprentices appear surprised at the news themselves.
As if the three of them have forgotten that Merlin has been in his death throes less than a month prior.
The Court Sorcerer has no qualms in reminding them, “Why would you? You’re still recovering. I’ll be remiss in my duties as your mentor if I allow you to step on that field.”
“I have no problems with my magic, and I’m not falling over when I walk now!” As if on cue, Merlin wobbles in place. If not for the quick actions of Morgana and Mordred, he would have been met with a painful embrace from the ground.
Balinor’s sardonic look needs no elaboration. Merlin replies with a sheepish grin.
Gaius clears his throat. “It is time for another full examination.”
Morgana and Mordred consequently take their leave with a promise to visit later. Merlin totters towards the bed and sits down with a sigh.
Gauis tarries no longer and sets to work. The mage checks the apprentice’s pulse, breathing, pupils, and throat, inquiring about any discomfort or unusual sensations.
Merlin shakes his head, answers questions in a succinctly eloquent manner, and cooperates without complaints, looking serious and well-behaved — further proving that Merlin knows proper etiquette but rarely feels the need to practice it.
“No sign of the curse relapsing,” Gaius declares with conviction, awe and relief mixed in his tone.
Something in Balinor’s chest loosens, a band that has tightened there since the night he heard news of his apprentice being hit by a deadly and largely unsurvivable curse.
Gaius continues. “Truly an incredible development. Would you be amenable to mind-sharing now?”
Balinor isn’t astonished at the inquiry and neither is his apprentice. He has been bracing Merlin for it in the last two days, knowing the steady recovery will ensure Gaius will ask sooner or later.
“Of course, Lord Gaius,” Merlin replies before swallowing almost audibly. He glances at his mentor.
Despite the mental preparation, the apprentice is still evidently nervous about the upcoming spell. The Court Sorcerer sends him a nod of assurance, and Merlin’s shoulders sag down ever so slightly.
Gaius wastes no time preparing the spell, eager to get the knowledge he seeks but still takes time to ensure Merlin’s comfort. Clasping the apprentice’s right wrist, he elaborates on the process.
“I’ll not see anything you do not wish me to see,” Gaius reassures with a soft tone. “This may dig up some painful memories, my boy, but I’ll shield your mind from reliving most of the experience. But I do need you to guide me through the relevant memories so I’ll not stray.”
Merlin closes his eyes as Gaius instructs him to. With the contact of the apprentice’s wrist, Gaius murmurs a long string of spells.
“Allow me a door to your mind,” Gaius says, closing his own eyes to better see the memory. “Good. Now, recall that night. You were on your way back to the castle, correct?”
Balinor watches closely as the mage continues the narration. Although he has never shown it, he is curious himself. How exactly did Merlin survive the curse?
He knows the exact moment Gaius reaches the crux of the event when the mage’s brows furrowed in concentration. Merlin’s brows similarly tightens with effort.
Then, a breath later, Gaius’ eyes snap wide open. Hastily, he performs another spell upon Merlin; Balinor easily identifies it as he once performed something similar to the same apprentice – a revealing spell meant to dispel even the strongest type of disguises.
Merlin blinks his eyes open, expression befuddled and appearance unchanged.
Confusion, bewilderment, and disbelief war in Gaius’ features, his wide-eyed perusal still upon the guileless apprentice. Merlin shifts uncomfortably the longer the mage’s silence fills the air.
The Court Sorcerer straightens and strides towards them in alarm. Gaius gets to his feet as Balinor reaches them.
“A word with you, Balinor.” The mage has once again gathered his composure yet a trace of mystification hints at the edges of his facade. “Outside.” Without another word, Gaius heads for the chamber doors.
The Court Sorcerer sends a disapproving look at his departing back. Balinor grasps the shoulder of his apprentice, whose rapid breathing expresses mounting uneasiness, and sends a tendril of calming magic through their contact. The memory-sharing has brought about unpleasant experiences, and Gaius’ reaction to them has only worsened Merlin’s nerves.
Merlin’s breathing eases slightly but a worried look still paints his face.
Balinor offers no word of assurance yet, and instead follows Gaius outside. When the door closes behind them, Gaius pulls him to a narrow hallway away from the prying ears of guards and servants. Balinor immediately puts up an anti-eavesdropping spell, getting the hint of seriousness the contents of the oncoming conversation
“He’s not human,” Gaius breathes out without delay, disbelief and wonder unrestrainedly shown in his countenance now that no one’s looking.
Balinor’s heart skips a beat. His mind immediately flashes to Cornelius Sigan’s undeath spell, and the other details he and Arthur have theorized.
Sigan’s spell, however, requires stealing the body of a human.
“What did you see?” Balinor cannot help but demand, his tone sharper without his intention.
Gaius pays his tone no mind and says, “A fearsome beast, yanking out the curse of Forrotian Cwealm like it’s merely a buzzing insect irritating him.” The mage falls into contemplation. “He’s under no guise. Likely, this is his real form. He neither has the temperament of fae nor Lamia.”
The Court Sorcerer listens distantly as the mage falls into the same theories and assumptions he has thought of and discarded before.
Balinor realizes Gaius’ line of thought. “Are you saying he may be a magical creature?”
“Yes,” the mage admits with an excited gleam in his eyes.
Unbidden, a notion hits Balinor like a runaway cart.
Emrys.
The name that spawns akin to weeds the moment Merlin arrived in the citadel.
It is what the druids call me. That they recognize my power. And they sort of know me because of it. They named me themselves! I haven’t the faintest why they did!
Perhaps it is not a name but a title — a label.
And Merlin is helplessly guileless in the truth of it.
But what of his dragonlord status amidst all of this?
The answer comes to Balinor almost immediately. Ever since dragons have made a covenant with humans and thus produced dragonkin, stories have existed telling the possibility of a new creature being borne from the aforementioned union.
A being that is neither human nor dragon yet a combination of both. A being with one foot in each world.
Truthfully, Balinor is no scholar of their people and in this, he knows little to nothing about the details.
A million thoughts and calculations swim through the Court Sorcerer’s mind. He feels his headache returning with vengeance.
“A favor,” Balinor blurts out, rubbing his temples. “I am retrieving a favor owed.”
The mage startles. Several people, including Gaius himself, have owed the Court Sorcerer favors for the immense and various help he has given them. Rarely, however, has Balinor encountered a great need wherein he needs a favor repaid.
“I implore you to tell no one of this,” Balinor continues, expression grave. The spread of this revelation will not only affect his apprentice’s well-being but mayhaps also involve their dragonkin’s tightly kept secrets.
“This is a discovery we cannot keep to ourselves, Balinor,” Gaius protests with a frown. “A magical creature born in human form – perhaps one no one has ever known before.” The mage adopts a thoughtful look. “It explains why he was able to shatter the scinncræfte crystal and survive the Forrotian Cwealm curse. His kind must have been one with enormous or even infinite magical capacity. I suppose, aside from charms and the Drýcræftéaca potion, we should test whether our apprentice applicants are humans.”
“Gaius,” Balinor intones, interrupting the mage’s diverging thoughts.
Gaius solemnly meets the Court Sorcerer’s eyes and sees the man’s stubbornness. “And if he poses danger to Camelot and its citizens?” The mage’s voice drops into a near whisper. “I understand that you have taken him in as an apprentice, Balinor, but we know not of his intentions. Why would a magical creature apply for apprenticeship under a human?”
“I don’t believe he knows he’s not –” Balinor exhales. “Nonetheless, I will take responsibility.”
Gaius narrows his eyes at him for several tense seconds. Then, with a severe and a disapproving frown. “Very well, Balinor, for a favor owed. On your hands this burden be. I’ll speak of this to no one.” The mage takes a meaningful glance at the closed royal doors nearby. “Ensure he harms no one or, favor or no, the queen will hear of it.”
Balinor nods. Before long, Gaius takes his leave.
The Court Sorcerer returns to the royal rooms that shelters his apprentice.
Merlin looks up as soon as he enters, wariness singing in his every movement.
Balinor stares at him for a moment, ruminating how to tackle the oncoming discussion.
Keeping it hidden from Merlin has never crossed his mind. After all, what right does Balinor have to keep such enormous and important matters from him?
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Merlin listens, numb with shock, as Balinor explains Mage Gaius’ discovery.
Not human, crashes like thunderous waves across his mind.
He stares at his hands, at the ten slender fingers, at the lines running across his palms.
Unbidden, a conversation with one enemy passes the forefront of Merlin’s swirling thoughts.
“ You and I both know a simple dagger won’t kill you”
“A blade to my heart will most certainly kill me! What do you take me for, a Dorocha?”
A pause. “You do not know.”
Know what? Merlin now has an answer to the question.
Mayhaps he has known all along.
No mortal has ever survived a Dorocha’s touch. And yet Merlin did.
Several events simultaneously plays in Merlin’s head.
Nimueh’s fireball that was unexpectedly lacking in lethality –
A deep mace wound that should have killed him less than an hour after its affliction yet he survived almost an entire day –
The antidote for the Morteus flower that was supposedly given just in time. But what if —
“Breathe, Merlin.”
The calm intonation pierces through the storms clouding Merlin’s vision and thoughts. His lungs take in the much needed air that he has deprived them. He clenches his hands, feeling a tad lightheaded.
His mentor pauses, clearly contemplating what to say next. Then, “There is a legend among our people. Of a being that is a cross between human and dragon.”
Merlin’s head snaps up. “Are you saying that could be me?”
Balinor nods. “Unfortunately, that is all the detail I know. We would have to consult the scholars in the aisle to know more.”
Merlin frowns, a mixture of disappointment and relief shooting through him. The relief comes in knowing that he may not be a malevolent and unknown creature, and that his dragonkin heritage has provided clues.
I’m not a monster, am I?
He truly doesn’t know what to feel about all of it. Yet, amidst all of his other concerning and urgent troubles, this worries him the least.
After all, he has apprentice lessons, dragonlord lectures, and a whole quest to find his way back home.
It would have been hilarious if it wasn't happening to him.
Balinor says, with eyes softened at the corners and tone of reassurance, “It’s easy to despair over such an enormous discovery but, in the end, it changes little. I have asked Gaius to keep this a secret. I, of course, will speak of it to no one.”
A faint smile upticks Merlin’s lips. “Thank you.”
Merlin truly doesn’t think he can find a more reliable mentor.
“I’ll rearrange our nightly lessons.” The Court Sorcerer looks up in contemplation, calculation already flashing behind his eyes. “I’ll place transformation instructions at the forefront so we can hasten our departure to the isles.”
Hasten their departure to the isles and consult the scholars there? A ball of warmth bubbles in Merlin’s chest at Balinor’s further considerate actions.
But then, “Wait, transformation?”
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When Prince Arthur visits his chambers that night and puts the chessboard between them in a silent demand for a game, Merlin finds himself recounting the whole life-altering truth about himself as they play.
Merlin reckons he has already told Prince Arthur (almost) everything so why not include this?
Prince Arthur pauses in his move to eat Merlin’s carelessly placed knight. His eyes dart up to observe the apprentice’s tense form, his expression inscrutable.
After a moment, he continues stealing the chestnut colored knight from the board and hums. “Quite a surprise but an understandable conclusion.”
Then, he says nothing else.
Merlin blinks rapidly. “That’s it?” He is both flabbergasted and a bit irritated at Prince Arthur’s somewhat lackluster reaction.
“What do you wish to hear?” The prince cocks a brow. “You’re a dragonlord, you’ve come from another realm where magic is the bane of Camelot, you possess power unheard of in history. You can slow down time and have won against an unsurvivable curse. That you’re possibly a magical creature is merely one of the additions to your peculiarities.” With a deadpan tone, he adds, “Every time you let slip another impossibility about yourself, a part of me thinks, ‘Well, this may as well be true‘.”
Merlin thinks that over and finds that Prince Arthur brings up a good point. He feels that every other week has been eventful ever since he arrived in this realm. On the other hand, the same can be said when he arrived in Camelot in general; every week is spent either defeating a monster, battling armies, or going on quests for the kingdom.
Prince Arthur’s words bring a tinge of relief to Merlin’s chest. That’s right; among other things he is, is being not-human truly a big matter?
Merlin sighs the sigh of the exhausted and takes his turn on the chessboard. He places his rook next to the black queen. “Aren’t you worried I’ll be a danger to Camelot?”
“I always worry about you destroying a wing whenever you sneeze,” the prince replies.
Merlin rolls his eyes. “It’s a serious question.”
“Merlin.” Prince Arthur finally looks up to meet his gaze, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “You saved my life while almost sacrificing your own. You told me the truth about your origins when you’ve told no one else. The least I could do is give you the benefit of the doubt.”
Heat floods Merlin’s cheeks, and his eyes glide away from the prince’s in embarrassment. While Merlin thinks he does deserve some trust after all that’s happened, he didn’t expect Prince Arthur to actually say it out loud.
The apprentice clears his throat. “Well. Thanks. It’s good that you know.”
Prince Arthur nods. “I’ll win in three moves.”
Merlin focuses back on the board and frowns. “No, you won’t.”
Unfortunately, Prince Arthur’s prediction rings true a few moments later.
Merlin sighs. Then, a thought occurs to him, and he perks up. “Do you have time in the morn on the morrow?”
Prince Arthur, sensing something afoot, warily asks, “Why?”
Merlin bestows him his largest grin.
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One morning, with the air humid with heat and the sky a cloudless bright blue, a loyal knight stands outside the stables that house gentle mares.
He faces outwards, fists behind his back and a pained look upon his rugged visage.
Inside, the Court Sorcerer’s most famous apprentice, garbed in simple wear, lounges on a rickety chair like it’s the throne of Camelot.
“You’re doing it wrong, Wart. Grip the shovel nearer the base.” He orders around a dark-haired long-chinned man with glee.
The dark-haired man, lean-formed and grimy with sweat, grunts and unceremoniously shovels another pile of dung onto a wheelbarrow.
Darren, a twenty-year old stablehand whose work has been unexpectedly stolen in the morning, stands idly by. He wrings his hands as he witnesses one of the court apprentices bullies an innocent man with a gloating smirk.
Darren has seen his fair share of torment and torture, usually at the hands of visiting nobles. Lord Balinor and those of the court have set rules upon apprentices; that they can never use their position to step on the lowly. Due to that, servants and other workers in the castle can do their job with little disturbance or suffering.
Clearly, however, there are exceptions.
Sir Merlin is the Court Sorcerer’s direct apprentice and has saved the crowned prince’s life. How can Darren expect to oppose him in any way? When Sir Merlin requested to let the dark-haired man called Wart muck the stables for an hour, Darren can do little but hand over the shovel and watch nearby to ensure no harm befalls everyone involved.
When Darren notes that Wart is limping and possibly injured, he opens his mouth to protest. Then, his courage deserts him, and he closes his mouth in dismay.
The stablehand considers fetching someone like a mage or a sorcerer or even the Court Sorcerer. But . . .
Rumors have spread of Lord Balinor’s care for his apprentice while he had been bedridden and of his overprotectiveness over anything that can cause said apprentice further harm. Similarly, there are rumors of Prince Arthur’s punishments towards people badmouthing his lover.
Darren shudders and gulps and remains in place. Let Sir Merlin vent his anger upon this Wart. It’ll only be for an hour after all.
The horses knicker and continue eating hay, uncaring of the commotion the humans cause. Darren envies them – not the hay-eating but at their unaffected uncaring demeanor. He pets his favorite mare, Opla, to comfort himself. Opla pushes her snout against his palm.
Outsiders may think he should be grateful that his work is getting done for him. Darren would like to correct this misunderstanding. Wart’s mucking is sloppy, missing bits of dung and scattering a lot of hay. Darren has to properly muck the stables again after all this, extending his work time and perhaps doubling his work. The stablehand feels very pitiful indeed; the nobles play and the commoners suffer.
Wart embeds the shovel into the ground, leans against it, and wipes his perspiration using his sleeve. His chest heaves with exertion.
“I have renewed appreciation for stablehands and stablemasters now,” he mutters.
Sir Merlin smirks, his features a portrait of storybook villains. “It’s only been half-an-hour. Keep working.”
The knight, Sir Lancelot, pops his head in from the open entrance with a furious scowl. “Let His—Let the man rest or I’ll wring your neck!”
The threat leaves Darren bewildered and further dismayed. Wart seems to have the protection of a high-ranking knight but even that knight is unable to do anything against the court apprentice.
Sir Merlin remains unbothered by the threat as he waves flippantly. Sir Lancelot looks on the verge of making good on his threat, his legs already marching inside.
Then, Wart sends the knight a look that Darren has no hopes of deciphering. Sir Lancelot’s scowl deepens, if that’s possible. He backs away, however, and exits the stables once more.
Despite Sir Merlin’s commands to continue, Wart continues resting and trying to catch his breath.
Wart lets out a hum. “I wish you wouldn’t project your odd fantasies on my counterpart upon me.”
Dollops of dung inexplicably flick themselves upon Wart’s trousers. The man flinches back, mild disgust contorting his face.
Sunlight-gold fades from Sir Merlin’s eyes as he smiles guilelessly. “The wind certainly is strong today.”
Wart sends him an unimpressed glance.
Darren admires his bravery immensely.
Despite Sir Merlin’s claim that Wart will muck the stables for an hour, Sir Merlin gestures for the man to sit down on the chair beside him just minutes later.
Wart doesn’t refuse the offer, and he practically falls onto the chair. Sir Merlin steadies him with a hand around his arm. The apprentice furrows his brows in what may be concern, the smug demeanor dissipating like the morning fog.
The court apprentice fishes a vial filled with cherry-colored liquid from his trouser pocket and offers it to Wart. “For your leg.” Then, with a wave of his other hand and a flash of golden eyes, the dirt and dung upon Wart’s clothes dissipates without a trace.
Astonishment flits by Wart’s brown eyes, followed by another emotion Darren fails to decipher. He accepts the proffered tincture. “You’re well-prepared.” Wart pops the cork out of the vial and drinks the potion in one swallow.
Sir Merlin shrugs but a note of concern still pinches his features. “I can’t have you collapsing into a pile of horse dung lest your mother have me in the stocks.” His eyes drift down to Wart’s leg. “Gilli told me a salve will be more effective. I can —“
Wart’s brows arch up. “Are you about to offer to massage my leg?”
Sir Merlin sends him a dubious look. “Don’t sound so astonished. I was a physician’s apprentice; I’m very skilled with it, I’ll have you know.”
Darren pretends to be nonexistent; his eyes remain on Oplia while his ears eagerly open up for gossip. He has never heard of the famed court apprentice being formerly a mage before? Just how powerful and skilled is Sir Merlin?
“Ah.” Epiphany lightens Wart’s eyes. After a moment of contemplation, he asks, “Did my counterpart ever receive this skillful service of yours?”
Sir Merlin scoffs, fondness that even Darren can detect hints his voice. “Who do you think I mostly practice it on? That prat can’t stay out of trouble for long and he never comes out of it unscathed.”
“A personal manservant, guard, and healer,” Wart remarks dryly. “My counterpart’s luck knows no bounds. You should ask for a raise once you return.”
Sir Merlin looks up in thought. “I do receive a raise every year. Recently, I get –” He then mentions his monthly wage.
Darren can’t help but choke at the cost, and wonders if he can achieve such a wage in his lifetime. The life of a magnificent magic-user truly is hard to comprehend for an ordinary person like him.
Wart’s brows almost disappear into his hairline, a tinge of disbelief peppering his tone as he asks, “And you’re certain he doesn’t know about your magic and your secret deeds?”
“Of course not.”
Wart leans back on his chair. “Huh. That’s more than double of what George earns. Mayhap I should raise his wage.”
Sir Merlin nods in vehement agreement. In the next minutes, they both chatter about servant duties, mythical beasts, and poisoned goblets.
Darren tries to be one of the horses, just part of the background, mute and unsentient. His attempts to garner gossip fails as he understands only half of their discussions. Isn’t a Questing Beast a creature only found in stories? Why then is Sir Merlin claiming to have fought it? When on earth was Camelot’s water supply poisoned? Darren, living in Camelot since he was but a babe, has not heard of such a thing.
Darren, however, has come to clear up one of his misunderstandings. Evidently, Wart isn’t being mercilessly bullied, and Sir Merlin isn’t a complete villain.
Perhaps mucking the stables has been a bet that Wart has lost. Darren has more than enough experience on losing bets to believe this conjecture.
After more than half-an-hour of Darren pretending not to exist, Sir Lancelot pops his head in once more.
“The apprentice training is about to start.”
Both Sir Merlin and Wart rise to their feet. The shovel returns to Darren’s hands.
“Thanks, Darren!” Sir Merlin says brightly before leaving the stables in a flurry, a disheveled limping Wart and a scowling knight in tow.
Darren is quite surprised that the court apprentice has remembered his name. Delight uplifts the corners of his lips; he feels quite important and appreciated indeed.
Then, he looks around and observes the mess that Wart has made. The stablehand sighs and sets to work.
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