A God?? In the Throne Room??
Some idiot tries to summon the God of Magic in the Throne Room with King Arthur and his closest friends and advisors captured and at his mercy. They’re all very confused when the spell works, but nothing happens.
TW: Fairly graphic-ish descriptions of violence towards the end.
Honestly, no one is sure why they’re surprised at this point.
This was bound to happen. In fact, it probably already has happened, knowing how batshit insane their lives are. But there’s no use complaining. At least not right now; though Merlin was sure to get an earful from Arthur later anyway (not that it was his fault, but Arthur did like to complain).
The King, his six best knights, his manservant, and the newly promoted housekeeper were currently bound in magical vines and kneeling on the stone floor of the throne room. The door and windows had been barred, and they could vaguely hear guards and knights trying to break through the heavy wood, though they’re all far too occupied staring in disbelief (and just a little bit of apprehension) at the Sorcerer in front of them.
He lords over them dressed in fine silks and gold rings, hands folded leisurely on his lap as he lounges in Arthur’s throne. Merlin is the one who stares at him with the most venom; he was incredibly protective of Arthur’s title of King, and no one belonged in that throne bar him.
The Sorcerer finally breaks his silence, daring to stand in a poor imitation of regal posture, and speaking in an annoyingly proud voice:
“I’d bet that you are all wondering why I’ve gathered you here today?-”
Arthur raises a condescending eyebrow, but the Sorcerer doesn’t falter:
“-Today, Arthur Pendragon, you will meet more than your match. You know nothing of my world, though I know everything of yours, and I will use it to bring you down and raise myself up.-”
Arthur furrows his brow, begrudgingly impressed. He’s heard the “Arthur Pendragon this is your doom” speech so ridiculously often, but it’s never been worded quite like that, this’ll be… interesting.
“-With the help of this handy ritual of course,-”
Merlin squints his eyes at the paper the Sorcerer was now waiving around. It looked old, but it’s aura gave Merlin an unpleasant feeling in his stomach and he frowned as he chased it, pushed his magic into it, tried to figure out what it was.
“-all I need is the blood of a King.”
The knights squirm tightly against their bonds, but Arthur holds still, his face stony and blank as Merlin’s eyes widen when he catches a glimpse of the sheet’s title. It’s written in the language of the old religion, so no one else bar Mordred would be able to read it, but he, and the others, are too busy fighting (to no avail) to get between The King and the approaching Sorcerer to notice. Nor do they notice the flash of a smirk on Merlin’s face.
Lancelot stops fighting so much when he notices Merlin’s stillness, knowing that he wouldn’t let anything happen to Arthur, and therefore realising that the blonde wasn’t in any immediate danger, but the servant ignores his questioning stare, saying in a clear, amusedly disbelieving voice:
“You’re planning on summoning a God?”
Everyone looks to him in shock, but Arthur just rolls his eyes. Either Merlin is trying to stall, or this is yet another odd thing that his manservant has some niche information on tucked away in his head. The Sorcerer stops in his tracks, staring at Merlin with an odd respect:
“The God of Magic will be summoned to this very room, and the Pendragon tyrant will face his judge, jury and executioner. You recognise this language?”
He waves the paper vaguely in the air, and Merlin nods, barely concealing the smile trying to break out over his face. The Sorcerer takes in a slow breath, side stepping to be in front of Merlin and crouching down in front of him:
“A man of faith? A believer?”
Merlin tilts his head slightly and shrugs his lips, his voice coming out quietly, though the others can still hear him:
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”
The Sorcerer grins and stands up, shaking his his head in slight disbelief:
“A follower of the Old Religion, here in the heart of Camelot, knelt at the side of The Butcher King’s Butcher son. How incredibly unique.”
Merlin struggles to hold back his growl at the Sorcerer’s address of Arthur, and forces a friendly smile on his face instead as he shrugs absent-mindedly:
“I grew up in rural Essetir.”
The Sorcerer nods knowingly as the others stare at him in shock. Mordred and Lancelot look nervous, but Merlin doesn’t pay them any attention, glancing at Arthur’s mixed (shock, betrayal, disbelief, confusion) expression before he shrugs again:
“What? You never asked about my… faith.”
Arthur just rolls his eyes again, his face going back to it’s normal irritated expression as he convinces himself that Merlin is either stalling or… or it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter what faith Merlin has.
Merlin looks back to the Sorcerer:
“If you’re going to summon this God, and presumably sacrifice this lot-”
He nods his head at the knights and the King and the servant knelt around the room:
“-to Him, then they should know His three names, don’t you think? I hardly think your God of Magic will be impressed if His offerings don’t even know who He is.”
The Sorcerer raises an eyebrow, considering Merlin’s suggestion before slowly speaking:
“And you already know his names, I suppose?”
Merlin nods, but that just has the Sorcerer grinning viciously:
“Wrong! No one knows His third name, liar.”
Merlin just rolls his eyes as the others look between the two men in confusion. They weren’t complaining though, if it weren’t for this odd conversation then whatever ritual sacrifice this guy was planning probably would’ve already started by now. Mordred is looking increasingly pale, but Merlin ignores his desperate mental calls.
“Why don’t you enlighten the group on what that means?”
The man in question narrows his eyes in suspicion before finally giving in:
“It can’t hurt, I suppose. I know you’re only stalling for time servant, but I will respect this last wish of yours, one believer to another.”
Merlin gives a facetious smile to the Sorcerer’s back as he once again moves up the steps towards Arthur’s throne, standing in front of it regally as he addresses his captive audience:
“The God of Magic, the second most powerful God this universe has, one of the original creators, a master of this realm, has three, distinct names. The first, is His Godly name, His true name, the name we pray to and give offerings to: Myrddin, meaning Falcon-”
Merlin interrupts him with a chuckle:
“Wrong. Myrddin, from Ancient Welsh, means Sea Fort. The whole Falcon thing only appeared a few centuries ago. His third name back then was Aderyn, meaning bird. Things were lost in translation when his third name was discovered, and promptly changed, and the history books got mixed up.”
The Sorcerer looks upon Merlin with shock, and just a little bit of haughty disgust:
“And how would you know that?”
“What can I say? I’m a scholar. Like I said, I grew up in rural Essetir, there wasn’t much else to do.”
The Sorcerer looks very much like he’d like to spit on Merlin, but he shakes his head and continues, once again facing the others:
“His second name is His Earthly name, the name He uses when He spends time on earth, with believers. It is a name all those with faith recognise; only those who know it’s true meaning know that He is a God: Emrys, meaning Magic.”
Everyone in the room (bar Mordred, who simply goes impossibly paler) gasps. Lancelot, because he knows who the name belongs to, and the others because they recognise it, and had been searching for the mysterious Druidic Leader for months, with no luck.
Once again, Merlin chuckles, louder this time, before the Sorcerer can say anything else:
“Wrong again. Emrys means Eternal. Not really sure where Magic came from, I suppose people saw “God of Magic”, and jumped to the conclusion that it must fit in somewhere… it doesn’t.
The Sorcerer seems to snap a little at this, turning on Merlin with a red face and clenched fists:
“Shut up! You know nothing of the Gods, you are a lowly peasant servant.”
Merlin shrugs in condescending defeat, but Mordred bristles subtly at the way the Sorcerer spoke to Merlin; thankfully he manages to resist the urge to blurt out the truth, simply opting for a vicious glare instead.
The Sorcerer levels one last glower at Merlin before facing Arthur again:
“As I was saying. His Third Name is a mystery. It is known as The Disguise, and it changes with the times. His Third Name is not only a name, it is also the human he wears like a suit of armour, a pretend, a mask, so that He may walk among us as a mortal, and not gain a second glance. The Third Name is unknown to all bar his closest and most trusted friends and allies and even then, they may not know the full extent of the Name’s meaning.”
“You actually got one right, well done. Though I feel the need to add that most who know who He is as Emrys, also know His Third Name… just… by the way.”
The Sorcerer fumes and Merlin rolls his eyes, biting his lip to stop himself from smirking as the others shoot him warning glances. The red-faced man takes a breath and counts to ten under his breath, before turning back and walking towards Arthur once again, his head held high and his steps purposeful.
Merlin just raises an eyebrow as he summons a dagger and a fancy looking goblet, slicing Arthur’s arm and letting the blood flow into the silver vessel. The cut is deep enough to let blood weep freely and for infection to be a worry, but shallow enough that Arthur shouldn’t get woozy before the blood begins to clot, thankfully. The blonde grimaces briefly at the sting of the knife, but holds his head high and doesn’t flinch away.
The Sorcerer kneels in front of the throne, setting the goblet down on the seat as Merlin huffs: blood stains are a bitch to get out. He begins chanting under his breath, reading from the paper in a language none bar Merlin and Mordred understand, waving his hand intricately over the goblet and swaying slightly on his knees. He finally finishes, and a blinding light forces everyone to clamp their eyes tightly shut and look to the floor for a few seconds. The light recedes again and the Sorcerer sags slightly in exhaustion as the goblet completely melts, molten silver mixing with the blood and boiling it as it drips hypnotically from the throne to the floor.
The knights and Gwen stare around the room nervously, the spell had obviously done… something, but nothing had actually… happened? Certainly no Gods had appeared.
Mordred and Lancelot shoot Merlin worrying glances, but he just stares at the Sorcerer’s back, waiting for him to regain his strength and turn around.
When it finally happens, he seems genuinely confused before his eyes widen in realisation and he gasps lowly, murmuring:
The knights just settle deadpan glares on him, all bar Gwaine who gives him a grin:
“Sorry sweetness, nothing happened! No Gods appeared! Well done, you’re a failure.”
The Sorcerer just smirks, leaning on the arm of the throne slightly as he stands up:
“No, Sir Knight, the ritual worked, I can feel it. Which can mean only one thing, He was either already in the room, or he is inhabiting one of you. So, which of you is My Lord?”
“None of us are Gods, you imbecile, now let us go and I might consider lifetime imprisonment as opposed to execution.”
The Sorcerer’s smirk grows and he settles an assessing gaze on each of the knights. Despite Merlin’s knowledge on the Old Religion, the guy obviously thinks less of servants and doesn’t pay Gwen or Merlin any attention. Merlin is, frankly, just fine with that, hiding his smirk as the Sorcerer grimaces:
“Fine, let’s try this then-”
He mutters a spell, holding his hand out in front of him as a gold thread stretched from his palm before… flickering slightly, and fading in the air. He tries twice more, both with the same effect, and Lancelot can’t hold back his laugh:
“You think there’s a God in the room, but you don’t think He’s powerful enough to stop your tracking spell without even a thought? It would seem you have underestimated the focus of your own faith.”
The Sorcerer turns on him, summoning the dagger again as he walks to be stood in front of the offending knight. Lancelot looks up, meeting his gaze with a steady eye, and Arthur has to hold in a shudder at the look of disgusted defiance on his knight’s face. The King resists the urge to gulp when a marginally terrifying thought crosses his mind, but he pushes it down and ignores it. That is, until the Sorcerer speaks:
“Perhaps you are… hiding something, My Lord?”
Lancelot just smirks and shakes his head, not even flinching as the Sorcerer brings his arm up before swinging the blade down viciously towards his chest. The others all shout out in fear, but the point of the metal stops about an inch from Lancelot’s body. The Sorcerer is obviously struggling against some force, before he gives up and stands back, bowing. Before he can say anything, Elyan pipes up looking to Lancelot first:
Before moving his gaze to the still bowed Sorcerer:
“-but if your… God, is one of us, don’t you think he would protect everyone? Maybe the God is Lancelot, but equally, maybe the God is just protecting him.”
Merlin smirks proudly, Elyan had caught on. At this point, Merlin had only confirmed that another Sorcerer was in the room, nothing else. He needed to stall for time until someone could think of an escape plan or the other knights finally broke down that godamn door.
Lance raises his eyebrow, scowling slightly:
“Yes, well maybe, said God shouldn’t give Himself away by protecting anyone.”
Merlin winces slightly. Gods (how ironic) he’s going to get such a lecture later. The Sorcerer snarls:
“This room is impenetrable, either My Lord comes forth and punishes the Pendragon, or every non-magical person in this room will slowly starve. I am NOT leaving without Pendragon DEAD!”
Merlin’s smirk falls and he clenches his jaw in anger. Enough of this Shit:
“Why don’t I tell you my name?”
His voice is quiet, even, and he keeps his gaze to the floor even as everyone’s head snaps to look in his direction. The Sorcerer’s angry expression was jarringly replaced by confusion, and then mockery:
“Why would I want your name?”
Merlin shrugs, maintaining his lowered gaze as he speaks:
“You seem rather fond of names is all.-”
He finally looks up to the Sorcerer, now stood towering above him:
The Sorcerer scoffs and goes to walk away, ignorant of the emphasis the servant had put on his own name, but Merlin continues before he reaches his third step:
“Do you know what a Merlin is?”
Merlin is vaguely aware of Leon gasping quietly, and Gwaine muttering “No fucking way.” but he pays them no mind, meeting gazes with the agitated Sorcerer when he shakes his head, annoyed:
“It’s a type of bird. A small, vicious, falcon, known for its… distaste, of humans.”
Merlin can feel the stares of all his friends, can feel the way Arthur’s shocked gaze is focused on him. But still, he pays them no mind, allowing the lowly simmering rage in his lungs to boil over as he calmly stands, the vines around him disintegrating into nothing. The Sorcerer grins madly at first, but Merlin takes a slow, threatening step towards him, smirking dangerously as he tilts his head; his voice comes out quiet but sharp, and it sends a shiver down everyone’s spines:
“How dare you call my name?”
The Sorcerer stumbles back slightly before falling to his knees, bowing his head and holding his hands in front of him:
“My Lord! I knew you would come when I called, though why you chose this servant as your vessel-”
Merlin growls slightly at the repulsion in the Sorcerer’s tone, and waves his hand casually. The man flies onto his back, skidding across the stone floor at speed before he comes to a violent stop, head making an unhealthy sounding crack as it comes into contact with the steps leading up to the throne. He looks up blearily, and Merlin smirks with satisfaction when he notices the splatter of blood on the stone. Before the quivering man can say anything, Merlin drops his smirk and speaks in a low voice:
“I am not a vessel. I am… me, and I always have been. You should count yourself lucky that your little ritual was obsolete, it’s rather… uncomfortable to be pulled from Avalon, and I would be in a much less forgiving mood had that happened.”
The Sorcerer looks a little confused for a moment, blinking his uneven eyes and shaking his head slightly, touching a hand to the still-weeping wound on the crown of his skull before speaking, his words slurring just a little:
“My Lord, Pendragon is the one undeserving of forgiveness, he-”
Merlin growls again, lifting his hand up in the air slowly. With the movement, the Sorcerer lets out a yelp as his body slowly rises from the floor. After a few moments of his flailing, much to the amusement of Merlin and the mild horror of the others (who Merlin had all but forgotten about at this point), Merlin drops his hand rapidly, the Sorcerer’s body following the movement and falling to the floor aggressively fast. Everyone hears bones snapping and sees blood spilling as his head once more makes contact with the edge of the stone steps. A pained gasp escapes from between the Sorcerer’s bloody teeth (he must have bitten his tongue on impact), but Merlin ignores it, raising his hand again and walking towards the floating, sagging, bloody body. His eyes glow brilliantly gold:
“Arthur Pendragon is a creation of the Old Religion, and is therefor under the protection of the Gods. How dare you call my name as if I am some hapless pup to be summoned at will, and then demand I harm that which belongs to me?!-”
Merlin’s scarily calm demeanour evaporates as his voice echoes through the throne room in a chilling growl. The Sorcerer struggles weakly, and the knights and Gwen shiver where they sit, still tied down, staring in terror at the rhythmic dripping of blood from his robes. The expensive silks and thick furs suddenly look more like a funeral shroud, than expensive finery.
The room goes dark, and a quick glance to the windows would show the summer sky covered in rolling storm clouds. Flashes of lightening highlight Mordred’s pale face, thunder shakes the windows in their frames, and a sudden downpour of acidic rain sounds thunderous against the high ceilings.
Merlin sighs sarcastically at the first burst of deep thunder, shaking his head as he looks to the window. He speaks quietly, though his voice sounds headache-inducingly loud, as if he were shouting in everyone’s ears simultaneously:
“-Look what you’ve made me do. I’m angry. That hasn’t happened in a while, consider me… impressed-”
He looks back to the barely conscious, still floating sorcerer:
“-though still consider me angry.”
The following silence stretches for a few moments as the Sorcerer shakes, lifting his head slightly and stuttering through the gut-wrenching fear and pain, obviously trying to say something. Merlin smirks and tilts his head condescendingly, but before he can say anything, a shaking voice pipes up from behind him:
He drops his hand and the Sorcerer falls once more as he looks behind him.
The knights are all staring at him in varying levels of horror. Lancelot just looks shocked, he knew that Merlin was protective of them all, but things rarely got this… bloody. That, and he thought he’d seen Merlin angry before, but this… this was something else, this was cruelty. Gwen, the one who had called his name, has tears slipping down her cheeks as she shakes, and Merlin frowns, walking over to her.
Elyan pulls towards her protectively, but the vines hold strong. He goes to yell, but Merlin glances at him quickly, waving his hand casually so more vines grow up his throat to cover his mouth, the same happening to the other knights. They all begin to struggle against their binds, all bar Lancelot, who is still holding on to hope that Merlin is just… angry, distracted, and Gwen, who lets out a shallow sob at Merlin’s confused expression.
He kneels in front of her, pulling his hand back slightly when she flinches away:
“I’m not going to hurt you, Gwen.”
His voices comes out soft and reassuring, vastly different from the cruel but cold anger he’d held earlier, and she hesitatingly nods when he tilts his head in question. He gives her a smile, wiping the tears from her face and waving the vines away. She falls back onto one of her hands, the other clutched to her chest as if she were in pain. Her tears lessen, but still flow, and Merlin reaches towards her arm, pulling it softly into his hands and frowning at the bruise blooming over her wrist:
She nods slightly, biting her lip when she sees Merlin’s jaw clench in renewed anger:
“Please… please Merlin, I’m… I’m fine. Please let them go.”
Merlin ignores her pleas, blowing cool air onto the bruise and muttering a healing spell, watching with a satisfied smile as the bruise recedes. He looks back at her, cupping her cheek softly in one hand as he tilts his head once again in question:
She nods slightly, no longer crying but still shaking, and Merlin stands up again, stepping back and rolling his shoulders as he stares out of the window in disdain. He takes a deep breath before his posture stiffens, and he speaks, his voice once again cold and distant as his gaze stays on the growing storm outside:
“Threatening to hurt the people precious to me is one thing, actually causing damage is… another.-”
He finally turns, walking towards the weakly shivering body on the steps and kneeling in front of him:
“-I had intended to extend your time on earth in a rather painful manner, though I find now that I simply want you gone.-”
He leans forward, one hand gripping the Sorcerer’s hair tightly and the other hand gathering a fistful of his bloody clothes, yanking his body towards him. Merlin whispers roughly in his ear, though his words echo painfully through the skulls of everyone in the room:
“-Your soul is mine, and I will see it burn. Both in this life, and the next.”
With that, he stands and steps backwards, snapping his fingers at his side with a smirk. The Sorcerer’s body writhes as he screams, but only briefly. The body stills as it begins to steam, blood seeping through the skin and hissing when it comes into contact with the cold stone floor. Merlin can hear one of the knights gagging behind him, and he turns with a raised eyebrow, waving his hand to get rid of the vines covering everyone’s mouths. Gwaine is pale as he asks shakily:
“What did you do to him??”
“I boiled his blood. He’s cooking.”
Gwaine gags again, and everyone in the room pales even further as they realise what the stench is. Tears finally overflow from at least half of the knights as their gazes flicker between Merlin and the slowly cooking body behind him, and Merlin tilts his head before snapping his fingers again. The body disappears and the smell immediately dissipates, and Gwen pulls away the hands clamped over her mouth to speak again, her voice still high and wavering:
“Merlin will you… will you let them go now, please.”
“You didn’t tell me you were a God.”
Merlin smiles at her, but this week version of his normally cheeky grin is somehow even more unsettling than the vicious smirk he’d held earlier now that they knew what… Who He is. Once again, he waves his hand casually, and the vines disintegrate into the air, leaving nothing but shreds of slightly smouldering greenery on the floor. No one stands, but Lancelot is the first to break the thick silence with his shocked, though slightly amused tone:
Merlin looks to him and shrugs, smiling slightly at Lancelot’s lack of fear (at least… compared to the others, who are all still shaking slightly and staring at him in crudely disguised terror):
“Like he said, Merlin is The Disguise. It was nice, having you on my side because you were my friend, because you believed in me as a good person and not as a God.-”
His smile falls and he walks to the window, taking a deep breath and closing his golden eyes as the storm outside lessens in strength:
“-It’s somewhat lonely, to be a God. It’s nice to… to be nothing but human, every once in a while. I suppose I should go now.”
Arthur finally breaks out of his stupor, standing abruptly as he yells:
Merlin turns quickly, eyes no longer glowing gold as he settles a mournfully confused stare on the King:
“-I mean… why? Why do you have to go?”
Merlin tilts his head, eyes filling with tears that don’t fall as he weakly responds:
“I’m the God of Magic, Arthur. Even if you suddenly changed all of your opinions on sorcery… you lot don’t want me here. Not really. I’m… old, and powerful, and scary. I don’t-”
He looks to the floor as a single tear escapes, slipping down his cheeks as Gwen and the knights finally rise:
“-…I don’t want you to be scared of me. Merlin is meant to be human, The Disguise. Over all the times I’ve visited Earth, this lifetime has been my favourite, and I don’t want to look at those precious to me and see how frightened they are. You are. Of me.”
Arthur gulps, but takes a fortifying breath before walking forward resolutely. He places strong hands on Merlin’s shoulders, and the servant-turned-God looks up in shock, more tears escaping his ocean blue eyes as he stares at The King:
“Objectively, Merlin, you are terrifying,-”
Merlin’s face falls and Leon whispers Arthur’s name harshly, but Arthur just ignores him, wiping away Merlin’s tears with one hand and gesturing to the various bloodstains with the other:
“-but look what you did for us, to protect us. We’re… unsettled, we’re all undoubtedly having a crisis of faith, we’re all very much shaken, and we all require a little time and a lot of explanation, but we aren’t scared of you. You… you’re Merlin, you fold my laundry and help us get home when we’re blind-drunk and make up stupid names to insult us with because it makes you laugh. You giggle, Merlin, like a child, I don’t think any of us could be scared of you. Of course we don’t want you to leave.”
The others approach Arthur’s back slowly, and Merlin sweeps his wide, teary gaze over them over The King’s shoulder. Leon, Percival, and Elyan seem the most shaken, though they still meet his gaze unflinchingly and give him weak smiles. Gwaine’s hands are clenched tightly and his normally cheeky grin is small, but real, and Merlin lets out a tiny huff of laughter when he sends a wink his way. Mordred is pale, so pale he looks sick; he had always known what Merlin was, though he had never seen the extent of his power before, but still, he gives Merlin a respecting nod and a small smile. Merlin’s shoulders relax a little more when he meets Lancelot’s steady gaze; the knight gives him an easy smile. He hadn’t known about the God thing, and maybe he’ll freak out about it later, but as of right now? It’s just yet another wacky thing to add to his “List of Wacky Things About My Best Friend”. He’ll deal.
Merlin finally looks back to Arthur’s face, grateful to see that the only fear in his expression seems to be concern for Merlin’s well-being. The God sags slightly, one more tear slipping free as he asks in a small voice:
“You’re sure you want me to stay?”
Arthur doesn’t hesitate for even a second before he nods, confident in his answer as he pulls Merlin into a tight hug, holding him close and not letting go as he murmurs in his ear:
“Absolutely. Stay, Merlin, please. And besides, who better to help me repeal the ban on magic than the God of Magic Himself?”
