Chapter Text
“You’re close,” Merlin sighed as Mordred failed for the third time to cast the spell they’d been practicing. “Just—it’s the pronunciation. Enunciate better, focus more. You aren’t focusing.”
“I am focusing, Emrys,” Mordred groaned in response.
Merlin huffed softly, rolling his eyes. “If you were focusing, you would have gotten this by now. It’s fairly simple, Mordred.”
“Simple,” Mordred scoffed, “of course it’s simple for you, you created the spell!”
Merlin paused at the words. He wondered briefly if he was being too harsh on Mordred—he was right, after all, he had created the spell, so it was naturally going to be easier for him… Not to mention, his pupil looked borderline exhausted. Before he could suggest stopping to take a break, though, Mordred straightened up and took a breath.
“Onċierre,” he incanted, loud and confident, hands held in front of himself.
When nothing appeared in his hands, Mordred frowned and looked to Merlin.
“Pronunciation,” Merlin pushed, before shaking his head, “let’s just take a break, alright? We can sit down, eat something from the lunch basket, and rest. We’ve been working on this all morning.”
“I can do it, Emrys, I don’t need a break,” Mordred insisted, a tad snappish. Merlin bit back a cringe, wondering if he had hit a nerve. Then, with a sigh, he nodded.
“Fine, but if you pass out from overexerting yourself, I’m not catching you,” he told him.
It was more an empty threat, than anything. As much as he would like to, he knew he wouldn’t be able to just let his student fall—Arthur would have his head of Mordred got hurt and couldn’t attend training. And, okay, maybe Merlin cared just a little about his wellbeing. That didn’t matter, though!
“Try again,” Merlin sighed, “remember what I said.”
Mordred nodded and took a deep breath, cupping his hands once more. He closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders. Then, his lips parted, forming the shape of the spell’s word but—no sound came out.
Merlin’s brows furrowed, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Mordred?”
Slowly, Mordred’s hands began to glow. Crap. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Merlin straightened up immediately, eyes wide. Mordred’s eyes snapped open as the golden slow trailed up his arms—his eyes burning bright and golden.
“Emrys!?” Mordred exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch, mildly panicked. “What’s happening!?”
“I…I’m not sure!” Merlin confessed, growing panicked himself as the glow reached Mordred’s chest.
Then, the glow overtook him completely, before Mordred even had a chance to reply. It was so bright that Merlin had to shut his eyes, covering them with a hand. He couldn’t—he didn’t know what happened, what went wrong! Sure, Mordred said the spell wrong but—oh, gods, he said the spell wrong. What if he had performed a pre-existing spell!
As the light dulled, Merlin dropped his hand in a rush and opened his eyes.
His heart nearly stopped at the sight his gaze fell upon before him.
“…Mordred?” He squeaked. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in Merlin’s throat. “Arthur’s going to kill me.”
“What…do you mean this is Mordred?” Arthur asked, that kind of eerily calm that made Merlin believe he was not, actually, calm at all, but seconds from exploding. “Merlin—what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Merlin exclaimed, hands in the air in surrender. “Really! This was all Mordred, this time! He just mispronounced a spell we were practicing! I don’t know what happened, honest.”
“He’s a child, Merlin!” Arthur sounded only slightly hysterical, Merlin faintly noted.
He was taking this quite well, really.
Merlin supposed he should count himself lucky Morgana had already left for her diplomatic trip to Dyfed two evenings ago. He wasn’t quite sure he’d have a head now had she still been around.
“I’m sure it’s easily fixable,” Merlin promised—stupidly, seeing as he really had no idea.
A light tug on the leg of his breeches drew Merlin’s attention away from Arthur. He looked down to the small, dark-haired boy standing half behind, half beside him. The boy looked up at him with wide, nervous grey eyes, gripping the brown fabric of Merlin’s trousers tightly.
“Yes, Mordred?” Merlin asked, his voice almost instinctively softening to a gentle, comforting murmur. Almost like the tone his mother would take with him, when he was young and scared after a magical outburst.
Mordred didn’t speak. Instead, he glanced over to Arthur. Merlin watched with a forming frown as the small boy—no older than nine summers—shifted his weight from one foot to the other in place. It took only a moment for Merlin to understand. He looked up to Arthur with a sharp gaze, dropping a hand to rest atop Mordred’s little head.
“Lower your voice and watch your tone,” Merlin ordered, before quickly adding, “respectfully, Sire.”
“Excuse me?” Arthur narrowed his eyes, his shoulders straightening. Merlin held his ground.
He squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “You’re making Mordred anxious. That’s the last thing we need right now.”
Arthur stared at him, jaw clenched and posture stiff, before he let out a sigh. Merlin’s racing heart eased when he watched Arthur sink in his chair. His shoulders slumping and resolve wilting. Arthur raised a hand and ran it through his hair.
“What do we do?”
“We find a way to fix this.” Merlin glanced down to Mordred, relaxing when he saw Mordred had relaxed a tad. “But…”
“But?” Arthur prompted.
Merlin chewed his bottom lip, watching Mordred fiddle with his trouser leg, and sighed. He looked back to Arthur, who stared at him with a cocked eyebrow. “But it’s going to take some time, so until then…”
“Well, we’re going to have to look after him.”