thearena | cogi qui potest [OPEN]

Entry tags:

cogi qui potest [OPEN]

Who| Merlyn and OPEN
What| Merlyn accustoms himself to the Arena and sets things on fire
Where| The castle, main hall
When| The first night
Warnings/Notes| TBD

Merlyn had to say that, so far, he was not taken with this place. The village stank quite hideously of rot and decay, and the whole place was bitterly draughty. At least his outfit wasn't too bad. It was heavy, of course, but to a man used to weighty robes, it wasn't too bad at all. He did resent that they had taken his hat away again, though. Was it so much to ask that he be left with a skullcap, at least?

But all that was purely cosmetic. The real problem, of course, was that he was here at all. He had no intention of participating in their barbaric Games, no matter how they might browbeat him. At the Cornucopia, the moment he had felt his powers kick back into gear, he had abandoned his plans of running; squatting down and making himself small, as he'd once taught the Wart, he had turned himself into a blackbird and flown for the rooftops. He'd been mobbed by crows on the way, but he was a deft flier, and they had lost interest around the time he darted in through one of the castle's arrowslits.

When the sun started setting, he was settled in the rafters above the Great Hall, an old man again. He had taken off his heavy gloves, tucking them into the pocket of his leather apron, and was sitting with his skinny legs dangling over twenty feet of nothingness, considering the fire flickering over his head.

"A queer kind of trick," he announced at last, to whoever might happen to be watching. "You might have put less thought into firelight and more into better architecture. Why, even the Castle Sauvage is less draughty! I should give a great deal for less fire over my head, and more in the grate!"

He got his wish a few moments later, when he grew bored with contemplating his surroundings and attempted to conjure up some knitting to keep him occupied. No sooner had he stuck out his hand and said "Knitting!" than the rafter he was sitting on burst, rather unexpectedly, into flames. Yelping in a very unwizardly manner, Merlyn dropped the yarn and needles that had just appeared in his hand. They clattered to the floor far below as he scrambled back and beat at the flames with his apron. Echoing around the chamber, along with the flapping of leather, the occasional ..."by-our-lady..." sounded out.

When he finally managed to smother the fire, he looked down at the hall below. More specifically, at the bright blue yarn in the middle of the floor. "Drat it!" he snapped, and started to shuffle along the rafter. It was going to be a long climb down, for an old man.

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Rose stops beside the needles, fingers itching to grab them, but she looks back up to the man instead. And for the first time, she sees him. He was there before of course, and all his attendant features, but it's the combination of this and what he says that makes it all click in place. Long beard, an old face, something to his quality of voice, talking of conjuring: he's a wizard. She has to lift a hand to cover her mouth as it spreads into a wide grin.

It would explain why knitting needles and a ball of yarn were here in the first place when she's seen not one hint of them before. It might explain the strange fire up above, if what he's saying is true. But a wizard - a real wizard... Okay, she knows she's presuming, but if there are other people here with strange powers enough if that guy with the chimera in his stomach was right.

A wizard.

She bends down slowly, trying to stifle her mirth into something more presentable, and promptly fails as she slips onto her knees and into a burst of giggles.

"Tell me, you - you conjured these?" she asks, grinning helplessly still as she lifts the needles into view. "Magically, as one naturally clad in my robes might?"

"Hmph." Merlyn peers down at her. It would be nice to say that the peering is due to his wizened, scornful ways, but actually, it's just shortsightedness. Maybe settling in the rafters wasn't the best idea, after all. "I did. I was rather worried he might not be obliging, but, as you can see, it was a successful experiment. One which I would like back, if you please. It is very draughty up here, and very dull, and I should like some knitting to pass the time until our hosts get bored with their barbarism. Or until I fall to it, I suppose.

"Although," he adds after a moment, settling back on his rafter, "it would hardly be quite right to say that one is ever naturally clad in robes at all. Much as I appreciate them, and they certainly do add to the appearance of the thing, the only thing one is naturally clad in is one's own skin. As we can tell," he adds to the air in general, with sudden venom, "from the fact that I am quite unnaturally dressed in this ridiculous attire. I mean, what is this supposed to be? A smith's garb? Can't get the castle right, can't get the clothing right... as a friend of mine once said, it's like chewing on tinfoil. Horrible."

Rose's grin wins its battle and cements firmly into place. He is exactly the kind of wizard she always liked to imagine, old and wordy and well-bearded. He is only lacking the robes, and she might offer to swap if not for the cameras and the fact that she's 13 and not suited for his proportions.

Her giggling dies out shortly, though, leaving a calmer mirth in its place.

"Swap naturally for usually, then, if you'd rather linguistic accuracy in my statements."

She rises back up to her feet, one hand patting dust from the knees area while the other keeps the needles firmly clutched. Then she grabs up the yarn and tucks it into one of the wide, dangling sleeves.

"You see," she says, looking back up, "while I can certainly understand your desire, being a knitter myself, I think I have a greater need for these than just passing the time. The knitting needles, that is; I'll happily return the yarn. In fact, I could show why I might need them if you'd like me to bring you the yarn now."

Of course she could just tell him, but this way is more fun.

"Hmph," Merlyn says again, and strokes his beard thoughtfully. He'll still have to conjure more needles if she takes them, of course, and perhaps it would be easier just to produce more yarn along with them. On the other hand, he is an immensely curious kind of character, and she's piqued his interest.

After a moment of this quiet, dignified musing, he nods, harrumphing quietly, and settles himself more comfortably on the blackened rafter. It's quite possible, given the nature of the place, that he'll regret this decision - that what she means to show him is something dangerous. Maybe he was right about the danger of using knitting needles as weapons. And maybe he wasn't.

Either way, if it all goes horribly wrong, at least he'll learn something from it. So he nods again, looking down at her. "Certainly, if you'd be so kind."

Oh, no. He does the beard thing, too, the same beard thing she's put in her writing journal, and she wonders suddenly if he doesn't have a name like Frigglish or Zazzerpan. It would just complete the image. She's smiling already, and this time she manages to stifle any stronger reaction.

God, she's never going to get over this.

And while Merlyn isn't wrong - knitting needles make for fine weapons, and she has a solid hand for their application - it's not what she means to show him.

Swapping her hold so that she has one needle grasped firmly in either hand, she raises them. If there is uncertainty on her face, it's mild; Doc Scratch did imply it was nothing about her old needlewands that granted her the power she held. This should work. All she needs is a conduit.

And with a breath, it does: Purple light limns her and her makeshift wands alike as she rises smoothly up into the air. She's done this before, and it works just as it should, even if it sends up a bright marker of her power above her head. (That she's not concerned about; she heard about it already.)

What concerns her, instead, is the sudden influx of bats. Perhaps some were hiding among the stonework; perhaps they simply fled in from other rooms; or perhaps the Gamemakers had them secreted away somewhere.

"Oh, shit," she says, and her smile promptly turns to a frown. She's less worried than annoyed, but it's not hard to put two and two together to gather what the cause was, and even less so after Merlyn's earlier comment about the fire. "Hold on."

And clutching one arm close (the one with the yarn still tucked in the sleeve), she uses the other to swat, slap, and divert. It's once one gets pierced through on a needle that they finally get the idea to disperse.

"Drat it!" Merlyn exclaims, and swats at the bats that fly past him, sounding more irritated than annoyed. "Really, now! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Leave off, will you?" He scowls after them as they disperse, then adds to Rose, "I can't abide what this place seems to do to animals. I was mobbed by crows on the way here, and they never ought to be so violent, not unless their nest is under threat. It's sheer cruelty to fill innocent animals with such human viciousness, I tell you."

He feels rather bad for the bat she stabbed, nonetheless. Poor creature. It was only doing what it had been made to do, just as they all were.

In any case, they're gone now, and, still sitting on the rafter, he holds out one hand to the girl to shake. "You're rather young for this place, aren't you? You can't be more than, what, fifteen?"

Rose looks no more pleased than him for the one bat harmed; it was less an intentional strike than a consequence of all the flailing and flapping together. It's with a sigh, resigned, that she floats on over the rest of the way to sit against the rafter. She swaps the needle to the other hand, then gives his a shake.

"Thirteen," she answers. "And I'll have to agree with you. It's one thing to fight monsters made for the very purpose, and another to be suddenly mobbed by normal animals."

Finally she reaches into her sleeve to produce the yarn. "Here. I'm still reluctant to hand over the knitting needles, though--if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to keep them so that I'll have something for defense. A pair of sticks might work as wands if I tried well at it, but they wouldn't be as sturdy, and I know how to use these without incurring the ire of our captors."

And as a sign of good will, she turns them to hold out handle-first. She won't fight him on it if he insists on taking them back, though she doesn't keep the hope from her face.

"Since I should probably introduce myself after all this mess, my name is Rose Lalonde."

Merlyn harrumphs loudly, looking thoroughly put out, but doesn't take the needles from her. It's clearly true that she needs them more than him. He can always finger-knit, if conjuring new needles fails him. Or perhaps he can find some suitable sticks and work them into shape. "Keep them," he says, sulkily, and tucks the yarn into the front pocket of his apron.

Then, clearing his throat, he shifts his position and scratches at his bald head, shaking off a little of his sulkiness. "Thank you for returning the yarn, in any case, Rose. It's something, at least. And something, as they say, is better than nothing. You may call me Merlyn, by the way."

She smiles in spite of his sulk, if not without some self-awareness. Sincerely she says, "Thank you."

It's as she's settling more solidly against the rafter that his second bit comes and makes her eyes turn wide.

"Merlyn?" she repeats, though if asked to spell it she would use an I. "As in the Merlyn who knew a certain Arthur Pendragon?"

It can't be, can it? But here he is, a genuine wizard, old and wrinkly and lengthily bearded. Time shenanigans are already in evidence from her meeting with her brother, and the presence of so many humans tells her all it needs to about other universes.

"Why, yes, as a matter of fact." Merlyn smiles, rather pleased to be recognised. Even after several centuries of moderate fame, he's just vain enough to appreciate it. "As for knew him... well, I was his tutor for six years, and his advisor for a number more, before that unfortunate incident with the lovely Nimue. I should dashed well say I know him! The boy used to drive me quite mad," he added as an afterthought, "but I suppose he grew up into as good a King as one can expect, given the circumstances. A shame about all that business with Sir Mordred, of course, but what is one to do?"

He looked rather sad at the thought, nonetheless, although it was a good twenty years in his past and he hadn't been there at the time. He had taken his own leave of Arthur perhaps a year ago, and been very sad to do so, for the Wart, who would later become Arthur Pendragon, had been his dearest pupil.

Rose stares, eyebrows risen, eyes still wide. Merlyn. The Merlyn, out of Arthurian legend, the matter of Britain itself. After years of growing up in a house full of wizard statues and wizard paintings, after staring down Zazzerpan's ridiculous countenance every time she dared pass the front of the house, after penning wizard fics with prose so purple it should see a doctor about it--

"Holy shit," she utters, because it merits it. Then looking down and clearing her voice, "Sorry. I just--I never expected to meet a wizard at all, let alone... I thought you were just a story."

There's a moment of sharp blinking as she forces back the wondering thought of what her mother would think, before she looks him in his face again.

"It's an honor. Honestly."

"All stories," Merlyn says sagely, "contain a grain of truth. They are, after all, the lens through which we see the world. As for wizards..." He shakes his head, taking off his glasses and tucking them into his pocket. "In my time, we were as common as any other profession. Of course, some were hedge wizards, or witches who sank into ignominy as village wise women. And those who practice black magic, well, the less said of them the better. It was around the sixteenth century, I think, that most of them must have disappeared. Of course, I wouldn't know, since I was underground making friends with a rather charming family of moles at the time." He sighs quietly, stroking his beard. He doesn't miss the practitioners of the craft - some, like Madam Mim, he's positively glad to have rid of - but he misses having conversations about it, and people around him with whom to discuss the finer points.

"In any case," he says at last, dabbing at his eyes, "as you can see, I am quite real. Which is more than can be said for this place. I mean, I ask you! I don't expect total accuracy from such undereducated troglodytes, but Gothic arches, Saxon pillars, and Renaissance-style windows? Does nobody in this dratted world understand the basic principles of architectural history?"

"Mm." It's a quiet sound, a kind of contemplative semi-agreement. She's never had something like this happen before, so it's taking a little getting used to. However much other stories might come true remains yet to be seen.

She's quiet as he describes various magic users, pondering what exactly he might call black magic, when the mention of making friends with moles catches her. It's ridiculous, and her eyebrows press together, but it doesn't stop her from a laugh as he criticizes the architecture.

"Making friends with moles in the sixteenth century?" She sounds skeptical and looks it, too, but she does want to believe him. "I thought your story fell before that time."

She means to ask more about magic, but she lets the question wait for the moment.

"My dear girl," Merlyn begins, then harrumphs and starts again. "Time, you see, is something of a slippery slope. No, no, we oughtn't to dive directly into that, it seems to confuse people far too easily. No, let's start at the beginning, and keep it simple. Hm. Perhaps the simplest way to explain it," he decides at last, "is that I am very, very old. Very old indeed. I've lived through a lot of stories in my time, very few of them my own. From the twenty-first century to the... twelfth, if memory serves? I'm afraid it all merges together after a while. And, of course, I was tricked into a cave by that dratted Nimue - shouldn't speak ill of her, really, she was only following her own fate, I suppose, as we all must. And she was charming company, while it lasted. In any case," he goes on, dragging himself back to the point, "I spent a good four or five centuries in that cave, talking to myself. I got some debate in on the relative merits of the Hellenistic philosophies as applied to the modern day, but of course when I got out, the modern day had quite changed. The moles were a blessed relief, to tell you the truth. One can have a good conversation with oneself, if one tries very hard, but after a few decades the discourse does begin to grow a little stale."

Rose perks up as he launches in, with the kind of interest of someone who isn't unfamiliar with the topic - at least to an extent. But she neither interrupts, instead letting him go on (and he does go on), quite willing to learn what she can while he's offering. Besides, it's genuinely interesting.

"Consider me well corrected," she says first, once he's hit a lull. "Though I'm not as unfamiliar with time as you might think. I was only just railroaded into completing a stable time loop before I arrived here, and I have a brief scattering of memories from a short, branching timeline. Of course, you'd do better to ask my brother if you wanted to get into a real discussion; Time is his aspect."

Though she's not sure how Dave might get along with him. She's only just feeling out his personality as it is, and what bits she recalls of the legends - varied things that they were - feels woefully inadequate now that she's learned how long-lived he is.

"I'm not so sure I want to buy into fate as unalterable, though. I'm sure in your eyes I must be traipsing willfully into the jaws of my own naivety; but even after being tricked by inevitability, I won't give up that easily. I've already evaded one fate in coming here, and I've borne witness to the fruit of a doomed timeline coming to ripen in another."

She never was much for the straightforward path, anyway.

Edited 2015-06-06 23:50 (UTC)

"Oh, not at all. Not at all." Merlyn frowns at her, scratching the side of his nose. "I don't believe for a moment that fate is unalterable. Although one does gain a slightly different view on the whole matter, living as I do. Fate isn't inevitable, my dear. Fate isn't a force, or a thing at all, you see. Fate is only a description. She had to put me into the cave, or someone did, because otherwise, why would I have been in the cave already?"

He looks at her earnestly, as if everything he just said made perfect sense.

Rose blinks at him, eyebrows lifting in pleasant surprise. There is a bit of confusion at the end, but it resolves itself shortly after into a presumed explanation.

"Ah, your own time loop? Or temporal predestination, in any case. I admit I am getting a bit tired of dealing with that in my own life."

It's led to a lot of frustrations in the last day, even if the last one might have turned out a means to save her from oblivion. Her feelings there are complicated and largely made moot by the situation at hand.

"I'm glad to see you have faith in the ability to change things, though. It's refreshing to have it validated," she says, letting herself smile again.

"Of course I do," Merlyn says, reaching over to pat her hand. "Otherwise, I should be a rather poor excuse for a tutor. Or a wizard, for that matter. Both professions rest rather heavily on one's own belief in changing things, you see."

He settles back again, considering for a moment before adding almost to himself, "As for time loops, not at all, no. I've never had the inclination for that kind of nonsense. Time is quite enough of a pain, without meddling in it any further. Even," he adds thoughtfully, "if I could, and I'm not at all sure that I can."

She finds herself surprised again at the pat to her hand, but it's the kind of gesture that's kind and easy, a thoughtless little thing. She finds she doesn't mind, even likes it. "That's a good way of viewing it."

He intrigues her again as he goes on.

"No? What did happen to you, then?" she asks, eyebrows lifted again. She's turned partly to him, not enough to jeopardize her stability on the rafter. "For my part it was never intentional. The effects of the loops had already manifested, so I had no choice but to comply, no matter how I tried otherwise."

Edited 2015-06-09 15:50 (UTC)

"That sounds inconvenient, to say the least." Merlyn's tone is sympathetic, as his expression. He's never been a fan of that kind of thing, and being trapped in it against one's will would be quite dreadful, he imagines. "As for me, nothing happened, precisely. Or rather, everything happened, but in rather the wrong order from most people's perspective. Hm. How can I put this?"

He scratches his head, then sticks out his hand, starts to say "Mirror," considers the burnt rafter they're sitting on, and stops halfway: "Mirr- Oh, drat it, never mind. Never mind the blasted thing. It can wait until we're on the ground and less liable to be set on fire." Glaring quite ferociously up at the ceiling (and, nominally, the Gamemakers beyond it), he flexes his outstretched hand and draws it back into his lap. "Imagine that I have a mirror here. Imagine that everything you do, everything you see, everything you write or draw, you must do based solely on the reflection in the mirror that this by-our-lady place is so against my summoning. Then you will have something of an inkling of how I understand time."

"In a number of ways, yes," she answers, though she doesn't elaborate now so as not to interrupt.

There is something about watching and listening to him that's fascinating, she decides. There seems to be almost a process in his approach to life, slow and deliberate, taking his time. It's not the frustrating dawdling some take to, but endearingly old-mannish.

She is listening, though, and her brow eyebrows knit together as she considers what he's told. A mirror... Mirrored...

"Reversed?" Her tone is uncertain. It seems too complicated a comparison to be that easy of an answer. If he lived in reverse, surely he could have said so without the artifice.

Merlyn blinks. Blinks again, rather owlishly and quite clearly caught off-balance. "...Yes," he says after a moment, sounding a little impressed, a little affronted, and mostly just surprised. After the lengths he's gone to to explain it, it's rather shocking for someone to pick it up that quickly. It hasn't occurred to him that maybe the reason for that is the lengths he's gone to. "Yes, exactly. I was born in the twenty-first century, if I recall correctly, and I lived for a great number of years, and in my old age, I finally got to the point of aiding Arthur, and then I retired. And then," he adds rather bitterly, "I was brought here, which I must say was a very unpleasant surprise."

Rose looks frankly dumbfounded. It's that simple? It really is? And he goes to explain and yes, that's exactly it, reversed. Huh.

Gathering her wits up (and her posture with it), she says, "You went to such effort with the mirror I thought it had to be more complicated. At least I won't have to explain computers to you, even if I am a little sad at the lost chance for trolling."

She only would have teased him lightly. She likes him.

"That I admit I can't fathom living through. Are you living forwards now, or is this a long act of being railroaded into the mirror metaphor through my having stated you already used it?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"You had a good note to retire on, even if it was already foretold to you. No... hm. I can't think of a word for foretold in reverse." She waves her hand, dismissing it. "And you have my sympathy. I can't say I reacted well, myself, when I learned what I'd missed out on by coming here."

"Apparently, I am living forwards." He nods. "Which, it must be said, was very confusing to be thrust into. Everyone talking backwards like this. Quite unnatural, I must say. Though not as unnatural as the oligarchical capitalism and crass consumerism of the world I found myself in." He wrinkles his nose, his scorn thoroughly evident. "Count yourself lucky, young lady, that so far you have only seen the transparently cruel aspect of this place. The backstabbing and posturing and politics..." This last word he says with particular venom, almost spitting it. "...of this whole by-our-lady world is quite nauseating."

And left him with a still-swollen wrist from the sprain, although it's barely noticeable now. He looks down at it nonetheless, shaking his head, and clears his throat. "As for going to great effort, well, nobody has seemed to understand the simple truth."

She makes a small laugh - backwards. Which she supposes it must be for him after literal centuries of living the other way. Then he busts out the big vocab and her attention is drawn back up without a bit of misunderstanding. Not only long-lived and legendary, but smart and observant. She'll take it.

"Mm. I'm taking things as they come, and I'm not sure what I'll think of the rest just yet. Though I've already run into the capitalistic part--my brother and I shared a heartfelt embrace for the cameras." She looks up and out to give a little wave. They're surely watching, whoever is out there being broadcast to.

"You can feel free to speak plainly to me, if you like. If I need clarification, I'm the last person to shy from asking pertinent questions, and I'd like to think I have a ready enough mind to figure things out." She got this one, after all. "Speaking of questions, who's 'our lady'?"

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this got kinda long between the magic and punishment

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oh god so much merlyn-blabber forgive me

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