《Flyleaf》Trollhunters/Merlin

《 Chapter Ten 》

"Help is often cried for, but few strive to be it."

Esmerion expected it, really.  The anger the young warlock was experiencing had quite a reasonable cause.

However, he had underestimated Merlin's boldness significantly.

A mistake proven by the hands gripping his collar and the cold stone at his back.

Of course, Esmerion is far more lenient than his brother when it comes to such things, and had merely allowed the boy to shove him in a cupboard and very poorly threaten him. He does take a moment to remind himself of who the boy has lost to permit this sort of behaviour. Patience is not in infinite supply, after all.

"Who are you?" Merlin demands, a dangerous gold glimmering in his eyes. "What are you doing in Camelot?"

Coolly, Esmerion grasps the boy's wrists and removes them from his jacket, eyes gleaming. He bears a steely expression, a wolfish grin on his lips as he leans closer to the warlock's face.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warns in a low voice, near hissing the words. "You never know who you might be speaking to."

Merlin blinks at him, and Esmerion briefly wonders why Lady Magic chose him of all humans, reminded a bit too much of a dumb ox. But then he sees it, the slow realisation that there had been no accent in his own words, and his grin stretches.

There's fear in his eyes now, hidden amongst the glistening anger and grief. It's only small, a single flake out of a blizzard, but it's blossoming into something more. And it satisfies the false man.

"What are you?" Merlin takes a tentative step back, not out of terror but rather out of caution.

"More than you might think," he snaps his fingers sharply in front of the boy's face, summoning a green flame on his fingertips before smothering it and leaning closer, "young warlock."

Gulping slightly, Merlin regains his composure and studies the amber eyes of the male. The glee unsettles him, as does the bold fascination, but neither sends shivers down his spine quite like  the bottomless pool of knowledge. Knowledge of past and present, and easily of future too.

"You spoke to Kilgharrah."

Esmerion nods slowly, his grin falling into an easy smirk. "I did. What of it?"

"Only Dragonlords can do that."

"Yes, and you're the last. Congratulations on the promotion," Esmerion rolls his eyes and freezes. He hadn't quite intended on saying that. "Ah," he says smoothly, "begging your pardon for the slip of the tongue."

Oh, how he can see Merlin's struggle to remain calm. It is really rather amusing. But he regrets the words like salt in an open wound. Balinor had been pleasant to both him and his brother before his banishment, and that was a seldom thing at the time.

"Balinor was a great man, I'm sure," Esmerion moves on, his predatory gaze turning steely. "But the fact remains. You are the sole remaining Dragonlord in the whole of Albion."

"Then how-" Merlin's query is interrupted by a hand on his mouth, and he tries to pull away, only for the male to bring him closer. He struggles momentarily before he hears the footsteps nearing the cupboard.