Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, all rights belong to the BBC.

This story is dedicated to Veilwhuurah, for without her support and encouragement this would never have been written.

I was hiding in the fan fiction closet reading and then I poked my head out and wrote some reviews but it was Veilwhurrah, who gave me the confidence to fully emerge and try writing something myself.

I can't thank her enough, and strongly recommend you look at her work. It is excellent, detailed and emotive – an inspiration to us all!

This small story is all finished, checked and ready to go, it is my intention to post one bite sized chapter each night. It should all be done and dusted by the end of the week.

I hope you enjoy it and any feedback would be most welcome, thank-you.

Chapter 1 The Armoury:

He was lying on his back, at a very awkward angle, not a position he would have chosen. His face was side on and hard against the ground and he was aware of dust and grit in his mouth which was quickly expelled. His head throbbed but Merlin opened his eyes and was assaulted by bright light, he was in the armoury, pieces of metal strewn all over the floor. He searched the room for an assailant - there was none, nor was there any sign of a struggle.

Merlin did a body check, all limbs present and correct, nothing seemed bruised or broken, it was then he became aware of something wet seeping into the fabric of his clothes. He reached down tentatively, fearing the worst, closing his eyes briefly before examining his fingers, oil. A bit of grease, that had been his down fall.

On the way to ensuring the Once and future king's assent to the throne, Merlin had defended himself, Arthur and the kingdom against all manner of domestic and non domestic threats, vanquishing malevolent magical forces with the bat of an eye and now Emrys, the mighty warlock had been unceremoniously brought to his knees and rendered useless by an oily rag. He shuddered, if only the Druids could see their saviour now.

Feeling slightly ashamed, the young servant went about the business of picking himself off the floor and clearing the mess before him. The action of getting up caused his head to pound and his eyes to smart, but no other injuries were discovered. Examining his reflection in Arthur's breast-plate provided no evidence that Merlin had ever been lying unconscious on a stone floor for the best part of an hour. He felt cheated to feel so bad and have nothing to show for it, no war wounds to explain his absence or generate sympathy for his befuddled state.

Merlin reeled off a quick spell, so the chores could start doing themselves and suddenly had to duck a flying sword. A flash of gold and the mace that had been making its way towards him like an unbidden missile halted.

"What the...?!"

He tried again, and had to cross his arms over his head almost instantly to dodge flying shrapnel and once more he instinctively stopped the magic. What was going on? This had never happened before.

The language of the old religion was complicated and tricky to pronounce, getting even the intonation wrong could change the whole nature of the incantation but it had always been honey on his tongue. The words slipped effortlessly from his lips, ready to do his bidding. Not today, today, Camelot's secret sorcerer had effectively vomited his way through several aborted spells and results had not been pretty, downright ugly in fact. Merlin sighed and looked about the room; it was in a worse state than when he woke up. His gift was giving him trouble and he could not fathom why. He would just have to clean up in his own time, which was limited at best. Merlin would have to come up with a reason for why his master's guard brace was bent beyond recognition and charred at the end but he would think of something, he always did.

He released the pressure the heels of his hands had placed on his forehead and untangled his long fingers from the mop of black hair, he had better get started - this could take a while.