In all but Blood

Summary: No child comes into the world without a destiny. Even when that destiny it is to bring about the start of another greater than one's own. The lives of a difficult prince and a laid back dragonlord-in-waiting cross and their individual destinies are set in motion, neither realising just how closely tied their predetermined purposes truly are.

The formative years of two young friends so close that they consider themselves brothers in all but blood, whose lives lie mapped out before them in more ways than they know, nor would ever want to.

Characters: Balinor, Uther, Nimueh, Gaius and Kilgarrah. With a smattering of Hunith, Ygraine, Vivienne, Gorlois and Tristan du Bois for good measure.

Rated: T, for violence, blood, mild sexual references, copious amounts of mild bad language, obscure british profanity and insults, and poor attempts at occasional humour.

AN: This has been bounding about in my head for some time now. Particularly these two boys. I had to let them out, so this is being written for the sake of detox. None the less, I hope it is enjoyed as much as I'm enjoying writing it and watching the character development along the way. This is written almost as a collection of small, self-contained stories that follow on from one another. Almost... episodic. As though it were based on a television series, one might say... ha! The first two chapters I've posted together, as they work better as an introduction to this story together. So without further ado, read on and have a good time!

- One -

It was warm. So very warm. Probably sunny outside, judging by the glorious light on his closed eyelids. A good day for training.

Camelot's crown prince yawned and turned onto his back to stretch out beneath the heavy covers. He could get up, but why just yet when such a warm, and fluffy bed had hold of you? He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, and gave another yawn. Training could wait just a little longer. Squirming back onto his side, he pulled at the blankets intent on rolling himself up in them and drifting back into dreamland. Only...

He tugged at them. They wouldn't move. He tugged them a little harder, rolled his shoulder against them and hauled. They moved a little bit, but not as much as he demanded, and not silently. A sound – 'Mmrph', to be exact – and a light sigh from behind him had him frowning in confusion. That was far from right...

He opened his eyes and turned over, coming face to face with a sight he was convinced that no one in their right mind would ever want to see first thing in the morning. Ever.

A tangled mess of dark hair, one over-large, totally ridiculous ear, and a gaping, snoring maw. All belonging to a tall, lanky body sprawled out on the top of his covers. HIS covers. Just lying there. Not a care in the world. One arm thrown casually behind its head, on its back, reclined like lord of the bloody realm. Still wearing its damn boots for heaven's sakes! Just there, on the crown prince's bed, without care or consideration for the fact that not only was this highly improper, but also that said prince might want his damn blankets. Idiot!

So it was understandable when one irritated, or more accurately fuming royal sat up, snatched his own pillow and brought it down with a force and an audible 'whump!' onto the snoring peasant's stupid, sleeping face.

"Balinor! What the hell are you doing!?"

"Uh?" Balinor frowned, but did not bother to open his eyes. Instead he shrugged his shoulders against the comfy blankets and settled once more. "M'sleeping. Whatsit look like?"

"Not here you're not. Now sod off out of my bed!"

At that, Balinor did open his eyes, surprisingly quickly and alertly for someone who had been sleeping soundly but a moment before. Seeing the rich canopy above him, he blinked, and propped himself up on one elbow to find himself looking up into the red and disconcertingly tooth-grinding face of prince Uther. "Oh."

Uther nodded slowly. "Indeed." He said in a reassuringly flat tone. "Oh."

To his chagrin, Balinor did not make any move to get up. In fact, the irritating serf looked remarkably unaffected by all of this.

Couldn't have hit him hard enough with the pillow, clearly.

Lazily, Balinor rubbed at his eyes, dropped his hand to the mattress and winced. "How much did we have to drink last night?"

Uther's petulant rage ebbed. He huffed all the air from his lungs and collapsed back to his bed raising his hands to grind the heels into his closed eyes. "Too much."

"Sounds about right." Balinor collapsed beside him and stared up at the canopy. He yawned and swiped a hand across his forehead to push his fringe away from his eyes. "What am I doing here again?"

"Search me." Uther groaned and shook his head lightly. It was always a mistake to go to the tavern after winning a tourney. Always. Why did he keep doing it?

He was about to put his question to Balinor when he glanced over and noted the tell-tale fly catching open gob and closed eyes that preluded loud snoring. Snarling, he recalled that he was currently enraged with this fool, and elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "Get out of my bed, twat!"

"Not in your bed!" Balinor shot back, a yawn breaking up his words. He flipped onto his side facing Uther and jabbed a long finger rather viciously at the mattress several times in quick succession. "I'm on it. There's a difference."

"Get out!"

"M'going." He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, nearly falling in his haste to comply. "Miserable git."

Uther snorted, no longer able to hide his underlying mirth. For someone so pathetically weak-looking, insults always sounded incredibly deadly in Balinor's perpetually surly tone and rough accent. It was probably the only thing the prince actually envied him. About to throw his pillow at the stretching idiot's back to see if he could get any more insults out of him, Uther found himself interrupted by a knock at the door. Before he could say 'enter' in his most princely granting voice, he was rudely cut off-

"Hm?"

By definition of that utterly thoughtless answer, Balinor was once again overstepping his bounds. Granting access to the prince's chambers was a new one. Uther made a mental note to find some privilege particular to Balinor to destroy later and turned his attention to the person stepping through the door.

It was Edmund, his manservant. To his credit the man seemed thoroughly unphased to find Balinor in full stretch in the middle of the prince's chambers. That fact alone caused Uther to bump the privilege destroying nearer the top of his mental 'to do' list for the day.

As was part of his job, Edmund simply ignored anything that may venture into the realms of questioning his master and proceeded to set the prince's breakfast on the table. Neither did he question it when Balinor ambled gracelessly (stumble-walking, the prince had apparently been heard to name the boy's unique gait) across the room and begin picking at the spread. That was quite normal. Edmund had started to add a little extra to the meals to compensate.

Any thoughts of sleeping in well and truly fled, Uther kicked back his covers and dashed across the room on bare feet to more or less body slam Balinor aside and seize his breakfast before the best could be eaten.

As with most things, the physical violence didn't seem to affect Balinor in the least. The boy just huffed as though inconvenienced and pulled out a chair from the table to crumble into. Moaning softly, he propped his elbows on his knees and clutched his head in his hands. Uther was apparently none the worse for wear after all that they had drunk the previous night. Memory was hazy, but it was likely a lot. Uther always got very generous with his gold when he won a tournament, and insisted on buying rounds for the whole tavern until closing time. He also insisted on everyone keeping up with his own alcohol consumption so he didn't have to wait for the next round. Generosity apparently cured all ills in terms of a personality. He didn't realise that forcing the population of the Rising Sun to keep up with a teenager who drank so damn fast that he couldn't possibly taste what he threw down his throat was hardly a courtesy. Not everyone could handle ale without ill effect.

Balinor recognised himself as one of those people. Uther either didn't notice the raging hangovers that afflicted his friend without fail every morning following a night at the tavern, or he didn't care. Grutnol could deal with ale better, being bigger. It was just natural that it wouldn't affect him so much. Didn't stop Balinor wishing all manner of nasty on him, and his ability to inhale food faster than lightning. Why did the morning after always have to hold the joys of drunk-hunger? The affliction that caused one to feel sick as a dog, yet be absolutely bloody starving all the same? What's more, why wasn't Uther suffering with it? It wasn't fair.

Could get food later, Balinor supposed, squeezing his eyes shut. By the time later rolled around, and after a thousand cups of water and a remedy from Gaius, the room may have stopped lilting. By which point he probably wouldn't even be hungry any more. The point he was trying to grasp and impress upon himself was the fact that he could get food later. He no longer had to live hand to mouth, as Uther kept reminding him when he did something particularly lowly.

Though the guffawing tosser had yet to let the peasant thing drop. He thought it was an insult. Ah well. Wasn't the prince's fault that fact-stating and insults got mixed up in the thick heads of nobility. Balinor huffed again, purely to himself this time. His wasn't to reason why, but to sit quietly in a chair and not be bothered by the problems of the high-born.

That mental attitude was probably why Uther described him to everyone as 'so laid back he's practically dead'. Nothing wrong with that. Being laid back just meant that he may manage a quiet life, and his hair would go grey later. At least it wasn't receding. Mentioning the 'R' word had made Uther so angry that he had chased Balinor around the citadel with a sword, but it had been worth it for the red face and teeth-gnashing. Angry Uther was always good for a laugh.

Something hit him in the forehead and ricocheted away to the floor near the window. "Ow."

That reaction made Uther grin. Naturally, it also made him throw another grape. That Balinor didn't even try and avoid it, just closed his eyes and let it hit him in the face, made Uther chortle. He had never met someone so passive in his entire life. Throwing things at passive people was always more entertaining than throwing them at people who gave a damn.

"What've I done now?" Balinor asked with a resigned, breathy sigh. "Something? Or this just you being a weasel?"

"A man is entitled to that which makes him happy." Uther returned matter of factly, and threw another grape.

Balinor shook his head against the light, but still annoying impact and frowned at his pompous, stuck-up, utterly juvenile friend. "That in your case is throwing grapes?"

"Not just throwing grapes."

"No?"

Another grape sliced through the air to bounce off the top of Balinor's truly ridiculous and very unfashionable outside the fields bowl cut, Uther giving a sardonic smile to see it land squarely in his pet moron's lap. "Throwing grapes at you." He threw another, face twisting in annoyance to see it halt in mid air before Balinor's nose where it would have struck him right between his flashing gold eyes. His annoyance only grew when, with a muttered word, the grape flew back and hit him in the cheek.

In retaliation, Uther threw another. Balinor dodged aside, out of it's path, though remained seated. "Stop it."

The prince did not listen and threw another, which also missed. Balinor's frown deepened. "Said stop."

Still not listening, the next missed its target also.

"Stop chucking things at me, Uther."

Not about to be ordered around by a serf, Uther grabbed an entire handful of the things and hurled them all straight at Balinor.

All of this Edmund watched from his position near the wall where he breathed a quiet, almost internal sigh at the thought of having to pick up all those grapes. Oh well.

None of the barrage hit, all stopping mid hurl as Balinor raised his hand, "Oflinn!*" and lowered his head. "Fýson gewider!*" The grape hail sprang back the way it had come, an edible attack on the prince of Camelot that flew in every direction, one or two hitting Edmund who graciously did not react. The majority hit Uther, despite the totally chaotic manner of their flight, to a wave of varying sounds of outrage from the prince.

It was probably a bad idea, to be fair, Balinor realised just before the grapes pelted their cringing target. That it was certainly a bad idea became known to him as Uther lunged for him, snarling.

The hungover sorcerer threw himself out of his chair, accidentally knocking it over with a crash and made a run for it around the edge of the room, Uther in hot pursuit.

"No!"

He made a dash for the bed in the hopes of springing across it and using it as a shield. The prince managed to grab one of his ankles and trip him up on top of it. Really it was silly of Balinor to try and spring anywhere. People as clumsy as him couldn't spring anywhere anyway, let alone under pressure, so he wasn't as annoyed as he should be when his plan failed. Instead he did the only logical thing in the situation. He snatched up one of the pillows and proceeded to beat Uther around the head with it.

The tactic held the howling prince off for all of a moment before he clawed his way past it and after Balinor onto the floor on the far side of the bed where he landed on top of the stupid warlock and bent one of those skinny arms up behind the idiot's back until he begged for mercy. At which point, Uther chivalrously released him. It was never good to hear a man whine like a child, even if he could not yet really be called a man.

His chivalry was rewarded with a trip to the ground as the blankets leapt from the bed at Balinor's behest and wound themselves around his ankles.

He landed on the floor beside his scruffy victim, both of them unable to do anything more than lie there panting. After a moment, Uther shot a venomous glare at his companion. No matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't maintain it. Rather than suffer the indignity of dissolving into giggles, he turned onto his front, folded his arms on the ground and buried his face in them that only a mop of golden hair remained of his regal countenance. "Idiot."

"Ass." Balinor growled back, still sprawled on his back.

"How dare you throw things at me."

"You started it."

"Shut up."

"You can't tell me what to do."

"I'm a prince."

"I'm a dirty, uneducated peasant."

"So you have to do what I say."

"Don't own me. Not from Camelot."

"Still have to do what I say."

"Don't talk to strangers. Can't do what they say if I don't talk to them."

"Shut up. Fool."

"Idle lusk."

"Twat."

"Doddipol."

Uther did not retaliate further. He pushed himself to stand instead, and pulled Balinor up by his shoulders, laughing. "What kind of idiot are you?" To punctuate the affection in his words and tone, he punched Balinor in the shoulder.

Rhetorical the question may be, but it was damn well getting an answer after that. "The kind that wishes the damn ugly prince would stop punching him."

Uther grunted, slapped him on the back and gripped his shoulder. "You love it. If you didn't, you wouldn't put up with it."

That was true. While getting shoved and punched was hardly Balinor's idea of being friendly, it was Uther's. That the prince attacked him at all showed friendship, perverse as that may be to acknowledge. To be totally truthful, Balinor knew that he would miss it if it stopped. Getting punched so many times must have flipped his brain.

Uther released him, and headed back to the table to finish his breakfast. "Probably shouldn't bruise you too much." He mused aloud. "Can't have you standing there looking like a turnip when we greet Godwyn today. Most unbecoming it would be."

Balinor screwed up his face and breathed a put upon sigh. Ah. Yes. That. "Why do I have to be there again?"

Uther shot him a glance begging him not to be so damn stupid. "As son of Camelot's resident dragonlord you have to be there. The same as I have to. Part of living in the citadel, and part of being a member of the court. You can't have your cake and eat it, Balinor. Privilege isn't free."

At that little lecture, Balinor collapsed onto his back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. "Nothing's free, apparently. Except what we scrumped back in the village. That was free."

That was yet another of those things that princes charged with upholding laws shouldn't know. Uther said nothing on the subject, instead choosing to tuck into his grapes rather than throw them about. He cast a glance at his friend, finding him unmoving and apparently comfortable. Balinor's enthusiasm for meeting the great and the good was less than marked, Uther knew. His pet peasant had very little respect for titles and etiquette. While that often disgusted the prince no end, he could not blame Balinor for his aversion to being paraded in front of visiting royalty. Maybe one day the intricacies of court would be truly appealing to the fool, but today was clearly not that day. At present, Uther actually found himself dreading the afternoon's reception.

Godwyn was quite the King, and Uther was interested to meet and talk with him about the various battles he had taken part in, but before all of that, there was the traditional reception to get through. Standing around outside listening to speeches and watching people shake hands and exchange formal greetings was exceedingly boring. It was too nice a day for that sort of thing. He could spend it training the knights, or perhaps he could go hunting. If he were to do the latter, he would have to leave Balinor behind, and put effort into sneaking out of the city without the warlock knowing, otherwise he would be followed and the sport ruined. Balinor had some problem with hunting that drove him to sabotage it whenever he learned that Uther was out trying to enjoy it. Invariably at some point during each and every hunt Balinor would come crashing through the bushes making as much noise as possible, or scramble up trees thinking himself invisible and proceed to use magic to frighten away the game. He would lament anything Uther actually managed to kill despite his best efforts and ruin the prince's triumph. Somehow, he could actually make Uther feel guilty about his kills.

It was something to do with a magical connection to the very Earth itself, or something bizarre and sorcerous that compelled him to be such a pain in the arse. Made the man dislike killing even a rabbit unless it was with the full intention of eating it and 'restoring the balance' or some such drivel. It wasn't even like Uther could order him to get lost and leave the game alone. Balinor was not his servant, neither was he even really one of his citizens. The fool enjoyed wheeling that one out whenever the will to defy the prince reared up. In a fit of childish rage Uther had briefly considered penning a letter to King Eldred of Essetir asking that he hand over sovereignty of Balinor as a subject to Camelot just to spite the stupid peasant. It wasn't like Uther was asking for the whole bloody village. Just one person. His father had convinced him that to do so would be a step too far in the game of one-upmanship the boys had going on, and he had decided to leave it. Though sometimes it was sorely tempting...

His mind wandered back to the reception that afternoon. He had been trained since the day he was born to one day become King and take over his father's kingdom. The correct way to behave whilst engaging in relations with the kingdom's allies was ingrained into his very bones he had been drilled on it so often. This was hardly the first reception he had attended, and it may not even be the most boring. It was still going to be boring, no doubt about that, and he would still much rather go hunting or train than attend, but it was his duty to be there. His fate was mapped out, as Balinor's was for him also.

Until His grandfather had died a year ago, Balinor had lived in Engerd, a small village just the other side of the border with Essetir, with his father. Filthy peasants they may have been (and they didn't come much more filthy than Balinor, Uther imagined), but from their earliest years both Balinor and his father had learnt their heritage, and an understanding of the sacred duty they would one day inherit. It was hard to believe looking at him, but one day Balinor would be a Dragonlord. The great creatures would bow down to him and do his bidding, as was his birthright.

Neither of them, prince or potential Dragonlord had any control over what they were born to one day be, nor would either of them change it should they have the chance. The outcome of being born a prince was fine by Uther. One day Camelot would be his, and he was well aware that he would be the greatest ruler the five kingdoms had ever seen. Greater even than Bruta. King Uther Pendragon ruling justly and fairly, with unparalleled strength and his faithful Dragonlord Balinor at his side. Together they would be unstoppable. Nobody would dare oppose them and threaten Camelot.

Two years ago Uther had put very little stock in having a Dragonlord at his disposal. Why did he need dragons? His army was going to be the best, no man would match him for swordsmanship, Camelot would be the envy of all the lands. A Dragonlord was just a court tradition that could be scrapped along with the stuffier aspects of court life. Then he had encountered Balinor, and everything had changed.

At first he had been outraged, and more than a little disgusted, by the gangly, ridiculous-looking peasant who had refused to get out of his path as every other nobody did, electing instead to tell the prince in no uncertain terms to go around him.

The plain fact that it was sensible, and easier for Uther to go around him was neither here nor there. It didn't matter that Balinor had been labouring under armfuls of rather heavy supplies from the market. The point was that he was a peasant, Uther was a prince, there was an order to things and the ignorant little louse trap was not adhering to it.

So Uther had acted as any well-respected, just and fair future king would, and punched him in the face. After the initial round of pointing and laughing at the wet peasant collapsed in a particularly large puddle of mud in the middle of the road, Balinor had presumably gotten fed up and waited for the prince to mount his horse before using magic to spook the damn creature that it reared and deposited Uther in the same puddle in an unprincely heap.

It was a testament to Balinor's patience that it took as long as it did to get to that point, but they started fighting. Just dove at each other in a real screaming, swearing, pathetic, close quarters punching to the ribs, hair-pulling fight. They had only stopped trying to scratch each other to bits when the guards stationed nearby waded in, forcibly pulled them apart and tossed Balinor into the dungeons, and Uther into his chambers.

Even then he had raged on about how he wanted to continue beating the muddy peasant into submission. His father hadn't been much pleased about that. Constantine had a very strange idea of morality, respect and justice. He knew that Uther had started the fight, but was also well aware that Balinor had been insistent on finishing it. Therefore, as they were both as guilty as each other, they would share the same punishment. One afternoon, side by side, in the stocks. All assurance given to the general public that no retribution would be sought by the famously hot-tempered prince after the fact, and that he was to be treated no differently to any other criminal/idiot under punishment.

So prince Uther and the irritatingly calm peasant (who seemed to be rather enjoying himself) spent the first afternoon in one another's company being pelted by rotten vegetables and handfuls of mud.

After the initial outrage and spouting of abject hatred and vicious insults, Uther had eventually quietened down and relaxed a little. The two of them had started talking, and actually laughing about the absurdity of their situation. By the time to guards arrived to release them, it was to find both boys actively egging on the crowd to do their worst with the manky fruit and slop, big grins on their faces.

Uther couldn't help but smile at the memory. It was not the most orthodox first meeting of himself and one of his friends, but it was by far the most memorable, and the most fun. They weren't immediately friends, but after several more visits to the stocks for fighting - 'You come here often?' 'Shut up' - and a speight confined to opposite ends of the citadel (for it was with great surprise that Uther learned Balinor actually lived in the castle), they somehow became inseparable. Balinor, the big-eared idiot had become Uther's constant companion and confidante. Though they still fought, and curiously Balinor never used magic to escape or win. The fool would normally leave fighting to the last option, even in self-defence. It was always Uther who started the fights, and it was only he who could get 'so passive he's hardly there' Balinor to want to finish them.

Edmund was poking about in the wardrobe looking out the prince's clothing for the day. Everyone had an opinion on the strange friendship that had struck up between the two boys. Even to the neglect of others Uther had held beforehand. If one was to ask the prince where his former friends were, he unlikely would be able to tell you. Most of them had gravitated away of their own accord once they realised that he was serious about calling the scruffy peasant his friend. They refused to associate with Balinor, as was their right as nobility.

The dispersal of Uther's previous inner circle had many of the older generations of Camelot's nobility worried. They feared that their families would lose favour once the prince rose to power, now that he no longer spent all his time socialising with and terrorising the populace with their offspring.

Really he couldn't see what the problem was. Balinor would one day be a lord. A dragonlord, maybe, so not a lord in the classical sense, but he would still hold a title. Why should it matter that he was a favourite – the favourite – of the Prince?

Personally, Edmund was unaffected by the friendship beyond adding to the prince's meals to cater for Balinor's insistent and casual theft. Really Edmund was glad to see him pinching food from Uther. The boy needed to eat more by the looks of him, and Edmund truly did care about the youngster's welfare. Not only had Balinor's presence done Uther a world of good (perhaps it was difficult to see for those who did not know him, but the prince had mellowed considerably from the way he had been, and become much less violent as he grew more aware of his actions having consequences in causing Balinor real accidental pain when he put effort into attacking him), but he was a rather pleasant boy in himself. When he wasn't with Uther, or working, he often spent time below stairs in the servants' area of the citadel. More than once Edmund had strode into the kitchen to find him sitting on one of the workbenches tucking into an apple, or bun, regaling the staff with stories and tales he had picked up. He was well-travelled for a boy of his age, and therefore had seen some strange things. Not only that, but he was... odd, in some respects. Namely magic. His knowledge of magical creatures was wide and varied, and he could wax lyrical about them for hours. He had a way about him, that made his words enthralling. Perhaps it was the way he told his tales, but Edmund had found himself running late in his duties on occasion when he had stopped to listen. Also he possessed a mental library of limericks that could turn the cheeks of even the most experienced of courtesans red.

On a more mercenary level, Uther now threw everything that had once been directed at Edmund at Balinor, so that was a plus in itself.

Across the room, Uther was about to fling a roll at Balinor to ensure that he was not asleep, when the serf shoved himself to stand of his own accord and stretch his arms over his head.

"I'll see you later, I suppose." Balinor mewled, fighting against a yawn.

Uther frowned, though in all it was closer to pouting. "What? Where are you going?"

"Godwyn's not arriving until this afternoon. There's a few hours spare between then and now, so I'm going to try and enjoy them."

"On your own?" Clearly the concept was alien to Uther.

Balinor rolled his eyes. "Yes. Not everyone needs an audience at all hours of the day. And personally I can't be arsed to stand here watching someone dress you, so I'm off."

"To do what?" Uther scoffed. "Pick lovely wildflowers? Cavort with bunnies? Or just ruin some poor man's hunt? You're a pathetic excuse for a man. Come train with the knights and I."

"Hm." Balinor tapped a finger against his lips and cradled his chin, his face a caricature of deep and careful thought. "Cavort with bunnies, or get my head staved in by thick-witted idiots? I'll take the bunnies, thanks."

"Watch your tongue, Balinor." The prince was wearing his very-not-amused face. The one that looked like a cow chewing thoughtfully on a wasp, or a bucket of sour milk. There were areas of stone wall more intimidating and interesting.

"I know where my tongue is." Balinor returned casually. "You can't not, when you can feel it at all times when it's in your mouth."

Uther huffed, about to tell his idiot to shut his face, when he paused and found himself rubbing his tongue along the back of his upper teeth in a fit of strange, experimental curiousity. "... Damn you. How do you know these things?"

Balinor gave a broad, smile, and raised both eyebrows in satisfaction. "On that note I'm going to find some breakfast."

He bid prince and manservant adieu and stumbled out of the room, aware of some unsavoury insult or other being muttered by Uther behind him. For once he was too hungover to care let alone think of a retort, so he went on his way. He did have the wherewithal to leave the chamber door propped open that the passing maids would get an eye full of a half-naked Uther, knowing that they would spread talk of it all around the citadel by lunch and annoy the prince thoroughly. Also, judging by the tirade directed at him from the prince's chamber, Uther had noticed what he had done, which was a plus. The jumped up twat needed his head messing with to stop it swelling so much sometimes.

Balinor paused at the end of the corridor and pressed a hand to his belly. Why did they have to drink so much? He felt queasy – sea sick standing on dry land. As if on cue, he burped and slapped a hand over his mouth. Breakfast could wait. Maybe enjoying his spare hours should have read as sitting quietly on his bed trying not to make any sudden moves?

So instead of heading to his father's chambers, he changed direction and stumbled down the steps to cross the courtyard en route to his own home. At least there no one would see his shame if his stomach lining decided to pop up and say hello.

*Oflinn! - Stop!

*Fýson gewider! - Fly forth everywhere!

*Notes: Though Balinor never openly uses magic beyond his healing 'prayer' for Arthur in 'The last Dragonlord', he more or less admits he has magic with the line to Merlin 'You have your father's talents', or similar.

Foreshadowing. Foreshadowing everywhere.