She wakes early the day the Kingsman selection starts, adrenaline kicking its way through her body under the covers of her four poster bed in her room in her guardian's manor. She dresses with her usual care: racing green jodhpurs, white silk shirt and tailored tweed jacket and brown leather boots polished to a reflective mahogany sheen.
Over toast and mushroom scrambled eggs, her guardian and uncle knows not to crowd her head with last minute advice, and she smiles in recognition.
"Be ready to leave in two hours, niece." His voice is calm and full of the optimistic, gentle affection she's grown up receiving from him.
"I will be, uncle."
Three days earlier, Kingsman HQ
Merlin flips through the file, his long fingers turning page after page of black, closely typed notes. "Roxanne Helena Caecilia Emilia de Lornay Mainwaring-Morton. The daughter of the Earl of - you're certain this is who you want to propose, Percival?"
"I have no doubts. I never have."
Merlin looks at him seriously then, his face impassive. Percival knows he finds it hard to believe what he's hearing. After all, there's never been a female Kingsman agent recruit, much less a selected Knight.
"Read her file, Merlin. I guarantee it, you'll be impressed."
Merlin throws his fellow knight a withering glare, not even deigning to reply verbally. It's a well known fact that it takes a lot to impress him. With a tilt of his head, he replies, genuinely interested, "How are you so certain?"
Percival's answering smirk as he swirls his glass of whisky - single malt, no ice - in his left hand is positively wicked.
"She's more than my niece and goddaughter, Merlin. I raised and trained her myself." He pauses, frowning, before continuing in a much more serious tone of voice. "My bastard of a brother and his wife never cared about her in the slightest. They have their heir, Hector, and nothing else matters to them."
Merlin's eyes light with understanding, and he shakes his head, rueful laughter slipping through his lips as he looks at the photograph of the remarkably pretty twenty-two year old. "This is your Roxy," he says, thinking of all the times Percival has come into HQ over the years practically bursting the seams of his bespoke suits with pride at something his ward, known to all of Kingsman as Percy's Roxy, has done, excitedly regaling his fellows with stories of her latest exploit at school, and as she's got older, tales of her beauty, her fire, her exquisite disarming in three moves of the under-eighteen world fencing champion at the age of fourteen…
"This is my Roxy, as you say." Percival confirms. "She's small, but she's got more balls on her than all of the Oxford rowing team put together." With a teasing grin, he says," This is all in her file of course, but she read History at Christ Church -"
"She's a Member of the House? Oh, that's excellent." There's a wry, mischevious glint in Merlin's eyes that Percival knows to to be wary of. "If she becomes Lancelot, I'll finally have someone to prank all the boring Mertonians and Balliol prats with," (he pointedly ignores Percival's snorted sod off) "not to mention what we'll be able to do those poor devils who went to the other place."
"Yes, you're happy about not being outnumbered any more, understood." Percival cuts him off, laughing, before standing smoothly with the coiled grace of the predator that he is. "But in all seriousness, she knows how to handle herself."
"Good."
"Her argentine tango is also absolutely flawless," Percival remarks off-handedly as he opens the door to Merlin's office and leaves him alone.
Merlin sits motionless for a few seconds, before abruptly standing and pouring himself a generous measure of whisky. His hands are shaking. What? he asks himself. No matter how much he stares out of the Georgian windows of his study, trying to admire the spectacular view of the grounds he's been given, Percival's insidious parting words won't leave him. They work their way into his skin, a mantra surging through his veins, making his heart pound until he feels dizzy.
Her argentine tango is also absolutely flawless.
And with that, he knows he's fucked, even if he won't admit it to himself.
As she sits in the passenger seat of the vintage Jag - racing green, what else? - as they tear down country lanes, her long golden hair being whipped into a long streak of sunlight behind her, eyes protected by a spare pair of her uncle's driving goggles, she attempts to control her nerves in the way she's always done before a fencing competition or before an exam. She hums Elgar's Nimrod Variation under her breath, matching her breathing to its slow, heartbreaking tempo, trying to enjoy the roar of the Jag's engine as Percival steers it round a series of hairpins, one leather-clad hand gripping the steering wheel, the other on the gearstick, an expression of boyish glee on his face.
She's grown up on a diet of fencing, academics, dancing, and Percival's stories of Kingsman. Tales of their daring and intelligence, of Galahad's umbrella and Merlin's glasses and Tristan's poison-resistant gloves. And now she's going to meet them. And now she's going to do her damnest to show them all, these names and figures that loom larger than life in her head, that she belongs there. That she deserves to be a Knight at their table. And not just any Knight, but Lancelot.
"Almost there, Roxy," her uncle tells her, taking in her small hands clenched tightly into fists and her sharp focus on the road in front of them, as they pull up at a set of impressive gates at eighty miles an hour.
"Uncle?"
Percival doesn't reply to her incredulous question as the gates open - through some sort of recognition sensor, she assumes - without him needing to slow down. If anything, he speeds up as they roar down an oak flanked drive, the engine noise drowning her gasp of surprise.
"ETA five minutes, Merlin." Percival suddenly says over his comms, making her look at him, trying to keep her face from showing the stomach churning mix of nerves and excitement and adrenaline that's making her knees tremble. Percival catches her glance and his boyish grin widens. "Actually, Merlin, make that two minutes."
Her eyes widen.
"You have nothing to worry about, Roxy. Believe me, you're ready for this. More than ready. So chin up, young lady, and show them what you're made of." She lets her uncle's warm words wash over her, a calming voice.
"Thanks, uncle."
Percival grins back at her, and says as the Georgian manor that is Kingsman HQ comes into view, "Merlin'll meet us there."
And then he floors it so they arrive outside the main entrance, a Palladian affair with a colonnade and portico, tyres squealing on the gravel. She groans when Percival decides to stop by executing a perfect flying handbrake turn, leaping out of the Jag with far too much energy for the fifty-something that he is.
She gets out of the car far less flamboyantly, rips off her driving goggles, dropping them back in her seat and lifting her bag out with her left hand, before following her uncle up the steps.
The man waiting for them in front of massive oak doors is tall, wearing a black suit, and holding what she will soon learn is his ever present tablet clipboard. She puts him somewhere in his mid forties, and she knows this is Merlin.
Their eyes meet and something indefinable flickers in his eyes before his face is suddenly impassive again. She blushes, and she's suddenly aware of how disheveled she must look, with her windswept blonde hair all over the place. It's not the first impression she wants to make, but she resists the urge to run her hands through it and tie it up, because that would only draw attention to it, show that she's uncomfortable, and schools her face into a polite smile.
"Come on, Roxy!" Percival calls, and that draws a genuine laugh from her, her uncle's cheerfulness taking her back into safe, familiar territory. But she's not going to use Percival to hide behind, because that would imply she's only a little girl unable to take care of herself and unfit for the position of Lancelot, so she squares her shoulders and focuses on maintaining the excellent posture ballet's taught her.
"Welcome to Kingsman HQ, Lady Roxanne Morton," Merlin says formally, bowing over her hand in a gesture that makes her suck in a quick breath. She's not used to such unaffected galantry: the guys her own age - she really hesitates to use the word men - are either drunken idiots or superlicious snobs. Maybe it's because of her height, or because she is unashamedly a lady, well-mannered, and, she hopes, kind, or because her eyes also sparkle with a fierce, intimidating kind of intelligence and determination, but she's rarely treated as an equal. And so something unexpected sparks within her at the show of respect. She's determined to show she's worthy of it.
"Roxy, this is Merlin, a fellow Old Member of the House, as I believe you call it." Percival waves his hand vaguely in Merlin's direction and watches as she smiles delightedly.
"Really?" She exclaims. "Oh, how wonderful!" Turning to her uncle mischeviously, she grins and says, "Perhaps I'll finally be able to persuade you of the quality of the House Port!" And it's so unexpected that Merlin chokes out a laugh and returns her smile with an uplifted quirk of his lips.
Percival and Merlin open the doors for her and watch as she steps inside, eyes bright and curious, taking in the richness of the furnishings and the wealth of state of the art technology she sees. She's led down corridor after corridor, passing a library that she's pretty certain takes up an entire wing of the manor, a forty-foot long dining hall, and to her great delight, a salle d'armes from which she hears the distinctive sounds of clashing foils and sabres. Percival asks whether any of the other trainees are there yet as they reach the steel grey of the dormitory doors in one of the many underground floors.
"Two," is Merlin's neutral reply. "A young lady called Amelia, and Arthur's candidate-
"-So some sort of stuck-up snob, more than likely." Percival interjects, and Roxy laughs softly, shaking her head.
"I can handle that."
"Of course you can."
"If you'd let me finish, Percival?" Merlin asks pointedly. Percival gestures for Merlin to go on. "A young man around your age."
"What's his name?" She asks.
"Charlie Hesketh."
It's like she's gone deaf, all of a sudden. The lights in the corridor blur into a single golden sun and she suddenly realises her nails are digging sharply into the palms of her hands. Her breath leaves her so immediately she feels as though she's been kicked in the chest by a horse and been sent flying, crashing, into a wall. There's bile, sharp as acid, rising in her throat and she wants to scream.
"Roxy! ROXY!" Someone's shaking her shoulders and she blinks open eyes she didn't even know she'd closed. It's her uncle, warm hands placed firmly on her shoulders, a frown etched deeply into his face as he keeps her trembling frame in place. "Roxy! Are you alright?"
She takes a deep breath and nods slowly. He's not here, so she's alright. But she's going to have to share a dormitory with him and other people and the thought is almost enough to send her fleeing back to her impossibly constrained civilian life. And as much as she never, ever, ever, wants to see Charlie Hesketh again, she equally can't abide the idea of wasting the opportunity to show that she's more capable than he or any of the others will be, so she takes another deep breath and meets her uncle's eyes steadily.
And then he asks her something which almost breaks her. "Do you know him?" It takes every bit of self control she has, every fibre in her very being, to keep herself together and not show him, not show Merlin the soul-destroying fear that's taken her in its vicious grip.
"Yes. Though by God I wish I didn't."
Her uncle's very far from stupid, and by the slight widening of his eyes and the almost painful tightening of his fingers on her shoulders, she knows he's read between the lines, and she can't bear it, can't bear Percival's pity and the sudden weight of Merlin's gaze on her, so she softly kisses her uncle's cheek, and keeping a firm grip on her bag, walks straight into the dormitory without looking back.
"Merlin," Percival begins shakily, "Please, don't let her out of your sight." As if I could, Merlin thinks, the image of her walking away from them so decisively burning itself into his mind, before he catches himself and swallows, unaware that Percival is watching him carefully.
Merlin turns to Percival.
"My office?"
The door's locked and both of them are nursing a much needed whisky in their hands, although it's only four in the afternoon. Percival glances impatiently at the monitor screens as they flicker from black to live. With a few tapped commands into his keyboard, Merlin pulls up the live feed and audio from the dormitory, and the Kingsmen turn their full attention to the screen.
Roxy's packing her things away. She's chosen the bed next to Amelia, and Charlie's looking her up and down, and Merlin sees the exact moment recognition makes his leering expression even uglier. Merlin's jaw clenches, and he takes a quick sip of his whisky, glancing across at Percival. The other Kingsman is tense, his expression nervous, knowing without a doubt that he's not going to like what he's going to see.
Charlie comes up behind Roxy as she's placing a demure set of pajamas neatly on her pillow. He stops so he's not only breathing down her neck, but trapped her against the bed. She freezes, and Merlin sees her twist her fingers into the sheets to hide their trembling.
"Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here, Roxy-doxy!" Percival snarls at the insult and Merlin fights the sudden wave of nausea that threatens to send him to his knees.
"Leave me alone, Hesketh." She doesn't turn around.
"Oh, come on, Roxy! You've got to tell me what a little girl like you is doing with men like us. Or was one stint in a dorm with a group of guys in the RAF over the long vac not enough? Your hair's even like it was then, so wild. If sex hair is your way of letting people know you're up for it, we-ell, let me tell you, my little spitfire-"
"Don't you dare call me that." Roxy hisses, her voice low, glancing at Amelia, but quickly coming to the conclusion that she won't get any help from that quarter. Amelia is pretending to ignore everything that's going on, because her brief is to observe, even though Merlin suddenly wishes she'd break her role and help Roxy, he knows that's not going to happen. And he fights the all-too familiar surge of helplessness that he also feels when one of his agents is in danger. He's there, he's watching everything, hearing everything, hearing all the cries of pain and the last words before death, and he has to suffer through it without showing anyone, because he's Merlin and it's his job to reassure everyone else, even when he knows it's futile.
And all of a sudden Charlie's hands are all over her and Merlin clearly sees her choke back a sob and he can read her face so clearly, sees her shame and her fear - god, he doesn't think he's seen anyone so terrified before - and her despair and her thoughts that this is ruining her chances of becoming Lancelot, before her expression shutters. Merlin's gripped by the thought that she's given up, but then she stamps down on his instep with her boot and elbows him in the ribs as he yelps in pain and lets go of her. She spins and then she's downed him in the blink of an eye with a well placed knee to his crotch.
"Yes, Roxy!" Percival shouts. "You brave, brilliant, brilliant girl." Merlin sighs with relief, his heartbeat pounding deafeningly in his ears.
On the screen, Roxy crouches down beside the groaning Charlie and enunciates primly, but coldly, so coldly that Merlin decides he doesn't ever want to hear such a chilling sound pass through her lips ever again. "I sleep with a knife on me, so I wouldn't ever try something like what you did at the RAF, Hesketh. If you touch me again, Captain, I will end you." And in that moment Merlin knows she's as deadly as any of the Kingsmen.
And then she turns away and continues her unpacking as though nothing's happened, but Merlin sees the small signs that give her away - her trembling fingers as she lifts out a delicate golden necklace and puts it on her bedside table, her quick, furtive wipes at her eyes when she turns to put her clothes in her cupboard.
The two Kingsmen watch the footage a little longer to make sure nothing else kicks off, but it soon becomes apparent that Charlie is in no state to do anything to Roxy. When Merlin switches the screen off, Percival suddenly grabs the wastepaper basket and retches into it. Merlin wordlessly passes him tissues and another glass of whisky, also pouring a generous measure for himself and downing it in a single swallow.
"Dear god," Merlin whispers when they're both seated again. He looks at Percival. "Did she tell you anything before this?"
"No. But now we know he was at Oxford with her, two years above if we do the maths, and he assaulted her at the very least." Percival replies, pale, voice broken. "How could anyone do this? God, it's disgusting, and if I knew it wouldn't put more strain on Roxy because then she'd have to testify in front of all the Kingsmen I'd go straight to Arthur and demand he choose another candidate. No-one, no-one hurts her and gets away with it."
"I know, Perce, I know." He can only commiserate, but words aren't enough, fuck, can never be enough in a situation like this. "That was as bad as watching Lancelot die."
"That's why, god, Merlin, please, just- keep her away from him as much as possible."
"You know I can't be seen to be favouring her, Perce."
"My god, Merlin, it wouldn't be favouring her at all - it would be evening things out!" Percival shouts angrily. Merlin leaps from his chair and places his hands firmly on the other man's shoulders.
"Listen, Perce, you know that, and I know that. But Arthur doesn't."
"Damn it, you're right." Percival chokes out.
There's silence for a long time.
Then - "But your word, Merlin, please."
"You have it." Merlin replies immediately.
"Thank you."
And then he's once again left alone to try and understand everything that's just happened. Charlie was her commanding officer when they were both part of the Oxford Corps of the RAF. And he did something to her. And now they're both competing for the same position. He never wants to see that expression on her face again. He can't imagine what she's feeling, can't comprehend it, doesn't want to, because he knows it will send him mad with horror. And yet there's a fierce spark of admiration, and god, it's not because she appeared in that idiotic car of Percival's with hair tousled from the wind and pink cheeks and bright eyes, because she made him laugh when he didn't expect it at all. Merlin can only feel awed at her bravery. She's the most courageous person he's ever met.
What on earth possessed him to take her delicate hand in his and bow over it?
