"All bow to Sir Leon, Knight of Camelot!"
Leon flushes up and thumps Merlin's shoulder at the exclamation, smiling broadly and all aglow with pride.
Lionel steps forward to embrace his son tightly, clapping him firmly on the back. "Good lad. I always knew you'd make it," he says, voice heavy with emotion, black eyes sparkling. "You've done us all proud."
"Thank you, Father," Leon murmurs thickly, then turns to embrace Evaine, able to pick his lady mother up with ease and whirl her once around. Lady Evaine laughs high and bright as a girl, standing on her toes to kiss his brow.
"So, what do you say, brother? Shall we go down to the Cockerel and get disastrously drunk before that uptight code of yours sinks in?" Merlin asks, slinging an arm around Leon's shoulders. Evaine throws them both a look of mock-disapproval, knowing full well that he'd only said as such to get a rise from her.
Lionel chortles and claps Merlin's shoulder, looking years younger in his joy. "Ah, before you go, lads, come with me. I've a gift needs giving before you get to carrying on." With that, he leads them through to the back of the townhouse, opening the door that leads out to the small, narrow courtyard.
Merlin whistles through his teeth, and Leon makes a sound of awe.
The gift is a horse, a mare unlike any of the mounts to be found in Camelot. Her coat is largely white and speckled generously all over with reddish spots the colour of old blood. Secured on a lead-line, she glares and snorts, rolling white-rimmed eyes, stamping her striped hooves. Her particolored mane flashes as she tosses her head, strong neck arching, and as they come closer, she wrinkles her lips, showing her teeth.
"A beauty, isn't she? Aragonian, a gift from the gypsies in Silverpine. Her name is Hierax, but the caravan what gifted her called her the Hellion," Lionel remarks; the gypsy caravans, though often turned away elsewhere, had always been welcomed in Silverpine, known to be amongst the finest horse breeders in Alba. "Two years old, broken to saddle. A touch green with it, though. She bites, so watch your hands near her head."
"Name of the Mother, she's something!" Leon takes Merlin by the shoulders and gives him a shake. "Look at her! Nothing like those other little saddle ponies." In an excess of excitement, he turns and embraces Lionel once more, nearly lifting his father from the ground in his exuberance. "Thank you, Father. She's a fine gift!"
"Nothing less for the sons of Silverpine," Lionel chortles. "What do you think of her, Merlin?"
Merlin reaches up and grabs two fistfuls of her coarse mane, bowing his head against hers, pressing his brow to the hard, bony plate of hers. He blows softly into her nostrils, letting her get the scent of him. "Hello, Hellion," he murmurs; she huffs at him hard, flicking her ears. Leaning back, he turns to Lionel. "She's lovely. And she'll take your fingers off," he adds with a chortle.
Leon comes closer and reaches out to pat her neck, chuckling as she stamps her hooves again, making the narrow courtyard ring. "I've heard these Aragonian horses are near tireless and have a gait smooth as silk. She'll be perfect for the hunt."
"Hunt?" Merlin repeats.
"Ah, yes, that's what else I was going to tell you. Prince Arthur's leading a hunt in the woods to celebrate our knighting." Leon grins at him. "Would you like to come?"
Merlin snorts. "As if I'd be allowed."
"Of course, you would, you're my brother." He nudges Merlin with one elbow, smiling. "I know you don't like blood-sport, but it's scarcely a hunt, villain. We just go out there to ride and share company. You and I have hardly seen one another in the past few weeks. I'd like you to accompany us. You can bring Allegra, too."
"Ah, alright. I'll come. I can hardly refuse an order from the great and mighty Sir Leon, can I?" Merlin ducks Leon's swat with expert practice, laughing.
Leon has the right of it. It isn't so much as a hunt as an excuse for the newest knights and other young nobles to be out in each other's company, laughing and jesting, carrying light crossbows suited for small game and deer only as an afterthought. Admittedly, they did make a rather pretty picture, all in fine fettle and spring finery. The Master of the Hunt and his men scout out ahead unobtrusively, carrying beaters and holding the leads of lymers.
Merlin walks towards the rear of the party, carrying his oak staff in the place of a beater, Allegra trotting along beside him. The trees have yet to regain their full foliage, still opening tender new leaves; broad shafts of sunlight pierce through, dappling the forest floor with splotches of golden warmth. He closes his eyes for a moment as he walks, letting his ears guide hm instead, feeling the forest come awake around him after winter's dormancy. Extending new shoots towards the sunlit skies, sinking new roots deep into the damp soil, a joyous flush of growth and rebirth. Had he been on his own, he'd have taken off his boots and walked barefoot to better feel it.
He opens his eyes and picks Leon out of the assorted gentry, smiling at mop of curly hair. He has no taste for blood sport, but this…this is almost like being home.
"A lot of mindless savagery," a melodious voice remarks, and Merlin glances up. Riding more to the rear of the party on a grey palfrey is the Lady Morgana, the King's Ward, her maidservant on a sturdy pony beside her. "But of course, Arthur insisted I accompany them, and Uther thinks it's 'good company' for me. I scarce see what's good about hunting some innocent beast for sport."
He chortles quietly, appreciating the sentiment. He and Leon had gone hunting with Lionel as children and hawking with Lady Evaine, but though it was done somewhat in sport, nothing they ever killed went to waste. More often than not, it went to feeding the shepherds and crofters of Silverpine.
Lengthening his stride, he makes his way up to Leon and hears the envious murmurings of the other knights and lordlings admiring the Hellion. He extends his staff to tap his brother's thigh, grinning, and Leon returns the grin, raising his brows in that smug 'I told you so' way of his.
Despite the clamour, they still find game.
A huntsman's horn sounds, and at the head of the party, Prince Arthur lets out a joyous whoop, clapping heels to his horse. Leon thrusts an arm out, and Merlin lets himself be yanked up onto the saddle, gripping his waist as they take off in a mad, scrambling dash.
There are two of them, a pair of young bucks engaged in contest, antlers clattering. By the time the party comes up on them, the stags disentangle and flee in separate directions. The party splits, half going left, half going right, pursuing them both.
"Allegra, hunt!" Merlin shouts as the Hellion veers to the left, following the Prince. Ahead of them, the stag gains ground, leaping through shafts of sunlight like a fleet-footed shadow, and Allegra streaks near after it. The huntsman's horns sound again, gleeful and clear, urging them onwards…and then the sound changes, becoming an alarm.
Leon brings the Hellion to rein hard, whispering a hoarse curse beneath his breath, and Merlin slides off the mare's back, peering around.
He sees the glade, sees the Prince well ahead of them in it.
There isn't a deer.
There's a boar.
It's a monstrous boar, massive and irritable. It eyes the hunting party up with its small, beady gaze; the huge bristling head lowers, presenting its tusks. Allegra growls low in her throat, crouched and tense.
"Sire, don't move," Leon says in a strained whisper, carefully dismounting and drawing his sword. The other young knights do the same; none of them have boar-spears.
Prince Arthur nods stiffly, his hands working around the reins so hard the leather creaks in his gloves. Beneath him, his fractious young filly trembles, eyes rolling white, ears pinned back.
The boar scrapes the ground with one trotter, snorts loudly, and charges. Allegra snarls and snaps at it as she leaps out of its way.
The Prince's filly lets out a terrified squeal and bolts, crashing away through the undergrowth; the boar rounds for another turn, eyeing them up.
Indecision grips him for a burning second. But he knows his staff will be of no use against that moving mountain. Instead, Merlin snatches the reins of the Hellion and swings himself up into the saddle, turning the young mare. A spitfire she might be, but she goes easily for him, at least this once. "Go!" he shouts, leaning over the Hellion's neck and flinging the thought into the mare's mind as he puts heels to her flanks.
She responds. Merlin gives the Hellion her head and clamps down tight with his thighs, saying a prayer of thanks to the Aragonians for breeding such splendid beasts and to the gypsies that had gifted her to them.
"Prince Arthur!" he exclaims.
The Prince is upright in the saddle, sawing at the reins of his runaway mount, trying to force her back under control. There's a deadfall directly in their path. Merlin sees the skittish mare check hard, planting her forelegs hard and refusing the jump; the young man goes launching over her head, crashing down hard on the far side of the deadfall.
Merlin yanks on the reins, veering to the right, coming up on the deadfall. The Hellion gathers her haunches and leaps, tucking her striped hooves neatly as a dancer. She clears the fallen tree with ease, and Merlin turns her about, leaping down from the saddle.
Prince Arthur is sprawled on his back, coughing and wheezing, the breath knocked from him with the force of landing. Merlin hears something rustling through the underbrush, coming towards them at a quick pace. The boar? He can't know for certain, and though a part of him wants to fling his magic out at it, he doesn't dare, not even now with the Prince knocked half-senseless and unawares. Instead, he flings himself forward, putting himself square in front of the Prince. "Stay down!" he shouts. He might not have much meat to him, but he could stop a set of gouging tusks. Protecting the royal heir from a furious boar is at least a somewhat noble way to go.
And then he hears Prince Arthur laugh, a full, deep-throated laugh, unwontedly delighted.
Merlin gapes at him in disbelief, then turns around.
It's a deer. Only a deer. A young buck, like as not the one they had originally given chase to. It had bounded out of the undergrowth and frozen when it saw them. For a moment, it stares at them, ears pricked in alarm, then bounds away, making a prudent retreat through the trees.
"Your face," the young prince laughs. "Oh, your face! You should've seen it!"
Merlin leaps to his feet, feeling hot and embarrassed and foolish. He tries to protect his useless royal hide, and the blond prat has the audacity to laugh at him. "I'm so very glad to have amused you, sire," he bites out angrily, hands clenched in fists so he doesn't bash the git in his stupid snaggletoothed face. "I'm sure you won't mind catching your own bloody horse, if you can manage to contain your humour that long."
"No, wait—" Prince Arthur says, but Merlin ignores him.
Turning on heel, he strides back towards the Hellion, snatching her reins and leading her back towards the hunting party on foot. She snuffles at his hair curiously, and he pats her strong neck, trying to blink the stinging out of his eyes. He's not gone more than a few dozen paces when he hears voices calling. "Here!" he shouts back, hands cupped around his mouth.
Luckily, it's Leon who finds him first, crashing through the underbrush on foot, sword naked in hand.
"By the goddess!" Merlin exclaims; Leon's face is spattered in blood, both sleeves splashed thickly with it. His sword is bloodied. "What happened to you? Are you alright?"
"Yes, yes, of course, it's not mine. Where's Prince Arthur?"
"Trying to catch his horse, I imagine," he replies, trying not to sound as bitter and angry as he feels. "Was anyone hurt?"
Leon hesitates. "Ah, Merlin…"
"What? What is it?" He passes the reins to Leon and starts running back in the direction of the glade without waiting for an answer.
In the clearing, he sees the other knights and young nobles, most trying to calm their mounts. The boar lies dead in an enormous mound, scored all over with wounds and bristling with crossbow bolts. And kneeling upon the ground with no care for her gown is the Lady Morgana, cradling a grey shape in her lap.
"Allegra!" Merlin cries. His loyal hound rolls her eyes up to look at him, beating her tail feebly at his approach. She's been gored down her flank, a long gash opening her rib cage near down to the bones.
Guinevere, Lady Morgana's maidservant, tells him the whole story later. How the boar had charged them again and again in a mad fury, scattering the horses. How the few bolts the hunters managed to fire had succeeded only in enraging it further, the quarrels too small and light to do more than prick it. How it had charged for the Lady Morgana, and Allegra had come between them, snarling and fighting and being gored in the process. How Leon had been the first to lunge forward and drive his sword into the boar's breast, holding it as the others came forward to strike it down.
None of it much matters to Merlin. "Needle and thread," he snaps, turning his gaze around the ring of quiet, pale faces. "Name of the Mother, does no one carry it?" Magic tingles in his fingertips, but he chokes it back so hard it near hurts to do so.
"Here!" Guinevere hurries over to them, producing an embroidery kit from somewhere in her pony's saddlebag. A bit of fumbling, and she hands him a threaded needle. "Do you know what you're doing?"
"No, not really," he admits, swiping the tears from his eyes impatiently. He's seen Mother and Gaius bind up patients on rare occasion, and he's seen Lady Evaine and seamstresses doing stitches, but he himself? Never.
He stitches up his dog.
It's a messy business. Guinevere kneels beside him, using a wadded bit of finely embroidered cloth to blot away the blood as he goes, and the Lady Morgana holds Allegra's head, murmuring nonsense and stroking the hound's neck. For a mercy, the wolfhound's too weak to struggle much.
"Will she be alright?" Lady Morgana asks, sniffling as she strokes Allegra's fur.
"I don't know," Merlin replies, wiping a hand over his brow. If she can hold out until they get her back to the city, he can use his magic to heal her. Mother will give him whatever medicine he needs. "I'd have to get her home to be sure." Strong hands clasp over his shoulders, and he peers up into Leon's face, blinking back tears.
"She'll be alright, little villain," Leon murmurs, kneeling to embrace him tightly; Merlin leans gratefully into his brother's strong comfort, pressing his brow against cool chainmail. "Come on. Let's get back to Camelot."
Allegra lives.
Merlin uses somewhat of his magic, but not much. He has no real talent for healing magics, except in the direst of situations, and that is more panicked instinct than skill. Still, he knows enough to draw out infection and staunch bleeding. Most of it is thanks to Mother. She had tended to the shoddy stitches Merlin inflicted, packing the wound with an allotment of bread-mold and spiderwebs. It looks hideous, but it works.
"Allegra will be up and about soon, I imagine. She's been restless," Merlin observes as he curries the Hellion. The mare's bitten two of the stable boys already and nearly kicked another, but she behaves herself for Merlin, at least enough so he doesn't have to worry about the loss of his extremities. He does keep an eye on her legs, though, aware of the strength they carry. She could probably kick him clean through the stall door if she had a mind to. He's seen men bigger than Leon laid low by a well-aimed kick from a fractious horse and has no desire to experience it for himself.
"That's wonderful, Merlin. I know you love her a good deal. She's a fine dog."
"She is, isn't she?" He sets aside the brushes and climbs over the stall door rather than try to open it; the Hellion sees the open door as an invitation to leave, even if it is only to mill about the courtyard and sample the Lady Evaine's garden. "Almost as fine as you, you spotted menace," he remarks, patting the mare's strong neck.
"You should have her," Leon says abruptly. "The Hellion. You ought to have her."
Merlin jerks his head up in shock. "What? No, she was meant for you," he protests, shaking his head.
Leon gives him a flat look. "She was given to Father as a gift to the sons of Silverpine. That includes you," he says in a tone that brooks no argument.
Merlin swallows hard. He doesn't often think of the fact that there is no blood shared between them, but there's always moments like this which remind him that it scarce matters anyways. "Thank you, Leon," he murmurs.
The other man reaches over and tousles his hair. "She likes you far more than she likes me, anyways. Nearly took off one of my fingers the other day."
"Well, I'm not surprised. You never did have a way with women."
"Oh, shut up, would you?" Leon throws a bit of straw at him, and Merlin retaliates with a handful of his own. The Hellion pokes her head over the stall door and watches bemusedly as they pitch hay at each other like children, swearing and laughing in turn. It likely would've turned into a wrestling match had the cook's daughter Beryl not interrupted, clearing her throat nervously from the stable door.
"Yes, Beryl?" Leon brushes bits of hay from his clothing and hair.
"There's a lady here askin' for Merlin," the girl replies shyly, ducking her head.
"Ah, it's probably Aislinn." The young woman was a serving girl at the Cockerel and a kind friend. She'd promised to make him berry tarts in exchange for him clearing out some rowdy and overly-forceful patrons a few nights ago. Getting to his feet, Merlin gives the Hellion a pat and heads back inside the house, ruffling Beryl's hair in passing.
However, the ruddy-faced Aislinn isn't waiting in the parlour with berry tarts. It's the Lady Morgana, the King's ward, and her maidservant.
"My lady!" Merlin makes a low bow, realising with some horror that he still has straw clinging to his breeches and no doubt smells of horse as well. "Forgive me, I didn't realise—"
"Oh, please don't, I don't mind it. It's my own fault, springing on you without warning," she insists, flicking dismissive fingers as she comes a step closer. "I wanted to know how your hound fares."
Merlin blinks. "Allegra?" The King's ward has come to see his dog?
She smiles a little self-consciously, shrugging her delicate shoulders. "She protected us from the boar. Some might call it foolish, but I'm of the mind to pay respect to my saviours, even the four-legged ones."
"I, uh, yes, of course, my lady," he stammers. "This way."
The Lady Evaine didn't allow dogs in the house due to her allergy to them, but she's made exception for Allegra, allowing the hound to be laid up in an empty stockroom of the kitchen, up against the warm wall where the ovens lay on the other side. Allegra rolls her eyes up to look at him, her plumed whip of a tail beating weakly against the thick blankets she lay on.
"It festered a bit, but we treated it. She'll heal clean, like as not," Merlin says, kneeling down to stroke the hound's ears. "I have you to thank as well, my lady. I owe you an embroidery kit."
"No, you don't." Lady Morgana kneels on the floor beside him with no care for her fine gown, extending one hand for Allegra to sniff. She smiles when the hound licks her proffered fingers, and she strokes the top of Allegra's head gently. "She's a fine beast. No breed of lymer, though."
"Ah, no, my lady. A wolfhound. We keep a number of them in Brechfa."
"Are wolves so great in number there?" she asks.
Merlin chortles, scratching along Allegra's ruff and shoulder. "Not precisely, no, but the forests and mountains are largely wild, and Silverpine keeps itself in sheep, which make for easy prey to most predators. They'll course most any game, hare to bear, as our kennel-master says."
Lady Morgana smiles again. "She's lovely. Brave, too. As brave as her master." Her eyes lift to his face, a pale grey-green like frost-touched leaves. "The knights led us away, but I heard about you going after Arthur."
Merlin presses his lips together and doesn't speak, a faint spark of anger stirring at the memory of being laughed at by the golden prince himself.
She touches his wrist with soft, cool fingers. "I've known him since he was a child. He's insufferable, I know, but he does mean well, and he's a soft heart underneath it all."
Must be buried awful deep, then, he thinks. The prat couldn't even be bothered to remember his name. "As you say, my lady," he says instead.
Lady Morgana chuckles lightly and gives Allegra another gentle pat. "I'd like a dog, I think," she remarks. "Something to love and be kind to without expectation, loyal and true."
"Could you not ask for one, my lady? Surely the King wouldn't deny you?" Merlin proposes. Lady Evaine sneezes near dogs, but she hadn't begrudged any of them keeping their hounds.
"He wouldn't, and that's exactly why I dare not ask. He'd likely gift me one of those…trembling little yapping beasts," the lady replies, her lip curling in distaste, speaking of the small lapdogs that were the order of the day amongst other ladies at court. "No, I'd much prefer something like one of these, but that would not be 'ladylike,'" she says wryly, looking back down at Allegra. She starts to her feet, and Merlin quickly scrambles up to offer her a hand. She dusts the dog hair and soot from the front of her gown. "Well, it's best that I return to the castle soon. The King's having a small feast for the new knights that I'll have to attend. They're to be served boar, I hear."
"Naturally," Merlin remarks, offering his arm and escorting her to the front door. "Thank you for visiting, my lady. Your kindness is…appreciated, to say the least of it."
"It's nothing, truly." She turns to him with a small smile and touches his wrist. "The next time we see each other, Merlin, I'll take it as a kindness if you address me as Morgana."
Merlin flushes up despite himself, mouth abruptly dry. "I, uhm, of—of course, but…you know my name?" he says at last, feeling a bit slow.
She smiles at him. "Of course, I do. Sir Leon sings your praises often. He loves you very much, you know."
"I do. Betimes more than I deserve, I think," he mumbles, reaching out to open the door for her.
"Nonsense," she dismisses with a flip of the hand. Releasing his arm, she inclines her head slightly. "Good day, Merlin."
"Good day, my lady," he replies; her eyebrow arches. "Ah, Lady Morgana."
Her lips twitch upwards slightly. "Better." With that, she turns and heads back towards the citadel, Guinevere following behind her and guards flanking her on either side.
Merlin leans against the doorway, watching her go, and hears the floorboards creak behind him.
"Was that the Lady Morgana?" Leon asks incredulously, peering past him. "Why in the seven hells would the King's ward come calling on you?"
It's too easy. Merlin smirks. "I told you, Leon. You have no kind of way with women."
Leon punches his shoulder.