Like a butterfly among dung beetles—
Malduc watched Gwen pump water into two buckets. Her arms worked rhythmically, droplets dotting her skirt, her shoes, the dirt. Both buckets full, she cracked her wrists and squatted.
—her lips slightly parted, her cheeks flushed, her overworked eyes patient and radiant—
Gwen fit the yoke to her shoulders and straightened up with practiced ease. She smiled a greeting to the man nearby, who replaced her at the pump as she headed out toward the tents and pavilions.
—such grace and poise. The buckets swayed gently, in time with her hips, and the mud on her soles, the dust on her hem, served only to enhance her gentility. Even the shadows deferred to her—she made beautiful everything upon which she alighted.
"Looking for someone?" a pugnacious voice breathed in Malduc's ear, startling him. Malduc sighed—deliberately controlled, from deep in his throat—to cover his surprise. He pivoted—nonchalantly—to his left: Sir Oswald glowered so close that Malduc could count the hairs in his beard.
"If I were, it'd be someone more important than you, Dagr," Malduc made a show of brushing off his sleeve, though Dagr hadn't touched him. "It is Dagr, isn't it?" Malduc asked.
Dagr's nostrils flared, his fists coiled—he even bared his teeth, exposing a jammed piece of food. How anyone could mistake such an uncouth lout for a civilized knight was beyond Malduc. Nobles had such myopic standards.
"The other one seemed more like the mutt of the relationship," Malduc continued, noting Ebor-cum-Sir-Ethan gripping the Stulorne blade at his hip, ready to pounce on command. Dagr grabbed Malduc by the scruff and dragged him around the corner of the nearest building, where the few passers-by looked away.
"What are you doing here?" Dagr shoved Malduc up against the wall.
"I like to see my work in action." Malduc tried to move away, but Dagr gripped his shirt with both fists and pressed Malduc back. "A matter of pride," Malduc grunted. Beside him, Ebor leaned casually back, picking his teeth with a small knife.
"We could give you to Uther," Dagr said, contorting Oswald's face into something approximating a grin. "I hear the reward for sorcerers is excellent."
"Even you wouldn't be that stupid—I know too much about you," Malduc said. "And your hosts are already suspicious."
"No they're not," Ebor said defensively.
"Suspicious, despise you," Malduc stared into Dagr's rigid malice. "It's all the same to Uther if I unmask the little trinkets I gave you."
That got Ebor sufficiently worried, but Dagr remained unmoved.
"Shall we go to King Uther together?" Malduc asked. "I have nothing else I want to do—do you?"
Dagr jerked Malduc up, lifting him to his toes—Malduc resisted the urge to kick. He felt his weight sink into the fists pressed against his neck, his shirt still twisted in Dagr's fingers. It was all Malduc could do to keep his breath even, but he knew he'd won. Dagr's lips curled and snarled, chewing on a storm. He begrudgingly released Malduc.
"Besides," Malduc readjusted his attire, "you break your word as a point of pride—I'm just keeping an eye on what's mine."
"Stay out of our way," Dagr spat, jamming a finger to Malduc's chest.
"Likewise," Malduc said, lifting Dagr's finger with disgust, and relishing in Dagr's impotent malice as he walked away.
He'd hoped to blend in with the crowd, but promptly found himself pinned by the gaze of a pretty, pale-skinned, dark-haired noblewoman. She wore green, with a lovely golden snake necklace around her throat. She stared at him—no—through him. He might as well have been invisible, Malduc realized, as the Lady was, in fact, staring at Dagr and Ebor (Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan, as far as anyone could see) behind him.
"Are you all right?" a voice asked, from beside the Lady. His butterfly (what happened to the water buckets?), her eyes so rich and brown. Her elbow was locked through the noblewoman's arm.
"I mean, is everything all right?" Gwen amended her statement, hoping Malduc would stop focusing on her like that.
He didn't know her name; he hadn't given her his—they should introduce themselves, Malduc thought. But not in front of the noblewoman.
"Everything's wonderful," Malduc said, the sound of his voice drawing Morgana's attention away from the receding backs of Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan.
Morgana swore she had seen two different men than Oswald and Ethan. Having pulled Gwen away from Lady Marcella's petty barking, Morgana had glanced around the corner of the wooden building and seen two knights accosting this man now in front of her. But in a blink, the two had changed—height, posture, faces, beards, hair color—as if their clothes had suddenly switched out bodies.
It could've just been her imagination—a trick of shadows. But that it might not be—that it might, in fact, be her Sight—unsettled her.
And this man, standing before her—so overwhelmingly familiar.
"Is it," Gwen said. "That's," she clasped her arms around her chest, "that's wonderful."
Morgana racked her memory for Malduc's face, dismissing the possibility that her Sight was also responsible for this déjà vu—she had encountered this man before, she was certain. Gwen shuffled to a more subservient position, slightly behind Morgana, as Malduc devoured Gwen with his gaze. It would've been cute—his expression almost like an adoring puppy—if it weren't making Gwen so uncomfortable.
"Guinevere, I have places to be," Morgana affected an aristocratic air.
"Of course, my lady," Gwen bowed, giving Malduc a wan farewell smile.
Once he was out of earshot, Morgana commented, "I don't think he knows you were just being polite."
"I don't want to insult him," Gwen said.
"Why not?" Morgana asked. "Do you know him?"
"I've just seen him around for the Melee." Gwen didn't know how to answer Morgana's first question. She couldn't really explain it to herself—explain what, anyway? He hadn't done anything—and she saw no point in randomly antagonizing people.
"And I just don't," Gwen added.
Morgana almost argued: If the man couldn't discern that his attention was unwanted, Gwen might have to risk curtness. But then she remembered Ettare, and Pelleas's retribution for rejecting him.
"That may be wise," Morgana said. An unjust wisdom. And wherever she first saw him, it was from before the Melee festivities.
"How many are you going to have?" Merlin asked.
"As many as Arthur can afford," Gwaine grinned at Merlin as the barkeep refilled his mug.
"That's the last one," Merlin told Gwaine before giving the barkeep a look.
"Is that so?" Gwaine asked. "Who's the noble here?"
"Whoever gives me the money," the barkeep said, walking off with Merlin's empty mug.
Gwaine chuckled, unoffended.
"You've had enough," Merlin said.
"I've barely wet my lips."
"Then you can use your own money, or trade your necklace, or something."
Gwaine's countenance darkened—a cloud passing over the sun—Merlin was caught off guard, unsure what he'd said to provoke it. Gwaine turned his lips to a grin in an expression that was neither mischievous nor joyful.
"I have a better idea," Gwaine said. "Let's announce my lineage." He jumped up onto the counter, ale still in hand, and addressed the room: "I, the esteemed Prince Arthur's humble cousin, Gwaine, wish to celebrate Camelot's illustrious Melee—drinks for everyone!"
Cheers resounded, boisterous and loud.
"No!" Merlin protested, unheard. "No," he shouted to Gwaine. "No no no!" he shouted at those around him. "No," he pointed at the barkeep, who, to Merlin's relief, was equally unimpressed by Gwaine's display. Merlin dragged Gwaine laughing off the counter and shoved him toward the door.
"But I'm a noble," Gwaine mewled in fake protest, laughing all the more at his own joke, and letting Merlin push him outside.
"That explains why you're acting like such a prat," Merlin said, releasing him. "What's your problem with Arthur?"
"He's a noble," Gwaine said. Merlin led the way away from the tavern, the lower town jostling around them.
"So are a lot of people. Like King Uther—your uncle. Why not vent at him?"
"Uther's only related by marriage," Gwaine said. "Besides, do you know Arthur's reputation? You don't get that without being a thoroughbred little braggart."
"Really—that so?" Merlin had set a brisk pace toward the castle, but now he slowed. "So, at Mary's tavern, what were you going to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"Mary was having all her earnings stolen—in front of everybody—including you. The only person who stood up and did something was Arthur. I didn't." Merlin hadn't thought about it, but he probably would have tripped the ruffians with magic—or put a hole in their pockets so that all the coins fell out. It wouldn't have stopped them the next time, though—not like Arthur's authority had.
"But," Merlin continued, "you treat me with respect and Arthur with disdain. Because of our births—our titles. Are you sure you don't need to sober up?"
"I don't treat Arthur with disdain," Gwaine said half-heartedly.
"Right—you treat all nobility with disdain."
"If Uther demanded you die for him, would you?"
Merlin knew there was an expected, appropriate answer, which was Gwaine's point.
"I thought not," Gwaine said.
"I'd give my life for Arthur."
"Kings aren't worth dying for, Merlin."
"Is that a philosophical opinion?"
Gwaine hesitated, knowing that Merlin wasn't really prying. "No," he decided finally. "My father died fighting for King Pellinore. I remember him leaving, choosing political fealty over his family—my mother thought Pellinore wasn't worth it—of course, she thinks everyone's beneath our family."
"Pellinore—that's Lamorack's father, right?"
"Is he?" Gwaine said noncommittally. "Pellinore's an ass. He's big, he's strong, and he likes to stab things—and because he can fight, he thinks he has the right to whatever he lays his eyes on, including a life. You think Uther—or Arthur—is different?"
They'd arrived in the inner courtyard, where all the day's activity seemed to have relocated. Through the throng of noble bodies, Merlin could see Arthur surrounded by knights—Sir Lamorack and Aglovale among them. He also recognized Sir Taran, and Sir Brandt, but the half dozen others were visitors.
"The overlord and his fawning minions," Gwaine said.
"Arthur doesn't ask for anything he's not willing to give—why do you think he's so impressed by you? You saved his life, in a fight that wasn't yours."
"It wasn't his, either," Gwaine said.
"But for some reason, he thought it was. Shall we join the party?"
Gwaine didn't say anything, just watched Arthur's group of knights—then he turned his head to Merlin, a sly curiosity in his eye.
"Answer me truthfully: Is going over there right now really your idea of fun."
And like that, despite whatever points Merlin had managed to make, he lost the argument—because most knights were full of bragging and bravado and an overweening sense of entitlement. No, Merlin did not care what Arthur and his knights were talking about right now. He did not want to spend time in their company. He couldn't wait for the Melee to be over, for the saturation of aristocracy to be gone.
"C'mon," Gwaine grinned. "You know how to play draughts?"
Merlin glanced once more at Arthur. The truth was also that Merlin loved seeing Arthur presiding over his men, for the very reason Gwaine disparaged: Arthur's destiny was for leadership, and every genuine loyal knight in his company was one step closer.
Another night, another feast.
Morgana had cornered a servant setting the table beforehand and insisted on sitting next to Gwaine; she insinuated that she wished to flirt with him, get to know him better. The servant switched two goblets, which, looking at them now, were identical. The servant had either patronized her, or feared Morgana's wrath.
And Uther had still outmaneuvered her: Arthur sat between her and Gwaine, who sat on Uther's left.
Perhaps she should have arrived early and conquered a spot—or had Gwen arrange things—or escorted Gwaine to the feast herself, Merlin be damned. It might not have mattered. But Uther's determination to prevent so much as a superficial interaction convinced her all the more that Gwaine must know something Uther wanted buried.
"Gwaine," she spoke across Arthur, on her right, "did you ever meet your Aunt Igraine?" Beside Gwaine, Uther conversed with Aglovale and Lamorack—something Gwaine was clearly trying to ignore.
"Gwaine is younger than me, Morgana," Arthur said.
"Not by much," Gwaine murmured into his goblet.
"Been studying up, have we?" Morgana said to Arthur.
"As have you, so I hear," Arthur retorted.
"I can't be fascinated by Camelot's illustrious royal lineage?" she said with mock naivete. Gwaine snorted.
"Yeah, it's marvelous," he said. "We're descended from giants and fairies."
"Oh come on," Arthur said. He glanced quickly at his father, who'd perked up at Gwaine's statement.
"Not much of an exaggeration," Uther commented. "Your family claims to be among the oldest in the land," he said to Gwaine.
"Claims?" Morgana said. Arthur slapped her thigh under the table with the back of his hand, a message to shut up lest Uther shut up. Uther acted as if Gwaine had asked the question.
"Igraine," Uther picked through his words, as though the wrong one would cause a landslide.
Merlin refilled Gwaine's goblet, cocking an ear toward Uther. Morgana wanted to swat him away, even though he was just doing his job—Merlin was just doing his job, wasn't he—was just being Arthur's servant—and he hadn't betrayed her yet.
He truly hadn't betrayed her, had he?
Yet.
"Igraine . . . mistrusted those who substituted bloodlines for actions. You'd have liked her, I think," Uther told Gwaine. "And she'd have told you to grow up."
Arthur's posture fell, so subtly that only Morgana noticed—Uther was done.
"The Questing Beast is dead," Uther resumed his conversation with Aglovale and Lamorack. "Pellinore will have to seek a different challenge. The Saxons won't stay quiet forever; or Vikings—rumor has it that they routinely raid our shores."
"Pellinore could viking the Vikings," Gwaine said. He raised his goblet to mutter into his wine: "If he can find a boat big enough for his head."
Uther ignored him, if he heard, as Lamorack commented, "The Vikings are too sporadic, they're not a problem." Arthur studied Gwaine.
"Do you always do that?" Arthur asked.
"Do what?" Gwaine said.
Arthur picked up his own goblet, imitating Gwaine: "Oh, did I say something," Arthur said instead of drinking.
"I also hear Prince Lot is making a bit of noise up north," Uther turned to Gwaine and Arthur.
"Lot wants more than one kingdom under his rule," Arthur confirmed. "Is your father really looking for a fight?" he asked Aglovale and Lamorack.
"Says the renowned Prince Arthur," Aglovale said. Arthur ignored him.
"Lot likes strategy," Arthur said. "He won't get caught in a simple duel."
"Is that your assessment as well?" Uther asked Gwaine.
Gwaine suppressed a grimace, unable to get out of this discussion—war talks, if anyone was honest—with Camelot and two sons of Pellinore. He again brought his goblet to his lips. "Yes," he said before taking a sip.
Morgana stopped listening. Why had she assumed Gwaine would care? No doubt, for the same reason she assumed he knew anything in the first place. She was chasing phantoms.
"Morgana, you're not eating," Uther chided. He was not really looking at her—he was too busy politicking for his acolytes—administering a princely tutoring session—he'd only noticed her peripherally, as he paused to take a bite from his own plate.
"No," Morgana admitted. "I'm afraid I've suddenly lost my appetite. I think I'll retire early," she stood. "If you can survive without my company."
Uther nodded his assent. Morgana left the Hall without further comment, the revelry blind to her exit. Gwen followed, Merlin sneaking after.
"Gwen, I think I just want to go to bed," Morgana said as they reached the stairs near Morgana's chambers. She felt so empty.
Merlin skulked behind, staying just within earshot.
"Let me turn it down for you," Gwen offered as they climbed the stairs. "Set out your night clothes."
"Thank you," Morgana halted at the top, moonlight shining through the windows. "But I need solitude right now." She needed solid ground. She gave Gwen a wan smile, pleading in her mind for Gwen to leave. Gwen, who had once been a great confidante. But that had changed—
Morgana's face fell, her entire demeanor hardening: at the bottom of the stairs, Merlin had frozen mid-stride.
"A-Arthur was worried about you," Merlin swallowed his caught-red-handed surprise. He took two steps, to prove he hadn't been spying but following orders.
"No he wasn't," Morgana snapped. Beside her, Gwen stared at Merlin with exasperation. "Gwen," Morgana continued, "perhaps you could teach Merlin how to mind his own affairs." She punctuated her command by pivoting around, and, once in her chambers, slamming her door. Merlin had reached Gwen's side atop the stairs.
"She's not better, is she?" he said.
"You're not helping," Gwen said, descending a step. "What were you even doing?"
Merlin shrugged helplessly as he trailed Gwen back down the stairs. "I-uh—" he tried, the non-sound his only explanation. Why had he followed Morgana? Suspicion? Of what? Habit? An excuse to escape the feast and the drunken demands of blowhard knights? Because it was his job—Destiny said so?
"If I escort you home, will that count as an apology?" Merlin asked sheepishly. He'd followed Morgana because it was his duty to keep an eye on her, but Gaius was the only one who understood that.
Gwen sighed out her disappointment and smiled her consent. She didn't really want to return to the feast anyway—she was too concerned about Morgana, and Lady Marcella's incessant domineering had killed her fascination with the festivities.
She accepted Merlin's proffered arm and they left the castle, bypassing other servants, and avoiding the feast, which reached their ears only as a discordant hum.
"You think one day we'll be invited to sit at a feast?" Merlin asked. A squire had hustled past, toward the Great Hall (even outside in the courtyard, the feast pervaded).
Gwen wrinkled her nose. "I think it'd be too much—all that expectation."
"Oh yes, I hate it when people expect me to chatter and gorge."
"You laugh, Merlin," Gwen bantered back, "because Arthur is good at it—he likes it. Others . . . think it's fake."
"Is that what you think, or what Morgana thinks?"
"Morgana," Gwen said. The night air was cool without chill, and the gibbous moon pierced the darkness. Crossing the bridge to the lower town, they heard pools of revelry. Fires and lanterns shone amidst laughter and ale—undeniable celebration interspersed with guards who intermittently joined.
"Sometimes," Gwen said as they navigated around the parties, "I don't think she gives people a chance. She likes Arthur—she thinks he's more than his boasting—but she knows him."
"Yeah," Merlin agreed. "People surprise you." Arthur had certainly surprised him—occasionally still did—and Gwaine's determination to confound expectation was currently enlivening Merlin's week. There was also Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan—no, there were knights perplexed by Sir Oswald and how he was acting.
"But not always in a good way," Gwen said. They had reached her house, and she faced him, her door at her back. "Leave Morgana alone, Merlin. She won't forgive you if you hound her."
Morgana's forgiveness. It would not happen, and he could not seek it—for multiple reasons that, again, only Gaius understood.
"I didn't want her to die," Merlin said, and meant it. He mourned Morgana.
"I know that, Merlin," Gwen said. "And Morgana knows it." Merlin doubted that. "You have to give her time."
Time to what, Merlin thought, realize her Destiny? He smiled weakly, but his gaze fell—Gwen was right for what she knew and he couldn't disabuse her. And he truly did want to save Morgana.
"Goodnight, Merlin."
"Night, Gwen."
Merlin headed away, and Gwen softly shut her door. The pockets of celebration echoed still, with no sign of abating. They deserve this fun, Merlin thought. At the royal feast, Arthur was probably missing him—or rather, missing his servant. Too bad. Merlin didn't want to return just yet. He wanted to breathe in the night, to let his feet wander, his thoughts untangle.
But only a few yards away, against the shadowed wall of a neighboring house, someone watched him.
"Hello?" Merlin said.
The figure stepped forward—the man from the skirmishes who'd been watching Oswald and Ethan. He wore dark clothes now, and a golden torc gleamed from his collar. He stared coldly at Merlin, evaluating—Merlin half-expected a challenge, and he studied the man in turn, recognition evading his grasp.
Then Malduc relaxed. He clasped his hands affectedly, one palm atop the other.
"You are Prince Arthur's servant," he said, identifying Merlin to himself.
"I know you," Merlin tried to place him.
Malduc almost laughed. "Oh, we've never met."
"You know me."
"You're Prince Arthur's servant."
"Nobody pays attention to servants." This runaround was obnoxious.
"I do," Malduc retorted—an unplanned reaction, apparently, for Malduc recomposed himself before continuing: "It must be a prestigious position, the Prince's servant—yet unappreciated. You're still invisible, aren't you? Derided, beat down—less respect than a dog."
"Who are you?" Merlin asked. And are you selling something?
Again, that almost-laugh. "Just a journeyman who wanted to see one of Camelot's renowned tournaments."
"'Just' in the middle of the night?" Merlin started to feel like he'd accidentally joined a mummer's show.
Malduc chuckled this time.
Practiced dialogue and actions.
Malduc offered his hand: "Beauregard."
"What?"
"My name."
A false name, if ever Merlin heard one.
"And it's nice out here," Malduc dropped his hand as his eyes unconsciously flicked to Gwen's house. Merlin glanced back at Gwen's closed door, then at Malduc.
"Are—are you following Gwen?" Merlin asked, astonished.
"What? No," Malduc stumbled over his words, and Merlin thought, Oh did I make you forget your lines?
"I'm pretty sure she already has a beau, Beauregard."
"No," Malduc insisted, recovering whatever pride he thought he'd lost. Merlin kind of felt sorry for him, having his heart exposed like that; he also felt triumphant for hitting a nerve—for one moment, Malduc had stopped posturing.
"You imposed your conversation on me," Malduc continued. "I was just out for a nightly perambulation—
Perambulation?
"—You think nobility will ever notice you, treat you well? You should have seen how your friend was being treated today. Guinevere has more grace than those noblewomen ever will—the noble-born have no idea."
"Noble-born—like Sir Oswald?"
"Who?"
"One of the knights you were staring at during the skirmishes."
"Is that his name?" Malduc picked at a fingernail. "He borrowed something of mine—promised to return it, upon his word."
"What'd he 'borrow'?" Merlin asked.
"That's my problem—I'm sure you have plenty of your own with the Glorious Arthur."
Did he roll his eyes? Merlin couldn't be certain in the darkness. "What's your trade," Merlin asked, determined to keep the conversation going until he could remember where he'd first seen 'Beauregard.'
"Manuscripts," Malduc said. "One would think it would be a respected skill."
"You'd think a lot of skills would be respected," Merlin said. "Is this your first time in Camelot?"
"No," Malduc said, unaffectedly.
"Geoffrey not need an apprentice?" Merlin asked.
Malduc scoffed—a genuine reaction. "I find very few people need an apprentice once they discover how poor my parents were. They say they can smell it on me."
Merlin was softening. How many people did he pass everyday—how many names didn't he know? What if his first encounter with 'Beauregard' was in the market? Druids called Merlin Emrys, and it was like a promise in Merlin's soul. Perhaps Beauregard simply wanted to outmaneuver people's disdain—to be something more than the Sir Oswalds of the world deemed him.
"What, of this world, do you think Guinevere deserves?" Malduc asked, looking at Gwen's candlelit house.
"Gwen deserves the best," Merlin said. "But seriously, she's spoken for."
"It was a rhetorical question," Malduc replied. Without any further acknowledgment of Merlin's presence—as though he'd been talking to himself—he walked away.
Merlin considered following. He considered letting Gwen know about her new suitor, although maybe she already knew. Or maybe Beauregard had got the hint and wasn't wooing her. Merlin looked around—Beauregard had vanished into the night. Perhaps it was just as well. What justification did he have for following someone simply because he couldn't remember their name? He closed his eyes. Revelry still echoed through the town, but now it seemed intrusive. He kept missing the mark, of late, and it rattled him—he felt his raison d'etre slipping through his fingers. So he did the only thing he could think to do, and returned to the feast.
Safe—supposedly—in her chambers, Morgana wiped a tear from her cheek. She refused to cry. She cupped the gold bracelet on her wrist, given to her by Morgause, and embossed with their father's crest. Morgause, her erased half-sister.
Knowledge without acknowledgment. Truth without truth. That was what she had.
Morgause had enchanted the bracelet to help her sleep, and it did, much better than the sleeping draughts Gaius made her—a small vial of which waited on her bedstand. She took off the bracelet and lowered it over the vial, the one encircling the other.
She had one more resource.
It was time to stop running from herself.