Chapter 16: Mithian (4)
One week passed, then another. Intuition and the wordless yearning Mithian had felt in the weeks between her proposal and his arrival – met and merged. Though the words had not been spoken, intentions were clarified by the day, and Mithian excused herself whenever she thought of Merlin as hers.
They went on walks, like a courtship in Ealdor. They met early before meals and took the wrong – long – way to the dining room. Mithian discovered, with mild surprise, that their hours spent apart in industry stimulated the conversation when they were together, rather than otherwise.
And, they weren't strictly apart, the whole time she was in the library, or he in the infirmary. Once the first day, she looked up from her quill and parchment at her desk to see him between bookshelves, hands clasped behind his back and jacket casually unbuttoned, head bent to scrutinize the writing on the spines of the books. She watched him for only a few moments, neither moving nor saying anything, before he straightened and turned his head to meet her eyes. And smiled. And reached for a book and retreated.
And somehow, she was happier for the silence than for any comment he might have made.
The second day, more than once she glanced up to see him. Putting the book back or selecting a different one, or just showing himself to smile and wave.
The third day, she decided to slip into the infirmary to watch him. He had his back to the door – Alice saw Mithian, and smiled but said nothing – and was grinding something in a small stone bowl. In his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up on his forearms, the muscles of his arms, shoulders and back moving with subtle strength. As he chatted animatedly with the healer about the ingredients for some remedy – she'd missed what ailment it was for – preparation technique, measurements, and timing.
And then he looked over his shoulder at her – and his grin lit up his face.
Her heart bumped out of rhythm, and she told herself she was glad he seemed happy, content with the arrangement that kept him from his home, his friends and his king, for this extended time.
The second week, it seemed they both had grown confident that a sudden appearance would not interrupt the other person – and in fact, would be welcomed. What are you doing, sort of questions. Mithian found herb-lore more interesting than she ever had before – and decided that she loved witnessing Merlin's intelligence and skill in the healer's field.
The first fortnight of Merlin's visit stretched toward the first month. The first snow fell, flakes tiny and light – then clumping wetly together in amazing free-falling gobs that caught on the grass and dripped off the roofs – then finally dissolved into a steady lasting rain that filled their grassy moat knee-high and carved muddy furrows past the buildings of the town, down the hill.
Mithian began to feel like she had never had a friend, before. Or that she never understood the concept. His presence was steady and supportive and seemingly unconditional. When she grew downhearted at the thought of actually leaving Nemeth he was patient – when she snapped annoyed at Ybor, Merlin listened uncomplainingly and didn't take offense at her mood.
She still took his elbow when they walked. Once reached to adjust the collar of his tunic before dinner, ignoring his blush and nervous swallow. Sometimes they sat so close that arms or legs brushed briefly. And sometimes he took her hand for a kiss of salutation. He didn't try for more, and she wondered why – and then considered that she was too shy, after all, to initiate.
One night he missed dinner, without excuse. Mithian was the only one alarmed, but Alice was not in the infirmary, so she had to wait til morning to check with Refan – who didn't believe their guest had returned to his chamber at all during the night – and with the healer, once again.
Entering the infirmary quietly, she found Merlin sitting at one of the tables, leaning on his elbow with his head on his hand, fingers shoved into disheveled hair, and face dropped too low to see his expression properly. Jacket discarded and shirt rumpled. Mithian started toward him and Alice stood from the corner to catch her arm and explain, in a very low voice.
"We were too late to save the baker's daughter. Though the baby survived, thanks to Merlin…"
She wondered if, as a physician, this was the first time he'd lost a patient.
"Just leave him be," Alice advised.
Mithian watched him. She believed she was seeing him at his lowest point; she was a little in awe of that. She wanted to offer him more than just comfort, support, or sympathy – maybe there wasn't a word for it. And if he allowed that, if he needed that, if he let her inside these most vulnerable feelings…
He didn't move, and after a few moments, she approached and eased onto the seat at right angles to him. It didn't seem like he'd even noticed, and she said nothing. Just slipped her fingers into the hand that lay limply on the tabletop, and held it. She didn't squeeze or rub – watching him for any sign that he resented her intrusion. Didn't offer any condolences that he must surely know already – it wasn't your fault, you did everything you could – that wouldn't feel true or comforting at the moment.
It might have been an hour, that they sat so. It might have been more. He finally shuddered, drew in a deep breath and straightened, then exhaled. She watched him return from wherever he had retreated – realize her presence – and give her such a smile that stopped her heart in her throat and her breath in her throat.
And he turned to Alice to ask for another task.
Alice sent him to bed instead, but Mithian could not stop thinking that she had seen him, that day, more clearly than in all his stories about his childhood, or his adventures – told as an adventure, but she was beginning to read him between the lines of dashing and daring and humor – in Camelot with Arthur and the knights.
One afternoon she realized that, perhaps due to absent-minded daydreaming, she had copied the same paragraph into her manuscript twice over. Which ruined not only the entire sheet of parchment, but several hours of work, since she was already halfway down the second side of the sheet. Frustrated and thinking herself alone, she vented her feelings with a few choice training-field phrases picked up from her brothers and their comrades over the years.
And looked up to find Merlin just reaching the end of an aisle between bookshelves, stepping into the center area – and startled at her language.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she turned her back, doubly humiliated, and miserable. Anyone but him.
But he only came to her, saying with concern in his voice, "What's wrong?"
She confessed her mistake – excused her language shame-facedly.
His smile indicated that he didn't think any less of her – which was probably more than she could've expected from some knight or lord's son – and he said, "Shall I fix it for you?"
Wordlessly she watched his eyes flare – again that amazing unspoken magic, that did exactly what he wanted without the formation of a specific spell – and the mistakenly added paragraph vanished without a mark.
She could've kissed him, then.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Mithian could hear the baby's gurgle before she reached the bend in the hall, past the infirmary and toward the kitchens, and slowed her steps. Peeking around the corner, she was transfixed by the sight of her brother and his wife and their four-month-old son.
Beneath the corner window, in a spot that was always warm because of the proximity of the kitchen hearth, there was a comfortable chair with solid rather than open arms, and a low back. Crissa was seated there, holding the baby prince on her lap, supported in the crook of her elbow.
Maybe Ybor had found them there, or maybe they'd been spending time together and decided to relax a few moments; he perched on one of the chair's arms, leaning on its back behind and above Crissa. He bent forward to make a delightedly silly face at his son, and chuck the plump cheek with his forefinger. Crissa watched his face with a sort of joyful satisfaction that warmed to love as Ybor transferred his gaze to her.
Then he cupped her face in his hand, tipping her head back to meet her lips. He kissed her sweetly – Mithian couldn't look away – and then with rising passion.
Her breathing quickened as her heart lifted in her chest with longing, and tears obscured her view of her brother's family, and all of the emotion they seemed to have comprehended to enjoy.
His love affected her wholehearted yielding, which produced the baby – which pleased the young father and caused him to love his wife all the more for the priceless gift she'd given him. His appreciation for her labor of love – his love for the son she'd borne – made him even more dear to her. To be closer to a person, did not seem possible.
And she wanted it. Oh, how she wanted it. All of it.
"Mithian?" Merlin's voice was low, calculated not to carry far.
She blinked and looked up at him – she'd put her back to the wall hidden by the corner, and he faced her, leaning slightly out to see what she'd seen. The happy little family – baby, mama, and papa.
"Are you all right?" he continued, shifting out of sight of the others in the chair under the window at the far end of the hall. Returning his gaze to her, pure concerned blue, and her heart ached all the more – though not in an unpleasant way.
"Yes, I just…" She gestured, trying to explain. "Seeing my sister-in-law, with her husband and their child. It makes me think."
His look was innocent puzzlement, and she wondered if she should shrug off her reaction – or try to reach an even deeper level in their relationship.
"It makes me think," Mithian repeated deliberately, "about me – and you. That if we marry – when we marry – I might have a child. We might have children." His expression shifted toward dawning realization, full of satisfactory wonder. She added lightly, "I could give you a son."
And then.
His smile vanished. His face paled in an expression of true shock, bordering on terror which was much more than just, a young bachelor's trepidation when faced with this particular topic.
"What's the matter?" she said instantly. If she had been someone else she might have taken offense at his reaction – but she wasn't.
"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. Backed away from her into the opposite wall – felt his way down their hall a few steps – came to a halt leaning on the stone, fingers bent as if to grip the smooth face, his other hand a fist half-raised at his side.
She followed him silently, placed herself facing him, and waited.
He contemplated her – didn't try to smile – swallowed and closed his eyes and composed himself, dropping his hands to his sides though still leaning his shoulder on the wall.
"My father," he said. She nodded, understanding and encouragement. "Was forced to flee our home by rumors of Uther's men hunting him, before my mother knew that… she was going to give him a son."
Mithian kept quiet, fairly sure that his consternation did not stem from a fear that he would likewise be driven from her side, somehow.
"He did not return – we thought he died." Merlin took a deep breath. "I… came to Camelot, to Gaius, to learn." She nodded again. "I… found the Great Dragon – Uther kept him a chained captive, under the citadel."
Again, something she'd known. She could remember more than one occasion in her childhood, her brothers making adolescent plans to storm Camelot's citadel – impossible – and free the creature.
"I heard his voice before I'd been there a full day. I… befriended him. There were times when – things happened, Arthur's life was threatened. I went to him for help. He was the first one to tell me, Arthur was the Once and Future King destined to unite the land – but he would face many threats. And that was the purpose of my magic, to fight for and with Arthur. Two years later, I… chose to set the dragon free. I knew he was angry – I saw glimpses of what he would do, but…" Merlin took another deep breath; clearly this memory was one that bothered him. "He attacked Camelot."
"We did hear that news," Mithian confirmed softly, her heart aching – she knew him well enough by now to realize he would consider himself responsible.
"He returned, and the next night. We didn't know what to do – my magic wasn't strong enough to stop him – he wouldn't listen. Then Gaius said, a Dragonlord." His hand found hers, and gripped it. "His name was Balinor, and he was my father. He'd lived alone for years, in a cave – he was bitter, and fearful, but he came to help Camelot anyway. He came to help me. He said, I don't know what it is to have a son…"
Merlin dropped his gaze to the floor, and Mithian moved closer to see more of his face. She'd known the facts – but like many of his stories, the hidden details were heartrending.
"I don't know what it is to have a son," he repeated, in a whisper.
She had lost her own mother six years ago, though she did have excellent examples to follow in Amylia and Crissa – and of course they would have Merlin's mother, as far as examples and support in parenting. But it would be selfish to try to gather his attention to herself, at this moment.
"I understand that it happens slowly, over time," she said instead. "We'll have months to adjust to the idea before a baby is born. And you won't have to turn out a fully grown young man, honorable and respectable and intelligent and compassionate, immediately. My father says there's plenty of time to make and fix plenty of mistakes – no person is perfect, so no parent is perfect – especially if there's good raw material there to work with."
Merlin didn't meet her eyes, though he listened – and after a moment nodded like he accepted her reassurance. Then he took another deep breath.
"But Princess, my firstborn son will be a dragonlord also," he said, spiking a breathless exhilaration and apprehension in her, to realize this rather obvious truth for the first time. "Someday. Next spring I am meant to hatch an infant dragon, and… Before he died, killed by a sword meant for me, my father said to me, When you face the dragon, remember to be strong. A dragon's heart is on its right side, not its left. And that was all, all I learned about my heritage and responsibility from my father – how to kill them." He gave a shaky laugh that caught at her heartstrings. "Kilgarrah and I understand each other, I think, but… I went back to search my father's cave, to see if maybe he'd left anything. Books, papers – anything. But…"
"There was nothing?" Mithian guessed. Calm crept over her, to finally understand the cause of her suitor's disquiet. "Come with me, a minute."
She took his hand and led him, as he continued. "I've had no training – I thought Kilgarrah could surely help me with the new dragon – and anyway I know that if I have to, I can command it to refrain from any action that is destructive or detrimental. But I have no idea what to teach someone else – how to train… a child… my child…"
They were at the library, and the door was open. She led him inside, not down the usual aisle used to reach the central seating area, but to the last shelf, against the wall. One of her favorites when she'd been a child – so familiar she rarely came to them anymore, preferring to spend her time with works she hadn't read.
"These are all to do with magic," she told him. His jaw dropped, and she added, "Surely you have these in Camelot, too? Books on the history and use – and some of the historical users – of magic?"
"I think so," he managed. "There's a hidden room in the library, I haven't really had time to explore. The goblin put me off it, a little…"
Her turn to be surprised. "A goblin?"
"I'll tell you sometime," he said, reaching but not touching.
"Well," she said, turning her head sideways to skim the shelves visually, looking for size and color and the word – dragon – "Here."
Dragonlords and Their Charges. The Bond of Dragonkin, Theoretical and Practical Treatises. A History of Dragons and Their Lords. The Seasons of a Dragon, Health and Aging.
To name a few.
"Ay damn, Mithian," Merlin breathed.
She barely had time to register that he'd said her name for the first time. The next instant, he had gathered her close to him, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and cradling her against his chest, enfolding her to rest his cheek on her hair.
Mithian held her breath for a heartbeat, then dared to pass her arms around his ribs, holding him too. It felt strange – far more intimate than hugging her family, even father or brothers – molding her body to his and feeling him struggle to breathe evenly. It felt forward – it felt good – it felt safe.
"No one has ever given me anything so precious," he whispered, pulling back.
She released him, swaying away also, but he wasn't finished expressing himself – he cupped her face in his hands, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, fervent and vulnerable and warm.
Mithian didn't know what to say. You're welcome. Something more flippant, like how it was in her interests as well, as the future mother of this future dragonlord – if that was what the current one wanted.
She was glad he had said, something so precious. Because she could consider that he'd been given other things more precious than a shelf of dusty, faded books. Life itself, from his parents. A priceless upbringing by the splendid woman who was his mother. An education from Gaius – a single day to have and remember the father he'd thought dead. Freedom, from his king, and friendship.
But she didn't have to say anything. He turned back to the books as if he hadn't done anything extraordinary in kissing her somewhere that wasn't the back of her hand.
Mithian smiled at him, and went to advise Gunnor's tutor to conduct lessons elsewhere, and to arrange the noon meal for two to be brought to the library. Their guest wasn't to be disturbed.
And beside the growing stack on the desk Merlin had claimed, Mithian piled half her stock of parchment. A full inkwell, and a fresh quill. She wasn't sure he noticed, exactly, but he began to use them with relish, which was all the thanks she needed.
Mithian settled herself at her desk for the morning. She copied her tournament listing slowly, looking up often to watch Merlin devour the texts – exclaiming softly to himself, and then making a quick note on the parchment. Surely in time, these few dozen books could be copied, and given to him. But for now…
The servants had just departed from laying out a cold meal on an empty desk nearby, when Merlin rose with a scroll in his hand and strode over to her.
"Look at this," he said. The air itself fairly crackled with excitement near him, and she couldn't help smiling. "It's a record of ancestry. I mean, I've seen Bernard's, but that's different. These are – dragonlords, Mithian. All of them, going back…" He counted a moment –
He said my name again –
Then raised shining eyes to hers. "Eleven generations. All connected, even though they're gone – Kilgarrah will remember some, I'm sure, and then the new dragon – and then…"
She took the scroll and studied it. Finding Balinor at the bottom – and space had been left by some hopeful record-keeper. She dipped her own quill to freshen the ink, then added, neat and small: m. Hunith, a small line pointing downward, and Merlin.
He said, breathless and doubtful, "You can just – do that?"
Mithian gave him her fullest, most roguish grin. Didn't I just?
Something fired in his eyes, too suddenly for her to define. His eyes captured her mouth – flicked back up to hers questioningly – and then he was there, before she could lean back, molding his lips softly to hers.
Merlin had such a beautiful mouth. Sparks flitted haphazard as butterflies through her to realize he was kissing her.
He made no effort toward kindling passion, the way Ybor had done with his wife – but when Merlin withdrew, it was only fractionally… and then he kissed her again. And again – and that time she gathered her wits sufficiently to answer his kiss.
And maybe that made him realize, and reconsider, and he pulled back.
She knew she was blushing – and grinning like a loon – but it seemed to reassure him. So then he blushed and grinned, and dropped his eyes – and that served to steady her. He felt the same as she – surprise and delight and probably more-later-sometime-when? No embarrassment and no regret, just innocent and entirely appropriate pleasure.
A deeper level to their relationship.
"Are you hungry?" she said. "I don't know if you noticed, but – they've brought us food."
They remained in the library for the rest of the day. Mithian curled up in a comfortable window-seat to read and nap, and sent their excuses for dinner. In return, her father sent more food than they needed, again.
When the candles were burning low, she gave up. She understood the draw for Merlin, and loved his craving for the knowledge of his heritage, but she did not feel it so keenly.
"Merlin," she said, leaning over him – and a moment later, spread her hand over his page. He looked up, deep circles under his eyes – and even deeper joy within them. "It will all be here tomorrow."
He stood from his chair without shifting his feet. "I know," he said quickly. "You go on to bed – you didn't have to stay with me. It's just –" his mouth twisted wryly – "I couldn't sleep anyway. I've often sat up, don't worry about me."
Mithian hesitated, but decided that time would serve to calm his urgency, as he read his way further through the writings, and came to his own conclusion that complete and lasting focus was probably unnecessary.
"Good night then," she said, lifting her hand to stifle a yawn.
He caught it up again, just as she was letting it fall, and dropped a kiss more intimately on the palm of her hand. "My lady."
Was it her imagination that he stressed my. She didn't think so, and glowed all the way back to her chamber, all the way to sleep, to think that he considered her his, also.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
In the morning, half the books had been put away, and half the parchment used – Mithian checked before breakfast.
And Merlin was already in the dining hall before she arrived, tired-eyed and excusing yawns, but happy. Ybor, evidently, could not understand why someone would forego sleep for a book; Merlin gave Mithian a private grin across the table that thrilled her.
Crissa remarked, "I find that I have more and more time on my hands since Baby is getting older. I wonder, does Alice have enough little assignments to keep both of us busy?"
"I am sure of it," Merlin declared.
Mithian spent the morning – a sunny one for early winter – at target practice with the archery butts. Merlin commented on her pink cheeks when he left the library to join her for the noon meal, and she felt warm to her toes again.
He came attentively to dinner, also – after which they took another circuitous route to parting. He didn't say anything of real importance – though their conversation sometimes lulled, it never lagged anymore – but Mithian didn't think she could be happier. She was sure he would say something, soon.
The next morning, Mithian was surprised to break her fast with her two sisters-in-law, the children, and her father.
"Where are the boys?" she asked Amylia – who broke open a steaming muffin composedly.
"I'm not sure… I'm glad you've braided your hair like that today, it looks very pretty."
"It goes well with your dress," Crissa added, "and the boots were a good idea today." She smirked at the baby rocking in her arms, and Rodor smiled and nodded.
Mithian touched the two braids along the left side of her head – there were two others on the right – self-consciously.
After breakfast, she went looking for Merlin, and found him in the hall outside the armory. Dressed in the plain but warm-looking brown jacket, with a scarf wound around his neck, and… Carrying a crossbow.
"What do you intend to do with that?" she asked playfully.
He swung it up to rest one of the crosspieces against his shoulder; his eyes gleamed with fun as he approached her. "Come with me and I'll show you."
She turned, catching his extended elbow as he reached her – and when he didn't slow, she had to skip a little to keep pace.
"I apologize in advance," he added, "for the production this has grown into. I asked your brother one simple question, and…" He leaned to open the outside door and if she hadn't still been clinging stubbornly to his arm, she might've stopped still in surprise.
More than half a dozen saddled horses moved restlessly through the grassy lawn between stables and palace. Several servants dipped and ducked among them, carrying and fastening various bundles. Refan came toward them with Mithian's white-fur wrap stretched invitingly to protect her from the cold air. Behind him, she watched her brothers mount their horses, cheerfully issuing orders to the attendants – those coming along, and those staying behind. Beyond the natural bridge, she could hear the deep mournful yelps of impatient hounds awaiting the hunting party.
"What –" she began, without any idea what her question should be. Because it was obvious, wasn't it? what was going on, what he'd done.
Refan folded her wrap over her shoulders as she turned toward Merlin, and he reached to tuck the fur more warmly – more briefly. "Today is for you," Merlin said.
Even though he preferred smaller, quieter groups using their own skill – not the beaters' luck or the hounds' persistence. Even though her brothers had surely demanded a substantial escort – and then probably volunteered themselves, so as not to lose out on any fun. She could not see Merlin asking for the dogs, or the foot participants.
He held her horse's reins and stood at her stirrup, though she didn't need any help mounting, and she found her gloves laid across the bow when she swung into the saddle.
They had ridden to the blade-smiths to watch their magic, one clear afternoon, but that was the only time they'd taken horses on an outing, rather than using their own legs. She was surprised and pleased to see that he was quite a capable horseman, watching him keep his seat easily and comfortably, down the hill and up the next into the uninhabited lands of Nemeth.
"Despite," he explained lightly, "growing up in a village where there were no horses. Arthur's idea of teaching me about horses was all-or-nothing. Ride-or-fall, if I was going to accompany him on patrols, and of course mucking his stables as a frequent punishment."
"Your prince is lucky to have you," Antor called back. "If I'd been you, I'd have turned him into something unnatural, the first week."
"Give him a pair of ass's ears, and the bray to go with them?" Merlin suggested, with a grin that was positively wicked, and made Mithian suspicious, even as she giggled. "My lesson, the first week, was that it came at the price of my head, to teach him lessons with magic."
"It seems like he learned plenty of them without magic," Mithian remarked, and Merlin smiled more proudly.
The sun was half-hidden that day by high thin clouds, but there was no wind. The horse beneath her and the fur around her proved more than enough warmth – Merlin wasn't wearing gloves – as they rode in a desultory fashion, north in the direction of the Labyrinth, though it was too far to reach and return, on this expedition.
It was colder in the deeper forest, though, and they spread out naturally, footmen and mounted hunters, both. The hounds bayed a few winter-whitened hares, but were not allowed loose to chase them.
"I told you," Mithian said to Merlin, who rode nearer to her than anyone else, "it's better when you're one of the hunters riding – and not forced to participate."
"I guess I can't complain when it was my idea," Merlin sighed – then shot her a grin.
As time passed and the group meandered leisurely, holding little cohesiveness, Mithian found the two of them away on the right flank, several lengths behind her brothers in casual conversation with each other in the lead.
"It's unusual, isn't it," Merlin said to her, "for brothers who are princes, to get along so well?"
"My father raised them that way," Mithian answered, studying the ground around them. "He encouraged them to love each other as their best ally – and he taught them the roles of leader and follower. That sometimes Ybor could have better ideas, and Antor could follow without relinquishing honor – instead gaining it. And Ybor never would resent a brother-king who listened and valued his counsel – and the only way he would wear the crown was to lose his best friend first. Of course they fought, as boys, but…"
She trailed off, distracted. The tracks weren't clear, over cold-hardened ground, but none of their party's horses had come this way; if it was a stag it was a big one.
"They grew up?" Merlin guessed the conclusion of her comment.
Something rustled in the low spreading spruce branches, not quite twenty paces away, down to their right. Mithian unhooked her crossbow, kicked her right leg over her horse's withers and dropped down to the ground, moving her hood away from her face, down her back. Letting the reins trail to keep her well-trained mount in place, she slid a bolt in the groove and wound the crossbow, prowling around the horse's rear toward her quarry.
A moment later Merlin joined her – empty-handed but nearly silent, behind and staying clear of her elbow, which she appreciated. He surely knew how to accompany a hunter.
"There," she whispered, raising the crossbow to point at the beast, whatever it was.
The air was still; it might scent them, or it might not. Balancing carefully, and setting her feet even more carefully, she inched toward it.
"Can't tell what it is?" Merlin breathed in her ear.
She shivered, and it wasn't the cold. He sounded tense with anticipation – and with him, she knew it wasn't lust for the kill, either, just situational excitement.
They didn't need such a large animal for the meat, bone, or hide. She'd take aim as near to the creature as she could – startling it away and victorious if she hit whatever tree-knot was her mark. It moved again, as if to emerge from between two of the spruce – was it white? – and Merlin inexplicably reached for her crossbow. At the end, where the sharpened bolt under keen tension protruded.
She sucked in a breath, lowering her weapon away from his hand, even as he said in a low, urgent voice, "No – don't!"
"Merlin, what…"
Once again her question slid away under growing comprehension. Four long slender legs, a gleaming white hide, arched neck and flowing silver hair – calm liquid eye, and an ivory-spiral horn dividing the long silky forelock.
Heaven and earth, a unicorn.
But they weren't that close to the Labyrinth, what was it doing way out –
Merlin stepped forward, palms out. One to caution her – as if she needed it anymore – and one to reassure the creature.
It turned its head slightly – took a step back – pawed the ground with a fore-hoof.
And let Merlin approach. Slowly, quietly – confidently – her heart was in her mouth. A human man, when all the legends said… when even she had never actually seen one of the shy creatures whose sanctuary hid them so well. It allowed Merlin to come very close – it stretched its neck to whuff at him, and nickered softly, so she almost gasped in wonder.
She did gasp when Merlin's hand, raised to her, turned to beckon, though he didn't look away from the unicorn. Heart thumping – was this what life was like around Merlin? – she bent to lay her crossbow on the frozen ground, then crept carefully toward them.
The unicorn watched her. She was sure, if she looked close enough, she could see her own reflection in that dark eye.
She reached Merlin, and he gathered her hand in his – they were both transfixed by the unicorn. It dipped its head, brushing Mithian's skirt with its horn, then arched its neck to delicately nose into Merlin's other hand.
He was transcendent. Almost an inhuman incarnation of pure magic; she could see it the way she saw that the unicorn was not just a wild white horse, and it made her want to weep. No other man on earth could stand next to her and share this experience; when she touched him, she touched a whole other world.
The unicorn snorted, abruptly wheeling to gallop away – slowing almost immediately to a deliberate and graceful trot.
Merlin turned from watching it disappear into the underbrush – he was alight with a different sort of magic that shone blue in his eyes and he looked at her, all the way through. She couldn't begin to guess what he saw; she could feel that she was smiling – on the verge of laughing, maybe – and blinked two tears to run freezing down her face.
He dropped her hand to step so close they collided gently – cupped her face in both hands, as he'd done in the library – and kissed her. But not on her forehead.
She gripped his forearms as his mouth moved on hers – and he didn't stop – and he didn't stop.
He shifted closer. She wrapped her arms around him as far as they could go and gripped him fiercely – his mouth was sweet and warm –
The whole world was spring, sunlight blinding through apple blossoms.
His passion was generous. He gave and gave, inviting her to taste him and take him, asking only to be accepted in return, and she gasped into his mouth for the beautiful pain of finally having what she'd wanted for quite some time now.
He made a sound of helpless pleading, threading his fingers into the thick curls down the back of her neck, and broke away minutely; he was breathing hard and she was dizzy from melting all the way down from her lips to her toes.
"Mithian," he said against her ear – and kissed her ear, teasing the lobe with his tongue.
Her gasp was audible, then, the heat within exploding upward rather than trickling downward. And for a single disconcerting moment the memory of his body on hers as the world came down around them in the ruins occurred to her as though there was nothing between them – not air, not clothing – just them, intimate in unity. Lightning crackled through her veins, igniting dry kindling –
Maybe he felt it too – he stumbled back a step, taking himself out of her arms, but she had to keep her hands on his ribs for balance, for a moment. His look was wild, stunned – and she was proud to have rattled him as much as he'd rattled her – but he settled as their eyes connected, asking and answering something beyond rational comprehension. His color was high, but not with embarrassment; he didn't immediately grin arrogantly or sputter excuses.
He only repeated her name, soft and fiery as his breath against the sensitivity of her ear and neck.
"Mithian…"
And it happened, as swift and easy and naturally as that. She was in love, desperately in love with her future husband.
"Oy, you two!" one of her brothers shouted from a near distance.
She flinched rather badly, stumbling as she turned, but Merlin caught her elbow and steadied her.
"See anything?" Ybor called. "Because of course you dismounted to check for tracks, yes?"
Muffled snickers from the other men of the party, moving about through the trees. Mithian was sure her face was red as holly berries.
"Can't see anything with your eyes closed," Antor added – more quietly, but his voice carried.
"Damn them," she said with chagrin.
Then almost smiled to hear Merlin's low chuckle behind her, forgiving her brothers in an instant because such ecstasy was not only possible, it was hers, and could happen again and again.
"What's that you say?" Ybor shouted, cupping his hand around his ear. Twisting in his saddle to address his brother aloud, "Think she's ready to go home already?"
"Why? We haven't been out here that long," Antor returned, as his mount stepped impatiently around his brother's, and he allowed it. "And she can't do that, at home."
"She can't do that out here, either," Ybor retorted. "Merlin! Do we have to separate you two?"
Merlin caught her hand and led her back to her horse, bending to retrieve her crossbow. "I promise to behave myself," he called to the princes.
Mithian caught a bubble of laughter in her throat before it could sound for her brothers. More than one arch comment occurred to her – well, I didn't promise. Or, You promise to behave yourself badly?
He gave her a leg up, though she didn't really need it, and an extra-bright smile, before swinging up to his own saddle and leading her on his brown mare to join the others.
And the whole world was golden.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
When had it begun? She couldn't even remember beginning to fall, it had started so gently. Speeding up lately, like a horse and rider gathering to jump an obstacle in the path.
"Oh," Crissa said, when Mithian greeted her sisters-in-law in the dining hall before dinner, wearing the gold-silk gown. "Oh, my. What did he –"
Mithian felt herself blushing-and-smiling. Again.
Amylia hummed, "The children, Crissa…"
And anyway, Ybor and Merlin were arriving together, the last to the table as Antor helped to settle his children, and Rodor balanced his youngest grandchild on his knee. Merlin was scarlet and beaming – Ybor gave him a little push toward Mithian.
"What?" she hissed, as he held her chair for her to be seated first.
"Your brother was just giving me a – brotherly warning," Merlin answered in a happy whisper.
Mithian rolled her eyes, but couldn't deny the thrill that shot through her to see him, to be close to him. To be able to watch him, and claim him in her heart. She was impatient – but at the same time, it was enjoyable to delay. They had all winter. She was sure Merlin would speak to her father – and they would be officially betrothed, deciding upon the when and how and where of the marriage ceremony…
"Beg pardon, my lord?" It was Refan, the steward's assistant, standing stiff and proper in the doorway to interrupt the clatter of dinnerware and the simple homey conversation that children brought to the table. "There's a messenger from Camelot."
His shadow moved through the arch into the light of the dining hall, a second man wearing a heavy woolen cloak over his rough traveling clothes. Dirt on his boots and a sword in his belt, and his hood was down to show a long mane of curly dark hair, and several weeks' worth of beard-growth on his chin. He looked terrible, to Mithian, though he smiled politely at the gathered company, in bowing to the king.
Merlin inhaled sharply the moment he came into the light, and was on his feet in an instant, pale and grim himself. "Gwaine?"
A/N: Slight wink at LOTR, "Fellowship". Ice cream with homemade chocolate syrup to anyone who caught it…
And, couldn't resist beginning the drama/action here at the end of this chapter – sorry/not-sorry!