The Tellendell Luncheon
Luncheon in the Tellendell home is stately, yet tastefully understated. Merlin isn't quite sure how one accomplishes such a thing, and were he challenged to describe it prior to that luncheon, he would have been woefully underprepared. But the Tellendell home, under the direction of Lady Lian and Sir Galahad, remained fine yet not ostentatious.
Bronze candlesticks held candles obviously previously burnt on long nights reading or talking, furs obviously won on hunts by Galahad lay across couches and armchairs, embroidery and lacework obviously crafted expertly by Lady Lian decorate the furniture. Toys and sheafs of music and letters left scattered by Lord Rian are left about, and it gives to Merlin not the impression of a messy or servant-less household, but of a happy one.
The servants smile genuinely and keep up a good rapport with their mistress. They serve delicacies of Nemeth and beyond: oysters pried from the seabeds, tuna caught far out at sea by brave sailors, venison brought down in the wood not far away, stewed mushrooms foraged up on the mountains, a bounty of vegetables from their own garden and the farms out surrounding their country home. Lian spares no expense in hosting, or at the very least is set on treating every event in her home during the fete as lavishly as possible.
Lady Fara and Lady Eloise sit stiffly in stiff dresses. Eloise had changed from her earlier, simpler dress into one mimicking Lady Fara's. In the fashion of Nemeth women, the dresses are made for hot summers, and must be retired during the cold and salty winters. They are things made of soft fabric, loose and capped sleeves, veils draped more like headscarves over intricate braids. Fara is in differing shades of pink, Eloise in ochres and reds. Lady Lian wears something in the fashion of noble mothers, which involves less glittering stones and intricate embroidery and lies more in favor of simple silhouettes and fine fabric.
Despite Dagonet's protestations otherwise, Merlin has not yet changed. The warlock had negotiated himself down from three outfit changes to one, and only won the debate after having exhausted Dagonet with figures explaining in detail the limited number of outfits available to him for an entire month. Merlin has found that numbers put Dagonet to sleep, and has already set about weaponizing this information.
Even now, Merlin can feel Dagonet's vague disapproval of his outfit and the boy's overwhelming boredom at the luncheon. They're hardly halfway through the meal.
Merlin understands a little better why Arthur always felt tense and angry-bored after functions such as these. The presence of a manservant, obviously fed up with such political engagements–though Dagonet is the one who had agreed to all of these–does not help matters.
The whole thing is rather alleviated by the intriguing presence of Sir Bors.
Bors had arrived last, and only after a rather quick and embarrassing explanation to the ladies Fara and Lian of how Merlin and Lady Eloise were already acquainted. This had been sure to set off a round of difficult questions were it not for Bors's arrival to the home.
He swept in, wearing fine and simple clothes, a cape, and his sword. He offered a smart bow, and Merlin took the opportunity to look at him a little closer.
Older, his friends had said at the welcome dinner–good gods, just last night?–last night. But a good man.
Bors certainly looks it. Were there ever a man Merlin could consider the epitome of what a nearly-retired knight should look like, it is this man. Tall, broad, with a strong jaw and dark hair shorn close as men do before battle. A fine scar extends across thick brows and over a dark eye, the pair of which are fixed in a permanent squint, as if every interaction he has is a battlefield to strategize and worry over. His hair is slightly gray at his temples and grows thickly in an impressive salt-and-pepper mustache above his lips. The rest of his face is kept clean-shaven. It is not a style Merlin sees often, and the warlock must suppress the urge to suddenly rub at his own stubble-ridden face.
Dagonet had refused to let Merlin shave at Caradoc's advice–the prince had a note delivered about it–and had informed the advisor that the stubble made him look more rugged, and therefore fed into his reputation as an adventurer.
Merlin didn't have the time or energy to argue, and so used the time he would have spent shaving instead resting with his eyes closed as Dagonet raided his closet.
Sir Bors, with his impressive mustache, had given the ladies a deep bow and Merlin a strong handshake, and they began eating.
Bors had kept mainly quiet, answering only when directly questioned or when conversation came to a lull: he was the head knight of Gawant for many years and is looking to retire; he enjoys hunting, fishing, and reading; he read the most fascinating history the other day, thank you; the food is delicious; your home is beautiful.
It is difficult for Merlin to parse anything out about the man. He isn't boring, per se, but he reveals very little. He is the picture of politeness and nothing more. Merlin tries to ask questions of the man when he can, dreading reporting back to his friends how little he discovered. But he keeps getting pulled back into conversation with Lady Fara and Lady Eloise, the former of whom had by now privately declared Bors too dull to be a real prospect, and the latter of whom attempts valiantly to not be forgotten amidst her cousin's charms.
Then, quite near the end of dinner, Bors pushes back his plate, fixes Merlin with a stare, and speaks more all at once than he has the whole lunch.
"It is said that you accompanied your king on many adventures and perilous journeys, Lord Merlin," he says.
Merlin shrugs. "I suppose so. More than many."
"More than most," Bors hazards. When Merlin does not correct him, he continues, "They say you were with King Arthur–then Prince Arthur–when he slayed the Great Dragon. Is this true?"
Merlin's eyebrows quirk up, and he tries to get a handle on his exasperation to instead channel it into bland curiosity. "It is true. How, pray tell, has mention of my presence at the accomplishment of such a feat reach your ears in Gawant? I would imagine if any story reached you, it would rightly be of Arthur's triumph on that day."
"Word travels far and wide," Bors says simply. And, in Merlin's estimation, in a frustratingly vague manner. Bors leans forward, his posture one of manly interest and camaraderie: the posture of a knight trading tales, not a diplomat at a luncheon. One hand rests on his thigh, the other on the table, completely turned toward Merlin and disregarding the ladies. "Tell me Merlin: if I myself were ever to face a dragon, what would I do?"
Merlin stares at Bors. Then, a smile creeps across the advisor's face.
"Met Lord Rian, did you, Sir Bors?"
Bors chuckles. "That I did. A persistent young man, your son," he says, raising a cup in a toast to Lady Lian and relaxing his body language.
"Oh, he is enraptured by the idea of facing down a dragon," Lian says, waving a hand through the air as if dispelling the previous tension. "He was just a babe when talk came of dragons in Camelot, and I suppose he fixated on the idea."
"He'll make a fine knight one day, if he so chooses," Bors says. "Though I imagine we all hope for more for our children than lives of conflict."
Merlin smiles at this. "True. He could make a fine poet as well, Lady Lian, waxing fondly on the accomplishments of his heroes as he is wont to do."
"A warrior-poet," Bors mutters into his wine cup. Then, he pulls the vessel from his mouth as his chuckle turns into a laugh. He protrudes a solid elbow toward Merlin. "Just like your king, eh, Lord Merlin?"
Merlin laughs as well, surprised by the comment. "My king is a warrior, to be sure," Merlin tells him with shared mirth, "but a poet he is not, let me assure you."
"Ah, well," Bors says, "I suppose that's why he has your queen and yourself then."
Again, Merlin is caught off-guard by this comment.
"That is too kind of you, Sir Bors," Merlin says, somewhat sobered now. "But I will agree that our queen is exceptional, and balances King Arthur well."
"We should all hope to make such fine couples as them," Bors says, then raises his cup again toward Lian. "And such fine couples as you and Sir Galahad, Lady Lian."
The rest of the luncheon passes more easily, Bors having been relieved somewhat of his stiffness, and Merlin somewhat of his doubts. Sir Bors appears to be, as rumors hold, a good man.
The Royal Luncheon
Luncheon for the royals is a more elaborate affair. Everyone sits at one long table with King Rodor and Queen Adelaine at the head. Also in attendance, from Rodor's left: Princess Mithian, Queen Guinevere, Princess Elena, Prince Caradoc, Duke Pellinor, Prince Bedivere, Sir Kay, and Queen Annis.
Mithian finds herself, at first, most interested in Sir Kay. After all, he is one of the possible matches for her, and this is the first she has seen of him at the fete. He is a beautiful man: golden curls, honey-brown eyes, a spate of freckles, the kind of muscles one gets only after years of training at arms. But he is horribly polite. Dreadfully polite.
Upon entering the room, he gave each and every different noble a bow, then remonstrated himself before Adelaine and Rodor in thanks for hosting him in their home. He produced vases of beaten gold, jewelry shining with precious stones, rare books, and brought them all before Princess Mithian. With every gift, he extolled its various virtues.
And see here, princess, how the precious metal of this artisan washing basin perfectly reflects your beautiful visage. Though the representation is not nearly enough to capture your radiant face and all incredible detail, I find it nonetheless a particularly precious gift, as it may reflect just a portion of your beauty back to your keen eye; and see here, the lute carved from pearwood by the most delicate of hands, meant only for your slender fingers, your grace, and admire how the notes produced from such an instrument can only hope a poor mimickry of the dulcet tones of your own voice; and in the stables below, your highness, you'll find the finest steeds we have to offer as a country, of the most noble and storied heritage, one which could only compete with your own family tree, your grace, and if you were to visit the beasts you would find them, I hope, sturdy and fleet-footed, and perhaps suitable enough for such an accomplished rider as yourself, your grace, if manners could permit me mention of such rumors of your skill and accomplishment.
Mithian, overwhelmed by the verbose young man and his sundry gifts, accepted them with grace and promptly had them sent away "to admire later."
In admiring the various gifts and the entire production, the princess thinks the whole while of the bundle of lavender that appeared at her doorstep that very morning.
Servants bustle about with the focus and sure-footedness of an army of ants, swarming to and fro the table. Silver vessels and platters are laid out: roasted tomatoes, strong wine, boiled potatoes, fresh radishes, loaves of bread still spilling steam into the air, rolls glistening with honey and draped in nuts, bowls of fresh berries alongside boats of clotted cream, sausages still bursting with grease, whole roasted chickens with skin shining like caramel under the midday sun streaming through the windows.
Mithian learns little at the luncheon. She had been hoping for some debate, some talk of alliances and treaties and accords. She hoped to bring Guinevere in on conversation about the deals made between Nemeth and Camelot, to speak with Queen Annis about the potential for mutual aid along shared borders, to discuss with Prince Bedivere and, however unwillingly, Duke Pellinor the scourge of Morgana as the witch rampages through the southern lands of Mercia and Essetir.
But none of that happens. Instead, Mithian engages in polite conversation with Guinevere and Elena, every so often getting pulled into a conversation with her parents and Queen Annis. Conversation sticks most often to the benign and uninteresting, such as recent weather or hunting prospects or the lavish events bestowed upon the guests by their hosts.
And lavish though the events may be, Mithian knows better. As much as Nemeth spends on this event, more will come from gifts alone. Annis has already announced her plans to gift some of her finest Great Plains thoroughbreds.
Sir Kay's gifts speak for themselves, though they were mainly for Mithian's parents despite appearances. He must, after all, demonstrate his wealth and generosity should he become her suitor, and who really has final say? The princess, or her parents?
Camelot, too, brought fine gifts for her parents in the form of rare plants for their greenhouse, a contingent of soldiers meant to help with raiders bandits along shared borders, and of course the presence of Mithian's friends. Gawant had arrived with carriages hand-crafted by their renowned artisans, along with tapestries and paintings long treasured by the royal family. Essetir even brought the gift of many finely smithied weapons. Mercia arrived with their own gifts, the Druids with theirs.
That isn't even counting the possible advantages of alliances to come out of this gathering. A meeting of the minds of Albion.
Curiously enough, bland conversation turns most often to King Arthur and his various exploits. Guinevere makes sure to keep them well updated. She is a fine storyteller with an ear for what gossips and audiences crave the most. The narratives she crafts over lunch only serve to further her husband's reputation, and cement her own as a doting and admirable wife.
It is a masterclass in gossip mongering, and Mithian is left breathless by the Peoples' Queen. The princess's only real impression of matters following the luncheon, in fact, is that Guinevere is a person to whose friendship she should cling dearly. The gods only know what benefits lie in keeping the queen of Camelot as a friend, or what dangers lie in having her as an enemy.
Tea
Merlin takes tea in his room. He had planned on sleeping through the afternoon until the time when Dagonet would inevitably insist on rousing him to change for the feast. But life holds other plans for him, it seems, and he is interrupted mid-slouch to his bedchambers when a knock comes at the door.
Dagonet opens it to reveal Prince Bedivere, looking just as tired as Merlin, but glad to see the warlock. The prince is notably absent a manservant, and Merlin comments on this as Dagonet ushers the prince inside and busies himself setting out a tray of biscuits and a pot of tea on the low table.
Bedivere waves a hand through the air. "I sent him for a nap. I thought you and I could continue our conversation."
Merlin takes a brief moment to imagine Ger asleep. He pictures the servant straighter than a board and posed as a corpse, rigid on top of what should be a forgiving cot.
"Ah," Merlin says. "Very well. Dagonet, would you please excuse us?"
"What am I to do?" Dagonet asks.
Merlin sighs. "I don't know. Whatever it is you want to do until you come back. Take a nap, maybe."
Dagonet nods. "Very well."
The prince and the warlock wait until the door has closed and the boy's footsteps have receded until they continue their conversation. Bedivere crosses to the sitting area and collapses on the couch set there. Merlin falls into an armchair across from him. The warlock picks up a biscuit and nibbles at it.
"So," Bedivere says. "You were explaining earlier how about the differences between my situation and the duck's."
"Sir Quackenfell," Merlin corrects almost absently. "Right. Well, your situations are quite different. Yours is a curse–"
"And the duck isn't cursed?"
"Not quite," Merlin says, shaking his head. "Have a biscuit. You'll feel better."
Bedivere does as he directs.
"Quackenfell… his was truly an accidental encounter with a magical creature," Merlin says. "His condition is, in essence, a side effect. Yours is a curse. There was malice in what happened to you, not in what happened to Quackenfell."
The bird in question gives a quiet quack and nips at the prince's feet. Bedivere picks him up absently and puts the duck on his lap. He runs quick fingers through the down on the duck's back.
"So what?" Bedivere asks. He takes another absent bite of the biscuit. Quackenfell tries to get a bite out of it, and the prince deftly holds the treat from the duck's reach.
"So," Merlin says, "the intent is different, so the effect is different. With Sir Quackenfell, there's regularity of a sort. Symptoms one can study, the transition of which is somewhat predictable. With you…"
"Symptoms one can't exactly study, the onset of which is unpredictable," Bedivere finishes.
"Right. Tea?"
Bedivere nods, and Merlin pours him a cup.
"So you're saying there's no hope?" Bedivere asks.
Merlin shakes his head. "Hope is always there, it may just be hard to see."
Bedivere pinches the bridge of his nose and asks, "So what do you propose then?"
"We…" Merlin begins, then sighs. "We keep an eye on it, I suppose."
The prince shoots upright, nearly dislodging the poultry on his lap and earning himself an annoyed nip on the fingers.
"What do you mean, 'keep an eye on it?!'" Bedivere demands.
Merlin holds up his hands in a gesture of peace and says, "Poor choice of words. Collect data."
"I have loads of data," Bedivere says, brandishing his book. He's careful to keep his fingers out of range of the annoyed duck on his legs.
"Of course," Merlin says. "But you haven't had anyone other than yourself to collect data. There may be bias in the kind of data you're collecting."
Bedivere pauses. "What d'you mean?"
"What does it smell like when you're there?" Merlin asks, taking another bite of the biscuit. "When you're there, what emotion do you feel most predominantly, or does it change? How many times a week does it happen? Where is Morgana when this occurs? What are the beasts one hears howling in the other reality? Is it another reality? How does our world interact with that one, or visa versa?"
Bedivere blinks at Merlin, who smiles apologetically.
"You've collected a lot of very good quantitative and qualitative information," Merlin tells him. "When, where, for how long, what you see. But we need to expand on that information. And figure out why I'm able to see it, but only when touching Sir Quackenfell."
"Probably a side effect," Bedivere grouses, sitting back once more. At Merlin's raised eyebrow, the prince takes another unwilling bite of his biscuit and sips at his tea.
"That's actually a good point. Have I told you before how helpful it is to gather data on Sir Quackenfell?" Merlin asks.
"No," Bedivere says. "I thought it was… an interest. Distraction."
"A true area of study," Merlin admonishes. He rises and goes to a stack of parchment on the table. From this, he pulls a sheaf at random.
"Several months ago, Sir Quackenfell's Fairy Fever manifested itself in the predominant symptom of walking through stone walls rather than running into them," Merlin says, reading off the paper. "I collected data on when, where and how. The position of the ley lines and the orientation of the stars, the direction and strength of the wind at that time. His weight, his height, his diet."
Merlin puts down the paper and throws Bedivere a mischievous grin. He looks much like a schoolboy who just received a talk from his father and has run to pass information on to all of his friends.
"Now watch this," Merlin tells the prince.
The warlock's eyes glow gold. He takes several sure strides forward.
And walks through the stone wall to his bedchamber beyond.
He steps back through the stone a moment later, eyes fading back to his normal blue. He smiles the whole time, immensely pleased at having someone to share this with once more other than awed druids, no matter how they found out about his magic.
Bedivere looks at the warlock, slack-jawed.
"You learned this from…"
"From observing the duck. In fact, I've learned several neat tricks from him."
Merlin's eyes glow gold, and his black hair sprouts purple spots. He whispers a word, shakes his head, and as his eyes fade back to blue, so does his hair turn black once more. Bedivere continues staring at him. Merlin takes a deep breath, crosses back to his armchair, and sits down. He places his elbows on his thighs and leans forward, suddenly very serious.
"You were the one to seek me out, Prince Bedivere," Merlin reminds him quietly. "I think I can help you. But you must keep an open mind. Things are rarely as they seem. And it is a natural law of magic that things are never as they seem."
"Right," Bedivere breathes. He's quiet for a second, then asks, "You're really him, aren't you?"
Merlin blinks.
"Emrys," Bedivere whispers.
Merlin bounces his head, a gesture that should be accompanied by a breathy laugh or a snort, but instead is companioned by telling silence. He looks down at the ground for a while, then back up at Bedivere.
"And Merlin," the warlock finally says, quietly.
Bedivere nods, fighting to regain some control. Merlin reaches toward the table and pushes the plate of biscuits toward the prince.
"Have another biscuit. You'll feel better," the warlock says comfortingly.
Bedivere snatches another and devours it whole.
The Grand Feast
The Grand Feast is larger and more lavish than anyone had truly expected, even the hosts. Their staff had been working tirelessly for weeks to pull off such a production, and they more than delivered. Afterward, every person in attendance thought they could eat no more for the rest of the fete and still remained satisfied. The royals had a careful menu selected, which was embellished upon by their head cook.
What they found laid on the tables was enough to make the wooden tables bend toward the middle with all the weight foisted upon them. There were twenty tables in all crowded into the Great Hall to make room for all of them. Each country in attendance enjoyed at least one table to themselves, and most invited their serving staff to join in the festivities as well. Nemeth alone boasts five tables reserved for staff not actively working during the celebration.
And there is food enough for all of them. Merlin, in fact, had written down all he had seen in order to remember the incredible display of wealth and camaraderie extolled by their hosts. His list–simply of the food–is as follows:
Whole roasted pigs (five); roasted turkeys (ten); beef and barley stew (five cauldrons); loaves of bread (fifty-six); rolls (over two hundred); plates of pickled vegetables (countless); cabbage chowder (eight cauldrons); creamed fish (nine boatfuls); mushroom pasties (seventy-three); sausages (twelve platters); mutton (fifteen platters); salted cod (eight platters); haddock in sauce (ten platters); salads (eighteen bowls of varying kinds); bowls of fruit (six each of apples and grapes, four each of cherries, pomegranates, and figs); cream custard tarts (fifty); wild berry pies (seventeen); rose pudding (twenty); fifty jugs of milk; sixteen casks of wine; ten kegs of beer; and assorted crackers, flatbreads, and cheese.
And the evening is full of even more unexpected delights. After the welcoming speech boomed over the gathered throngs by King Rodor, there came juggling troupes, two short plays, three groups of acrobats, and two groups of bards, each boasting flutists, harpists, lute-players and angel-voiced singers. One even brought in a new instrument called a harpsichord, and enchanted all those present with delightful ballads and compositions.
By the end of the third hour of the gathering, many are growing tired. And due to the performances that were held in the middle of the fete, none had left their assigned seating, leaving each country in a little bubble of their own people. Nemeth's royals and nobles take up tables on a platform slightly elevated from the rest. Camelot sits at the center, just below them, perfectly positioned for the honor of having the second-best seats and the position of honor nearest to Nemeth. Gawant's tables are on their right, Caerleon to their left, and Essetir and Mercia relegated to the sides.
To most in attendance, the person to first break this rigid hierarchy comes as a surprise.
Merlin rises from his seat of honor next to Queen Guinevere, she resplendent in a ruby-red gown embroidered with gold, he in all black with the exception of a white shirt and that peculiar neckerchief in gold and red bearing an artistic iteration of Nemeth's crest. He crosses the floor and bows to Nemeth's royals. He says a few quick words to them, which are met with three smiles, then crosses the room again. He reaches Gawant's table and exchanges a few quick words with Princess Elena and Prince Caradoc. They both laugh at whatever he says, and quickly turn bodily to engage him in hearty conversation.
Prince Bedivere, the highest-ranking person in the delegation from Mercia, rises and crosses the room to join them, allowing Lord Merlin to make his formal introductions. It is noted that Sir Bors also is invited into the conversation by the lord from Camelot.
Lord Merlin, after a few minutes conversing with his friends from Gawant and Mercia, is claimed then by the Queen Annis, who takes the opportunity to introduce her nephew and the scion of Caerleon, Sir Kay. Whatever Kay says to Merlin, it makes the man genuinely uncomfortable and bashful, his face reddening for all to see. He quickly introduces the knight to Prince Bedivere, and makes his way to the servants' table of the Nemeth coalition. Once there, he immediately finds himself with armfuls of children and commanding the conversation with several of the more doe-eyed or otherwise maternal of the female servants. But then, he is quickly claimed by the males for discussions of animal welfare and hunting, and then once more by a now-well-developed group of international knights who ask him to regale them with tales of his exploits.
And with a few words from a single man, the delegations of every country rise from their tables and begin to mingle in earnest.
The royals from Nemeth all watch this carefully, each for different reasons, and use the rest of the evening to chat with their guests and gather information.
Late Tea
Queen Guinevere finally demands, hours well after midnight, that her advisor escort her to her chambers. Their departure from the Grand Feast is a delicate and long-winded thing, demanding many good-byes and scheduling further social interactions and promises to discuss certain topics further.
Dagonet slouches behind the pair as they finally disentangle themselves from the Grand Feast and walk back toward the guest wing, obviously exhausted. Merlin tries several times to dismiss him, but the boy remains steadfast in his designs to serve the queen and his lord some tea and biscuits before they go to bed, and anyway, they're informed, he wants to hear their analysis of the day leading up to now if he is to have any hope of surviving the next few weeks.
The queen and her advisor reluctantly approve of this plan, quietly admire the boy together, and collapse into chairs the moment they cross the threshold of the queen's temporary chambers.
Guinevere fans herself, pulling at the cords of her corset to loosen it somewhat. Dagonet blushes and looks away. Merlin is much accustomed to this behavior, however, and opts instead to fix her with a fatigued stare.
"I may not survive this, Gwen," Merlin informs her sagely. "Is this what every day is to be like?"
"Gods willing, there will be far less food to consume," Gwen tells him. Having loosened her dress enough, she deflates into her arm chair. "How did you fare today?"
Merlin pinches the bridge of her nose, and it makes Gwen smile. It's a habit obviously picked up by Merlin from her husband, and the gesture reminds her of home.
"I do not know. I think I made people talk about me far too much, and about Princess Mithian's qualities not nearly enough."
"And what of the suitors?" Gwen asks, completely ignoring the tea that Dagonet sets out before them. Merlin does the same.
"I don't know," Merlin sighs. "I like Bedivere. Quite a lot, really. But… he seems to have… a lot going on."
Gwen raises an eyebrow, but lets this comment pass without further questioning. Instead, she waits for her friend to elaborate.
"I think he would be a good match," Merlin says finally. "He is intelligent, handsome, funny. Just… anyway. I like him."
"And you lunched with Sir Bors, did you not?" Gwen asks.
Merlin nods. "He was perfectly pleasant. Polite, if a bit taciturn. But he obviously possesses some humor, and shouldn't a king be overall a serious man?"
Gwen raises a shoulder delicately in answer.
"What of Sir Kay?" she asks finally.
As Dagonet passes her, intent on once more resuming his position behind Merlin, she grabs his sleeve and pulls him onto the chair next to hers. He sits stiffly, and accepts the tea that he had poured for Gwen, taking a delicate sip mostly to be polite.
"I don't know," Merlin says finally, leaning forward to push the biscuits across the table toward Dagonet.
"You know I ate at the feast," Dagonet murmurs.
"A biscuit will help you feel better," Gwen and Merlin chirp in unison.
"If you insist on behind here," Gwen adds, picking up the plate of biscuits and pushing it beneath the boy's nose, "you'll eat."
Dagonet takes one and nibbles at it obediently. Merlin watches for a second, then turns pleading eyes on his queen.
"When did we become so motherly?"
Gwen sighs and leans back. "When Arthur and I got married, I suppose."
Merlin laughs and says, "I will tell you truly that I know little of Sir Kay. Annis introduced the pair of us at the Grand Feast. He was… polite."
A raised eyebrow is all he gets in response.
"Don't do that to me," Merlin complains. "Not to me. I knew you when you stuttered when you got flustered."
"And I knew you when you were still getting pelted by rotten fruit in the stocks," Guinevere answers. "I know you have a skill for developing early and often accurate assessments of others. So tell me, advisor: what did you think of Sir Kay?"
Merlin thinks over his first interaction with the man.
The advisor had been speaking with a rather large group, comprised of Princess Elena, Prince Caradoc, Sir Bors, and Prince Bedivere, when Queen Annis had swept up to him, all muted tones and impressive manner, towing behind her a golden-haired, brown-eyed young man.
"Lord Merlin," Queen Annis had said, bowing her head at him.
"Queen Annis," Merlin had replied, bowing at her. He remembered himself, and turned quickly to his friends. "May I introduce Prince Bedivere of Mercia, Prince Caradoc and Princess Elena of Gawant, and Sir Bors of Gawant."
Annis greeted the rest of them, all of whom responded in kind.
"And may I introduce my nephew, Sir Kay, Earl of Tarling," Annis said, and performed a maneuver that if done by anyone else would be a yank, and done by her is an artful offering.
Sir Kay took a quick step forward, and swept into a bow so low that his curls brushed the stone floor.
"Your graces, lords, and ladies, it is a true honor and privilege to be among all of you today on this auspicious occasion. I greatly look forward to joining you in celebration and camaraderie on this night, and hope most ardently to make friends of you all, should that be your mutual wish," Sir Kay says to the stone floor.
Queen Annis, much to her credit, seemed not to be embarrassed in the slightest.
A moment of silence followed.
"Sir Kay," Merlin had finally said, injecting as much warmth as possible into his voice, "I have heard much about you. Please, rise, and join us as friends."
Sir Kay immediately stood upward, and Merlin winced in sympathy at the rushing feeling the young man must have experienced from the motion.
"I am honored and gladdened to hear you speak thus," Sir Kay told Merlin. And, indeed, his eyes shone with earnest tears as he spoke. "It is truly such a privilege to speak with one as storied as you and your comrades. It gladdens me to know you would embrace me as a friend."
Merlin blinked and smiled, feeling much like an automaton. "Right. No worries, right, your graces?"
He turned to his friends, gesturing widely, and received a chorused murmur of assurance from them, and several shaking heads.
"Lord Merlin," Sir Kay had said, taking another reserved step forward, "if I may impose upon your good graces a little further–and please forgive me if any intrusion is implied, as were you to send me away I would gladly flee from your presence still feel grateful to have made a proper introduction to your person–could I trouble you for a moment of your time to discuss a question I was posed recently, and one which I would beg of your expertise in being able to sufficiently answer?"
Merlin did another slow blink, and took a moment to decipher whether there had really been a request amidst the fluffy language.
"Of course," Merlin had said, having decided that the safest route forward would be to simply agree. After all, such a response had gotten him out of loads of trouble with Arthur before.
"Brilliant," Sir Kay had said, and took Merlin aside quickly to their own protected bubble of solitude amid the chattering tables of people.
"I was recently posed a question by a young and incredibly inquiring mind, and found myself so confounded by the question that I found myself having to seek out expert advice," Sir Kay explained, "and so I sought you out, Lord Merlin–or is it Sir Merlin?–for legend holds that only two people in existence know the answer to such a question, and one is regrettably, though—I of course assume–necessarily absent from these celebrations."
Merlin opened his mouth, then paused a moment too long in consideration of his answer, which allowed Sir Kay to continue:
"In all honesty, Sir Merlin, I had to of course consider whether bothering you with such a simple question was in fact worthy of your limited attention, such are the demands I of course imagine to be upon your time. For I have, in fact, heard much about you, my lord, from the tales of servants and peasants and noblemen alike, not least to mention the stories told by my own dear aunt, the Queen of Caerleon Queen Annis, Duchess of Ellengard, Princess of the Great Plain. And so when I heard that you would be in attendance here, I just knew that one way or another, I simply had to make your acquaintance, which is why I wrote that note, and even now beg your forgiveness that our meeting was not handled in the proper manner."
"I–" Merlin had said, then finished lamely, "There is nothing to forgive, Sir Kay, I assure you."
Sir Kay had nodded vehemently. "And for such graciousness, I sincerely thank you, Sir Merlin. I had hoped that my crass and assumptive introduction would not offend you, and it seems that I am blessed by whatever gods heard my pleas, as you are even more forgiving and gentle than I could hope for, as you have most readily forgiven my rudeness. Even now, I pull you away from good friends to turn your ear to my misfortunes, and hear my askances for forgiveness, and still you meet me with nothing but good humor and good graces. I am humbled, Sir Merlin, by your nature and manners."
"Um," Merlin had said.
"But now, I must once again beg forgiveness, as I have asked you aside to earn your expert advice and drivel away your valuable time by expounding upon my own gratitude for your attention. Forgive me, please, my lord, for transgressing so, but I nonetheless must beg of your attention a moment further, as well as ask your personal knowledge and skill, for there is a question that has been pestering me so since it was posed to me, and having knowledge as I do of your own experience in the matter, found myself bound to posing it to you as well so you may slake my curiosity and put to rest the question that has been haunting me, as well as the same one that pesters the young master who posed it to me," Sir Kay had told him.
"Oh," Merlin had said, relaxing somewhat. "Lord Rian spoke to you, didn't he?"
Sir Kay had nodded adamantly and opened his mouth to speak further. Merlin deftly intercepted him.
"Run. Fast," Merlin had advised the knight, then spotted Sir Bedivere passing them on his way to converse with Queen Guinevere or someone else at the Camelot tables. Merlin's hand had darted out of its own accord and grabbed the man, pulling him toward himself and Sir Kay. "Have I introduced you to Prince Bedivere?"
Merlin had quickly made his escape.
"As I said before," Merlin says to Gwen carefully, "he's polite. Overly polite."
"A–what do you call them?" Gwen asks.
"Bootlicker," Merlin responds with a distant smile. "No, no, not quite a bootlicker. Something a little more disturbing. Just… polite. He speaks in paragraphs, all laden with so many superlatives that even his words sound expensive."
Gwen snorts, and Merlin sits up, suddenly energetic again.
"No, Guinevere, I mean it," he tells her. "I had to foist him off on Bedivere just to get away."
"Then you owe Bedivere an apology," Gwen says, watching as Dagonet slumps further into the seat next to her, his eyes growing heavy. "I met him at the luncheon. He was as you say: overly polite and verbose."
It's Merlin's turn to snort now. He does so, with some gusto, and then says, "I just don't know about him yet, Guinevere. He is insufferably polite, but obviously believes everything he says."
"That's a rare breed," Gwen points out, shoving an embroidered pillow between Dagonet's descending cheek and his sharp shoulder.
"Indeed," is all Merlin says in return.
They sit quietly for a moment.
"What of your day?" Merlin asks.
Gwen smiles at him. "Apparently not as eventful as yours. I did not make fast friends with a prince at break-fast, nor did I save a young girl after she was injured by a horse. I didn't escort her to the physician with the princess of Nemeth, nor did I attend training afterward. My luncheon was not spent in the company of fine ladies of Nemeth and Sir Bors, and I did not spend tea with a prince. I didn't speak to any of the prospective suitors at the dinner outside Prince Caradoc, and we both know he isn't a real suitor."
Merlin covers his face with his hands and slumps further downward with every word from the queen's mouth until his back rests on the seat of the armchair, his neck at a severe angle.
"Oh, gods," Merlin moans.
Gwen laughs lightly. "You certainly are making a name for yourself, Lord Merlin."
"Oh, gods," Merlin says again, squirming until he lays somewhat on his side.
"Sit up, sit up," Gwen commands, laughing. Merlin does so, and casts a surly glance her way, which only makes her smile grow. She says, "So. What have we learned today, advisor?"
Merlin huffs a sigh, then answers, "I suppose, many a useful thing, my queen."
"Such as, my advisor?"
"Well," Merlin says, sticking out a fist and beginning to count on his hand, "Prince Bedivere is a good man, but has many rumors swirling about him currently. He is scholarly, if not warrior-like, and possesses good humor and a good heart. Two: Sir Pellinor is a dick."
Gwen snorts, covering her face with her hand.
"Another thing: Sir Kay is almost unbearable, but seems to have a good heart. Sir Bors is warrior-like, and serious, but this may not be a bad thing," Merlin reports.
Gwen nods. "Good enough for the first real day of the fete, I would say."
Merlin groans again, running a hand through his hair. "The first real day."
"Yes," Gwen says. "So I would advise us both to adjourn now. And you must deal with this boy. He is far too tired to walk all the way to the lower town tonight."
Merlin nods. "He shall sleep in my chambers."
The advisor stands, then goes to pick up Dagonet. The boy flops listlessly against him, murmuring some inane question against Merlin's chest as they stand up together.
"Never you mind," Merlin says quietly, guiding the boy to the door. "Come, let's get some rest."
"Good night, Lord Merlin," Gwen calls, only somewhat teasingly, as she stands to ready herself for bed.
"Sweet dreams, my queen," Merlin calls back, and guides himself and his half-asleep servant out of the room.
Guinevere looks after them for a moment, watching the door close securely behind them. Then, she shakes her head and moves toward her bedchambers.