It appears that the day is just beginning. Rather than staying in their rooms, as Merlin assumed, invitations are given by the serving staff to attend a semi-formal welcoming social, currently being held in the library. Guinevere insists that they attend and goes to her rooms to change from her traveling clothes and freshen up, only after carefully instructing her knights and advisor to do the same. She is shown to a large door somewhere in the visitor's wing, which boasts a sleeping chamber, a manservant's antechamber, a dining room, a breakfast parlor, and a dressing room, in which waits a large copper tub filled with fresh, steaming water.
Leon is directed to a much smaller set of chambers next to her own, but still larger than Gaius's entire workshop. Gwaine is led off to the knights' bunkers, and Merlin to a set of chambers a little down the hall from Gwen's own sprawling ones.
He cannot help but gape and shift uncomfortably when he enters. They are lovely rooms, well-furnished if bland, and completely his own. A fire already burns merrily in the hearth of the dining room of his own living quarters. A comfortably-sized sleeping chamber off to the side houses a large bed with clean, soft bedding and a fluffy feather-mattress and many pillows, also boasting its own fire. A wardrobe sits within and his luggage next to it.
Merlin finds some pleasure in the fact that the servants who lugged his luggage up here, all the while insisting that he do not help, did in fact read the notes he attached to his luggage that said do not unpack, please in his looping script. He was pleased, too, to find that the silver pieces he had tied to the note in a small paper packet were gone.
He goes about unpacking for himself, taking care to hang up his fine new clothes and put away his boots. He is entirely done unpacking and halfway through creating a kind of pile of fabric and paper near the hearth when a sudden knock on his sleeping chamber door sends him jumping into the air. Merlin whips around, hand to his chest, heaving in breaths.
Standing in the doorway is an unfamiliar boy, perhaps fifteen at a generous guess. He is gangly, strawberry-haired, and brown-eyed. An oversized tunic in Nemeth's colors makes him look as if he is swimming in black, blue, and silver fabric. The boy holds up his hands in a gesture of peace and takes a half-step back.
"Apologies, m'lord," he says. He has a thick local accent typical of those in Nemeth who occupy the lower classes.
"That's–that's alright. Who're you?" Merlin asks, lowering his hands back to his sides.
The boy copies his movement and replies, "I'm Dagonet, m'lord. I've been assigned to ya by the house of King Rodor and Queen Adelaide, m'lord."
Merlin winces. "Just Merlin, please."
"M'lord?"
"Just call me Merlin," the warlock sighs. "What do you mean assigned?"
"Well," the boy says, and his strange accent makes him swallow the ls in the word, "when a vistin' noble shows up without a servant… they assign us…"
"I–I get that," Merlin says, somewhat impatient now.
After all, Merlin knows how these things are arranged. He himself has served his fair share of visiting lords and ladies, too unimportant to bring their own servants but humored nonetheless by a servant of the hosting country to impart a good impression upon the visitors. Standard, if annoying and uncertain for the staff.
He just doesn't think that he himself would be a victim to such a thing. The whole idea of it, in fact, seems rather ridiculous in his estimation. Anyone who knows who he is would not assign him a servant. He isn't important enough for that yet, not influential enough in any court to command such a formality.
And yet he has these generous rooms. And yet here the boy is, standing ramrod straight with a growing and poorly disguised expression of incredulity.
Perhaps the boy had been sent here as some kind of strange punishment. That had certainly happened to Merlin before: serve the strange one, the demanding one, the mercurial one, and learn a lesson about being a proper servant. Perhaps the poor boy was assigned to him as some kind of strange joke.
The boy in question raises an eyebrow at the warlock. "Forgive me, m'lord, but just goin' by your comments thus far it doesn't seem as if you do."
The boy looks for a moment after the words leave his mouth to be petrified at his own comment. Then, much despite himself, a corner of Merlin's mouth twitches upward into a half-smile. It is a tired and reticent one, but a smile nonetheless. Upon seeing the warlock's face, the servant boy's own expression softens into one of relief.
But Merlin's face morphs quickly into a rueful look even as Dagonet relaxes.
"I don't need a servant," Merlin says, more gently this time, but still rather firm. "But thank you."
The warlock turns back to his pile of odds and ends, obviously trying to put an end to the conversation.
Dagonet's breath catches in his chest. He watches the warlock's odd ministrations for a moment before he resolves his mind to plead his case.
"Please," the boy says. Though he knows the older man can't see it, he folds his hand together before him. "I just have to attend to ya in public. Maybe just durin' the important things, like feasts an' the events. Other times, I can just be…"
"Skiving off?" Merlin asks, turning around and placing a hand on his hip.
The boy goes red. He places his hands quickly behind his back. "No, no, I just–"
"No?"
"No, m'lord–"
"More's the pity. If you had wanted that arrangement, I would've been fine with it," Merlin says, reaching into the trunk next to him to retrieve more pages of books and another blanket.
A disbelieving huff escapes the boy. "You're even more different than they say."
Heat crawls up Merlin's chest, through his neck and into his face. He busies himself with giving a piece of parchment, torn from one of his own books by a now-invisible and always-mischievous fowl, an extra rip before carefully tucking the two pieces into the folds of one of the well-used blankets piled on the floor.
"And what do they say about me?" Merlin asks Dagonet, carefully arranging and rearranging the blankets and book pages near the hearth. He keeps his back turned to the boy, instead electing to raise his voice just above speaking volume to make sure the servant hears him.
Behind him, the boy answers, "That you used to be a servant. That you made friends with everyone who went to Camelot from Nemeth, even the Sir Galahad an' the Lady Lian an' the princess herself. That you've battled dragons an' monsters an' witches, all without a sword or armor. That you venture out with knights on patrols an' hunts an' joined them at their Round Table as an equal, even before you were an advisor and just a servant. That the knights and king are just as loyal to you as you are to them."
Merlin swallows, then stands.
"They say all these things?" Merlin asks. "About me?"
"Well," the boy says breathily, "Yeah."
Merlin hears something like hope or awe behind the boy's words, behind his voice, and something in the warlock's stomach tightens. His throat becomes suddenly more raw, and there seems less space in it.
"I'm sorry–what's your name again?" Merlin finally manages. Somehow, the question comes out calm rather than strangled.
"Dagonet," the boy replies immediately.
Merlin turns around, passing a hand through his hair. The serving boy looks so young and eager standing there, hands clasped together to beg, eyes wide and shining. It breaks Merlin's heart to look at for reasons he can't properly articulate.
"I'm sorry, Dagonet," Merlin manages finally. "But I really don't need a servant."
"If you don't take me," Dagonet says desperately, "I'll be on stable duty. And as for you–why, you'll be thought difficult."
Merlin thinks on this for a moment.
"Stable duty is not a punishment I'd only ever inflict on Arthur," Merlin says eventually, "and that would have to be during a severe fit of pique on my end, and a severe episode of prattishness on his."
"So you'll have me?" Dagonet asks, eyebrows furrowed while trying to decipher Merlin's answer.
Merlin furrows his brow. "I… suppose."
"Thank ya," Dagonet breathes. He looks at Merlin, a lop-sided grin growing on his still boyishly round face. "I'll be helpful. You'll see."
"I'm sure," Merlin mutters, then turns back around and crouches to continue working on his pile.
"What's that?" Dagonet asks, risking a quiet step forward.
"Oh, this is a nest," Merlin replies easily.
Dagonet cranes his neck to get a better look. He narrows his eyes and peers at it for a moment, then says, "A–for what?"
Merlin jerks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the wicker cage. The boy glances at it, brow furrowed. The warlock doesn't elaborate. The serving boy looks closer at the empty wooden cage, then back at Merlin.
"I think whatever you had in there escaped, m'lord," Dagonet informs him solemnly.
Merlin huffs a laugh. "No, it hasn't. But you can check if you like."
The boy takes a few steps forward, then dips into a crouch mirroring Merlin's, facing away from the warlock and toward the cage. A careful finger is poked through the holes of the wicker.
Something nibbles at him.
"Somethin' just bit me!" Dagonet cries, jumping to his feet.
"I told you," Merlin mutters.
Dagonet looks from the cage, to Merlin, and back to the cage. After a few moments, he steps closer again, eyes wide.
"What is it?" Dagonet asks.
"A duck," Merlin says.
"A duck."
"An ill duck."
"An ill duck. Right," Dagonet says warily, looking back at Merlin. A few beats of silence pass before Dagonet decides to interrupt it once more by asking, "Aren't you supposed to be going to a social soon, m'l–Merlin?"
Merlin sighs. "I'd really rather not."
"But you have to," Dagonet informs him. "You're a lord."
The warlock, finally satisfied with his handiwork, stands and turns around. He regards the wicker basket with a ponderous look.
"I think," Merlin says, "that I shouldn't let him out yet. What with him being invisible still."
"Is it not a permanent condition?" Dagonet asks seriously.
Once again, the corner of Merlin's mouth twitches upward.
"No," Merlin replies. "It usually isn't."
"So he's… sporadically invisible," Dagonet guesses.
This inspires a real smile, and the warlock replies, "As I said: he's ill. You'll be learning quite a bit about this duck if you're serious about serving me."
Dagonet looks at him with wide, earnest eyes. "I'm serious."
"I would be, too," Merlin says, "if faced with stable duty for four weeks."
Dagonet grins. Merlin glances back up at him and gives the boy a smile.
"So… the social?" Dagonet asks.
Merlin sighs. His smile disappears amid a more drawn and pensive look. "I know I should go. But I'm much more comfortable at these things in a role such as yours. One in which I can view everything objectively, without the pressure of formulating a response."
"Surely it isn't that bad," Dagonet says. "You drink and eat and make friends with nobles from foreign lands. That sounds exciting and pleasurable to me."
"You have much to learn about the courts," Merlin says darkly. "Even as a servant, it would do you well to learn to read the waters, and read them correctly."
Dagonet shoots him a confused look. Merlin in turn regards him openly and quizzically.
They stand in silence for a moment, the boyish servant mired in confusion and the elder servant-turned-advisor regarding him with a kind of rivetedness and understanding that makes Dagonet feel suddenly vulnerable. See-through. As if the other man could simply look at him and know.
It occurs to the young boy, in this moment, that there stands before him the intimidating, noble, clever, dashing, mysterious figure of many stories.
Merlin is a fairy tale come to life, almost as storied as his king, queen, and the knights from Camelot. But more special, because he belonged to people like Dagonet, people like Henry and Octavia and Greta and Roderick. A legend in the flesh, a story made human, a servant who was just as important as the people he served.
Dagonet had read the letters Merlin personally wrote to Henry in the pursuit of entertaining his younger siblings to go to sleep. They were fantastical, dangerously magical, and strangely learned while keeping up the appearance of being for children. Having just been thirteen when the letters started arriving and the font of Merlin stories began spilling from Henry, Dagonet found himself strangely attached to the stories imparted in the letters.
But being a part of the Palace Staff he also attended Servants' Nights with its stories and amateur performances, and staff meals with their gossips and social diversions, and he generally was around when people were talking. Despite how much Dagonet disliked the boring gossip of the courts, the young boy always had an ear for a fantastic story.
And this man standing before him, arms crossed and gaze piercing–the man who, by some stroke of luck, the lowly serving boy had been ordered to attend to–had been the subject of many of those fantastic stories. Those reserved for campfires and cooking fires and warmly lit taverns.
Merlin is, after all, a peasant boy, turned physician and alchemist, turned manservant, turned friend to royalty, turned brother to knights, turned advisor. The wise and comical figure in every outlandish yet somehow true story told about the contemporary legends of their time. The man who helped inspire ballads and plays and campfire ghost stories.
A man who would take time out of his day to write fairy tales to a little boy with whom he had struck up a relationship. The man whose life was so interesting and varied and magical that he truly arrived in Nemeth with an invisible duck. A tall tale come to life.
"Are you related to Octavia and Henry?" Merlin asks finally.
Dagonet's eyes widen, thoughts distracted from the enormity of the person before him and back to some sense of grounded reality. He blushes, partially from the question, partially from the direction his thoughts had been going in. The man before him, no matter the story that surrounds him, is flesh and blood. For the gods' sakes, he is arranging a nest for an invisible bird.
The boy takes a deep breath.
"I'm the eldest," he says in affirmation of the question.
"Held down the fort while your mother and the youngest were away, did you?" Merlin guesses.
The blush deepens. The warlock gives the boy a sympathetic look and a nod.
"How long have you been in the Palace Staff?"
"Since I were ten, sir."
"Just Merlin. Please, Dagonet."
"Merlin. Sorry."
The warlock taps his foot. He crosses his arms. Then, he says decisively, "If you're to survive amid the Palace Staff and those you serve, you'll need to learn how the courts behave. What appears at first to be revelry and merry making and making embarrassments of themselves is, upon closer inspection, a tapestry of stories and information and power running along invisible threads and creating the structure of the society we live in."
Dagonet blinks. "Beg pardon, sir?"
"Merlin."
"Beg pardon, Merlin?"
The warlock thinks for a moment.
He thinks a moment longer.
"Do you pay much attention to castle gossip?" Merlin asks.
"Not really," Dagonet replies. "S' drivel, most of it."
"You should start," Merlin tells him. "You can learn many interesting things from listening. Even more from watching."
"I fail to appreciate your meanin', m'lo–Merlin."
Merlin sighs. As he turns to begin rifling through the clothes he just hung up, he says, "Let's go to the social. Pretend to attend to me, and we'll discuss the courts and how to understand them."
"Of course," Dagonet says, bowing to the man even though he knows the warlock cannot see it.
After a moment's hesitation and an incredibly wary stare, Dagonet bows as well to the empty wicker cage. A soft–and somewhat pleased–quack comes from the cage.
"Don't get his head too big," Merlin says immediately, taking out a navy tunic and holding it to his chest.
Dagonet blushes again and idly wonders how the lord managed to know what he had done from a simple sound the invisible duck made. But a different thought distracts him from that manner of thinking quite quickly.
"You… aren't goin' to wash?" Dagonet asks tentatively.
Merlin throws a glance over his shoulder. A hand, still clad in a thin black leather glove, runs through his hair. He gives his shirt a cursory sniff.
"Is it that bad?"
"You just traveled from Camelot," is Dagonet's perfunctory answer, and that gives Merlin good enough information to act on.
"Right," Merlin says. He looks down at himself, then up at Dagonet. "Where's the well?"
"What?"
"The well. So I can get water to wash up."
Dagonet shakes his head vociferously. Before Merlin can even raise an eyebrow, Dagonet is speaking.
"You can't just go an' get water from the well yerself," Dagonet tells him.
"Whyever not?"
"Because I'm assigned to ya," Dagonet says earnestly, brown eyes impossibly large and disbelieving in the firelight.
Merlin huffs. "That doesn't mean–"
"But it does, though," Dagonet insists. He crosses his arms and demands, "Don't ya want to be taken seriously as a lord?"
Merlin considers this.
"Why does that mean–"
"That's how it's done. Servants get water for the lords," Dagonet says, his tone implying disbelief that Merlin doesn't understand that. Then, sensing the need to take a different tack, the boy adds, "An' it would be a good way of showin' I'm doin' my job early on. Right? Avoid suspicion."
Merlin gives him an appraising look. "You know more about the courts than you initially let on, Dagonet. What with all this talk of keeping up appearances, I should think you an old hand at navigating the treacherous waters of the court."
The words sound like praise and concession in one.
"Four years I've been here, m'lord," Dagonet says knowingly. The tone makes Merlin snort, and Dagonet gives him a smile. "Anyway, your bath's already drawn an' I didn't want it to go to waste."
Merlin truly laughs at that, and allows himself to be shown to the dressing room set just off his sleeping chambers, Like Gwen's, it houses a copper bath already filled with warm water. The serving boy takes his leave then, going into the rest of Merlin's chambers to poke about and tidy up, Merlin relaxes into the perfumed water.
Eyes carefully closed, he wills the even water hotter, and sighs into the steam now curling up around him. The water soaks through his skin and into his bones, working out weeks' worth of knots borne from riding on horses and in carriages, walking and carrying and insisting.
The insisting had been the worst part. For several weeks prior to his departure and after his formal elevation, serving staff in Camelot had been acting alternately elated and stiff around him. Even George showed the due respect, however perfunctory. And worst of all, every one to the last, whether teasingly or genuinely, had called him some iteration of my lord.
Gwen had tried to move him into new rooms and away from Gaius, who constantly worries Merlin with his habits of climbing ladders and dozing off and knowing things. But Merlin had adamantly refused. Instead, when Gwen had insisted upon some kind of upgrade, he arranged for a series of rooms on the ground floor of the castle where his old mentor would not have to contend with any stairs, and would be rewarded for a lifetime of work with his own sleeping chambers.
Merlin's private sleeping room in the new chambers were a definite plus, however, being somewhat larger and definitely less rat-ridden that the others.
But they still didn't have a copper tub, nor perfumes with which to scent their washing water. Instead, most of their surplus income from Merlin's considerable wages as a lord was now spent on restocking their stores of herbs with generous amounts of staple ingredients and more than a few exotic ones bought from traveling merchants. Ones now safe enough to make the journey across Albion in no small part due to the many treaties and economic deals made by King Arthur and his court.
Every week now for months, Gaius and Merlin would walk down to the markets to barter and negotiate their way into rare books and strange herbs, and for the following day would lock themselves away in their new antechamber designated as the Experiment Room attempting new potions and salves and cures. Just a few days in operation established the space as incredibly unsafe to all but Merlin, Gaius, and–somehow–Sir Quackenfell. Therefore, unbeknownst to the rest of Camelot, Merlin also used it as a space to practice magic safely and quietly, away from prying eyes.
This, though–soaking in a tub among the dried flowers and scented oils–this he could get used to. This makes him understand a little more why Arthur always demanded that Merlin carry incredibly heavy buckets of hot water up countless flights of stairs just to have a bath.
Merlin cringes at the reminder of how this very bath came to be, and sets to cleaning himself very quickly. He makes it out of the bath in what seems to be record time, and ties a robe around himself quickly. The warlock exits the dressing room to find Dagonet, carefully laying a pair of boots at the foot of the bed.
"What's this?" Merlin asks.
"Your semi-formal wear, Merlin," Dagonet replies.
The warlock regards the outfit with suspicion.
"You picked this out?" Merlin asks.
Dagonet fidgets and replies, "The queen may have come by, m'lord Merlin, and prescribed your attire."
"Ah," Merlin says. He eyes the outfit, then says, "Best not disappoint her. I'll take this into the dressing room. You… do whatever, I suppose. I don't really care"
"Of course, m'l–"
"Merlin."
"Merlin."
The warlock grabs the clothes and disappears into the dressing room. Gwen had chosen for him, apparently, a pure white tunic that laces up the collar, a grey vestment embroidered with silver flowers and a neckerchief to match, and black breeches paired with a black coat and boots.
Merlin puts it all on hurriedly, then exits the dressing room. Dagonet turns to look at him with an eyebrow raised, then sighs.
"You can't truly expect me to let you go to the social looking like that," the servant says, voice tired.
The warlock looks down at himself.
"What do you mean?" Merlin asks.
Dagonet sighs and approaches the warlock. Merlin stiffens slightly, but the young boy simply reaches out and smooths Merlin's clothes, tugging collars into places and arranging fabric until it falls just so. Then, the boy guides Merling to a stool and fusses with his hair for a bit, swatting the warlock's hands away in a very Gwen fashion whenever Merlin attempts to interfere. All muttered complaints are met with exasperated sighs and eye rolls.
Merlin decides, despite the boy's attentiveness, that Dagonet is fairly likeable.
"There," Dagonet says finally. "You're ready."
Merlin pulls a face. "A social."
"A social," Dagonet repeats, a little more brightly.
A knock comes at the door. Merlin goes to rise to his feet, but the servant gives him a warning glare. The warlock holds up his hands in a gesture of peace and sits back down, leaving the servant to answer the door. A quick exchange of words it had, then Dagonet opens the door more fully to reveal Guinevere, Leon, and Gwaine, all wearing formal dress and robes and looking more fresh-faced than Merlin had seen in weeks.
"Who's this?" Gwaine asks, peering around Merlin to get a glimpse of the boy fidgeting behind him.
"Dagonet, sir," the boy replies. "I'll be servin' Lord Merlin."
"Just Merlin," the warlock in question sighs.
His three companions from Camelot give him wide grins. Merlin tries to ignore them. The suggestion from Guinevere to appoint Merlin a servant in Camelot had been one of the few things Merlin fought vehemently, and one of the even fewer things he had won out on. Really, it had been the questions of the servant and the new chambers that he had one, and the latter only after extensive negotiations. Gwen was sympathetic to the former. It felt wrong, to ask one of his former friends and coworkers to serve him.
Three hours into their trip to Nemeth and he's already capitulated in the face of an eager, wide-eyed boy.
"Ready for the crucible?" Gwaine asks Merlin with a wink.
Gwen rolls her eyes and says reassuringly, "It will be fine. It's just the social."
Merlin's face falls slightly into something more serious. "Everyone is going to be there, Gwen."
"Yes," the queen replies. "And everything will go according to plan. Let's use this afternoon to get as much information as possible, and we can report our findings to Princess Mithian at tonight's dinner."
Merlin nods, then slaps his thighs and stands.
"Let's go learn about our fellow guests, then," Merlin says.
The queen leads them from the room and down the hall, joining a small stream of other royals and nobles similarly making their way to the library to join the social. Dagonet catches up with Merlin, and though he stays a half step behind the older man, manages to lean forward and just overhear the low-voiced advice the Guinevere mutters to Merlin.
"Don't give too much away."
Merlin frowns and walks slightly closer to the queen, deciding to take her arm. Guinevere loops her own under his and leans in. Dagonet hurries to overhear their whispering.
"What do you mean?" the new lord asks.
"I mean, Merlin," the queen of Camelot replies, pausing to smile at a passing servant, "that the moment we crossed the border, you became the most interesting thing in Nemeth. A new lord, a personal greeting from the princess, the king remembering you, not to mention a folk hero–"
"Let's not get carried away, now–" Merlin warns, voice low.
"–and now escorting a queen to the first event of the season," Gwen whispers. "My dear Merlin, you're going to set all sorts of tongues wagging if you haven't already."
Merlin pulls a face. "Don't put it that way, Gwen."
"How else is she to put it?" Dagonet grumbles.
Gwen laughs lightly at the words. She glances back at Dagonet, then to Merlin, her eyes twinkling.
"My point is: only give them good things to talk about. Ask many questions, and hedge your answers. I hope you enjoyed your trial run in Camelot's court, Merlin," she whispers, "because now you are out of the frying pan and into the fire."
Merlin fixes her with a stare and opens his mouth to respond. But just as he does so, they arrive at large oaken doors. A man in a decorative uniform bows deeply at Guinevere, then to the knights, then finally Merlin, and walks ahead of them into a vast, nearly cavernous room. It houses many impossibly tall shelves, each carefully boasting hundreds of books and scrolls each.
Among the stacks mill many groups of finely dressed people, some of whom Merlin recognizes and some of whom he doesn't. Each of them, however, looks up as their party is announced by the herald who had walked them in.
"The Queen Guinevere of Camelot," the herald cries, "with Sir Leon, Head Knight of Camelot and brave Knight of the Round Table; and Sir Gwaine of Camelot and brave Knight of the Round Table; and escorted by the Lord Merlin of Ealdor and Camelot, Royal Advisor to the King and Queen and esteemed member of the Round Table."
Murmurs erupt through the library. Merlin looks out at the many faces turned upon him and stifles a dry gulp.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, indeed.
Dagonet leans forward to whisper in Merlin's ear.
"Is everyone supposed to stare?"
Merlin shoots him a warning glare, then clears his throat. Next to him, Gwen smiles, gives a general curtsey to the room, then moves forward to join the rest of the milling and chatting nobility. The serving boy keeps hot on his new master's heels, hovering anxiously as he goes. For his part, Merlin has assumed a rather carefully genial expression, which he puts forth like a suit of armor.
The library is large–more than large enough to house at least one hundred nobles comfortably, along with many desks and tables and chairs, sofas and benches, all set about for the court to stake out positions and size everything up.
Guinevere catches the eye of Queen Annis and moves toward her. Merlin gives the other queen a respectful nod, then continues moving slowly further into the room, having decided that approaching Annis would lead him too far into his nerves. The last time he saw her, he was referred to as a fool and juggled for her. He would prefer to not be similarly pressured into a repeat performance here. And anyway, Gwen would be more than equipped to handle conversation with the intelligent and discerning Queen Annis.
As he goes about the room, Merlin is sure to nod and greet various, more curious- or welcoming-looking guests rather than the disapproving ones. Behind him, Gwaine and Leon similarly branch off, the former in search of food, wine, or pretty ladies, and Leon in search of fellow knights to chew the fat with.
The warlock eventually is pulled to a stop when a young woman drops her hand-fan onto the ground, almost directly into his path. He pauses, bends to pick it up, and offers it back to her with a bow.
"I believe you may have dropped this, my lady," Merlin says, smiling.
"Oh, how clumsy of me," she replies, taking it back and giving him a curtsey. "My apologies…"
"Lord Merlin of Camelot and Ealdor," Merlin supplies.
"Charmed," the young woman says, reaching out her hand. Merlin takes it and kisses her knuckles as she adds, "Lady Fara of Hartford."
Merlin places Hartford in Nemeth easily, and recognizes the young woman as one who must make up the princess's court. He gives her an easy smile, and inclines his head to the rest of her friends.
"May I introduce Lady Cinda of Gawant, Lady Eloise of Nemeth, and Lady Ulned of Mercia," Lady Fara says, indicating her friends.
The warlock goes to make introductions, but a great clatter sounds behind him, so he turns slightly to see the source of the noise.
Partway across the library, he sees Dagonet holding a pitcher, a horrified look on his face. A pang of guilt courses through Merlin as he realizes he hadn't noticed when the servant peeled off in search of a refreshment to offer his temporary master.
In front of Dagonet, a young man with a mop of blond curls scoots his chair back to get a better perspective of the wine now dripping down the front of his tunic. Directly in front of Dagonet is another man, this one incredibly large so as to hulk over the serving boy. The large man inspects a bit of wine that splashed on his sleeve with a sneer.
"I'm so, so, so sorry, m'lords, my apologies–" Dagonet begins, diving toward the blonde man with a napkin he had snatched from the table. He tries to dab at the blond man's shirt.
"It–" the blonde man begins, but is cut off by the larger.
"Insolent little fool," the larger man says loudly, attracting the attention of many more onlookers.
He reaches toward Dagonet with an impossibly big hand, the fingers of which curl with ease over the entire circumference of the serving boy's upper arm. Dagonet is brought roughly to stand before the larger man and is kept there as the brute shoves his slightly stained sleeve into the boy's face.
"Do you see what you have done, you brainless idiot?"
Not half the words of the angered question are out of the man's mouth before Merlin mutters a quick apology to the ladies next to him and moves quickly toward the developing scene.
The brute lifts his hand through the air as if to strike the boy across the face, but–appearing faster than should be possible given the measured and calm gait that brought him there–Merlin wedges himself between the pair and lightly pushes at the other man's chest to force him a pace backward.
"Now, what seems to be the trouble?" Merlin asks brightly.
The man sneers. "And who are you?"
"Lord Merlin," the warlock replies, dipping into a bow that forces the man a further step back.
"And what business do you have to insert yourself between me and the punishment of a foolish servant?" the man asks.
"Ah, well, you see," Merlin says, his tone just a hair too biting to be considered apologetic, "that's my servant you were about to strike. So I would consider it very much to be my business."
The warlock can feel eyes on him. In his periphery, he can see Gwaine, stock-still, ready to abandon the noble women he's no doubt busy wooing already in order to jump to his friend's defense. Queen Guinevere watches with an openly worried expression to his left a little ways away, while Queen Annis next to her looks on with a severe look of interest. Many others, attention having been drawn by the spill and the yelling from the ogre, watch as well. Conversation dies down around them.
Merlin smiles pleasantly at the larger man and raises an eyebrow expectantly.
"Fine, then," the man snaps, holding out his sleeve. "Your brainless oaf of a servant spilled wine on me."
"I'm so sorry, m'lord," Dagonet pipes up.
Merlin waves a hand to quiet the servant and inspects the dots of wine on the garment. Then, he smiles pleasantly at the large man.
"I see. But I believe the boy has already apologized," the warlock says. "Twice now, in fact. What else would possibly satisfy you, my lord? Is he to help disrobe you immediately and wash your garment here in the library?"
The man's face turns an interesting shade of purple, but he manages to reply in a level tone, "I would simply seek to punish him appropriately for making such a mess."
At these words, the blond man finally chooses to speak. Now looking at him, Merlin decides he can't be more than seventeen summers, with boyhood fat still clinging to an angular and pleasing face. The blond man stands, waving his hands slightly.
"I take no offense," the blond man insists, looking first at Merlin, then Dagonet. "It was an honest mistake. In fact, I saw it happen, and I believe Duke Pellinor–" he gestures at the angry, hulking man– "may have actually bumped into your servant, and not the other way around."
"I thank you for your perspective and your grace, and will happily coordinate to have your garment either washed or replaced," Merlin says, bowing slightly to the polite young blond. He turns back to the hulking brute now identified as Duke Pellinor.
Pellinor huffs. "I still demand that your servant be disciplined correctly. Such incompetence should not be tolerated."
A small smile appears on Merlin's face. It looks out of place there, what with the stiffness of his posture and calmly challenging demeanor. The warlock places his hands behind his back and relaxes somewhat, as if he has just made some kind of decision.
"Very well, sir. If you believe discipline and corporeal punishment to be in order, then I accept. You are, after all, a duke, and as a lowly lord, I dare not refuse your request."
Merlin waits just long enough for the duke's face to become something more pleased before he leans forward and turns his face slightly to the side.
The quiet around them grows as they realize what Merlin means.
Duke Pellinor regards the man before him with something akin to fury as he reaches the same understanding.
"It is your servant–"
"The boy is in my charge," Merlin says easily, still not moving. "His actions when executing his duties, are under my purview. I believe you were fetching wine for me when this all happened, were you not, Dagonet?"
"Yes, m'lord," comes a squeak from behind him.
Merlin smiles at the duke. "So, you see, he was performing his duties for me when this all happened. As a result, if you see that a punishment is fit for the offense caused to you, then it will be my fault, as he was serving me when the offense occurred."
Pellinor sputters. But he casts his eyes about the room and the reality of his situation comes to him, finally, and understands that Merlin has left him with few honorable options.
He could force his way past the minor lord and strike at the servant, establishing himself as a violent and vindictive brute, one more willing to hit a young boy than satisfy his honor and settle his petty score with Merlin, who offered his own cheek in place of his servant's. He could do as Merlin says–as polite society would dictate–and satisfy his complaint by striking Merlin instead. But Merlin is a visiting lord just as Pellinor is, and thus the duke would establish himself early and to everyone present as petty enough to demand satisfaction from a stranger who may very well be an important member of a foreign court over a bit of wine. He could elevate the matter between them to the hosting king and queen, demanding they allow him to strike the servant instead of the lord, but that would make too much of a fuss and similarly make him out to be even more of a brute.
Or he could let the whole thing go.
Merlin smiles placidly at the duke, still offering his cheek to be struck, and patiently waiting for the other man to make his decision.
"I do not see that as necessary," Pellinor finally grinds out.
"Wonderful," Merlin says, clapping his hands together. "We are finally in agreement."
The warlock turns to the blond man and gives him another bow. "I would walk you to your chambers for fresh clothing, and take the stained one, if you would let me."
"Quite," the blond man replies, giving Merlin a genuine–and slightly impressed–grin.
Merlin holds his arm out to show the way and allows the wine-drenched young man to walk ahead of him toward the doors of the library. Dagonet hesitates, unsure of what to do. Then the boy gets a look of the warning glare his new master sends his way and hurries after the blond man, pitcher clutched tightly to his chest.
As the warlock leaves behind the other two, Merlin catches Gwen's eye and winks. The exasperated look she sends him in response is seen only momentarily before Merlin strides away, leaving a stewing duke and a bevy of curious looks behind him.
The halls are quieter now than they were earlier when the trio exits. With most of the nobles occupied in the library, the halls belong only to the servants now busy on some mission or another, walking quickly through shared areas before disappearing once more into the servants' passages.
"I was impressed," the blond man says as Merlin catches up to him, "with your masterful handling of that situation back there, Lord Merlin."
"Thank you," Merlin says, grinning. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your–"
"Caradoc," the young man says.
Merlin's eyes widen. "Prince Caradoc? Of Gawant?"
"Yes," the prince replies gamely. "The very one."
"Ah," Merlin says. "Then, your grace, I must thank you once again for your understanding–"
"Think nothing of it," Caradoc says, waving a hand through the air. "Mistakes happen. And anyway, Dagonet saved me from a very boring conversation with the Viscountess of Farendell."
Merlin snorts, and Dagonet goes red.
"I've heard of you, you know," Caradoc says conversationally, glancing at Merlin through the corner of his eye.
"Oh?" Merlin says.
"Yes," Caradoc tells him. "At first, just from my elder sister, when she returned from Camelot having been saved from a political marriage by the then-Prince Arthur."
Merlin nods.
"And she came back… different," Caradoc muses. "But somehow more familiar. Which I have always attributed to her stay in your fair lands."
Merlin swallows, but he nods again. Caradoc shrugs as if the very thought were ridiculous, then takes them from the Great Hall back toward the visitor's wing. Behind them, Dagonet keeps very quiet.
"Anyway, she only ever had kind things to say about Camelot, and Arthur, and Guinevere, and you. And then, as time went on, we started to hear more from others who had visited Camelot. Stories of dragons, invasions, nobility and magic."
Merlin flushes at this.
"I always did enjoy hearing those stories growing up," Caradoc tells him. "And now I get to meet you, all of you, the people I used to beg for tales about. Your lovely Queen Guinevere, and Sir Gwaine the Strong and Sir Leon the Honorable."
Merlin grins and laughs. "They aren't really called that."
"They are!" Caradoc insists. "At least in all the stories I heard growing up. And they almost always featured as well a particularly fascinating character: Merlin the Loyal."
Merlin clears his throat and says, "It's interesting to hear that you already know of me, your grace, and of my party. I can only hope that the stories you have heard are good ones, and that I can live up to them."
"You already have, my good man," Caradoc tells him.
Merlin blanches, but the young man thoughtfully leaves things at that.
The warlock takes a moment to really look at the prince. He's handsome, if young, and while he seems comfortable and confident even walking around with a tunic blooming with red wine, he seems absent of the arrogance or egotism that had so plagued Arthur around this age. In fact, he does not wear audacious clothes or carry a sword, nor does he dress in formal knights' wear. His golden curls are noticeably absent of a crown. Had it not been for the introduction, Merlin would not have guessed this young man to be a prince.
And despite what the man says, when he looks at Merlin, it is with an open geniality and perhaps a bit of curiosity, but with none of the awe that seems to afflict the Druids or, more recently, Dagonet, all of whom had grown up with stories about Merlin.
What an odd thought, that so many strangers know of him, and at least a little bit of his role in Camelot. The public roles, anyway.
"Do you know Duke Pellinor?" Merlin asks, attempting to sway the conversation from himself.
"Unfortunately," Caradoc replies with a grimace. Merlin grins. "He's a Duke of Essestir, named by Lot after he secured the throne in the wake of Cenred's death. He came to Gawant and stayed for about a fortnight a year or so ago. Horrible man. He really does believe in corporal punishment. It wasn't just an act to assert his dominance and position. If it were, anyway, it misfired horribly."
Merlin laughs at this and decides then that he likes the boy.
"We avoided assigning any of our own servants to him during his stay," Caradoc finishes ruefully, shaking his head.
Merlin nods. Sometimes, vile nobles bringing their own servants during a stay is the only way to avoid such brutishness being inflicted on their own servants. And other people often have very different ideas about what the proper ways are of dealing with the serving staff. Merlin himself had on more than one occasion volunteered to attend to such miscreants, if only to avoid a similar fate befalling other servants.
After all, Merlin had always been good at weaseling out of trouble. And often the threat of Prince Arthur's reprisals hung low over the head of the visiting noble, and was enough to get him out dealing with the brunt of a visiting noble's worse behavior.
"The duke seems…" Merlin begins, then stops himself.
"He's a right arsehole," Caradoc finishes for him, laughing. "Pity that he's the closest thing Lot has to an heir."
Merlin nods, stowing that information away for later and cursing himself for not bothering to become more familiar with the politics of other lands. To be fair, Camelot takes up more than enough of his time on its own, what with its itinerant witches and trouble-prone king. .
"Is your sister in attendance?" Merlin asks as they pace through the visitor's wings.
Caradoc pulls them to a stop in front of a door.
"Why, of course," Caradoc says.
Merlin expects him to open the door, but the prince instead knocks upon it. There is a rustle beyond the door, and then it opens to reveal a young woman swathed in bright blue skirts, her blond hair held from her face by a long braid.
"Caradoc," Elena says, frowning. "Did you spill something or were you stabbed?"
"An accident, sister," Caradoc replies. "But I've brought you another guest."
Merlin goes to bow, but Elena lets out a small squeal and dashes forward, enveloping him in her arms and skirts both. The warlock laughs and hugs her back.
"Princess Elena," Merlin says, delighted. "I am so incredibly pleased to see you."
"And I you, Lord Merlin," Elena says, pulling back.
The warlock pulls a face. "Just how fast does word spread in this castle?"
"Like wildfire," the princess replies promptly. "Are you the one who accidentally spilled on or stabbed my brother?"
"That were me, your highness," Dagonet says from behind Merlin. "And somethin' was spilled. I apologize for the offense."
Merlin, Caradoc, and Elena all look at the serving boy. He is stooped so low in a bow that he is nearly upside down.
"Oh, stand up, you silly boy," Elena says gently. "I'm sure you apologized already. There's no need to do it twice, and certainly not to me, who had no wine spilled on her."
"You and your brother are certainly breaths of fresh air," Merlin says. "But may I ask, princess, why you are not in attendance at the library?"
Elena pulls a face. "That's why I have a brother, is it not? To share the dreary social demands of this fete?"
Merlin laughs, and Caradoc throws his hands in the air.
"You only ever say that when getting me to attend the most impossibly boring events," Caradoc complains. "But when I want to get out of something, suddenly I must–"
"Attend to your duties," Elena finishes with a smile. "Speaking of which, you should change and get back to the social, dearest brother. I will entertain my old friend for a while and return him shortly."
Caradoc sighs, then smiles at Merlin, Elena, and Dagonet. "Very well. If it is your wish, sister."
"It is," Elena says. "Thank you for delivering a familiar face. Now be gone with you, and make haste to the library to finish making our greetings. We'll be along shortly."
Merlin and Dagonet find themselves pulled into Elena's chambers. Caradoc chuckles and walks off to his own rooms to divest himself of the stained shirt.
The warlock and his new servant–still clutching the pitcher–are brought further into the room, and they find themselves in the company of another young woman and an older man. They both stand as Merlin enters.
He recognizes both of them: the grey-haired man is Isildir of the Druids, still thin with that angular face and those serious eyes. Next to him is his niece, around Merlin's age, with long brown hair worn loose. They both wear rough and plain clothes, but clean ones, and both are missing the cloaks Merlin has so often come to identify with the itinerant group.
"My lord," Isildir mutters, bowing.
Rosaline curtseys next to him, dark eyes kept carefully on the floor.
"Isildir," Merlin says, moving forward. He shakes the druid's hand, then kisses Rosaline's knuckles. "Rosaline. A pleasure to see you both again."
"Yes, you both were in Camelot not long ago to finish the peace treaty between your peoples, were you not?" Elena asks pleasantly, taking a seat at the table.
Merlin nods and sits between her and Isildir, across from Rosaline.
"We had the pleasure of working together about a year ago," Merlin confirms. "Their stay in Camelot was brief but pleasant."
Dagonet had somehow acquired more wine, and he busies himself filling goblets for their small gathering. Quiet thank yous are given out, and then the serving boy goes to stand behind Merlin.
"We were honored for the opportunity," Isildir says. "And honored once again to be invited to these celebrations in Nemeth."
"I'm sure," Elena replies. "Well, I am so grateful for the company of each of you. Gawant is excited to once again share a cooperative and peaceful relationship with the Druids as well."
Merlin stifles the urge to raise an eyebrow. This was a development he hadn't been aware of. He had known, of course, that after Camelot had paved ground for peaceful relations with the druids and that Mithian had spearheaded a similar campaign in Nemeth, but hadn't known that Gawant was now following suit.
It pleases him to know that Arthur's more just actions seem to have caught. In fact, the idea places something warm and tight in his chest. Something very akin to hope.
Isildir catches his eye from across the table. Without any further communication, the warlock knows that the Druid elder feels similarly.
"I am happy to know that I am among friends and allies," Merlin says, taking a sip of his drink.
"Good company is so wonderful indeed," Elena agrees. "And something for which I am grateful. Now, tell me, Merlin: have you battled any monsters lately?"
Thus encouraged, the merry party spends about an hour catching up and discussing, mostly, the various accomplishments of Camelot and Gawant's courts in the past year or two. Merlin finds himself increasingly relaxed even in the presence of the druids. Neither seem to be rushing to reverence or awkwardness, and instead make polite chatter with the princess and the lord. Despite the sudden crashing together of his two worlds as Emrys and advisor, things seem to be going as smoothly as they can be, and Merlin quickly resolves to enjoy that fact for as long as it remains to be so.
But all too soon, a knock comes at the door, heralding the arrival once more of Caradoc. He informs them that the social has mostly died down after the nobles exhausted themselves with greetings, drinks, and gossip, and sufficient time had passed for he and his sister to attend to an evening appointment.
Merlin stands, suddenly remembering his own engagement set for that evening.
"I apologize," Merlin says quickly, "I have forgotten I need to be somewhere for dinner as well."
Elena raises an eyebrow. "Are you to attend Princess Mithian's dinner?"
"Ye-es," Merlin replies slowly. At Elena's expression, he amends, "Yes."
"Wonderful," Elena says, clapping her hands. "As are three others in our company. Perhaps you can escort me to dinner, and Caradoc can escort Rosaline."
Merlin and the prince both quickly nod their assent. With both young women now having escorts and chaperoning one another, Isildir bows and makes his leave.
As he passes Dagonet on his way out, Elena on his arm, Merlin tells the young boy, "You may choose attend or do something else, Dagonet. But whatever you do, please avoid the Duke unless I am there."
"I won't spill wine again," Dagonet says quickly.
"I'm sure," Merlin tells him. "But I still would rather you stay away from the man when possible."
"Of course, Merlin," Dagonet says, and without hesitation falls into step behind his temporary master and the princess.
"So, Lord Merlin," Elena whispers, leaning closer, "we can strike Duke Pellinor off the list of suitable prospects for the princess, can we?"
Merlin startles.
"You…"
"Oh, I believe every person invited to this particular event," Elena tells him quietly, "has certain shared goals in mind."
"But…" Merlin whispers, then leans slightly closer so he can be heard when he asks, "Your brother…"
"Is young," Elena says, "and still harbors dreams of seeing the world rather than being married and named heir apparent. Thus far, he's only succeeded in convincing our parents to allow me to marry before him."
Merlin eyes Caradoc with some surprise. The prince hadn't struck him as that hard-driven toward something, much less adventure. His obvious lack of sword and mail, and his long, somewhat ink-smudged fingers hint at someone much more aligned with scholar than swashbuckler.
Nonetheless, Merlin must concede that he himself does not outwardly seem predisposed toward adventure, yet very much finds that life and destiny often hold other plans.
"So he knows of the plan," Merlin says, still requiring some sort of confirmation.
"Yes. Caradoc also," Elena says quietly, and with a mischievous and knowing smile, "does not prefer the fairer sex."
"Ah," Merlin says. "That would be sufficient reason to support this particular caper, I suppose."
Elena laughs. "Precisely what we thought when we received her letters."
"I imagine," Merlin muses, "it's precisely what Princess Mithian thought when she wrote them, too."
"An intelligent woman," Elena agrees.
Merlin nods. They approach a point in the corridor in which turning right would take them downstairs, unnecessarily through the Great Hall and toward the Residential Wing where the royals stay, and going straight ahead they could travel a more inconspicuous route through the second floor hallways.
Elena turns them to the right.
"Princess Elena," Merlin says, mildly alarmed.
"Lord Merlin," she replies calmly.
"I do not believe it would entirely behoove you to be seen by so many in the Great Hall being escorted by a minor lord–"
"Nonsense," Elena says. "That minor lord is someone I consider a friend, first of all. Secondly, that minor lord is also a member of an allied court. Third, that minor lord is a war hero, and a legend of folk stories everywhere at only twenty-five summers–"
"Princess Elena," Merlin protests.
"And anyway, it would do well to emphasize Gawant and Camelot's alliance, as well as the hopefully incipient alliance between Gawant and the Druids," Elena tells him, nodding toward her brother and Rosaline, who walk a few paces in front of them.
Merlin nods, accepting defeat.
"Thank you for humoring me, my lord," Elena says serenely.
Merlin once again goes to protest and emphasize his happiness to escort her, when he catches her eyes and sees the teasing glint held there. He huffs a laugh and they walk happily down the corridor together having reached some understanding. They walk all together through the Great Hall and into the Residential Wing, coming to a stop before the doors to a small dining room, outside which wait two royal guards in silver and blue.
Merlin collects himself and pastes a smile on his face.
This dinner, and these next several weeks, he will be focused on his two goals: help Princess Mithian avoid an unsuitable match, and help Princess Mithian try to find a suitable one.
For some reason, the thought leaves a small knot in his throat.