Mithian leads the way back to the main gates of the castle, dictating the story they were each to tell to her parents upon their return.
The story was deceptively simple and mostly true: Merlin began the day gathering herbs and was surprised when he spied the witch moving through the wood. He followed her, saw her create the helledor, and waited long enough to see her disappear into the Cloudwood toward the Deep River. On his way back to the castle to report the sighting, he encountered Princess Mithian out on the hunt. He told his story to her and she, being the faster rider and in possession of a horse to begin with, rode hard back to the castle. And from there, the truth and the story largely converge with the omissions of Merlin's magic and the interference of the Queen of the Fae.
By the time they leave the Cloudwood, wind their way through the meadow, and pass the outlying farms to the outer city walls, each of them can easily recount their part in the tale.
As they approach the walls, guardsmen and knights atop sight them, inciting barked orders, shouts, and a great flurry of movement. They winch the gates open to allow the party entrance, and to allow for several armored figures to move with speed from the walls to provide cover for the party as they enter the city. Appearing first is Sir Fred, followed quickly by Isildir. Other men pour through the gates and form a semicircle around the party. Word of the witch moved fast.
As one, Mithian and Galahad nudge their horses forward to address Sir Fred together. Merlin and Gwaine hang behind, leaving the royal and her head knight to their business. Isildir makes his way through the crowd calmly and stands near Merlin, bowing his head in subtle deference.
"The helledor…" Isildir says.
"Eaten," Merlin responds absently. Even now, after the ride through the forest back to the city and its castle, he appears struck dumb. His mouth hangs open, though every so often he remembers to close it. His hand has been stuck to the nape of his neck.
"Eaten," Isildir says, nodding gravely. And then, after a pause, "Eaten?"
"The duck ate it," Merlin responds absently. "Queen Mab intervened."
"Queen Mab–what do you mean, Emrys?"
"I don't know, Isildir, but I'm going to look into it," Merlin sighs, finally looking down at the older man. His eyes gain the particular shine of a desperate man seeing an opportunity. "Say, would you like to accompany me back to my chambers and–"
"Nope," Gwaine interjects quickly, urging his horse a step forward so he can keep the conversation to a low volume as possible. "My apologies, Isildir, but Merlin shall have to study that damned duck–" a surly quack sounds here, muffled through the sack hanging at Merlin's side, "–yes, you, another time. Our Lord Merlin here needs to get presentable."
"Ah," Isildir says. "You are to give a report to the King and Queen, naturally."
Gwaine's smile looks wolfish; Merlin appears ready to vomit. The Druid chieftain before them takes a measured look at both expressions, then bows properly, abandoning his previous subtlety.
"My congratulations, Emrys," he says, and when he stands, Merlin sees his eyes twinkling.
Merlin pales further. The knight and the Druid laugh at him together; the warlock cannot even summon a scowl.
"Oh, goodness!" Gwaine exclaims, looking toward the gates. His smile widens further somehow. "Can you imagine what Dagonet will say when you tell him about–"
"You shut your mouth, Gwaine," Merlin growls, suddenly ramrod straight. He searches the sea of armor until he sees a mop of red hair darting in the small spaces between guardsmen and knights toward the little group. "Nothing is certain yet. There is still much ground to cover before we get anywhere."
"You sound unsure of yourself," Gwaine teases. "Don't tell me that you, the formidable Merlin Emrys–"
"Not my last name."
Gwaine's mouth snaps shut. Just as Dagonet reaches them, he asks, "What's your last name?"
Dagonet looks up at Merlin, out of breath. Through a severe frown, in lieu of any greeting or chastisement, he demands, "Is Merlin not yer last name?"
The warlock's lips twitch grudgingly toward a smile. "My full given name is Merlin Ambrosius Aurelianus. Didn't find that out myself until a few years ago."
"Kingly name, that," Gwaine muses. He ignores the death glare shot his way.
"I've been introducin' ya wrong all this time?!" Dagonet wails. "And where've ya been?"
Merlin sighs and shifts as if to dismount, but is caught by the preternatural attention of the princess. He feels, vaguely, that though several people engage her in urgent conversation, she has been paying attention to him to make sure he doesn't run off.
"Quick ride back to the castle, Lord Merlin," Princess Mithian calls from across the throng. "We have business to attend to."
A deep red color blooms across Merlin's face and into his ears. His manservant watches this reaction closely. Then, looking like a man who has just deciphered the mystery of the universe, Dagonet's eyes widen. His mouth drops open and he tries to smile at the same time, giving him the expression of a hooked fish.
"You–" he begins, finger raising to point at Merlin.
"Hush!" Merlin exclaims. "Keep quiet, Dagonet. We need subtlety. You can ride–"
"With me," Gwaine says, reaching a hand down. "C'mon, lad."
Dagonet scowls at the warlock, pouts at the knight–presumably for being made to ride with the other man like a child–but does take the offered help and lets himself be swung behind Gwaine. Galahad offers his horse to Isildir, who declines it with a short shake of his head and the excuse of wanting to stretch his legs after so long sitting at the city wall.
Dagonet obviously struggles to keep quiet all the way back to the castle, but is influenced by the other older nobles around him. They all stay silent on the way to the castle, offering no kind of explanation of their strange high energy; taught like a bow string, an odd mix of relief, joy, and a peculiar manner of schadenfreude focused on the lord from Camelot characterises their general demeanor on the brief ride to the citdal.
The several knights who Sir Fred sent away from the city ramparts to escort the party to the castle are left to their own thoughts and ideas of what these people may have been doing beyond the gates, and why the Druid seemed to know someone was returning before the rest of them, eagle-eyed archers included.
At the courtyard to the castle, the party dismounts, Dagonet receiving considerable help from Gwaine in doing so. Stablehands and ostlers arrive quietly to lead their horses away. The princess makes an attempt to smooth her rumpled hunting clothes and turns to address the others.
"Dagonet, please do me the favor of ensuring your master gets back to his chambers. He needs a meal–a hot one, please–and rest. He is to join myself and my parents for supper tonight. Sir Galahad and Sir Fred, if you would accompany me now to give a report to the king and queen, I would very much appreciate it."
Merlin sighs and Mtihian frowns back at him. She makes a vague gesture to Galahad, who seems to innately understand her request. He jerks his chin to the side. Gwaine, understanding the message, ambles toward the stairs and begins trudging slowly up them. When Dagonet doesn't move, Galahad strides forward, grabs him by the arm, and tows him away, ignoring every muttered protest from the boy.
Mithian walks toward Merlin, closing the space between them so that if they manage to keep their voices down, they cannot be overheard. Mithian searches Merlin's face.
"Is this not what you want?" she asks quietly.
The warlock's eyes become large and round as saucers. "What are you talking about, princess?"
He seems intent on playing the fool. Mithian refuses to buy in. "You don't seem enthused by our engagement, Lord Merlin," Mithian says quietly.
"Well, it happened rather quickly," Merlin admits, and though his tone attempts teasing, some truth rings in his words.
The princess is careful to not let her feelings show on her face, but something happened–or else Merlin knows her well enough to guess–and he captures her hands in his own.
"My princess," he sighs. "Don't be an idiot."
This wrenches a laugh out of her. Though she feels her cheeks are dry, her eyes burn, and the laugh comes out thick and choked as if she were crying.
"I do want to marry more than anything else I've ever wanted," he says. "But… but you don't have to marry. This whole affair was meant to either establish you as a ruler capable of governing alone and in your own right, or otherwise find a suitable match."
"And I've found a suitable match," Mithian insists.
Merlin gives her a small smile. "A former peasant and current unlanded lord of a foreign court? I have nothing to offer you, my Mithian."
"Merlin," Mithian says seriously, "all you need offer me a promise to love and serve me well, and to do the same for my country. Can you do that?"
Merlin furrows his brow. Mithian nods, looking down at their entwined hands. Earlier in the Cloudwood, looking at his nonplussed expression as he read a strange, alien language written in the earth, the realization that they could marry had nearly bowled her over. It felt, suddenly, as if she had dropped off the edge of a cliff and suddenly found she could fly. Everything had felt sure and exhilarating. But now… now it feels as though her new wings are made of wax, and she had dared too close to the sun.
"Is it Arthur?" she asks, voice no more than a whisper.
Merlin's hands tighten around hers again, but this time it seems involuntary. A quick glance at his face is all Mithian can bear. He looks regretful, unsure. So far from the confident, impulsive, reckless man she knows him to be.
"He's my destiny, my princess," Merlin says softly. "I don't know if I can just abandon that. Even if… even if I were willing to abandon my destiny…"
Even if. The choice of words is not lost on the princess. She nods again. Her hands feel cold despite the warmth of his palms seeping into her own. Even if.
"I do not know if the gods would allow it," Merlin says quietly.
"Well," Mithian says. It feels as if she has not slept in weeks. Her stomach cries out for food, her throat for water. And above all the clamoring senses, she feels her heart cry out for Merlin, and it is all she can do not to throw her arms about him and beg.
But she is a princess. Heir to the throne of Nemeth, and Duchess of Helngard; a renowned scholar and accomplished stateswoman and fearsome archer. And she has been taught by quite a good friend to look beyond the apparent limitations of social demands and obligations and tradition in order to achieve something great.
She is quiet for a second and then asks, "Did the prophecies mention anything about Guinevere? The ones about you and Arthur, I mean."
Though she continues looking at their hands, from the periphery of her vision, she sees Merlin's head fall to a slight angle with his confusion at the nonsequitur.
"Gwen?" he asks. "I… I don't know, actually."
"Mmhmm," Mithian murmurs. "How about Lancelot, did any of them mention Lancelot? Or the Dorocha at all?"
"...No," Merlin responds at length.
"What about the dragon?"
"I don't see–"
"Do they mention anything about you becoming a lord or advisor?" Mithian asks.
"No, my princess," Merlin breathes. "They do not."
Mithian continues staring at their hands. She entwines their fingers, desperate to hold on to some small part of him.
"If you do not wish to marry me, then I will accept the rejection with understanding. But, my Merlin, I implore you to remember that your destiny and these prophecies… I think they describe the destination, not the journey. You may know your destiny, but consider that perhaps you do not know your fate."
Mithian dares a glance at him and suddenly finds herself frozen. His returning gaze seems… plaintive. He seems to be drinking in her words and rejecting them out of hand all at once.
She can understand how it must feel to hear what she says: a beautiful fiction drawn out for him in excruciating detail, a promise of a life that he could never claim as his ownIt is similar to the way she felt the first time she read his letters of advice on her conduct in her own courts. She had chafed, and disbelieved, and scorned. But then…
"What I am asking you to do must be difficult," Mithian says, catching a lip in her teeth. She worries it for a moment, looking into his eyes. "But I ask you to consider that what I say might hold some truth, if not wisdom. I think it is possible, Merlin, that achieving your destiny may be made more probable by achieving a position greater than any you've ever known. You've helped Arthur become a man, and a king, and now, maybe, as a king yourself, you can help him become something else."
He continues searching her face, chasing down every bit of earnest promise held in her expression. But his own looks… strange. Regretful still, and sorrowful, but something about the turn of the corners of his lips and the particular crinkle of his eyes speaks to something below the surface.
Something like hope. That little thing that flies on broken wings, scrabbling to break free from his chest and take flight. It scratches at the edges of his expression, pulls at his lips, sings from the shine in his eyes. She recognizes it, because she has felt it so often herself. How terrifying it is to let loose that hope, and follow it wherever it leads.
"What might that be?" Merlin whispers. "What more could I do for him other than tobe by his side and protect him?"
"Make him a king of kings," Mithian answers, the answer spilling from her lips before she can truly consider it.
But as she says it, something in the words ring true, and she can suddenly see the impossible possibility of it all: an Albion united under a single banner; Mithian and Merlin pledging Nemeth to Camelot's cause; swaying their allies in Gawant and Mercia and all the others to join; a council of royalty, headed by a golden king advised by leaders of nations and the most powerful warlock to ever live; peasants and serfs lifted up; knights and nobility named from merit rather than heritage; disparate countries woven tight into an insoluble allyship.
A golden age. As she speaks, the its seems so close she can taste it: honeyed sunlight and ripe grain and hope.
"Your destiny may have been bestowed upon you," Mithian says, "but your life is your own."
Merlin's breaths come short and heavy. The princess disentangles one of their hands and places it against his cheek, marveling at and savoring all at once the way he presses closer to her touch.
"Eat and rest. I will visit you this evening, and we can talk more. If you need more time, that is fine. But know that I love you, my Merlin. And I would do anything to see you happy. Even if it means letting you go," she says.
Without affording him the opportunity to respond, she turns and heads up the steps, quickly catching up with the dawdling knights, who must then lengthen their strides to catch up with the princess.
Merlin watches her go for a few moments, then squeezes his eyes shut against the tidal wave of emotion that swallows him.
The moment he shuffles into his chambers, Merlin slouches to the sitting area and slumps onto the couch. Like a leaf twirling along the wake of a boat in the water, Dagonet follows in his footsteps, gliding to an uncertain stop a few paces away when Merlin sits.
"Bath, m'lord?" Dagonet asks finally, unsatisfied both with the silence and his master's general attitude.
Dagonet tugs at the hem of his oversized tunic. Sweat beads on his brow; he tries to wipe it off, but more comes soon after, and he gives up. As he looks at his master, he understands that he may be out of his depth. The feeling should not be unusual given what he already knows of his temporary master, but this feels more dire than normal somehow.
Rather than inscrutable, mischievous, and drive, Merlin appears subdued. Close to defeated, even. It is spelled out in how his shoulders slump rather than slouch, how his tired eyes do not even sparkle, how his concern for the duck still bundled in a sack–now wriggling on the couch next to the advisor–seems to have disappeared. This is not the man Dagonet has been serving for near to a month now.
"I guess," Merlin replies, so long after Dagonet had asked the question that the manservant must remind himself what he asked.
In Dagonet's hesitant pause that follows, Merlin sighs, a threadbare and worn-through sound. The advisor leans over, sharp elbows balanced on his knees, and buries his face in his hands.
"Luncheon?" Dagonet hazards. His voice breaks upward on the second word. Neither Dagonet nor his master is entirely sure if this is a repeated question or a new one.
"Sure," Merlin says. He allows his heels to scrape across the floor until his legs extend fully beneath the coffee table. Then, they stretch further, sliding his bum across the upholstery until his neck rests against the back of the couch, his bum balanced on the edge of a cushion, his boots nearly to the opposite side of the coffee table. His momentum pulls him finally to the ground where he sits, staring blankly at the armchairs in front of him.
"P'raps a nap as well, m'lord?" Dagonet suggests gently.
Merlin groans in response. He falls slowly to the side until he lays on the floor in an L shape. He curls slightly, adjusting things so his head shifts beneath the couch, his legs beneath the coffee table.
Dagonet shifts on his feet uneasily. It is not like his master to respond to things like this. Granted, a proposal of marriage is a rather large event to have to react to, but, Dagonet thought, generally was considered a happy occasion. Especially when the given fiancee were a princess.
"Should I get your duck out of the bag, m'lord?" Dagonet asks.
Sir Quackenfell lets out a muffled quack from where he had been deposited unceremoniously on the couch. He moves a bit, causing the sack to wriggle and threaten to spill over the edge of the couch. Dagonet twitches as if to grab the sack.
"No," Merlin responds, finally marshalling enough energy to put threatening emphasis on the word. He reaches out blindly, grabs the sack, and puts in on the floor in front of him. "Don't touch him until I'm able to get some studying in. In fact, if you could bring me his cage–"
A series of quacks carry with them all the fervent, angry energy of a string of curses.
"–I'd be greatly appreciative," Merlin finishes. The advisor pulls his left arm up to pillow his head on it. His right arm snakes around his own stomach.
"Are ya goin' to be sick, m'lord?" Dagonet asks with all the tact he can muster.
"Probably not," Merlin responds. "The cage, dear Dagonet?"
Dagonet does as he is bid, feeling incredibly put off-balance by Merlin's mood and behavior. It seems ill-fitting on him. A man like that should be complaining good-naturedly, yelling for the fun of it, muttering at his work and flashing cheeky grins over people's shoulders. Not wallowing. Dagonet doesn't care that it isn't seemly–he's seen nobles do worse, after all–but instead feels overwhelmingly concerned for his master's welfare.
"I'd thunk," Dagonet says, dragging the bird's cage into the room from the sleeping chambers and depositing it on the floor near the defeated curve of Merlin's waist, "that ye'd be pleased at the–er–recent development?"
A sigh stirs the air near Dagonet's boots. "It's I'd thought, actually," Merlin informs the boy, "contrary to all common sense and reasoning. And… it's complicated, Dagonet."
"Right. My kind o' complicated?"
"I don't think so," Merlin responds miserably.
"Shall I fetch Queen Guinevere, then?" Dagonet asks.
"I'd rather you fetch me a sword first," Merlin mutters.
Dagonet rolls his eyes.
"I saw that," Merlin snaps, though without much feeling.
"No, ya did nae," Dagonet responds. "Yer under a couch."
A brief pause. Then, Merlin corrects, "I felt that."
"If it's not my kind o' complicated, m'lord, is there someone else who may be able to advise ya?" Dagonet asks, voice teetering between bewildered, beseeching, and whinging.
And it is at the exact opportune moment that the door to Merlin's chambers bursts inward. Dagonet startles to attention, ready with a hellish rebuke. Merlin barely stirs.
Prince Bedivere strides in, eyes casting wildly about the room until they fall on Dagonet.
"Is Lord Merlin here?" Bedivere asks.
Dagonet points to the ground near his feet. Bedivere's auburn brows furrow and he strides a few paces forward. Catching a glimpse of the body beneath the furniture, he stops, considers the tableau, then goes to close the door behind him. Once he does so, he catches Dagonet's eye.
Bedivere mouths, What happened? at Dagonet. The servant shrugs and mouths back, A lot.
Bedivere jerks his chin at the door. Dagonet returns with a single shake of his head.
"I know you're having a conversation," Merlin says sullenly.
Both servant and prince look at him lying on the floor.
"Alright, you or me first?" Bedivere asks.
Merlin sighs. "How was the lock-down?"
"We've more personal things to discuss than the witch, Merlin," Bedivere responds. He glances at Dagonet. "Sensitive things. Could we talk in private, perhaps?"
"What's the point?" Merlin says. "It's fine. Sit down. Tell me what's happened."
Bedivere hesitates, looking at Dagonet. The manservant returns his gaze, holding in his own a challenge and reproach both. They lock into a brief, silent battle: dedicated manservant versus furtive royal.
Dagonet ends up winning. Bedivere sighs, crosses the chambers, and sinks into an armchair nominally across from Merlin. He slouches into a strange, slanted position so he can see a sliver of Merlin's face below the couch.
"You alright, Lord Merlin?" Bedivere asks.
"No," Merlin says. "What's happening?"
"This," Bedivere answers. He waits a moment to ensure Merlin is peering at him from the corner of his eye. Then, the prince shakes his head. Vivid purple polka-dots appear on his auburn hair. He shakes his head again and the spots disappear.
Merlin claws his way out from beneath the couch and gets himself in an upright position. He stays seated on the floor, his feet splayed out before him beneath the coffee table, but both Dagonet and Bedivere consider this an improvement upon the former situation.
"Do that again?" Merlin asks.
Bedivere demonstrates.
"Right," Merlin says. He frowns. "And shake your head?"
Bedivere obliges. As he shakes his head, his hair shimmers back to its normal auburn.
"Okay," Merlin says. "And one more time?"
Bedivere sighs. "No, Merlin. You saw it! Everyone saw it!"
"And have you at any point today had one of your visions?" Merlin asks.
"Yes," Bedivere says, frowning in Dagonet's direction. To the servant's credit, the boy's face remains impassive and blank, brown eyes trained in the appropriate middle distance. "They were incredibly vivid and distressing. But then, with little warning, they stopped around midafternoon, only two or three hours after Princess Mithian gave her orders. And right as they stopped, I sneezed harder than I ever had in my life. And then I developed this instead."
"Fairy Fever," Merlin murmurs.
Dagonet finally is shaken from his performance as model manservant. He turns bodily to scrutiny the prince. Bedivere, for his part, frowns at the servant and the former servant respectively, but does not respond.
"Dagonet, would you–"
"I'll get yer notes," Dagonet huffs. Then, he looks at Bedivere. He looks at Merlin, who answers the gaze with a warning glare of his own. Dagonet rolls his eyes, turns his attentions to a stack of papers on a side table behind him, and announces nonchalantly, "Princess Mithian proposed to Lord Merlin, but Lord Merlin apparently is goin' to decline. It were purple spots?"
"Dagonet," Merlin roars.
"Merlin!" Bedivere exclaims, surging to his feet.
The prince hesitates, caught by a flurry of emotions. Then, he launches himself in a crouch across the table, effectively tackling Merlin and sending them both to the floor. The couch scrapes back a pace or two with a horrible screeching noise, making Dagonet curl his shoulders against the sound even as he flips through stacks of parchment.
"Congratulations!" Bedivere exclaims. Possessed by some unnameable emotion, the scholar-prince traps the taller man in an armlock and rubs his knuckles into Merlin's hair.
Merlin's laughter rips from him unbidden. It takes effort to get the slighter man off him and shoved onto the stone floor next to him. They pull apart, panting and grinning. Then, Bedivere smacks Merlin's head. The advisor scooches away, hand held to his head.
"Ow!" Merlin complains.
"We both know that didn't hurt. You idiot. You're going to decline?!" Bedivere demands. Without waiting for Merlin to answer, Bedivere exclaims, "But you two… You're perfect for one another."
"I thought you fancied her?" Merlin asks, some vulnerability leaking through the teasing tone he attempts.
Bedivere scoffs. "Who wouldn't? She's clever, and fearsome, and beautiful. A golden rose amongst wildflowers." In the contemplative silence that follows what should have been a compliment, the prince butts Merlin's shoulder with his own. "She's much like you, my friend. Anyone with eyes can see how well-suited you are for one another. And anyway, no amount of fancying in the world can stand up to true love."
"True love?" Merlin repeats.
"Well, yeah," Bedivere responds. He studies Merlin and, as he does so, gains the strange feeling that he has missed out on some large event. Even still, he tries for levity, asking in a jovial tone, "Did you not know?"
"I…" Merlin begins. He pushes a hand through his already-wild hair. He scratches at his overgrown stubble. "I don't know if I did. I do. I do, after today. But… but no. I don't think I did."
"Oh," Bedivere responds. He looks at Dagonet, who looks helplessly back at the prince. Bedivere claps Merlin on the arm. Despite his scholarly nature, it seems his own attempts at comfort revert back to the same old familiars of knights. "Well… if you know now… are you still thinking of declining?"
"I would describe it more as, 'I'm thinking of accepting,'" Merlin answers, voice low. "Declining would be the natural state of things. Temptation leads me the opposite way."
"What would make you say a stupid thing like that?" Bedivere asks.
Merlin snorts. "You know why, Bedivere."
Bedivere looks as if he is about to protest, then takes in Merlin's tired look. He opens his mouth as if to answer, searches the advisor's face, and falls silent. His expression becomes contemplative, as if he were studying a particularly challenging abrytan board.
"Well, I don't," Dagonet says.
Both prince and advisor look with surprise at the servant, as if each had been suddenly reminded of his presence. In all honesty, they probably had. But their mild surprise soon turns to varying degrees of assessment. Dagonet shifts on his feet.
"Have you–" Bedivere begins, and though he is looking at Dagonet, it is obvious the question is meant for Merlin.
"No," Merlin responds too promptly.
"Do you think–" Bedivere starts.
"Most probably."
"Right. And is now–"
"As any," Merlin sighs.
Dagonet glowers at them both, resenting the coded conversation being had about him, right in front of him. Merlin flashes an apologetic smile.
"Dagonet, I am a warlock," Merlin says, voice stronger and surer than Dagonet has heard it since meeting him outside the gate. "That means I'm a kind of sorcerer who was born with magic at my fingertips. It is in my blood. It is who I am. I have only ever tried to use my power for good and for the good of Camelot and her people and the man who is now her king and was once a prattish, promising prince. I understand if you want or need to bring this to the proper authorities. But Princess Mithian knows, and Prince Bedivere knows, and so do Sirs Gwaine and Galahad. And someday very soon, King Arthur and Queen Guinevere will know, too."
Dagonet stands immobile. Time slinks by the three of them like a panther, silent and tense, circling with threatening purpose.
Then, Dagonet says slowly, as if speaking to imbeciles, "Well, right, that makes sense. Fer sure. Duck an' legend an' all. But wha' does that 'ave to do with ya marryin' the princess?"
Merlin blinks.
He blinks again.
He clambers to his feet and leans forward, towering over the servant. Dagonet leans back somewhat, but only to have a better perspective from which he can blink owlishly at the warlock.
"You aren't concerned by your master being a sorcerer?" Merlin asks, perplexed. "Not even the slightest bit concerned by being implicated in multinational treason?"
Dagonet frowns at Merlin. "I'm concerned cuz yer sayin' yer not gonna marry the princess 'gainst all common sense. An' cuz yer covered in muck an' bracken an' haven't eaten nor slept in gods know how long. Yer actin' senseless, m'lord."
"I'm telling the truth about being a sorcerer," Merlin insists. He glances down at the still-sitting prince, who nods to vouchsafe the statement. Merlin turns back to his servant and raises an eyebrow. "I promise. I'm a magic-user. Watch."
Merlin holds out his palm and summons a small flame. He fashions it into a dragon, which takes off flying about the room. It swoops low toward Dagonet, who reaches out a hand and swats the dragon. It puffs from existence in a small cloud of smoke. Merlin stands watching, mouth agape. At his feet, still seated on the floor, the prince tries valiantly to hide his laughter with a series of choked coughs. Merlin tries to kick his leg.
"Yeah, like I said," Dagonet says impatiently. "That makes sense. I'm not concerned 'bout that. I'm concerned cuz ya look like death warmed over an' ya keep talkin' nonsense 'bout not wantin' to be a king an' not wantin' to marry a girl yer pretty grossly in love with."
"Grossly in love with?" Merlin repeats.
"Well, yeah," Dagonet says. "It's been kind o' unbearable, watchin' you two."
Merlin's mouth closes with a snap. "Grossly in love with?" he demands, outraged. Then, he pauses. Collects himself. And in a much calmer, more curious tone of voice, asks, "For how long?"
"Honestly? I thought you two was courtin' from the moment ya met in the courtyard," Dagonet responds matter-of-factly. "She did nae greet any other visitor like that, m'lord. And since then I've only seen ya smile so wide as when ya see her. That's got to be countin' as grossly in love, don't it?"
"And you're how old, Dagonet?" Bedivere pipes up from the floor, laughter fading into fits of hiccup-like giggles.
"You're undignified," Merlin mutters, trying and failing again to kick the prince.
"Fourteen, yer grace," Dagonet replies, and sounds just as tired as Merlin does. "An' a half. An' so it's oblivious to me, the teenaged servant, that you two're pretty much grossly in love an' you should be happy 'bout marryin' her."
Merlin shakes his head, bashfulness turning to grim sobriety with a speed that shocks and concerns both the prince and the manservant.
"I have a duty," Merlin says. "I must uphold it."
"Wha's that, then?" Dagonet asks. Then, feeling as if the prince and advisor may be prone to discount his faculties on account of his age, adds, "An' I know wha' duties are, o' course. I just meant more pacifically, wha' they were in this convex."
Merlin sighs. Apparently subsumed by his own fatigue once more, he throws himself onto the couch where he summarily sinks into the soft cushions. He tilts his neck back, resting his head so his nose points toward the ceiling. He closes his eyes.
"King Arthur Pendragon," Merlin says, voice somehow dancing with practiced casualty over incredibly serious words, "is the Once and Future King. He is prophesied to have a long and prosperous reign. A golden age. It is my job to get him there."
A beat of silence. Then, Dagonet asks, "Well, is that all?"
Merlin's eyes slit open. He raises his head slightly in order to better glare daggers at his manservant.
"What do you mean, is that all?"
Dagonet thinks on this question, then says, maintaining a perfect servant's thousand-yard-stare, "Pretty much wha' I asked, m'lord."
"That is no small feat," Merlin snaps, sitting up straight, invigorated by his own argument.
"No-o," Dagonet responds, elongating the word into four syllables. "Nae, o' course not."
"Of course not," Bedivere resounds from the floor, obviously amused by the argument.
"It's just…" Dagonet begins, then trails off.
"Just?" Merlin prompts.
"It's just," Dagonet says, frowning into the middle distance, "haven't ya already done tha'?"
This was not what Merlin had been expecting. Once more, his mouth drops open, but this time he cannot even summon the energy necessary to snap it closed again.
"I mean," Dagonet says quickly, "I've gotta say, m'lord, I've heard most if not all the stories with ya in 'em, an' ye've already done a lot for his 'ighness. Drank poison, touched a Dorocha, faced off wyverns an' dragons. An' if ye've got magic, I'm only to assume ye've done more'n most'd already thunk. Thought. Think?"
"Think," Merlin responds absently.
"Most'd think," Dagonet says, relieved. "Right. Anyway. Ye've been with Arthur since 'e were a prince. 'e's been a king a little while. Don't ya trust 'im to run 'is kingdom?"
"Well–" Merlin says, then cuts himself off. "Well, yes. Of course."
"An' ain't 'e the best swordsman in Albion?" Dagonet asks, squinting at Merlin.
"He is," Merlin responds quietly.
"An' aren't there so many stories out there 'bout 'im that no child can grow up in Albion wi'out knowin' his name?"
"I don't know about that one," Merlin says softly.
"I do," Bedivere chimes in from the floor. "The answer is yes. Your king is a famous one, and a popular one. Not often those two coincide. He's a good man, and you've played no small part in that, my friend. Your manservant is unusually wise."
"The best are," Merlin says, his voice once again absent through the joke is obvious. "Do you two really think it so obvious?"
"I think, Lord Merlin," Bedivere says slowly, gathering his thoughts, "that you are so used to denying yourself things–pleasures, vulnerability, trust, connection–that you'd rather preemptively deprive yourself of things rather than risk losing them later. But I think you've perceived that trait as a fact of life rather than the choice that it is."
The resulting far-away expression on Merlin's face causes the servant and the prince to exchange worried expressions.
"M'lord?" Dagonet asks, shaking himself from his own neutral servant's mein and allowing no small amount of concern to pass across his freckled face. "Merlin?"
"Everyone speaks of it as if it were so simple," Merlin says softly. "But I've devoted my life to Arthur. I've sacrificed so much for him, and for Camelot. And I wouldn't take any of it back, don't get me wrong. I just… to leave now…"
"Would be an act of faith," Bedivere murmurs. "Do you have that kind of faith in your destiny, Merlin? In Arthur and yourself?"
Merlin doesn't respond. He slumps further in his chair and closes his eyes, choosing to reply with little more than murmurs to whatever questions and observations flit into his consciousness next. After a while, Bedivere shakes his shoulder.
"Your manservant is going to kick me out. Will you be able to fix me, Merlin?" a voice says, swimming through a dim, warm haze.
Merlin mutters something and waves his hand in the direction of the voice. He hears a soft exchange a little further away. Something squeezes his shoulder.
"Did you even wake up to do that? Are you awake now?" the voice asks.
Merlin sighs irritably. "Tell the prat he c'n dress 'mself."
Soft laughter leaks in to him from that faraway place. It brings to mind many knights before, spent falling asleep to the soft chatter and laughter of whichever knights were on guard. A door opens and closes softly again in the periphery of his awareness.
And, slowly, Merlin sinks into a deep and dreamless sleep.