Stave III: Procuring the Partridge
As Merlin hared his way through the castle, the twilight slipped into night, growing foggier yet, and colder. Mountainous clouds pooled around the castle's lofty spires, so dense that the building appeared to be gliding on a snow storm. Flames in hearths jumped meekly to battle the vicious chill, or did not burn at all. A veneer of frost encrusted the castle's walls with a layer of crystals that glowered ominously in the gloom. Merlin's skull was tremulous with vibrating as his teeth chattered beyond restraint. He ploughed onward, into the fray of harassed and harried servants coursing by in a rapid stream.
Ambling toward Merlin came yet another hindrance, on this occasion bearing the form of no one other than Gwaine.
"Merlin!" the knight croaked in greeting, with little more than half the spirit he ordinarily possessed. He was stumbling along in a fogged daze, sweeping in zig-zags along the corridor. Servants knocked into him as they passed, yet Gwaine remained nonplussed.
Merlin petered to a halt. "Gwaine, I'm sorry but I really don't have the time-"
"Have you seen my socks anywhere?" Came Gwaine's bizarre interruption.
"Your socks?" Merlin exclaimed, ruffled with bewilderment. All was made clear when he squinted in a downward direction and discovered Gwaine to be barefooted. Dangling from his grasp was a pair of untied boots.
"Oh, your socks," Merlin guffawed. A faint grin traced his lips, which he guilty masked when he caught sight of Gwaine's crest-fallen demeanor. He shook his head in an act of sympathy. "No…No, I haven't seen your socks."
Gwaine deflated with a sigh, hanging his head, most forlorn indeed.
"I was on patrol duty, you see, and it was getting cold so I thought I'd fetch a spare pair of socks. But when I got to my chambers, they were all missing. Why would anyone want to steal another man's socks, ey?"
Evidently, the Elf had a penchant for sock thievery.
Merlin reached out to pat Gwaine's shoulder in consolation. Throughout Gwaine's lamentations of despair, Merlin pressed his lips together desperately resisting the surges of laughter that threatened to release themselves and shame the poor knight's situation.
"That's unbelievable. I'm sorry…" Merlin paused to suppress another wave of laughter, "for your loss."
"I've looked everywhere for them, all over the castle, but they can't be found. What am I supposed to do without any socks? Freeze to death?" Gwaine pointed his eyes up at Merlin as though he were salvation itself, all wrapped up in a red neckerchief and sent to solve his every problem.
"I'll keep an eye out. If I catch anyone lurking around with a suspicious amount of socks on them, I'll make sure to give them a telling off from you," Merlin said with a last reassuring clap on his shoulder.
Merlin anticipated Gwaine to proclaim something along the lines of: "Forget a telling off- you bring them to me. I'll give them a fight that they'll remember for a long time. They'll rue the day they messed with me," with an inflamed passion signature to his temperament.
All that Gwaine had to say, however, was simply, "And bring back my socks, won't you? Before you have to defrost me?" His voice was stricken, as though he had tears caught at the back of his throat.
"I'll make sure of it."
"I appreciate it, Merlin. You're a real friend," Gwaine smiled blearily.
"I try my best," Merlin replied with a humble shrug.
The pair slipped into a strained silence, with nothing but the distant howling of wind to occupy the wordless void. Gwaine gaped disconsolately, his eye sockets shadowed with blue and popping out of his pallid face. Meanwhile, Merlin scratched his head, just for something to do, gaze flickering in search of a diversion.
"Alright…well…I best get going. Lots to do, preparations for the Yuletide banquet and…all that…" Merlin gestured vaguely, in a haphazard attempt to smooth the awkwardness that prevailed.
"Oh- yes, of course," Gwaine sniffed.
"I'll see you at the celebrations tomorrow, no doubt."
Gwaine nodded tactiturnly, and made a croak that sounded somewhat like a goodbye. Shoulders slumped, he turned and resumed his haunting of the corridor, as hunched and melancholic as a decrepit old man.
For an instant, Merlin lingered, at a loath to abandon Gwaine in a desperate state. He watched as Gwaine acquisitioned the attentions of serving maids, vying for their pity like a lost puppy. When one particularly pretty maid took Gwaine onto her arm and ushered him along, that was enough for Merlin to leave with no further thought for Gwaine's welfare.
In a flash, Merlin's legs carried him to the kitchens, burning from the strain but concerning him not. As he broached the entrance, as one might broach a wounded wolf, he baulked at the clamouring din of clattering pots and pans chiming over the muffled rush of servants at work. His head reverberated with metallic stars as he eeled his way past the frenzied mass of kitchen staff frantically industrious at their stations. Merlin was glad of their preoccupied state, for it gave him cover to purloin himself some wittles without being caught. In the reining chaos of the day, he had neglected to spare a moment to eat. After a covert slip of the hand, Merlin plundered himself an old heel of bread and topped it with a slab of pale cheese. Huddling in a corner, he snaffled his snack, surveying the turbulent affairs of the kitchen as he pondered what he might steal to entreat with the Elf.
One kitchen maid was busy with kneading dough, but she moved at such a lethargic pace that she was scarcely making a dent. Further along the counter, one maid engaged in peeling carrots- or had been, since the peeler sagged in her hands, her stare vacant. The carrot clunked to the counter and her eyes drooped to a close. Meanwhile, a maid busy egg-washing delicate fruited pastries took a pause to wipe her eyes on the corner of her pinny. Pacing around the kitchen and nearly slipping in spilled broths, the staff rushed around lugging sacks of vegetables and brimming pans.
Pouncing on him unawares, the Cook sprung towards Merlin, a lethal looking ladle brandished. Hastily, Merlin brushed the last crumbs of his pilfered supper away from his mouth. He snapped his hands behind his back, a sloppy attempt to render a facade of innocence that both he and Cook knew he did not possess.
"What are you doing in here?" Cook demanded, face as purple as a plum and beaded with sweat. Merlin darted a step back from her potent onion-stench.
"I'm on an errand for the King," Merlin improvised without a moment's hesitation. He puffed his chest out with a feigned prideful air. He knew well that that excuse got him where he always needed to go.
"Well you best make it quick, boy. We've got enough to deal with, without you getting under our feet!" She snarled at Merlin, spittle flying and ladle wagging.
"Of course, I wouldn't dream of it," Merlin answered, with perhaps a smidge more sarcasm than was safe. Cook shot him a seething glance, her narrowed eyes glowering with unspoken accusations. Merlin shrunk in her shadow. When Cook deemed Merlin sufficiently intimidated, she returned to her work, barking orders at the morose kitchen-crew.
"Mildreth, no more salt on those parsnips! Estrilda, that pastry is much too floury, make it again!"
Merlin slunk towards the back of the kitchen, where he found some reprieve from Cook's bellowed orders. Here, was a larder, replete with sumptuous bounties that would bedeck the feasting tables of the banquet hall the very next day. Merlin evaluated his options, finger tapping against his lips idly as he sank deep into reverie.
What dish would be worthy enough to convince the Elf to leave Camelot in peace? Not the boar's head, fragrant with bay and rosemary and an apple stuffed into its mouth, for that would be the crown of the feast tomorrow. Merlin's mouth watered imagining the delectable smells that would be wafting in the hall tomorrow. Goose, duck and swan…freshly baked bread, tureens of gravy, tenderly roasted vegetables…
Merlin shook his head from his food-daze. There would be no feast if he did not rid the castle of its elf infestation.
Onto the task at hand, Merlin mulled over the swan. It was much too big, besides, someone would surely notice it was missing. The same was true for the peacock, and so too for the bloodied flanks of venison. Perhaps a quail? Not grand enough. Nor was the pheasant.
Merlin located the plum pudding, bejewelled with nuts and glazed fruit. His heart ached and he knew he could not be persuaded to be parted from his beloved pudding. It was the one dish he and Arthur particularly looked forward to every Yuletide. Only the previous week they had both been gushing to each other in anticipation of the pudding, served steaming in silver bowls and accompanied with lashings of cream. Merlin could not devastate his friend in such a manner as to steal away the pudding. It would have to stay.
His eyes flitted to the roasted partridge nesting on a gilded golden platter.
"The largest partridge to ever grace the tables of Camelot," Arthur had boasted when he shot the bird at yesterday's midwinter hunt. It was customary that ahead of the Yuletide banquet the royal family would go hunting and slay all of the meat that was to be served, as a way of thanking the court and the knights for their loyal service throughout the year.
"That might do…" Merlin murmured to himself, stooping for a further inspection.
The dish was presented upon a bed of downy feathers plucked from the bird itself, while the skin had been roasted to a sublime golden crispness. He gave the dish an inquisitive sniff, his stomach answering its rich scent with a yearning growl. Merlin nodded in satisfaction; his tribute to the Elf was selected. All that was left to do now was to smuggle it out of the kitchen, all under the penetrative gaze of Cook. Merlin had faced far graver odds, and so set to the feat with steely confidence.
Merlin plucked up the partridge platter, and bracing himself with a breath, broached the obstacle of leaving the kitchens unscathed. Eyes searching for hazards, he unearthed from the larder and assessed the available escape routes. Cook continued her vigilant patrolling of the kitchen, appearing to Merlin much like a cat toying with mice as she pounced on her victims and issued orders.
The worst of the kitchen's commotion unfolded beside the great hearth where the hog was impaled upon a spit and roasting not even a little. The flames beneath that guttered with lost spark suddenly rose up and billowed as a gust of icy wind buffeted down the chimney. Just as quickly as they leapt, the flames spluttered with a great crackle and fizzled to smolders. A number of staff had flocked to the scene, each of them in turn hoping to reignite the fire. Each one was unsuccessful.
There, Merlin considered, was an opportune diversion ripe for the plucking. When he marked Cook stalking in the direction of the commotion, hands on her hips and a scowl fossilised upon her face, Merlin seized his opportunity.
"What's all this fuss then?" Cook demanded, coming to a standstill before the fire, arms crossed in a foreboding gesture.
"The fire won't start," offered one servant who looked liable to collapse from exhaustion at any minute.
"Nonsense."
Cook barged her way to the front. A serving maid with much frazzled hair spraying from beneath her cap crouched over the fire, wiping soot from her eyes.
"Hilda! Surely it isn't too hard to get that fire started, girl? Oh stop that pathetic snivelling at once!"
Merlin skittered closer to the exit as further servants flocked to the spectacle escalating by the fireplace. His path was cleared, but he had to make certain he was not pursued.
"Forbearnahn," he whispered.
Upon the utterance of this spell, the once extinguished flames leapt up in a blaze of blue, lashing and flicking like snakes' tongues. The servants leapt back in shock, some clutching their hands to their chests, others stifling screams. The licking flames engulfed the hog and soon the flesh was seared and spitting fat. As sparks crackled in the air and the flames quelled to a greenish blaze, Merlin slinked his way to the door, heeded by none. Or so he believed.
"Oi, where are you off with that?" rang Cook's enraged accusation.
Merlin chanced a backward glance, spying a blustered Cook lumbering after him, ruddy cheeks puffing as she scrambled to push people out of her path. Merlin winced with gritted teeth and searched in desperation for an escape.
Set upon a stove-top was a vat of redcurrant sauce almost as large as himself, bubbling gently and steeping the air with its stewed sweetness. While Cook was preoccupied wrangling her way through the kitchen, Merlin judged it safe to act. Eyes flashing gold, the vat promptly began to boil violently, sticky liquid roiling up over the sides and frothing upon the floor. There, it collected into a slick pink puddle that halted Cook dead in her tracks. She malingered by the puddle, torn between reprimanding a thief or saving what precious little was left of the sauce.
"You come back here with that!" she roared after him, shaking a great fist.
Yet rage as she might, Cook was powerless to prevent Merlin. He was out of the door and racing on his way before she could even frame an insult to scald him with.
Merlin was free and fleeing, gulping in gasps of air. With the chaos unfolding around him, no one batted an eyelid as he careened down the corridors clutching his pilfered partridge. He tumbled onto Gaius's doorstep, red-faced and panting.
Depositing the partridge onto Gaius's workbench, directly on top of the manuscript he had been studying, Merlin relayed the dire situation that was deteriorating far beyond his or anyone's control.
"There's something seriously wrong with Gwen and Gwaine. And the cook… although, there's never anything right with the cook," Merlin spluttered in between deep gulps of air. He braced his hands against Gaius's workbench, chest heaving as he breathed through a stitch.
"Whatever do you mean?" Gaius inquired, a perturbed brow raised severely over his spectacles.
"Gwen- well-" Merlin put his hands on his hips. "Gwen's turned into Arthur. You know she shouted at me and threatened to send me to the stocks? Only Arthur does that!" His downturned mouth was sour.
"Hmm," Gaius goggled at Merlin through his spectacles, pensivity glazing his expression.
"Gwaine is moping around the corridors looking for his lost socks. And in the kitchens, all the staff are either crying or sleeping on the job, and the cook- if you can believe it- is even more irate than usual!" Merlin plonked himself down upon a stool, eyes manic and startling wide.
"I did warn you Merlin," Gaius scolded, not a shred of sympathy softening his tone.
"So now you've turned into a scrooge as well?" Merlin quipped.
"Oi, don't be cheeky!" Gaius flung him a dangerously withering look and aimed a cuff around Merlin's ears, which, after years of practice, Merlin artfully dodged.
The true reality of the situation and the blade of Gwen's earlier insults suddenly crashed down in full-force to cut at his self-worth. Upon his stool, Merlin curled himself up into a tight ball, head nestled between his knees and arms wrapped around his legs. Gaius puffed out a sigh, settling himself down beside Merlin with a tiresome effort.
"It does you no good sitting there moping," he lectured, but despite himself, laid a consoling hand upon Merlin's back.
The troubled sorcerer deigned Gaius's sympathy with a "hmph."
"I think perhaps even your spirits are being deadened by the Elf's thrall. Shall I sing you a yuletide carol, to cheer your mood?"
Gaius took in a great bellow of air, poised to launch into a lively tune. Merlin's head shot up, a shadow of anguish writhing on his face.
"Please Gaius, I beg you, don't sing!"
In response, Gaius cackled heartily, thumping Merlin on the back. Merlin could not help but meet the old man's enthusiasm with a weak smile.
"That got you looking alive! Now, what are you to do about this Elf?"
Drawing in a fortifying breath, Merlin expunged the numbing weight of his low-spirits and considered Gaius's question. At length, he answered ponderously.
"I thought we could lure it to a quiet corner of the castle. That way we can be rid of the creature safely and calmly, and Arthur need never know of it."
"That's all well and good Merlin, but I think you'll be hard pressed to find even a drop of quiet in this castle. While you were off running your errand, I had people banging at my door demanding tonics for their sore throats and runny noses, there were cuts and sprains to tend to where people had slipped on ice in the darkened hallways. Not to mention the guardsmen clanking back and forth every other minute disturbing me from my work," Gaius growled his lamentations, while Merlin bore them with silent patience.
"What about the banqueting hall?" Merlin prompted, "It'll be locked and sealed by now, ready for tomorrow's feast. It's the most festive place in the entire castle, so the Elf will be easily lured there. No one will disturb us either. It's perfect."
"And what if the Elf destroys the decorations?" Gaius asked, ever the devil's advocate. Merlin shrugged and pulled himself to standing, already decided.
"It's the best we have. I have to defeat this Elf, or I won't get a waking moment of peace from Arthur all year. I really don't think I could tolerate him if he grew into a scrooge." Merlin shuddered, plagued by the thought. "I would definitely have to give up my destiny if that ever happened."
That very moment, as if his preoccupations seeped into reality, came the bellowing summons of his name. Merlin faintly wondered whether the strings of destiny revelled in tormenting him. He closed his eyes, but little that did to save him.
"MERLIN! MERLIN!"
"Is that… Gwen?" Gaius breathed in astonishment. Merlin gave a silent, tight-lipped nod in confirmation. Gaius's white brows raised higher than they had ever had occasion to do so.
"Would you disobey a direct order from your Queen?!" The blood-chilling summon hounded him again.
"Perhaps you ought to see what she wants, lest you have no job to come back to once this ordeal is through," Gaius suggested, confoundment at Gwen's condition underlying his tone. Merlin opened his eyes and smiled grimly.
"MERLIN!" Potion vials rattled in their cupboards at this rampant shout.
"She and Arthur are perfect for one another," Merlin muttered drily.
When the next shrill summons came, Gwen sounded as though she was teetering on the edge of throwing someone in the dungeons, just to appease her anger. Merlin did not desire for that someone to be him.
"I think perhaps the Elf can wait," Gaius confided, shooing Merlin towards the door.
Heart thudding and legs shaking as though they were strapped to stilts, Merlin hastened to the demands of his cantankerous Queen.