Not even a candlemark into the break-fast, and Merlin is feeling… squirrely. Were he perfectly honest with himself, he would admit that the feelings are mainly to do with Ger.
At the start, the manservant had nearly demanded of them their jackets and gloves, then set about setting the table with such gusto that Merlin would think him paid by the flourish.
Even now, the boy stands slightly to the left of him and just far enough removed from the table that he does not occupy even the periphery of Merlin's vision. Nonetheless, he draws much of Merlin's attention as he and the princes make their way through clunky small talk and general updates on the welfare of their respective kingdoms
And so it is not, as one might suspect, nerves manifested from being in the presence of two princes. This he finds largely normal as he settles into it, in fact, which mildly surprises him. He relaxes in his chair, allows Dagonet to take up station just behind him and to his right (always in his periphery, never in his vision), smiles genially at two men just a heartbeat away from the thrones of two very distinct, very large kingdoms. His affect is one of a man used to such events, and somewhat pleased to have been invited to this particular one.
He muffled his surprise well, and so this event–nor his feelings about it–account for his discomfiture.
No. Instead, it is due entirely to Ger.
Ger posses a–quite frankly–disturbing devotion to the ideal of decorum and duty.
On a bad day, Merlin would have described himself as a half-decent manservant, and on good days, perhaps even a particularly good one. But Ger…
Despite standing entirely behind Merlin and–Merlin suspects–perfectly obscured in the corner of not only his, but Bedivere and Caradoc's vision–the boy nonetheless manages to command much of Merlin's attention from the start. Even without the mindspeak, Merlin would have found himself perturbed.
Ger radiates energy and efficiency. His whole body while at rest seems poised to snap into a maelstrom of gangly and sharp-edged motion. A pure and unadulterated aura of I am here to help comes off the boy in waves.
George would be shaking in his boots at the mere sight of Ger, quivering in the background just a moment away from offering to throw himself bodily over a puddle to save any person the shame of muddying their boots.
What's even more disturbing to Merlin is that it is genuine. He catches no whiff of cowardice or groveling. Instead, the boy seems to have an aura of I shall make things as they are meant to be no matter your feelings on the subject, my lords.
For instance, Merlin notices when Bedivere shoots Ger an exasperated look and clocks the impatient yet subtle wave of the hand Bedivere receives from his manservant in return. The warlock catches how the prince rolls his eyes when Ger dives into a bag at his feet, and hears the irked yet subtle sigh the servant huffs in return even without seeing the look directed at him by his prince.
Ger simply truly believes in being a good manservant.
It's both curious and somewhat unnerving to Merlin, a man who is at once intimately familiar with how Druids ought to be (which is nomadic, independent, mostly uncaring of class or race or creed), and intimately familiar with how servants are (more human and infinitely less pleased to serve than Ger). The man behind him defies every expectation in his drive to perfection.
This is the man who Dagonet deemed a chatterer?, Merlin thinks, striving to avoid noticing the boy in constant motion behind him.
The princes and Merlin enter into the required formalities: updates on countries and policies and families and people. Merlin contributes little outside his monarchs' most recent accomplishments, keeping his reports carefully perfunctory yet appropriately glowing. He knows well how to tread the line between proud citizen and bootlicker.
Throughout the first two candlemarks of the break-fast–marked by somewhat stilted if pleasant conversation and a whirlwind of bony limbs belonging exclusively to Ger, who managed to beat Dagonet to attentively serving the trio at every turn–Merlin tries to work out his feelings on the matter.
Eventually, he decides that it is off-putting, really, and would be unbearable if Ger didn't show some subtle signs of defiance in his pursuit of the proper. Those small actions of defiance against Merlin, Caradoc, and Bedivere's wishes–namely, insisting on serving them when they give every signal to cease and desist–gives Merlin some semblance of hope for the young boy.
"So, my lord," Bedivere says, turning to Merlin and pulling the warlock from his wandering thoughts. "You are a physician's assistant, then?"
"Yes," Merlin replies, dragging the tines of his fork through the scraps of food remaining on his plate. Ger's limbs become once more a maelstrom of pink-white skin and sharp edges as he lunges to refill Merlin's plate.
The warlock simply holds up a hand, and the servant disappears beyond his line of sight once more. Merlin avoids the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"How did you come across that occupation?" Bedivere asks, bringing Merlin back into the conversation.
Merlin takes a moment to consider this. The prince–both princes, really–seem genuinely interested in the answer, no matter how polite the question.
"I, uh, was sent to Camelot by my mother when I turned seventeen," Merlin answers. "She hoped to help me… find some direction."
"And so you have," Bedivere says thoughtfully. "Of course, I along with many others have heard some tales of your exploits."
"Oh?" Merlin asks somewhat tiredly.
The novelty of being talked about has already worn off. This early in the morning–or late at night, depending on how he looked at it from his sleep-deprived state–and plagued as he is by polite manners, anxiously attentive servants (Druidic and non-Druidic), and ill ducks alike, the idea of entertaining others' perceptions of him is simply exhausting. Yet another person who has heard tales of him from other people, painting him in a strange light.
Merlin supposes that this is what Arthur had felt like after his Royal Portrait was made. The man had complained ceaselessly for a fortnight about how the painter got his nose wrong and did not at all capture the spirit I wanted it to. After close questioning, Merlin concluded that the spirit to which the king referred was in fact a simple desire for a more close-to-life depiction of the way Arthur had made his hair fall just so when posing.
But this has more to do with noses or hair. This is Merlin's reputation and, by extension, his country's. His king and queen's.
Bedivere picks up on the tone and answers before Merlin has a chance to correct it.
"Oh, yes," Bedivere says gamely. "In fact, I heard the most interesting tale of late."
Merlin's stomach twists, and he very carefully avoids his eyes flicking in any direction that might stray too near the general direction of Ger.
Prince Bedivere nods and helps himself to a pastry, carefully batting away one of Ger's hands which Merlin could have sworn appeared from midair. But there had been no magic, Merlin knew. Instead, there existed only an uncomfortable knowledge deep in the warlock's bones that Ger was simply just that good a manservant.
The thought inspires not a little fear in him.
"Which one would that be, your highness?" Merlin asks, watching the Ger's hands not so much withdraw as simply appear in the spot of nervous stillness on Merlin's periphery along with the rest of the servant's body.
"I believe it was a story about you, your king, and a unicorn's curse," Bedivere says.
The sentence should be innocuous. But Merlin finds that he can't help himself.
He raises an eyebrow in amused askance. "Oh?"
"Quite," Bedivere says.
Merlin relaxes a little in his seat. The prince having attended the Servant's Night is a good sign in his book. Of course, Arthur didn't typically attend such things, but Gwen did when she was able, and Merlin figured that as long as someone in a royal household made the effort to sneak in and enjoy the pastimes of their people, it would say a lot about the ruling family in general.
Most other servants thought the same, and so gladly turned the other way when they were encroached upon by tourist royals. The thought that their monarchs cared enough to don a cloak and endeavor to understand them a little better set them more at ease, and gave them a sense of civic pride. All in all, the practice has proven to be a sound basis for the judgment of character.
"There is always talk at fetes such as this. Rumor comes and goes," Bedivere tells Caradoc and Merlin.
"If you are reassuring me that talk will not remain on me for the rest of the fete, then I am grateful." Merlin shoots an accusatory glare first at Dagonet, then at Caradoc when he says, "Most others around me have said quite the opposite."
"I will state for the record, such as it may be, that I made no such assertion," Bedivere says with a chuckle, and then bursts into a real laugh at Merlin's responding scowl. "No offense meant, old chap. I simply mean to point out that rumors and talk can do much to further reputations here, for better or worse. Anyone who walks away without having been talked about has quite failed in our collective endeavor. And you, my friend, are currently ahead of the game."
"The game being…" Caradoc says carefully. He raises an eyebrow at his fellow prince.
"Why, getting noticed, of course," Bedivere replies. "How else does anyone without noble blood survive in the shark-infested waters of any court, much less an assembly of foreign courts?"
Merlin thinks about this. "So when you said that you hoped we could come together–"
"Under the bonds of friendship and strengthen the alliances between countries?" Bedivere asks. "I was speaking truly. And quite literally."
"Ah," Caradoc says, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin and settling back in his seat. "Well, I for one am for it."
Merlin shoots him an indecipherable look just as Bedivere bestows an amused and pleased one on his fellow prince. Caradoc replies to both with a shrug that seems to embody the word nonchalance.
"The more allies the better, right?" he asks.
"Absolutely correct," Bedivere agrees. He takes a bite of pastry and asks, "So, Lord Merlin–"
"Just Merlin, if it pleases your grace," Merlin interrupts.
"Merlin," Bedivere corrects with a nod. "Very well. I couldn't help but notice you followed a duck here. A pet of yours?"
"More like an–"
"An accessory," Caradoc suggests.
"A riddle," Dagonet murmurs, voice tinged with frustration, low though it is.
"An object of study," Merlin finishes lamely. He looks around the clearing and spots Sir Quackenfell a little ways away, pecking for insects and seeds in the grass. He makes a mental note of this, then turns back to the prince. "I apologize if it is unusual, Prince–"
"Just Bedivere, if it pleases your lordship," Caradoc replies promptly. Merlin looks back at him and nods.
Then the prince blinks heavily. His eyes become slightly unfocused. His pause is half a second longer than it likely should be.
Then he smiles gamely, his expression once more genial and attentive.
"Bedivere," Merlin corrects.
The warlock tries to study the prince's face. It's just as relaxed and pleasant as before, those intelligent green eyes jovial and crinkled.
Merlin sneaks a quick glance at Caradoc and Dagonet. Neither indicate having noticed the split-second change.
"It is unusual," Bedivere says as if conceding an argument, and succeeding in capturing the warlock's attention once again. The prince smiles and says, "But nothing at all to apologize for. I find it fascinating. Tell me, why do you keep a duck?"
"It contributes to the overall persona," Caradoc says, grinning, just as Dagonet answers, "Because it's vexin'," and no one can quite tell if he says so because he, too, is befuddled by how and why the duck is the way it is, or because he's already tired of keeping after a master, let alone the master's strange pet.
"It became ill a while ago with the oddest symptoms," Merlin explains smoothly.
He notices as Bedivere's eyes shoot to the side, looking somewhere into the trees from whence Merlin, Caradoc, and Dagonet had come. Beads of sweat have appeared on his brow.
Merlin follows the prince's eyes. The manservant-turned-advisor sees nothing. Then Bedivere's eyes return to his, smiling once more.
The warlock casts his own eyes downward to briefly focus on his lap and lets his magical sense flow outward.
That source of his funny feelings.
It's much more than that in reality. Letting his magic loose feels as if he had been groping along in the darkness and suddenly came across light for the first time. It's a kind of understanding, a kind of discovery, known and privileged only to the other five senses.
As Gaius has said of Merlin's magic once, it seems at times a fifth humor and sixth sense into and unto itself.
Merlin, for lack of a better term, becomes suddenly aware of the trees in the garden, how they communicate and live and breathe, how they share information and water and nutrients with one another. He feels the strong and wild roses, tamed into neat rows by the shears of ruthless and precise gardeners. Understands how the herbs, their roots tangled in the dark, damp soil, feel when brushed with the misty sea air. It continues until he reaches the old, contented, salt-encrusted white stone of Nemeth's citadel. It seems to breathe along with the gentle, wave-like motion of the breeze, a living thing itself made of stone and memory among the flora.
He feels nothing out of place. Nothing that should have caught the prince's attention.
He lets go, and feels once more as if he's stopped hearing, or seeing. A primary sense ceases to function.
But it is normal, and he had long ago learned how to live in the dark.
"What kind of symptoms?" Bedivere asks. The question grounds the warlock even further in the present, and he fixes his blue eyes on the prince.
Merlin notices a tinge to the prince's voice. It's slightly hard, and strangely out of place in the young man's dulcet and merry tones, even hidden beneath the joviality as it is.
Memory of the rumor Dagonet had shared–that morsel of information about a peculiar incident with Morgana–surfaces again. He considers this, then weighs out his reply with as much consideration as he can give within the bounds of a normal human response time. Nonetheless, he still appears to be giving the question more serious thought than it likely merits.
"He was bumped on the bill by a busie pixie," Merlin says finally and without stuttering over the alliteration. "Afterward, he developed bright pink feet. Every so often–on average, every week, though it varies–the symptoms change. It's most interesting."
Bedivere raises his eyebrows. Merlin would think him amused if he didn't notice as well how the prince's shoulders tensed his explanation of Fairy Fever.
"How odd," Bedivere says, his voice now smooth and relaxed without even a hint of the distress Merlin noticed a moment before. "I could very well understand wanting to know more about that. Tell me, do you wish to cure it with your skills as a physician?"
Merlin glances down and sees the duck at Bedivere's feet, pecking at the prince's shoes. The warlock gives a deft shrug in response and leans down to grab the duck, intending to rein the animal in from its continued attacks on the prince.
"I honestly don't know I could–"
The moment the warlock puts his hands on the duck, the world changes.
The first thing he notices is that his magic screams inside him. It claws upward, from that center in his chest and up his throat until he chokes on it, and he must fight back hard in order to maintain some semblance of control.
Something is very wrong here. And here is no longer where he was.
The chair has vanished beneath him, but he nonetheless seems to sit on something solid. There is no longer a table before him, nor food, nor drink.
Merlin raises himself slowly into a more upright position, pulling the duck in toward him until it can settle on his lap. It gives him a quiet quack, likely meant to be reassuring, he thinks, as he looks around a new landscape.
Lounging beside him, sitting on nothing but thin air, a spectral version of Prince Caradoc sits and smiles emptily at Merlin. All the light in his eyes–the charisma, the persona, the personality–diffuses into nothing more than an echo. Behind Caradoc and slightly to his left so as to stand between Merlin and the prince, a white shadow of Dagonet stands, looking somewhat perplexed as his eyes burrow into the duck now on Merlin's lap.
Neither of them blink as they look at Merlin.
Behind the two ghost-like versions of his new friends, Merlin sees a structure rising into a sky roiling with vicious thunderheads and glowing crimson and bruise-purple. It is crumbling, blackened with soot and grime. Wind moves through it ceaselessly, wind that Merlin can feel but that he cannot see moving through his clothes or through his friends' phantom hair. Nonetheless, it manages to consume and animate the thick layer of ash and ruined soil on the ground until small cyclones of thick, dark blackness rove across the landscape.
The trees here are coated in black mud and starved, wizened into crouching and hunched creatures curling toward the barren ground like so many skeletal hands buried in the wasted dirt.
Something darker than shadow but too angular to be anything but a manmade structure strikes a sharp silhouette against the tortured sky. After much too long staring at it, Merlin recognizes what it must be.
It is Nemeth's castle. Its proud citadel. And it is reduced to rubble.
Far away, somewhere down the cliffs and on the shore below, something howls a bone-scraping, skull-shaking howl. It reverberates into the center of Merlin's chest. It teaches him for a moment, however brief before he regains self-control, the meaning of the word terror.
Merlin looks to Bedivere.
Unlike Caradoc and Dagonet, he looks completely solid. Opaque. And, despite their surroundings, is apparently unperturbed by the landscape.
Merlin opens his mouth. No sound comes out.
Bedivere raises his eyebrows at Merlin expectantly. There is still sweat upon his brow. His eyes dart toward the ruined orchard again as another howl originates from the castle, striking a discordant and upsetting contrast to the groans coming from the crumbling stone of the palace.
"Sorry, Merlin? What were you saying?" Bedivere asks.
Merlin glances at the empty-eyed stares of his ghost-like friends. Then he looks down at the unnervingly opaque duck sitting in his lap.
"I–" Merlin begins, lifting his hands to let the animal go.
The world snaps back into place the moment his hands leave the duck.
The mist in the sky is just burning off, revealing robin's egg blue and wispy clouds beneath. Caradoc sits beside him, his royal face betraying nothing but innocent interest. Behind him, Dagonet frowns in concern.
"My lord?" Dagonet asks.
"Some wine, perhaps, for his lordship," Ger says, swooping to the rescue and refilling the little bit of Merlin's cup that he had drunk.
Merlin clears his throat. "Thank you, Ger. Um. Anyway, I was saying that unfortunately, I think it may be beyond me to try and–"
As he speaks, he reaches a finger out and presses it into the downy wing of Sir Quackenfell.
His friends turn back into spectres. The castle is diminished once more to a few blackened spires reaching into a sickly howl sounds in the distance, setting Merlin's teeth on edge and his magic throwing itself against his iron will.
He looks quickly at Bedivere, searching for an island of normalcy amid the sudden madness. The prince is reassuringly solid and present against the surrounding landscape. And for a moment when the warlock looks at him, the prince's mask is removed.
He looks…
He looks relieved.
"I don't know if I could cure him," Merlin finishes, drawing his hand away from the duck.
Once again, the world rights itself. Birds chirp in the blossom-laden boughs around them. Waves crash in the distance. Everything is at peace.
Merlin looks down at his lap and absently tries to rearrange the duck without truly touching it, and makes an effort to cast his magical sense out once more.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary.
The mere thought passing through his brain sets Merlin on edge.
He tries to cast his awareness out again, but harder. More thoroughly. He tries to scrutinize the landscape, the ley lines, the magical fabric of the land and everything that inhabits it. If one could scrub an area with magic, Merlin does so.
And he comes up with nothing.
Merlin pokes the duck again, the world is once more cursed and bleak. There is only ash and heat and despair.
He pulls his finger away and smells apple blossoms and salt and feels a cool breeze.
Bedivere nods understandingly. "Some things are beyond even the most skilled of us. Even explanations."
Merlin glances at Prince Bedivere to see shining eyes. Merlin looks away quickly, and resolutely refuses to look at Dagonet or Caradoc to try and decipher how much they're understanding of this conversation.
Bedivere clears his throat. "But I have faith in you, Merlin. The way I've heard it, you've faced greater challenges than ill ducks before."
"I'm not sure about that," Merlin mutters, struggling to get the duck off his lap without touching the duck with his hands. Nothing seems to happen if he nudges the duck with a clothed arm, but things become once more… unreal… when he touches his hands to the duck. He lets his magical perception fall short once more and looks at Caradoc.
The prince seems slightly amused, but not at all perturbed by Merlin's behavior. The warlock could not be honestly sure if that was due to a relaxed nature or the schooling of a royal. Behind him, Dagonet's frown has only deepend.
Merlin has time to think, We'll have to work on that, before his attempts to get the bird off his lap are met with indignant and attention-grabbing reprisals. In his lap, Sir Quackenfell flaps his wings with great feeling and nips at Merlin's fingers when the warlock tries to shoo him off his comfortable perch.
Merlin settles for keeping the thing on his lap, but resting his hands safely on the table.
Caradoc looks between Merlin and his duck, then between Merlin and Bedivere, then up at the blue sky. He slaps his thighs and stands.
"I apologize, lads, but I fear I must take my leave. I've an appointment with my sister prior to luncheon."
"Of course," Bedivere and Merlin say in unison.
Caradoc gives them a polite bow, then excuses himself. Merlin and Bedivere wait patiently and quietly.
"Dagonet," Merlin finally says, tearing his eyes from the prince next to him to look at his servant.
Dagonet still retains his mien of concern, but stiffens to acknowledge that his master addressed him. Merlin takes a moment to be grateful that he didn't get a yes, m'lord.
"Would you go back to my chambers and make sure everything is in order for my luncheon with Lady Lian, Sir Bors, and the ladies? I will follow shortly," Merlin tells his manservant.
"What d'you–" Dagonet begins, screwing up his face.
"Dagonet," Merlin cuts in, a tad sharply. "Please go and get my affairs in order for the luncheon."
Dagonet glances at Prince Bedivere, then at Merlin. He then nods as if forcing his head to move through molasses.
"Very well," the servant says. "I will see you…"
"For the luncheon," Merlin says patiently. "If I am running late, you have my permission to seek me out and fetch me."
This seems to mollify the servant, who nods smartly and turns to exit the clearing.
Merlin waits a solid few moments after the servant has disappeared to glance downward again and let his magic sense the world around him. True to his nature, Dagonet is tracing a sure path through the gardens toward the castle again, on his way to preoccupy himself with whatever he imagines preparing Merlin's affairs for a luncheon entails.
Merlin lets the sense fade and looks back at Bedivere.
The prince leans forward, his face practically dripping with excitement.
"You saw it?" Bedivere asks quickly.
Behind him, Merlin can feel Ger stand at even rapter attention.
Merlin nods slowly and leans back in his chair.
"And what, pray tell, did I see?" he asks, voice strained even to his ears.
Bedivere smiles, something wild and unrestrained. "You saw what I've been seeing since encountering Morgana in the woods several months ago."
Merlin releases his breath in a woosh. "So the rumor–"
Bedivere shrugs a shoulder. "I'm not aware of every rumor. But there was an incident with Morgana and myself a few months ago. And that was the result."
"You see that… all the time?" Merlin asks.
Bedivere shakes his head and says, "No. It comes in… well, my physicians called them fits. They believe them to be hallucinations."
Merlin pauses.
"But you don't," Bedivere says quietly. "You saw what I see when you touched the duck, didn't you?"
Merlin chooses not to answer right away, and Bedivere is happy to fill the silence that has settled over them as suffocating as wet cloth.
"What exactly did I see?" Merlin asks finally, voice astonishingly calm even to his ears.
"When I came across Morgana, I interrupted… something," Bedivere says, his voice verging on the uncertain. "All I know is that I woke up knowing she had failed, if temporarily, and seeing these visions."
Merlin says nothing. Bedivere sits back slightly in his chair. He runs a hand through his hair, then grasps at the book chained to his side. He opens it and flips through it, every so often pausing at a page and thumping it for a silent emphasis.
"There is no regularity to the fits," Bedivere says. "They do not seem to follow any sort of pattern like your duck's illness, which changes symptoms every week. And my affliction does not change. I suffer these visions every so often, where our world…"
Bedivere fixes Merlin with a desperate stare. "You saw it, didn't you?"
Merlin doesn't answer right away.
Then he finds himself, all too soon, not answering at all.
Bedivere both deflates and becomes more desperate. "You know about these things, right? You're–you're–"
Merlin looks right back at the prince. Something about his expression must not be unwelcoming, because the younger prince gains steam again and presses on.
"You're Merlin. You have accompanied your king on countless adventures against Morgana, and magical creatures, and curses. You've survived. And you're the reason I came here, Merlin. To find you. To ask your help."
Merlin blinks once. Twice.
"You're a physician, and an expert in the arcane," Bedivere rushes to explain.
"That's pushing it a little far," Merlin finally says, raising a hand.
"But it isn't," Bedivere intones. "Is it?"
Merlin fixes him with a stare and refuses to look over his shoulder at Ger.
"I fail to understand your meaning, your highness," Merlin says coolly.
"You can help me because you have helped your king defeat Morgana at every turn," Bedivere says excitedly, too hopeful to let himself think about all the different ways in which Merlin might receive these declarations. "You can help me because you have a magic duck that you're studying who's ill, just like me."
"I–" Merlin tries again, but finds himself interrupted once more.
"And you can help me because you're Emrys," Bedivere says with some finality.
Merlin stills. He looks at the prince next to him: Wide-eyed. Hopeful. Fearful.
Tormented.
"You are," Bedivere says with a bit more uncertainty. "Aren't you?"
Merlin looks back at the prince levelly.
"Aren't you?"
Merlin makes a decision.
A/N: Hi! I thought I'd address some things I think I haven't made quite clear, and that some kind folks asked in the comments. :)
-Q: What is the status of Merlin's magic in this fic? Merlin is referred to as the "secret warlock" or something to that effect, and at times it seems like Mithian and all the rumor people know about his magic, but also it's also not ever really stated. Where does Merlin's magic secret stand right now?
-A: Merlin's magic IS still a secret! I refer to him as a secret warlock in prose just because it gets tiring after a while to keep saying Merlin, and there are so many other lords and advisors and servants walking around, I felt it perhaps the most clear since I'm using a limited omniscient third person , there have been some instances where people around him may have gotten a hint: running into the Druids, who can identify him as Emrys, for example, or the flowers he sent to Mithian. But on the whole, it was just meant to be an identifier/additional pronoun for Merlin.
-Q: Is Elyan alive or dead in this? He didn't get a mention in Gwen's letter, and he would probably be a number one suitor for Mithian. The queen's brother of their best allied kingdom. He would be a no brainer for Nemeth.
-A: Elyan is alive, I just genuinely forgot how well positioned he would be as a suitor! I suppose though that his friendship with both Merlin and Gwen would preclude him from courting Mithian, even if only in name, so let's go with that as an explanation for his absence.
-Q: Merlin sent her magical flowers that don't wilt and if that isn't suspicious enough, he managed to send her, a vapor that reduces stress- in a jar...so does this mean he's hinting at the magic? Even if he isn't trying to, does Mithian suspect at this point? Because when they talked about the druids, merlin said he knows one, in person, as in he's close enough to druids to know people by name and their relations. Just saying, for someone who lives in Camelot, that is a peculiar trait. So she must think that he has some connection to magic right? Because Mithian is undoubtedly smart and observant enough to notice that he is sending her seemingly impossible gifts.
-A: Regarding the gifts - my thoughts had been that the deals at midnight would be a cute device to allow these two to send gifts back and forth. The nature of the deals are such that they hinting at something magical and wonderful without explicitly implicating either in magic or sentiment. Yes they're magical gifts (at least a little bit) but of course they aren't from Merlin, they're from the old woman. Any anyway, they're just small and harmless trinkets. Novelties. As far as what Mithian notices about them, you'll just have to wait and see! And then regarding the Druids: in my head, this is set a little after a time in the Canon when Arthur had brokered some kind of peace with the Druids, showing his softening stance on magic and his reconciliation with that particular group. But what the Druids are doing in Nemeth... another secret for later!