Princess Mithian walks with her shoulders straight, chin held high. People look her way as she passes, but only for a moment before their eyes are torn to the pair behind her.
She can imagine what words their whispers carry. Is that Princess Mithian? Is that Lady Eloise, daughter of the Gamemaster? Is she draped over the arm of a man? Is that Lord Merlin?
Merlin had, of course, helped the Lady Eloise to her feet, and had caught her when she sagged against the pain in her ankle. She had grimaced, and he had frowned, that little line appearing between his eyebrows. He had murmured something quiet to her, at which she nodded, and he took her arm and slung it around his shoulders. He had grabbed her waist.
Princess Mithian hadn't realized she had spoken. Then she had realized that many eyes were upon her, and Merlin was thanking her and walking forward with the beet-red Eloise not on his arm, but on him, and Mithian turned and walked away, her words having caught up to her ears. Oh, Lady Eloise! Let me show you to the physician, please.
And now they walk just a pace or two behind her. Merlin, every so often, asks a different benign question of Eloise.
"And how long have you lived here in the castle, Lady Eloise?" Merlin asks pleasantly. Mithian nods her head at someone and picks up her pace through the crowd.
"Um, just about eight months," Lady Eloise says softly.
"Ah, lovely. And your ankle now, try to put a little weight on it. Do not worry, I'll support you."
Mithian takes them through the large doors from the courtyard and into the castle, then takes them to the left as Lady Eloise hisses, and Merlin asks another question.
"Who were you with at the fairgrounds?" Merlin asks.
"Oh, um–ouch–Lady Fara and… and some others."
Merlin hmms. "And can you tell me their names?
"Lady Cinda and Lady Ulned," Eloise replies.
Mithian leads them past curious servants and the odd noble, then takes them up a set of stairs. She slows down considerably for their ascent to allow Eloise and Merlin time to navigate the steps, but looks back rarely.
"Wonderful. And how do you know–what were their names again?" Merlin asks, steering himself and Lady Eloise down a corridor after the princess.
"Lady Fara, Lady Cinda, and Lady Ulned," Eloise recites. "Lady Fara is my cousin, and the other two her friends."
"Great," Merlin says, and then follows Mithian through the door to the physician's chambers.
Nemeth's physician is an old man much like Gaius, but that is where much of the similarity ends. Yes, Nemeth's physician can be serious, and he is well-learned and a deft hand at patient management. But Silas is, as Gwaine had once put it, a ray of sunshine, spiced wine on a winter's day. Granted, Gwaine had been drunk enough at the time to declare Merlin a blade wrapped in a riddle and stuffed in a pie, something sweet and tart, like crabapple pie. Nevertheless, the sentiment remained.
Merlin had liked the physician, named Silas, immensely upon their first meeting. And the physician, a man by the name of Silas. He is mid-bow to the princess when his keen, dark eyes dart up and catch a sight of Merlin.
"My boy!" Silas exclaims, then laughs in a way that makes his portly belly move up and down. He stretches back, wiping at tears, then bustles forward and helps take the Lady Fara.
"Hallo, Silas," Merlin says, grinning.
"What have we here, my dear?" Silas murmurs, hustling over to Lady Eloise and gently extracting her from Merlin.
The physician leads Eloise to a bench and helps her sit down, murmuring hmms and okays. Then, he turns and bustles over to Merlin. He grips Merlin's arm like a grandfather would, all wiry strength and firmness, a gesture meant to impart significant emotion without speaking. Merlin gives Silas a nod and pats the physician's arm. Silas, having transmitted his own message and understanding Merlin's, lets Merlin go, and fixes the new lord with his best approximation of an imperious stare.
"Your diagnoses, Physician's Assistant?" Silas asks. He pronounces the last two words so that Mithian can hear the capitalization.
"A twisted ankle, which smarts a treat. Likely bruising along the legs, hips, and forearms where she fell," Merlin recites, face serious. "No signs of concussion."
Mithian takes a moment to understand how clinical this is. Two physicians in counsel. She feels forgotten on the wayside, and is glad for it. She sidles across the room, leaving the men to their hushed discussions of poultices and concussions. Lady Eloise watches her come over, smiling despite her hurt ankle.
"Princess Mithian," Eloise says, dipping her head.
Mithian blows out a breath, then sits on the bench next to Eloise. "Hello, Lady Eloise. How are you feeling?"
"A little better," Eloise says, screwing her face into a delicate frown. She glances over at the door where Silas and Merlin continue their hushed conversation. Mithian follows her gaze, then looks back at Eloise.
"I've missed you," Mithian says softly.
Eloise smiles. "And I you, my friend."
"How have you been keeping?" Mithian asks.
"Oh, gods," Eloise groans. "I must constantly entertain my cousin, Lady Fara, and her friends. It is exhausting."
Mithian cannot help herself: she snickers. "You really do have an unfortunate relative."
"She can be truly unbearable. I am fortunate that she is a distant relative indeed," Eloise mutters, rearranging her skirts. She looks at Mithian from the corner of her eye and lowers her voice. "How goes your plan? To win the roses and… discover a suitor?"
"I have many friends to aid me. Including you, Lady Eloise. I only wish–"
Eloise shakes her head once and resolutely. "We have discussed this once before, your grace. Even today with you leading us to the physician, people will talk. I will not allow a connection to me or my mother ruin your chances at pulling this off successfully."
"But–"
"Princess Mithian," Eloise says, capturing Mithian's hand. "Just because we cannot spend time together does not mean that we are friends. You know this is the correct thing to do. And it is only for a little while."
Mithian nods. She does understand.
Eloise watches her for a moment, then a small smile comes over her face.
"What do you think of the lord who escorted us here?" she whispers, casting a glance behind them to look at Merlin.
Mithian does the same. Even while speaking quietly, Merlin has a habit of talking with his hands. The gestures are more restrained, less wild and expansive than normal, and Mithian smiles thinking that he has lowered the volume of his voice as well as his arms. His hair is mussed, his eyes bright and smiling in the midmorning sun slanting through the windows. Stood next to Silas, he seems taller and leaner than normal.
"A fine man, is he not?" Eloise asks warmly.
The princess looks at her friend, then, and sees the besotted look on her face.
And why not? Merlin is, indeed, dashing. And he is a local legend, a war hero, a noble. He's young and intelligent and more well-mannered than most men his age.
And as for Eloise, well, she is a beauty, and so graceful. Intelligent as well, and just as compassionate as he, with all his good humor and none of the snark.
A fine pair they would make indeed.
"He is," Princess Mithian says. "I would apologize for not making a proper introduction, but things seemed to turn out better without it."
Eloise smiles wider and looks down at her ankle, moving it experimentally. She makes a face and stops, then glances back at Merlin again.
"He's the one you spoke of, yes?" Eloise asks quietly. "The physician you corresponded with after your departure from Camelot?"
"Yes," Mithian responds, fighting the urge to pick at her dress or inspect her nails. She does not elaborate.
"Everyone on the serving staff was most appreciative that you kept up correspondence with him on their behalf for so long," Eloise tells her. "Not many princesses would do so."
"No, I suppose not," Mithian replies. She finds she must fiddle with something, and so settles for her locket, sliding the gold charm up and down the necklace.
"Perhaps, then, you could tell me a little of his character?" Lady Eloise asks hesitantly.
Mithian goes to answer, but is saved by the approach of Silas, who comes bustling over, ointment in hand, to fuss over his patient. Merlin follows in his footsteps and comes to a stop before the women.
"Princess Mithian," Merlin says, nodding toward her, "Lady Eloise. I know now that you are in the safest and most capable of hands, and so shall intrude upon you no longer."
"It is no intrusion," Eloise assures him.
Merlin gives her a soft smile. "Be that as it may, my lady, I must away to the training grounds, as I have an appointment there. Should I not attend, I fear you will not be the only patient keeping our dear Silas busy. It's like giving children blades and turning them loose."
Silas grumbles something in agreement, and Eloise and Mithian both laugh. Mithian stands and brushes off her skirts.
"I must be going as well. I've appointments all day."
Merlin bows his head. "Then please, allow me to show you out."
Mithian nods to Merlin, then gives Eloise and Silas a goodbye. Merlin opens the door to the chambers for her and they walk outside together, once more in the cool air. Mithian's stomach twists, and she is not sure if it is from the smoke of the physician's room, her light breakfast, the image of Merlin crouching over Eloise, or the thought of being alone with Merlin that makes her insides become acrobatic.
Merlin closes the door softly behind them, then looks at Mithian. She pauses, looking back at him. He raises an eyebrow.
"I suppose I'll have to add horse tamer to my list of superlatives for you, Princess Mithian."
Princess Mithian smiles at that. "I'm surprised it hadn't graced them already."
"A woeful oversight on my part," Merlin tells her.
Mithian chuckles and asks, "So you are to attend training?"
"I suppose so," Merlin says with a grimace. "I sent Dagonet along in my stead for the time being."
"Surely an advisor to monarchs does not have to squire for his friends," Mithian says, her voice caught between teasing and disbelief.
"Squire? No. No, I believe the preferred nomenclature," Merlin tells her seriously, "is babysit."
Mithian laughs at this, then immediately smothers her mouth, glancing at the door to the physician's chambers. Merlin grins back at her.
"Only trouble is," Merlin says, "I have no idea how to get back to the training grounds."
Mithian stifles another laugh. "Of course not. Here, let us find a servant to direct you back."
They set off down the hall together.
Bedivere and Merlin stand together, heads cocked in the other's direction, both absentmindedly watching Gwaine, Leon, Galahad, and Fred warm up.
The prince had been offered a weapon of his own, only to push it slightly away from him with some distaste. He begged off and went to stand on the sidelines with Merlin, who was already assuming the familiar position of Arthur's squire despite the elevation to lord and the absence of his master.
"Two of 'em," Fred whispers to the other three. Leon stifles a snort.
"More like four," Leon says, indicating the two servants.
They stand not three feet away from their masters. Ger–the spindly one composed only of acute angles–focuses his gaze serenely in the middle distance, ever the doting servant. Every so often, his hands drift to attempt to gently wrest the sword Merlin absently polishes from the lord's hands. Merlin evades him at every turn, and the resulting subtle war between the two had been the source of some amusement for nigh on a candlemark. Dagonet watches the two with a tired expression.
"I heard Caradoc call them the Order of the Bumbling Duck," Gwaine says, smiling. "Kind of fitting, don't you think?"
True to form, Sir Quackenfell is also present and pecking at invisible bugs in the shorn grass of the training area. Every so often, Bedivere will gesture expansively at the duck and thump the book he had taken from Merlin and now holds furtively in his hands (as furtively as he can manage while still openly holding it, which involves a severe angle and wide-spread hands). In return, Merlin shakes his head vehemently and bends closer to whisper passionate explanations to the prince.
What they stand in now is one of the smaller training areas. It had been one of the last not already occupied by practicing knights and their attentive squires and ringed by the many admiring noblewomen come to Nemeth. Despite there being an impressive ten practice rings of various sizes, each seemed already occupied. The lads resigned themselves to the smallest and muddiest of rings, and astutely avoided Sir Fred's jolly gaze when he described its ample room and endless versatility.
The knights hover in a clump far enough away from the Order to not be heard over the susurrus of their own conversation.
"I heard there was a bit of a fuss earlier," Leon comments. "All of you were present for it?"
"Aye," Gwaine responds.
Galahad supplies, "But perspective and reality are two different things. Perhaps we should…"
As one, the group of four take a step toward Merlin and Bedivere. The action brings the two of them reluctantly from their whispered conversation. Bedivere blinks owlishly at the group, while Merlin raises a practiced eyebrow.
"So…" Galahad begins, then seems to lose some confidence beneath Merlin's polite expectancy and Bedivere's curiosity.
"We heard there was a bit of a fuss over a pretty brunette," Gwaine intercedes with a wink. Only his conspiratorial and charming grin save him from accusations of impropriety. Instead, the knights give a half-hearted chuckle, and both Bedivere and Merlin flush.
"You mean with Princess Mithian?" they ask in unison.
They both quickly recover and Dagonet pipes up, "You mean with the horse, my lords, that the Lady Eloise was knocked over by and which the princess returned."
Merlin cannot afford to look over his shoulder, but reminds himself to heap the boy with praise later when they are alone. It is–it's simply artful, that response. Merlin would be glowing with pride were he not so distracted. Not a question, but a political restatement of fact. Saving face for his master and the prince.
Dagonet, Merlin realizes, possesses the frighteningly correct instincts of a master politician.
He resolves to keep an eye on that, then forces his attention back to his friends.
"Right," Galahad replies gamely. "Whatever happened? I simply remember that I was speaking with my wife about the wonderful hogs raised this year, and then all of a sudden people were gathered around a young injured woman, and the princess appeared."
"Well–" Bedivere and Merlin both start.
They share a quick glance in which a whole argument is held. Then, quickly, Bedivere concedes–decorum demands the prince speak before the advisor–and explains. Somewhat.
"There was a horse, and it ran–"
"Whose horse?" Gwaine asks, just as Leon inquires, "Why did it run?" just as Galahad asks, "Where did it run?" and right when Fred prompts, "Yes, yes, but then what?"
Bedivere blinks slowly at all of them, then answers in a voice slow as honey, "Some knight had a horse nearly as green as he was. It spooked at the duck–"
"Sir Quackenfell," Merlin corrects patiently in tandem with his servant, who says it in rather a vexed manner.
"Right," Bedivere continues, "and the horse ran off so… I followed."
"Then?" Gwaine asks, just as Leon inquires, "Why'd you follow it?" just as Galahad asks, "You ran after a horse and found the princess?" right when Fred prompts, "And didja catch it, lad?"
"Horses, on average," Bedivere says dryly, as if giving a report on grain yields, "manage a much greater velocity at a canter than I can manage at a dead sprint. Anyway, when I found that the horse had been stayed and calmed, I of course spoke with the person responsible, who turned out to be–"
"Princess Mithian," Fred says knowingly.
"Did you enjoy conversation in escorting the horse back?" Gwaine asks innocently, giving his sword an experimental and casual swish through the air.
Merlin looks at Bedivere. The knights look at Merlin. Bedivere looks at all of them.
Bedivere frowns, then says slowly, "Not really, no. I remember mostly trying and failing to get my breath back."
Merlin cocks a head to the side, instantly distracted. He carefully bats away Ger's hands, which have somehow strayed into his way, and continues polishing the sword as he asks the prince, "Did it feel as if you were inhaling rust, by any chance?"
"Or blood," Bedivere huffs. "Something iron-y and wet, yet horribly dry. I was wheezing."
Merlin nods knowingly. "That may be something called the asthma."
"Az-mah?" Bedivere repeats.
"Asthma," Merlin confirms. "An affliction caused, of course, by an imbalance of the humors. It can be treated–" He opens his mouth to explain more, but Gwaine interjects. He knows well enough by now when his friend is about to launch into a lecture.
"And what of the Lady Eloise?" Gwaine asks.
"Ah, yes," Merlin says, his eyes glazing over in an obvious effort to recall something. "A twisted ankle. And minor bruising where she fell, likely along the–"
"Sure," Leon says quickly. "But Lady Eloise herself?"
Merlin blinks and focuses on Leon. He becomes very serious. "I am slightly worried about the possibility of a concussion, though she showed no signs of it directly afterward."
"Right, but how was her… countenance?" Bedivere offers.
Merlin thinks about this, then says, "Very pleasant, on the whole. Seemed a bit shocked by the whole affair, though I can't blame her."
The knights seem somewhat disappointed, yet simultaneously assured by the response. Neither the prince nor the warlock can make sense of it. Dagonet rolls his eyes behind them, as if sensing through the tensed shoulders of his master the blank expression that must decorate his face.
Ger looks placidly into the middle distance, apparently unaware of the conversation taking place before him. His hands wander once more in an attempt to take the sword from Merlin. Merlin bats away the servant's hands without really looking, earning a smug smile from the red-haired boy behind him. Ger resumes his tense, at-the-ready position.
"It was very brave, what Lady Eloise tried to do," Bedivere admits. "To try and stay the horse."
The knights and Merlin nod.
"Then what happened?" Leon asks. "I seem to have been the only one absent, after all."
"I found the princess calming the horse, and walked with both of them back to the place it had come from," Bedivere says slowly. "And we came across the Lady Eloise and Lord Merlin."
"She had fallen, so I went to help," Merlin says simply. "Then the princess offered to walk her to the physician's chambers. And then I came here. Ostensibly to train."
Gwaine hefts a shoulder. "You know us knights, mate. We train in the same way ladies embroider."
"Carefully?" Bedivere hazards.
"As an excuse to gossip," Fred says with a wink. "Look around us, lads. The tournament is weeks away. Everyone here is a peacock or a parrot."
Merlin and Bedivere look around. Fred is correct: no one seems to really be training. Sure, an arrow flies and thunks into a target every so often. Swords are out, knives are being thrown, paces are marked out. But the sound of talk fills the air.
"Except for maybe you two," Fred concedes, looking at Bedivere and Merlin. "Not very parrot-y or peacock-y, are you?"
Merlin raises an eyebrow in amusement. Bedivere's lower with confusion.
"Owls, maybe," Galahad offers.
"Falcons," Gwaine says with a wink.
Merlin rolls his eyes. "I can't believe you two. Obviously, we're ducks."