It is the morning of the Labyrinth, and Dagonet is satisfied with himself.
His master sent him on an important mission to the lower town before the event today and made sure to give Dagonet extra pocket change to buy himself a sweet roll or sweetmeats or some other kind of treat. It had been a show of both trust and appreciation by Merlin for all the hard work the servant has done ingratiating the advisor to the noble way of life.
Dagonet had been insistent, and thinks it has paid off. He's managed to fetch water for a bath twice now, and managed to heat it the once. He has taken Prince Caradoc's advice for Merlin's personal hygiene and dress into consideration, along with the suggestions from Queen Guinevere, and thinks he has managed to keep his master in fine form. Merlin is now sporting enough stubble to resemble a beard, which–according to Guinevere and Caradoc both–accentuates Merlin's sharp cheekbones and strong chin, and the dark hair highlights his blue eyes even more.
Just gauging from the reactions of the noble women at the fete alone, it's been successful. They've been giggling and gaggling after Merlin at every opportunity, losing fans and quills and their footing just for the chance to have him interrupt whatever he's doing and assist them. Gossip has been running rampant about the man among the nobility and servants both, and the rumors become more wild every day.
Some are true–or somewhat true–tales of his adventures and trials alongside King Arthur: the unicorn and the labyrinth, the Perilous Lands, the Dorocha, the Questing Beast. Others stem from imagination and extrapolation and range from questionably understandable to categorically insane: Merlin has been enchanted by his duck; Merlin enchanted his duck; Merlin enchanted the king and queen; Arthur is secretly in love with Merlin; Guinevere is secretly in love with Merlin; Merlin has blackmailed the royals into his position; Merlin is secretly Morgana and Arthur's brother; Dagonet is Merlin's child.
And Dagonet has packed Merlin's schedule every day with advantageous events and meetings.
Dagonet has been keeping a diary of his social calendar, in fact, complete with notes, which he presented to Merlin that morning. It read:
Sunday:
-Arrivalle in Nemethe.
-Met Dagonet, acceptede his service.
-The Social, whereupon acquaintances wyre made with Duke Pellinorr (ayn Enemyie) aynde Prince Caradoc (ayn Allye).
-The Private Dinner, at whiche plannes were mayde to circumvente the aspirationnes of unsuitable Suitors.
-The Servants Nighte, at which Merlin performedde an Acte (the Unicorne aynde the Labrenth).
Monday:
-Break-fast wyth Prince Caradoc aynd Prince Bediveer (ayn Allye?).
-The Horse Becomes Loose, introducing Lord Merlin to Lady Eloeese.
-Training wyth Sirs Galahad, Gwaine, Frederick, and Leeon, and Prince Bediveer.
-Luncehonne wyth Duke Borce, aynd the Ladyies Leean, Eloeese, and Fahra.
-Tea wyth Prince Bediveer.
-The Grand Feaste.
-Tea with Queene Gweniveer.
Tuesday:
-Break-fast wyth Princess Elayna and Queene Gweniveer.
-An lively Excursion to the Southe Cliffes led by Sir Galahad, accompanyied by various nobles.
-Training wyth Sirs Gwain, Leon, and Galahad and Princes Caradoc aynd Bediveer.
-Luncheonne wyth Sir Gwain.
-Tea wyth Prince Bediveer.
-Pryvate study tyme wyth Sir Quackenfelle.
-Supper wyth Queene Annys, Queene Gweniveer, Queene Adelaiyne and King Rodor, Princess Mithian, Sir Kay, Princess Elayna, Princes Caradoc and Bediveer, Dukes Pellinorr and Borce, other sort of important nobles.
-Tea wyth Queene Gweniveer.
Wednesday:
-Private break-fast.
-Abrytan aynd chess wyth various nobles in the lybrarie.
-Luncheonne wyth Prince Bedivere, Prince Caradoc, aynd Sir Kaye (ayn Allye?).
-Tea wyth Iseelder aynd Rosalind of the Drooeds.
-Pryvate study tyme wyth Sir Quackenfelle and Prince Bediveer.
-Supper wyth Prince Caradoc aynd Princess Elayna.
Thursday:
-Break-fast wyth Queene Gweniveer.
-Syning up for the Labrenth at Master Farlee's offis.
-Training wyth Sirs Galahad, Frederick, and Leeon, and Prince Caradoc and Princess Mithian.
-Luncheonne wyth Duke Borce, Sir Kay, aynd Princes Bedivere and Caradoc.
-Tea wyth Prince Bediveer.
Friday:
-Break-fast wyth the Conspiraters: Queene Gweniveer, Princesses Mithian and Elayna, Prince Caradoc, Sirs Galahad, Frederick, Gwain, and Leeon, Lady Leean, Sibil, and Greta.
-Training wyth Sirs Leeon and Gwain.
-Pryvate study tyme wyth Sir Quackenfelle.
-Pryvate Luncheonne
-Nap
-Tea wyth Prince Bediveer
-Supper wyth Queen Gweniveer.
But tonight is the Labyrinth, and Merlin had insisted on a clear morning devoted to Sir Quackenfell and his thoughts alone. The advisor had sent Dagonet on an important mission for a rare kind of ink, the superior kind to write many pages of notes, and Dagonet was not about to fail Merlin. Not after a week of doing right by his strange and strangely endearing master. So he had set off full of purpose and determination toward the lower town, content that he would not be needed until that after-noon.
Merlin is satisfied. He is satisfied because after an entire week of various engagements accepted on his behalf by his servant, and after a week of not having any alone time to practice magic, and after a week of looking over his shoulder for a duck or a servant or a distraught prince, Merlin is finally alone.
It was quite the idea, Merlin admits, and it came to him at a time that was both early and the morning and late at night. When Dagonet had appeared in his chambers this morning, intent upon completing some chore or another, Merlin had sent him off in search of a particular kind of ink made from the burnt remains of a plant that does not exist. Merlin sent him with extra money and instructions to enjoy himself, and so hope for at least a candlemark without interruption.
He sits alone at the small table in his chambers, picking absently and tiredly at a plate of food. Ostensibly–due to plans made by himself and known only to himself–this morning is meant to study further the conundrums of Prince Bedivere and Sir Quackenfull, in that order, and to apply just a little of what he has learned over the past week. After all, just observing Sir Quackenfell's symptoms allowed Merlin to develop a number of spells. If allowed the opportunity to study Bedivere's symptoms, he figures he could try to reverse-design the spell attempted by Morgana that resulted in the illness in the first place.
But as Merlin picks at his food and vacillates between giving in to his exhaustion, a most interesting interruption comes.
His door bangs open and then shut again with no warning. Merlin is in the midst of rising and turning toward the intruder when a bunch of white and yellow flowers are stuck into his face, obscuring his vision entirely.
"You're the expert, correct?" the intruder demands.
Merlin straightens, slowly raises a hand, and carefully shifts the flowers out of his face, watching the blossoms as he does so. They seem nothing out of the ordinary: daffodils, queen's lace, and bluebells tied together with an ochre-colored silk ribbon.
"The expert on flowers?" Merlin asks dubiously, then looks over to get a proper look at his intruder.
It is Princess Mithian. Her shining brown hair is half-braided, half loose. The part that hangs about her slim and strong shoulders shines and shifts like water in the early morning light. She is fully dressed, wearing a dark blue dress embroidered with dusty pink roses, adorned with a cloud of sheer pink fabric in the fashion of summer Nemeth wear. She is what nobles would consider scandalously dressed with ties and ribbons still trailing around her, her maiden hair unsecured in braids, her shoulders barely covered with her shimmering veil.
"Princess Mithian?" Merlin asks, and hopes to whomever may be listening that the question comes out prodding and teasing rather than wondering.
The princess's dark eyes flick to the bouquet, then to Merlin. Ever so slowly, the flowers are lowered to her side until they are enveloped by the fabric of her voluminous skirts.
"The expert on magical… things," Mithian says finally, glancing again at the flowers. A frown appears on her face, concentrated and perplexed.
"You think the flowers are magical," Merlin surmises.
Mithian flicks a defiant glare his way, imposing even in her current state. Perhaps even more so.
"And so what if I do?" Mithian demands.
Merlin shrugs a shoulder and says, "If you think they're magical then they probably are, your highness. I'm simply struggling what makes you think that I should be able to assist."
Mithian fixes him with a stare. "Aren't you the expert?"
"On flowers?" Merlin repeats with a grin.
Mithian's frown, ever so slightly, stretches into an unwilling smile. "On magical things."
There's a sudden pause. Merlin feels it, he can't stop it–it comes unbidden and icy and uncomprehendingly large. It takes too long for Merlin to come up with a response.
"What makes you say that, princess?"
"Well," Princess Mithian says, glancing down at the flowers and then back up at Merlin, "your stories."
"My–my stories?"
"Yes," Mithian says, taking a step forward. Merlin presses himself against the table. "The unicorn, the Dorocha, the goblin. You help research and solve magical problems for King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. Don't you?"
Another pause, this one less glacial and more thoughtful. Merlin's eyes unfocus for a brief moment as he thinks.
"I suppose I do," he says slowly.
"Then please," Mithian says, "help me with this."
She makes a vague gesture with the flowers again. She studies Merlin's face for a moment longer, then takes a seat at his breakfast table. Merlin follows suit and automatically begins making a plate for her. She largely ignores this, picking instead at different petals on the blossoms of her bouquet.
"If it's magical," Merlin says, piling slices of hard cheese onto her plate, "then you may not want to do that. Jam?"
"And cream, please, thank you," Mithian responds absently. "Why not?"
"I think jam and cream go well with scones and cheese myself," Merlin tells her.
Mithian rolls her eyes. "Why not pick at the flowers? If they're magical."
"Any number of reasons. Here you go. Tea?"
Mithian takes the small breakfast plate. Merlin has arranged a wheel of cheese with a center of jam, clouds of clotted cream, rain made of honey and herbs, grass composed of herbs and root vegetables. "Lovely. And yes, please."
"Cream or honey?"
"Yes."
"A princess after my own heart," Merlin says.
He pours out the cream with a deft hand, adds a generous helping of honey, and gives the beverage a stir before handing over the tea cup. Mithian takes it and sips at it delicately.
"So," Merlin says finally, finishing a long drink of his own tea and leveling a professionally blank look at the princess, "you think these flowers are magical."
"Yes," Mithian sighs. She pauses, takes a small nibble of a piece of cheese, then places her plate back on the table. "Yes, I think these flowers are magical."
"Why?" Merlin asks.
The princess takes a moment to think this over. The question from so many other people–people she's grown up with, her elders–would be an unbearable scrutiny, a jab at her authority and logic as a leader. But from Merlin, it sounds genuinely curious and intrinsically nonjudgmental. He believes her. He just wants to know more.
The princess takes a further moment to consider that she trusts him in this. Their first meeting had been predominated by the failed courtship between Arthur and Merlin, Arthur playing the lovestruck fool and Merlin playing meddler and advocate for Guinevere. Their second time meeting had been after Arthur and Guinevere's marriage during Mithian's diplomatic tenure there. What should have been an unbearable and interminable experience flew by quite pleasantly, and Mithian knows well how much of that is due to the man now before her.
And now, here in Nemeth, after so long becoming friends and talking and corresponding, she realizes that she can take his question for what it is, and not for what it might be.
Mithian sinks slightly into her seat, the closest a princess can come to slouching.
"They appear at my doorstep. This one did this morning. Not even during shift change. There are eight guards outside my door now, did you know that?" Princess Mithian informs him finally.
Merlin blows out a breath. "Wow."
"That's all you have to say?" Mithian asks, raising an eyebrow. "'Wow?'"
Merlin shifts uncomfortably, then spreads his hands out before him. "Honestly, I think that is an underreaction."
"Really?" Mithian asks, crossing her arms.
"Well, yes," Merlin says, shrugging a shoulder and giving her a crooked grin.
Mithian notices that he's trying to be political, playing the devils' advocate, and notices that in doing so, his entire posture shifts to one side: lopsided grin, open and splayed hands, one shrugged shoulder, cocked head. She notices that the posture isn't so much intolerable as it is endearing.
"You think I cannot handle myself against an intruder?" Mithian asks, trying valiantly to hide a grin and waiting with anticipation for his response. Teasing? Genuine? Exaggerated? Apologetic? Supplicant? Derisive?
"I would likely find myself pitying the intruder more than you, princess," Merlin replies easily, grin widening into something more cheeky than experimental.
"That so?" Mithian returns, her own face splitting into a smile.
"Well, yeah," Merlin says as if it should be obvious. "But that isn't my main concern, to be truthful with you, princess."
Reality tugs at the princess and she frowns. "What are you concerned about, then?"
"None of the guards saw it appear, right?The bouquet. They just saw it suddenly lying on your doorstep?"
"Right," Mithian tells him.
"Well, princess, we both know that there are other ways to achieve such a thing. Ways a little more immediately concerning than magic," Merlin intones, settling back in his chair. He gives the flowers a distasteful look where they lie between the two on the breakfast table.
"True," Mithian says blandly.
Merlin raises an eyebrow, doing a fair imitation of Gaius's famous Eyebrow. "Unless there's another reason you think they are magical in origin."
A pause. Then, finally and reluctantly, "There is."
Merlin nods once. "And would you be comfortable sharing this reason?"
Mithian is quiet for a moment. Then she asks, "Is it pertinent? To finding out why it's happening?"
"Maybe, maybe not," Merlin says truthfully. "But probably. And in any event…"
Mithian's eyes flick up from the flowers to meet his gaze. His stare is shocking, blue, compassionate and humorous and curious all at once.
"I'd like to know what you're thinking," Merlin tells her.
Mithian returns his gaze and turns his words over in her head for a few moments, savoring the shape and weight of them. She responds only when she is ready, and only when she has had time to appreciate as well that Merlin has not filled the silence with his own words.
"They're my favorite flowers," Mithian says finally.
"Daffodils, queen's–"
"No," Mithian interjects quickly. "I mean, yes, but not entirely. You see.. This is not the first bouquet to show up at my door."
Merlin frowns. "No. I heard as much."
Mithian nods her understanding and explains, "Yes. The first night of the fete, it was a bouquet of lavender with a ribbon woven of Nemeth grass. Two nights ago, it was yellow roses and white apple blossoms, tied with leather. Today…"
"Today, daffodils, queen's lace, and bluebells."
"Right."
The two are quiet for a moment, considering the bouquet before them.
"You have quite a few favorite flowers," Merlin offers eventually.
Mithian sniffs a little laugh. "It changes, day to day…"
"And whoever makes these appear somehow knows that."
"Yes."
"Well," Merlin says, "I suppose I could look into it."
Mithian catches his eye. "You will?"
"I'll look into it," Merlin amends, picking up the flowers gingerly and setting them to one side.
"Thank you," Princess Mithian says, genuinely relieved.
She and Merlin share a smile for a moment together before she clears her throat and looks quickly away.
Her eyes fall on a white duck near her feet.
"So what is the latest symptom of your poor poultry?" Mithian asks, straightening again. She takes a sip of her tea and smiles politely at Merlin.
"Oh, my," Merlin bemoans, glaring at the duck. It gives him a slightly affronted quack and nips at the toes of his brightly polished boots. "It's the–"
"His footprints!" Mithian exclaims. She studies the path Sir Quackenfull had trod across the chamber floors toward them. In the places that candle or firelight fall upon it, his trail is illuminated in glowing blue footprints on the floor, and fade into invisibility elsewhere.
"Yes," Merlin says tiredly. "The footprints."
Mithian puts her tea down and lowers herself to the floor. She runs a finger through one of the footprints, inspecting the trail left behind and then her fingertip, bringing it in and out of the candlelight for inspection. She sees the blue glitter whenever the firelight lands on it.
"Extraordinary," Mithian murmurs.
Merlin clambers down from his seat and onto his knees next to her. He lowers his head to the floor, looking down the pathway of Quackenfell's footsteps. He licks a finger, places it in the air, look quickly out the window, closes one eye and squints with considerable determination.
"West," Merlin says finally.
"Sorry?"
Merlin gently hovers a hand in the air above Mithian's left shoulder, and in doing so expertly guides her to face the west. He gives her an inscrutable smile and a fast wink, then arranges the duck in front of her.
"Touch the duck," Merlin instructs.
Mithian does as he bids and reaches out her hand to brush fingertips against the duck's feather. As soon as she feels the down, she smells something new in the air aside from the smoke of the hearth, the breakfast, and the peculiar herbal, earthy scent known only to the experimental and healing spaces Merlin tends to occupy. It smells of…
"Pine. Herbs. And… and fresh running water," Mithian murmurs.
"And look," Merlin says. He gestures to Mithian's finger, still outstretched so as to see the residue of the duck's footprints. It now glitters a dusty pink, the same color as the roses and floating ribbons on her dress.
Mithian turns her finger around for inspection, then grins at Merlin. "Wondrous."
A cough sounds at the door, and Merlin and Mithian jump away from one another. Merlin clambers quickly to his feet, then reaches out a hand to Mithian. She ignores it, rising on her own, and looks toward the door with a disapproving glare.
Dagonet stands there, arms crossed.
"The ink you sent me for does nae exist," Dagonet says testily.
Merlin shifts. "Are you sure? I could swear I've used it before–"
"Sure," Dagonet says, throwing his satchel on the couch. The servant then turns to Mithian and dips into a low bow. "Your guard an' maidservant search for ya, your majesty. They have not yet made it this far."
"Ah," Mithian says. She glances at Meriln. "I suppose, then…"
"I'll look into the concern you brought to me," Merlin promises. "You have my word."
Mithian nods at Merlin, then again at Dagonet. The servant stays in his low bow.
Princess Mithian clears her throat, then marches smartly from the room. Merlin watches her go, momentarily ignoring the still-bowed servant.
After a moment Dagonet straightens and throws a glare at Merlin.
"If ya want private time–"
"Not what that was about," Merlin says shortly, turning on a heel. "Did you at least get the parchment?"
Dagonet is quiet for a second. Then he sighs. "Yeah. But ya can't write for too long. The labyrinth is just after luncheon."
Merlin nods. "Right. The labyrinth."
Dagonet gathers himself and screws up his face as if making a decision. Then, he asks his master, "Why was Princess Mithian here?"
Merlin spares him a glance, then sits at the table and continues his break-fast. He uses a foot to kick out the chair opposite him and gestures for Dagonet to sit down. Dagonet immediately does as he is bid and helps himself to a handful of grapes.
"Princess Mithian was looking for advice on a matter she thought I may be knowledgeable on. That's all," Merlin tells him.
"Right,"
The two pass the rest of the morning quietly, with Merlin alternating between dozing on the couch and writing notes on his duck, and Dagonet occupying himself with whatever chores Merlin had not already done. Both did little else but dawdle away the time until that afternoon's competition.
All around them in the rest of Nemeth's castle, nobles and servants of all kinds do the same.