Princess Mithian, heir to the throne of Nemeth, fearsome archer and intelligent orator, has never before in her life felt this angry. True fury, she finds, is different from normal irritability or anger. She feels this as a heat in her very blood. It is an animal in her breast, beating against her chest with the speed of her pounding heart. It roars in her ears, numbs her fingers, coils at the base of her neck and along her shoulders. The tension is nearly unbearable.
The act of sitting primly on a chair, now that she has been simmering in her rage for nigh on two candlemarks, drives her nearly insane. So instead, she gets to her feet and paces. But the anger is right behind her, looking over her shoulder, breathing down her neck. She kicks at the chair as she passes it, and the resounding clatter in the empty room feels so right that she does it again. Wood screeches against stone as it careens across the room and bangs into the wall opposite. She grimaces, then continues her pacing.
Things had been going so well. As planned and hoped, she won the archery competition. She had been impressed by Sirs Kay and Bedivere, who both came close to beating her out for the rose. Elena won a rose for the horse race, and had only compliments for the competitors she left in the dust: apparently, Bors is a solid horseman even at his age, Sir Kay's stallion was wild but expertly handled, and Bedivere's ability to hold on long enough to make fourth place delighted everyone but Duke Pellinor, who had been relegated to fifth and not allowed to continue as a finalist earlier this morning.
Gwaine had come close to winning the rose in wrestling, and lost out to Sir Bors, who then bested Duke Pellinor and won a rose of his own. Pellinor won the caber-toss, which is a shame, but seemingly unavoidable with Sir Fred not able to compete and Percival not present for the festivities (though Bors did get a close second).
Sir Bedivere won the rose at the foot-race, and was closely followed by Merlin in second place (who lost only because he tripped spectacularly over something not visible to the naked eye) and Sir Kay in third (who got third only because he stopped to help Merlin to his feet). And Merlin, after getting third yesterday in the knife-throwing competition, shocked everyone by winning a rose of his own. That threw the betting pools and audience into a frenzy, and his grin and bow in Mithian's direction afterward had filled her with pride, for it was the unique, rarely seen, near-to-arrogant smile she had come to know. It meant that he had known he was going to win, and enjoyed everyone's astonishment at what he had taken as fact.
But then everything was ruined. And instead of retiring to her own chambers and resting in anticipation of watching the melee tomorrow, she is here, locked away in one of the few remaining vacant rooms in the castle, fuming. Waiting.
What actually occurred after the day's competitions were done remains mired in wild rumor and infuriating mystery. But she knows enough. And she knows enough to know that the bare bones of the rumor are true.
Mithian kicks the second chair in the room as she passes it, and this one, too, flies to land in an overturned heap near the wall.
The fact that this moment–this point in time in which she is least composed, least princess-like, and most angry–is the moment Merlin chooses to appear only riles her further.
She whirls to face the door and takes a moment ot look at him as the door closes behind him. She isn't sure what she expected Merlin to look like, what his expression would be, when he faced her. There hadn't been much time to imagine it. Would he be embarrassed? Horrified? Sorrowful? Angry?
That last would have made the most sense. What else but anger could spur a man so much the pacifist to violence?
But he comes in, unannounced, in the middle of her tantrum, with a battle face on: drawn. Resolved. Grim. Sure.
Stubborn.
She looks at him. He looks back at her. She cannot imagine what he is understanding, seeing her like this. Of course, she knows what he must see: a woman in a ridiculous and now-rumpled gown, veil sticking to a flushed and sweaty brow, wispy hairs escaping from her braids and sticking to her face, wild eyes. But she knows Merlin. Those eyes, flicking over her from top to toe, like a physician looking for injuries, or a soldier looking for weak spots. He understands more than he lets on. He always does.
Mithian reaches a new plane of anger. It settles into her, icy and stilling.
"Princess–" Merlin begins.
"You," Mithian says, "don't get to talk right now. Not yet."
He falls dutifully silent. Mithian feels a hysterical scream climbing up her throat. A dry swallow forces it down, and she compels herself to take a deep breath.
"Is it true," Mithian finally says. Her tone is so flat that it is not a question.
"Yes," Merlin says.
"You…" Mithian begins, and her words are strangled by a tightening throat before she can finish them.
Merlin does not interrupt. He waits, the corners of his mouth turned down, a slight, not-quite-there line appearing between his brows. It is not quite a frown, not quite a puzzled look. It lands somewhere between. The bland look of an advisor and lord vaguely resolved to something.
"You idiot!" Mithian finally lets out. To the surprise of both of them, it is a yell, a scream. "You absolute… buffoon! You are making me sound like Arthur, and gods bless the man, I understand more why he acts toward you the way he does with every passing moment!"
"Princess–" Merlin tries again.
"You, Merlin of Ealdor and Camelot," Princess Mithian declares. She takes a step forward, her legs moving of their own accord. Just far enough that she's able to jam a finger into his chest. "You challenged Duke Pellinor to a duel."
"I did," Merlin confirms. His tone is firm, but his voice soft. Wrinkles, smaller than a fingernail, appear about the corner of his eyes. The corners of his mouth lift slightly into a rueful smile.
"You," Mithian breathes out, "you challenged Duke Pellinor to a duel."
"Yes," Merlin says.
Mithian gives him a look made of steel, one so sharp it should slice straight through him. He looks as if he is about to say something, so Mithian heads him off.
"I cannot believe you," Mithian shouts. "Will you explain what Duke Pellinor said that made you challenge him to a duel?"
Merlin takes a deep breath. Then, he says, "I will not."
The hot-rage is back again, fizzling off any remaining semblance of a cool exterior that had not been burned away by her shouting. She feels pent-up, her body aching for some kind of release to the anger coursing through her.
"No?"
"No, Princess–"
Despite any training she may have ever had on controlling her reactions, Mithian strikes him on his shoulder. She looks at his face, takes in the roundness of his blue eyes, the slight opening of his mouth, and she does it again, this time on the other shoulder with her other hand. Then she hits his chest, and then again, and then goes to box him about his ear.
But he is too fast. Merlin's hand darts out and with a grip loose enough not to hurt but strong enough to not let her go, he restrains her hand.
She strikes out with her other hand–her dominant one, she hadn't been aiming to hurt until now, only now that he moves to restrain her, a princess, and him, just a lord, just an advisor, just a friend, just Merlin. She aims this time for his face and lands a satisfying slap. She moves to strike him again.
His other hand, quick as a snake, strong as a vice, loose as an expertly-fitted bracelet. It fits around her wrist while not seeming to touch her at all, just as he managed with the other hand.
"Mithian," Merlin breathes. She doesn't know how to read his tone: exasperated, resigned, shocked, pleading, pleased. It's everything and nothing.
Just like the heat from his hands around her wrists. She could pull away if she wanted to, she can feel it. He puts no force into restraining her. She knows, senses, that she could beat him to a bloody pulp, and this would be the furthest he would go to defend himself.
A moment to think. He's giving her a moment to think. And truly just a moment, because already his tense fingers loosen about her wrists.
So she thinks.
He was surprised by that outburst, she can tell. Not so much as she was herself, but this is dumbfounded as she's ever seen him. His eyes are still wide, his face stupidly shocked and horribly concerned and more than a bit sad, and Mithian wonders that she can read all of this in his face. That she can feel it in the way his hot, panting breaths mix with her own while they stand a hand's breadth away from one another, that she can read it in his body language. He is surprised, and he is resolved, and she is beating against a self-deprecating stone wall. Merlin is not a man to be swayed.
"You horrible fool," Mithian insists again.
He lets her go, takes a step back. She mimics him. The distance is good. Better. It allows her anger to come surging back to the fore. It is not enough for her to attack him again–gods, she attacked him–but enough for her to feel just as indignant and hurt and terrified as before.
"I am sorry," Merlin says.
"What for, exactly?" Mithian snaps.
"For… everything," Merlin replies with a sigh.
Mithian shakes her head at that. It is a quick, simple gesture, and an absolute rejection of the apology.
"You don't mean that. If you did, you would retract the challenge."
"I can't do that," Merlin says quietly.
"I know," Mithian snaps. After all, he is right. He cannot simply retract. This is a formally-issued challenge between two nobles. There is no backing out now. Not with honor nor respect, no matter his connections. Sure, Arthur and Guinevere and Elena and Mithian would all see the sense in such a thing. But to the courts at large… to retract would be a death knell for Merlin's career as a lord.
They are quiet together for a long moment.
"You truly will not tell me what he said?" Mithian asks quietly.
Merlin gives her a curt shake of the head. "I am sorry, my princess–"
"Do not," Mithian says, and stops, because she cannot quite find the words to finish that sentence. Do not presume to speak to me that way? Do not apologize? Do not dare to refuse my question? Do not call me your princess?
"Don't," Mithian says again. She crosses her arms and burns a hole through the floor with her gaze. Silence stretches between them, taught and fit to burst. She allows him to bask in it for a while before breaking it again. This time, her voice is more even. Colder. "You will not tell me what he said."
"Not… until after," Merlin says carefully.
Sparks alight behind Mithian's eyes. She jerks her gaze up from the stone floor to glare at him. She wishes he would flinch.
"After?" she repeats, taking a slow step toward him. "After. After the duel. To the death. You'll tell me after?"
Merlin attempts a half-smile and small shrug. "Yeah."
Mithian's mouth drops open. She stares at him, dumbly. Finally, she pulls her mouth closed, heaves a breath inward, paces a full and wide circle away and back toward him.
"Merlin, you are famously poor with swords," Mithian finally grinds out once she faces him again.
"I think I proved–"
"A duel is not won by throwing knives," Mithian hisses.
"No, but–"
"Merlin!" Mithian exclaims, throwing her hands in the air. "I cannot believe you did this!"
Merlin's eyes flash. He draws himself up, and Mithian is reminded suddenly of how tall he actually is, how large he is. So often he seems to blur into the background, a grinning face seen in passing, or a cheeky wink in the backdrop of a busy scene. But he is solid, real. And… upset.
"I know what you think," Merlin says softly. "I respect what you are saying. And trust me, I have heard it from every corner today. But… I cannot retract the challenge. And more than that, I will not. Would not."
"What did he say?" Mithian asks. "Sir Kay was right there. Gwaine was right there. Prince Bedivere was right there. Any of them, given a moment, would have thrown their glove if they heard something so terrible. What did he say that demanded you specifically challenge him?"
"They would have, probably," Merlin concedes. "But I could not allow that."
"Tell me what he said," Mithian insists.
"I will not repeat it."
"It is worth giving your life for, is it not?" Mithian demands.
The response comes without hesitation. "Yes."
"Then tell me," Mithian says. "Please, Merlin."
A pause.
"I cannot watch you die," Mithian says. "I cannot watch you die and not know."
His blue eyes search her face.
They soften.
"My princess," Merlin says quietly. It takes most of Mithian's willpower to keep tears from coursing down her face. She can feel them behind her eyes, hot and urgent.
"He mentioned," Merlin whispers, "that he would stop by a village in Essetir on his way home after the fete. To pursue rumors of a witch living there."
"But–"
"A village called Ealdor."
Mithian's hand flies to her mouth. "Your mother."
"I… know it was probably foolish," Merlin says. Catching the look she gives him, he insists, "Yes, Princess. Probably foolish."
Mithian shakes her head. "But… but surely you knew that was not your only recourse. That Arthur and Guinevere–hells, even Elena or myself–would have pledged to–"
"What?" Merlin asks, a bitter smile appearing on his face. It looks unnatural there, and Mithian finds herself greatly disliking the expression. "Mithian, think about it. Really think about it. How could any of you ever justify interfering? Ealdor is in Essetir. Pellinor is a duke of Essetir. He may do as he sees fit. If one of you were to interfere even directly, it could easily be seen as an act of aggression against Lot. At best, it would be a slight to his rule, and at worst, a catalyst for war. They would have had nothing at stake in issuing the challenge, and instead of being a matter of honor, it would have been a petty and dangerous piece of political showmanship."
"You could write to her," Mithian suggests quickly. "Tell her to leave for Camelot."
"My mother is old," Merlin says softly. "And more stubborn than I. She would not leave even if I could warn her in time. And more than that, I would not see her driven from her home. Not for my own quarrel."
"If you die, she will have no choice," Mithian snaps.
He should reassure her. He will not die. He should tell her that he will emerge victorious, the ever-lucky Merlin. Dragon-slayer, unicorn-saver, servant to princes, advisor to kings, brother of knights, friends of princesses. He should reassure her.
"If I die," Merlin says, "the issue will be settled, and Pellinor would not seek her out. I know this. I know men of his sort."
"You idiot," Mithian breathes.
A broken smile flits across his face. He gives her a low bow. "My princess."
And he turns to leave. Mithian watches him, his fluid movements, the rising of his shoulders towards his ear, the way his hand goes to his side as he might if he held a blade there.
"Merlin," Mithian says.
He stops. Turns.
Mithian studies his face. Then, she removes her veil. She crosses the room with a few slow steps until she is a breath away from him, just as they had been earlier when he stayed her from her attack. She looks down and absorbs herself in folding the veil, then in tying it around his arm. Despite herself, she sniffs, and tries to assure herself that it is delicate, and that it probably does well to hide her distress.
"You will wear my favor," Mithian says.
"I could–"
"You will wear it," Mithian says, tightening it slightly. "You will wear it exactly like this tomorrow. And everyone shall know that I side with you in this horrible affair."
She glances up at him then. Those little wrinkles are back around his eyes again, that gentle line between his brows. His eyes shine as he looks down at her, bright and blue against the black hair curling into them.
"Of course, my princess," Merlin says quietly.
A pause.
"I really am sorry, you know," Merlin says quietly.
"For what?" Mithian asks again. But it is gentler this time.
"For breaking my promise," Merlin says. "I suppose I did try to get myself into a life-or-death situation this time."
Mithian inhales quickly in a facsimile of a snort. But she comforts herself in the way the corners of his lips tick upward at the sound, at how the wrinkles around his eyes deepen into crinkles with the appearance of his soft smile.
"You did," Mithian says.
"And I'm sorry for putting you through this," Merlin says.
"You should be," Mithian says. She fusses with the veil further, arranging it just so. "And you should be sorry for making me empathize with Arthur's treatment of you."
"I'm most sorry for that," Merlin says, chuckling. "Thank you for your favor. I shall wear it proudly. And I quite like the color."
"It's nothing, really," Mithian replies quietly. "I did not buy it, nor steal it."
"Oh? What did you pay for it instead?" Even if she could not see it, Mithian is sure she would be able to hear the smile in his words.
"My dignity, at least temporarily," Mithian says, blushing. Merlin chuckles, and so encouraged, she meets his gaze and continues. "My anger. And… my peace of mind, I think."
"A steep price," Merlin says. He pauses, then ventures, "I hope it did not also come at the expense of a friendship."
"No," Mithian whispers. "Never."
Merlin smiles. "I am glad, my Mithian."
He gives her a bow and another smile. And then he is gone from the room, and she is alone.
It is only then that the tears come.