Sleep eludes Merlin the night before his duel, though not for the reasons one might expect. True, his first thought after his conversation with Mithian had been to return to his chambers. However, when he arrived outside his own door, he heard soft voices inside. He stayed long enough to distinguish a conversation between Gwen, Leon, Gwaine, and Dagonet, before he turned on a heel and stalked away.
He spent some time that evening in the gardens. After a while wandering among the roses and bushes and trees, he came to a spot not far from where he had broken his fast with Prince Bedivere and Prince Caradoc not so many days ago. He wandered to the low fence barring the garden from the cliffs and got over it in one easy stride. Sure, even paces carried him to the cliffs where he then sat, legs dangling over the side, watching the sunset for as long as it lasted.
He finally picked himself up and went back inside, but not before waiting for constellations to become clear and shining in the sky, long after the last riotous colors of the sunset faded. He finally wandered back inside, sufficiently chilled by the sea wind and the hours of idleness to be forced back inward. For a while, he paced the halls, taking care to make a turn down a new hallway whenever approaching footsteps became discernable. It was a good while longer before he came to some place he recognized, and was able to return to his rooms.
Once there, he listened at the door. Hearing nothing he entered quietly, and was quickly grateful for it: Gwen and Dagonet both had fallen asleep in his sitting area. Gwen had slumped in one of his armchairs, and Dagonet in the other. Merlin quietly huffs a laugh. Then, with the utmost quiet, he begins pulling at Guinevere's arms.
She stirs, and looks at him with heavy-lidded eyes. "Merlin?"
"Shh," the advisor whispers. "We don't want to wake Arthur, Gwen."
Gwen glances about the room, eyes open just a sliver, then back at Merlin. Her head slumps onto his shoulder. "But…"
"I'm getting you to bed, my queen," Merlin says. "Be quiet. We're almost there."
Gwen sighs heavily and allows herself to be directed from the sitting area to Merlin's bedroom. He lies her on the bed, takes off her shoes, and pulls the blankets over her. She murmurs something unintelligible as he closes the door behind him.
Dagonet snores lightly on his armchair. Merlin sighs. Unlike tugging and leading as Merlin had done with Gwen, he decides to simply pick the boy up and lie him back down on the divan. The advisor divests Dagonet of his boots, repositions the pillow beneath his head, and throws a blanket over him. Dagonet hardly makes a sound as this happens to him, instead snuggling deeper into the couch and beneath the blanket.
Merlin casts his eyes about the room. They land on his writing desk, cluttered with notebooks and textbooks and scrolls and stacks of parchment. He considers this for a moment, thinks, then gathers as much of it as he can manage in his arms. Then, he leaves his room and sets off down the residential quarters.
He arrives a short while later at a door nearly identical to his own. He raps on it, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and listens to the sound of shuffling inside.
The door sweeps open to reveal Isildir. The older man looks Merlin up and down with some surprise, bows, and steps aside to allow the warlock entry.
"Thank you," Merlin mutters, and goes to the table where he sets down his armful of texts.
Isildir looks at the materials on the table, then at Merlin, his face placid.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Emrys?" Isildir asks softly.
"I… uh…" Merlin says, his gaze shifting about the room.
Isildir takes a step forward and gestures to the table. "Please, sit."
Merlin hesitates. For some reason, it only occurs to him now how late it is, how inappropriate his presence in these chambers must be. He had become far too used to moonlit escapades to visit arcane figures, Isildir included
"Did I…" Merlin starts, then hurries to pick up his materials again. "I must have woken you. I'm sorry–"
"You did not wake me, Emrys," Isildir assures him, his voice gentle. He holds out two hands as if to stay Merlin's own. He does not move to touch Merlin, but the gesture is effective enough anyway to get the warlock to pause. Isildir continues, "I was awake already. It is a new moon."
Merlin nods as if this makes sense, then furrows his brow. A slight smile appears on Isildir's face, amused and crestfallen all in one.
"We pray on nights like these, when the moon has reached its peak. This time belongs to the White Goddess. It is a night most fruitful for preparations of healing poultices and prayers of restoration."
This always strikes Merlin as awkward, speaking of the Old Religion with a Druid. They are so much more… reverential than he is. They pray, they know and observe the rites, they memorize the prophecies. Merlin, on the other hand, gropes about blindly and moves by instinct, and has found that he prefers it.
No god, after all, has done more than introduce problems into his life, or miraculously solve them if begged hard enough, if enough were sacrificed to them. He keeps a healthy distance from the gods as a general rule. The Druids have no such qualms, and approach Merlin with something akin to the same veneration as they show their gods. It has always made Merlin uncomfortable, even at the best of times.
Merlin clears his throat and goes to gather up his things. "My apologies, Isildir, for having interrupted your work. And, um, your prayers as well."
"Perhaps you answered them, Emrys," Isildir says.
The Druid's hands reach out and hover near Merlin's. Despite the lack of touch, that and his words are enough to stay Merlin's hands. Merlin goes to argue, then, with a sudden spark of clarity, he recognizes the humor hidden in the quirk of Isildir's lips, the glint of a joke in his slate eyes. The warlock barks a laugh, his words of protestation fading on his lips even as they are formed.
"Right," Merlin says. He wipes his face.
"Sit," Isildir says again, an entreaty more than a command, and this time, Merlin obeys. His body slumps, exhausted, into a chair at the table. Isildir gives him another half-amused smile and asks, "Beverage?"
A tired nod is Merlin's only response. Isildir crosses the room and pulls a kettle from the hearth. It had obviously already been warming, and Merlin feels some comfort in this as it goes to reinforce Isildir's reassurances. Isildir pours two cups, then joins Merlin at the table, sliding one cup in front of the warlock. Merlin takes a deep breath of it: mint, rosehips, blackberry leaves, chamomile. A calming tea. A healing tea.
The water scalds Merlin's throat as he takes a deep drink. But it does clear his mind, at least a little bit. It tempers the maelstrom of thoughts that had been racing through his brain since he issued the challenge, gives him something more substantial to focus on.
"So," Isildir says after a few moments, raising his own cup with two hands and holding it up in a toast. He sips the tea, then asks, "To what do I owe this visit, Emrys?"
"I… challenged Duke Pellinor," Merlin says.
Isildir nods. "I heard."
"Right," Merlin says, pulling a face.
"There are many things I could imagine a man doing the night before a duel," Isildir observes after a momentary pause, "but to be honest, Emrys, visiting a Druid is not high on that list."
The humor catches Merlin off-guard and pulls a genuine laugh from him again. He shakes his head, astounded at this side of Isildir he had never seen before. Admittedly, Merlin had always seen the man as a solemn figure, one mired in superstition and religion and prophecy; a creature of magic with high expectations, much like Kilgharrah. Even in his diplomatic visit to Camelot, the man had been stiff and overly-respectful. Not joking. Not overtly practical.
Merlin decides he prefers this version of the man.
"For most men, I suppose not," Merlin says. "For me, though… fitting, I think."
Isildir bows his head in something like a nod.
Merlin sighs. He waves a hand over the texts now littering the table. "I brought these."
The Druid looks at the materials, then back at the warlock. "I see that." There is a pause again. Then, Isildir asks, "What are these materials? If you would forgive the question, Emrys."
"Ah. Well…"
Isildir looks at Merlin. Merlin looks at Isildir.
"My duck was hexed, or cursed, or otherwise… inflicted by a pixie," Merlin blurts. He sits forward, gearing up for a very technical conversation.
Islsidir nods. "Sir Quackenfell is known to us."
Again, a bark of tired laughter escapes from Merlin. "Right. Well, I've been studying him. And through this study, I have learned very interesting things."
He slides a pair of notebooks across the table. Isildir sets down his cup and flips one open, his eyes skimming over the pages. Merlin watches, leg bouncing, as the Druid begins to understand what is written. Then, Isildir very carefully opens the other, flicking through a few pages. After a few minutes, he heaves a sigh and sits back in his chair.
"You've made a spellbook."
Merlin nearly flinches. "What?"
"A spellbook," Isildir says, gesturing at the books. "That is what you have done here, is it not?"
The warlock tries to consider this. There appears to be a rather large block in his thinking: he is not some long-dead thaumaturgical scholar, nor a dragon or nymph or fey or what-have-you. It did not occur to him previously that the work he was doing might be so overtly one of creation. In his mind, he had just been recording things: experiments, observations, the result of those two combined, the processes needed to recreate a particular outcome. The thought that he may have been creating a spellbook never occurred to him.
"A spellbook," Merlin repeats dumbly.
"Correct," Isildir says. "I must say, it is more thorough than any I have seen in recent years. Most like it were burned during the early years of the Purge, or secreted away by certain groups with vested interests."
"Right," Merlin says. "Um. Well. I suppose yes, I have created a spellbook."
Isildir smiles again and takes a sip of tea, waiting.
"I brought this to you because Prince Bedivere is afflicted," Merlin finally blurts.
"Ah," Isildir says. "I had heard rumors, but little else."
"Yes," Merlin says, biting at his thumbnail. He stares daggers at the table. "And since he approached me about his… situation… I have been confounded by it."
Isildir simply waits for Merlin to continue, unwilling to interrupt whatever train of thought Merlin currently finds himself on.
"A few days ago, I think I came across something promising," Merlin says. His own words seem to catch up to him then, and his face twists in displeasure. "Let me rephrase. 'Promising' meaning that it may explain what is happening to Bedivere, and what Morgana was trying to accomplish. Not in general. In general it's–"
Merlin stops himself. He can feel his own face going still and grim, but he cannot help it. It is a grim situation, after all. It only becomes grimmer if he is right.
"Not good," Isildir offers.
"Not good," Merlin agrees softly. "I was hoping to speak with you about it."
"Please," Isildir says, spreading a hand palm-up in a welcoming gesture.
"Have you heard anything about how Prince Bedivere became afflicted?" Merlin asks, blowing out a huge breath of air. He finally catches Isildir's gaze, who flicks his eyes down at Merlin's tea in a slightly grandfatherly manner. Merlin gives him a squeamish grin and takes another sip.
"I have," Isildir says, watching Merlin drink. "I would wager I have heard more than most, given my peculiar avenues of information. Ger, you know."
"Right," Merlin says, relieved that some of the burden of an explanation has been lifted, as well as some of his guilt.
It makes sense that Ger would have approached Isildir about this–both are Druids, after all. Though they are not from the same clan, there is still kinship there. And Ger had felt comfortable enough speaking about this personally with Isildir, which either meant he felt safe enough to betray his master's trust–unlikely–or Bedivere had given permission for his manservant to approach the elder with his story.
Merlin had not stopped to ask permission from the prince to speak about his affliction with the Druid elder, and the thought had made him acutely uncomfortable until now. Knowing that the boy so impossibly subscribed to ideals of propriety did so first makes him feel just a bit better.
"I heard that Morgana had been flitting around their camp for a few weeks," Isildir explains, "trying to sway them to her side. She even succeeded with converting one or two of the younger ones of that clan. But when their chieftain refused her again, she began preparations for a ritual of some sort. It was just as she was preparing to unleash the result of her work that Prince Bedivere and his men happened upon the camp, having been successfully persuaded to intervene by Ger."
Merlin blinks. "Ger is the one who approached the Mercian throne for help?"
"Yes," Isildir says. "At least, that is how he tells the story. He accompanied the prince back to the camp, and was the one to interfere in such a way that the prince's life was saved. The actual descriptions of the ritual and the injury, however, were vague at best. I did not press."
"I have a few more details on that part," Merlin says, reaching for one of his papers. He hands it across the table to allow Isildir to study it, but maintains his explanation as the elder reads. "Not many, but enough to work off of. They are not sure about all of the preparations, but they had seen–well–"
"Bodies," Isildir supplies gently.
"Right. With… runes carved into them," Merlin says, as gently as he can. He hands over another piece of parchment. "They were able to recreate a few for me. As you can see, it was no more than perhaps three of the set, and it's very possible their memory warped them. But I collected their sketches separately, and these three sigils were all the same from both their accounts."
Isildir's upper lip curls back slightly. It is more than distaste, more than anger, yet remains so subtle on his face.
"Blood magic."
"Yes," Merlin confirms with a sigh. "There are many gaps in my information, you understand. The rest of the sigils, how many… how many there were, how they… anyway."
Isildir nods, movements not yet stiff, but certainly perfunctory. That is perhaps the most distress he can muster to show. Merlin knows well that the shock of such details do strange things to people. The warlock does not begrudge the Druid his reaction.
Isildir puts the parchments down carefully, as if the might rear to bite him. He takes a few deep breaths.
"What else?"
"I believe that it was Bedivere walking into this arrangement that triggered his affliction. Eyewitnesses–mainly Ger, but also some other knights–remember Bedivere walking into a clearing where Morgana was, then immediately falling. There was a wind, and then a sound like something large tearing, and they became unable to see most of him due to–well, there is little agreement there. Ger describes it as a 'white wind,' the knights told me variations of something like a 'veil' or 'some blasted magic,' but it's generally agreed that there was movement and opacity to whatever then filled the clearing," Merlin explains, handing over another sheet which had his best attempt at an illustration.
Isildir looks at it closely, nodding.
"They also reported hearing noises," Merlin continues. "It was attributed to the wind at the time, but since then, Bedivere has been having visions. In those visions, he sometimes hears similar noises in the distance. As of yet, he has not had cause to see what makes them."
"Probably for the best," Isildir says dryly.
"Agreed."
"Tell me about these visions, please, Emrys," Isildir asks.
"They are… horrifying," Merlin answers. "He sees the world as it is one moment. Then, a fit begins, and he sees–it is as if–it is like seeing our world, but broken."
Isildir allows Merlin to wrestle with his thoughts, content to wait until the warlock can articulate some description of the visions.
"It is cold there sometimes. Very cold. Colder than should be possible, yet there is no snow or ice. Just hardness. And other times, the heat is so strong one could imagine blisters appearing on their skin for it. Either way, the wind scours you. There is texture to the wind, and weight, and it rips at you until you feel your skin should be raw, though your clothes and hair do not move. And everything is the same, but… different."
Isildir nods encouragingly, which is more than Merlin usually gets, so he is emboldened to ramble onward.
"Sometimes it smells of nothing, but other times there is the scent of burning and rotting meat and ash choking the air, and a horrible ash. And yet other times, it smells sweet and sick, like rotting fruit. But either way, it smells of decay and destruction. And… if he is in a place where there are buildings, he can still see them, sort of, but they are naught by empty and charred ruins, or frozen palaces full of…"
This time, Merlin lapses into such a long silence that Isildir, after a long while of waiting, prompts, "Full of what, Emrys?"
"Spectres," Merlin answers distantly. "The faces of the friends who should surround you, turned into motionless ghosts. And the wind. And the howling."
Again, silence reigns between them. For Isildir, it feels taught, heavy, something stretched long and waiting to snap. Merlin barely notices.
"You've been there," Isildir says finally.
His words almost sound accusatory, and serve well to break Merlin from whatever strange stupor had overtaken him. The warlock blinks as if coming back to himself. He focuses wide eyes on Isildir, and suddenly looks so much more the boy for it. But when Merlin looks at the Druid, he sees only naked concern and confusion.
"You think it's someplace else," Merlin says quietly.
The Druid chieftain sighs. "No, Emrys. But that was my interpretation of your words. Correct me if I am wrong, please."
"You're not wrong," Merlin says quietly.
They are quiet again for a long time before Isildir finally says, "Merlin."
The man in question startles. Never before has he heard the Druid call him this name privately. In mixed company, if at all, he is Merlin, or Lord Merlin. And any other time, it is Emrys.
"You are more than a great sorcerer," Isildir says gently. "You are, in fact, the preeminent scholar of thaumaturgical texts and experiments of our time. You must be. You have experienced and read and heard and understood more than anyone your age. More than anyone who survived the Purge. You should trust your own judgment. And more than that, you should trust your own senses. You have been there, have you not?"
"I have," Merlin says quietly. "I can see it, when Bedivere is… overcome. And when I touch my duck. But lately…"
The Druid seems a master of patience. He does not prod, prompt, or cajole. He allows the warlock time to put his thoughts in place, and Merlin finds himself, however distantly, grateful for it.
"The transition has become easier," Merlin says finally. "I can almost shift at will to see this other plane. I'm almost there. It pulls at me. My magic… It reacts. It reacted the most the first time. Almost burnt a hole through the table I was at."
Isildir snorts, which serves once again to pull Merlin from some other place.
"I imagine it is more difficult to not perform magic than it is to actually do it," Isildir comments.
Merlin's lips twist in a bitter smile. "Isn't that the truth."
Isildir nods as if this is sage wisdom. He folds his hands and places them on the table. "You should know, Merlin, that when a sorcerer attains–or is born with–a certain amount of power, that experience is not rare."
Merlin furrows his brow at the Druid. "Seeing–"
"No," Isildir says, chuckling. "Being challenged to not do magic. You could change the world at will. At a mere whim. I believe that should you set your mind to it, you could bend the world to your whims. You are Emrys."
Merlin nods, leaning back in his chair and shifting his gaze back to the table. Something guarded and stiff falls over his features and his very body language. Isildir watches this with some interest before he continues.
"But you are also Merlin," Isildir says, and there is not a little bit of appreciation and–perhaps–some pride coloring his voice. "And so you choose the harder path. Do things by hand. Persuade. Strategize. Choose, and choose correctly, and choose incorrectly. It is a feat not of power, but of humanity. You should not take that lightly."
Something warm and awkward and heavy blooms in Merlin's chest. He gives Isildir a quick smile and takes effort to set the thing aside. There are more important things on the table than the compliments of an elder, no matter how profound.
"Controlling my magic's reaction to this other place has become easier," Merlin says finally. "But it is still significant. It… it's like it is rushing to protect me, whenever I see this place."
Isildir nods. "What do you think it is?"
Merlin takes a deep breath in, then blows it out in one, slow breath.
"I am not sure about this," Merlin warns.
Isildir spreads his hands. "Whatever guesses you have would be better than mine, Emrys."
"I think," Merlin says. He purses his lips, wipes a hand over his face, and leans forward so his elbows and hands splay across the table. "I think it's the Hells."
Isildir is quiet. His face remains impassive. After perhaps eons of silence, he says, "You think that Morgana has lifted the veil to the Hells."
Merlin grimaces. "I think she thinks she can control whatever she finds on the other side, by virtue of controlling when and where the veil lifts. But yes. I think she has found a way to open a door to the Hells. However small, whatever the cost… I think she means to unleash the Hells and what they contain upon this realm."
The Druid chieftain slumps in his seat.
"What do you think?" Merlin asks, and cannot bring himself to care overmuch that his tone is nearing plaintive.
"I think…" Isildir says. He stops himself. Then, he says, "I have every reason to think this is true, Emrys."
Merlin nods.
Once again, they are quiet for a long time.
"I will… Should…" Isildir says falteringly.
Merlin gives the Druid a small smile. "Thank you, Isildir."
"Of course," the Druid replies.
"I should take my leave," Merlin says, standing. "You should have more than enough material to… Anyway."
"Of course," Isildir says, standing as well and moving to show Merlin to the door. "Thank you, Emrys."
"Don't go thanking me quite yet," Merlin replies. "There's always tomorrow to contend with."
Isildir opens the door for the warlock and sees him into the hallway. Once there, he says, with all of the genuine passion and reverence he had been conspicuously missing, "I have every faith in you, Merlin."
"Thank you," the warlock replies, and suddenly feels his throat is too tight to say anything else.
The two say goodnight and part ways, Isildir disappearing once more into his chambers, Merlin turning to gauge by the particular quality of the whey-weak sunlight staining the sky from indigo to cloying greys and blues what time of day it must be. He looks about the corridor, sighs, and sets off into the castle again. This time, he makes a beeline for the kitchens.
When he arrives, they are already at full bustle. Pots and pans and cauldrons clatter, bubble, and sizzle with breakfast. Heat from the many ovens in the castle kitchens makes the break-fast-scented air hang low and heavy.
Darla is here already, having been roped into assisting with break-fast, and, upon seeing Merlin, immediately bursts into tears. She flies across the kitchens and flings her arms around him, weeping into his shirt, saying something about duels and cruel dukes and the unfairness of the world. Merlin pats her gently on the shoulders, hoping to escape before the scene attracts more attention, but it is to no avail. He has been spotted by the staff.
By some stroke of luck, Octavia and Sybil both are present as well. Sybil gently pries Darla away from Merlin, giving him a look that is, impossibly, at once a glare and an apology and a scolding, and leads her to some back corner where Darla can cry without mussing Merlin's shirt further. Octavia, on the other hand, takes Merlin by the shoulders and steers him to a table at a different back corner, then sets about making a plate for the advisor. Every protestation he is able to muster when she comes within hearing distances falls on deaf ears.
When she drops it in front of him, he opens his mouth to protest once more, for it is heaped with food: grapes, honey-glazed rolls crusted with nuts, poached eggs, crispy streaky bacon, sausages bursting and dripping with fat, a steak and kidney pie still steaming from the oven, crisp and shining-red slices of apple, salted kippers on golden-brown toast. But before he can get a word out, Octavia shoves a piece of toast into his mouth and sits opposite him.
"Eat, m'lord," Octavia commands.
Merlin chews on the toast and settles himself in. He knows the look on her face. She is a mother, and there is no possible chance that he is getting out of the kitchens without eating most of what she provided. Hunith used to look at him the same way when she could catch him long enough to make him eat.
"Thank you, Octavia," Merlin mumbles around a mouthful.
"The least I could do," Octavia says.
Merlin furrows his brow. He doesn't feel he is safe enough to pause in his eating and actually question her–she'd likely box his ears for trying not to eat–but she gets the message, and he avoids incurring her wrath.
"You've been lookin' after Dagonet well, m'lord," Octavia says. "I've never seen the boy so keen."
"He's a good lad," Merlin says quickly, and shovels eggs into his mouth.
"An' so are you," Octavia declares. Merlin gives her a crooked smile.
"Eat," she commands, and Merlin complies. She studies him for a moment, then says, "I've 'eard your mother's a widower."
Merlin gives her a small shrug. Better a half-true rumor than the full truth that he is a bastard whose father is dead, he supposes. Or the fuller truth that his father was a Dragonlord.
"You've written her, of course," Octavia says. "To inform 'er of the duel."
Merlin attempts to swallow. Toast becomes stuck in his throat. He avoids Octavia's gaze as he takes a quick drink of watered wine and gulps heavily.
"You've someone in place to deliver her a message, then," Octavia says, voice hard.
"I–" Merlin begins.
"Oh, gods above," Octavia says, raising her eyes to the heavens. "Dagonet'll do it, m'lord.
"The road to Ealdor–" Merlin tries, attempting a firmer tone.
"Your queen an' your knights will protect 'im," Octavia says, confidence making her voice ring.
The underlying assumptions making this statement occur make Merlin's mouth drop open, and his fork clatter to the table. But before he can articulate even one argument against this assertion, Octavia speaks again.
"You really think your queen would nae pay 'er a special visit? If the rumors 'bout the reason for this duel are true–"
"What are the rumors?" Merlin asks, attention suddenly pulled to such a degree that he manages to commandeer the conversation.
Octavia waves a plump hand through the air casually. "Most're paltry fictions. Diversions for the staff an' nobles at best. My favorite is that Pellinor insulted yer ears."
She flashes a mischievous smile, and all at once he gets a glimpse of the darling young woman she must have once been. Despite himself and every last one of his current circumstances, Merlin laughs.
"If I challenged someone every time that happened, I'd've been dead long ago."
"Exactly what I said, I said, 'If our Lord Merlin were so easily offended, both he an' King Arthur would've been laid to rest 'fore the king became a king.'"
"Quite right, too," Merlin says, chuckling. At Octavia's following look, he takes a hasty bite of steak and kidney pie. She smiles, satisfied, and settles back into her seat.
"Others say that Pellinor insulted Princess Mithian," Octavia continues, and takes a brief moment to study Merlin in that peculiar scrutinizing and seeing way unique to mothers. He shifts uncomfortably beneath her gaze, but only for a moment before remembering his composure and flashing her a quick smile. She takes him in, seems to recognize something, and relaxes somewhat. She rolls her eyes at him. "But that one's obviously pish. You may have gotten offended at someone sayin' somethin' like that, but anyone else–the Princess herself included–wouldn't've stood for it."
"Okay…"
"The one I think is true," Octavia says, "is that he said somethin' about your mother. Or Ealdor. Ealdor's in Essetir, is it not?"
"It is," Merlin allows.
"There we are then. So, if things don't go right, I'd wager your queen would change 'er travel plans and visit Ealdor 'erself, am I right? Just to make sure everythin's alright. An' to deliver the news themselves, of course."
"Prob–"
"You keep eatin'," Octavia says, stabbing a finger at his plate.
Merlin shoves a bit of bacon in his mouth.
"Well, then, that bein' the case, here's what you do," Octavia says, folding her hands primly in her lap. "You write yerself a letter to yer mother. An' it had better be a long one, do you 'ear? You thank her for the years she looked after you, and you thank her for makin' you eat, and you thank her for sendin' you to Camelot all those years ago.
"And you tell her she did a right job raisin' you to be a good man, and that her only part in all of this is having so kind a heart that her son would do this on her behalf. You tell her all that, and you apologize in that letter. You say you're sorry. An' then you write to her about anythin' else. Everythin' else. About the pretty birds you seen on the road, an' the friends you have, and the thoughts you have late at night, an' the ones you have when no one's lookin', an' the memories you have of growin' up, and the things you think about when you're sad to cheer yourself up. You tell her all about her son's life. Because it's precious to her. An' if you die, she will spend the rest of her life wonderin' about it. About all of it. So you sit down, an' you write, an' you tell her."
Merlin looks at her, food forgotten, blinking back tears. She does the same for a few moments before giving him a smile. One of her hands captures his own, calloused and warm and firm and gentle, just like his mother's.
"An' if the worst should happen, Dagonet will travel to Ealdor with your queen and deliver it himself. An' then he'll spend as long as she likes tellin' her all about what a great master you were to him."
"Of course, Octavia," Merlin mumbles. It is all he can do beneath the ferocity of her maternal aura.
She studies him and, after a moment, leans back in her chair. When she speaks again, her tone is even gentler, so soft it seems almost a caress. "I know I'm givin' lots of direction on what to do should things go wrong, m'lord. But I want you to know that I 'ave confidence in you. You're capable of more than people think. Even yourself, I'd reckon."
"Thank you," Merlin says.
"Now," Octavia says, rising to her feet, "I want at least half that plate gone before you leave, do you 'ear me, m'lord?"
"Yes, m'am," Merlin mumbles.
Octavia gives him a short nod. Then, she pulls on his sleeve.
"Oh, up, you," she says.
Merlin follows her direction and allows her to wrap him in a hug. He gives her a squeeze and then watches her bustle away. He takes a few moments more to make sure half the plate is eaten–otherwise, he is sure, Octavia would track him down and spoon-feed him herself–before quickly slipping out of the kitchens again.
He has only managed to make it a few corridors before he is caught again, this time by Gwaine.
"Merlin!" Gwaine yells, and picks up into a jog to meet the advisor before he could slip away.
"Gwaine," Merlin says cheerily. Then, he notices how early it is for Gwaine to be voluntarily up and about, and then the anger on Gwaine's face. He backs up a pace, hands held up.
"What's this I've heard about you already naming a second?" Gwaine snarls as he approaches.
"I–"
"It should be me," Gwaine says, finally reaching Merlin. "Why am I not your second?"
"Well, I–"
"Trust me, if something should happen–"
"Gwaine–"
"I'll tear that fu–"
"Gwaine," Merlin says, putting his hands on his friend's shoulders. "Will you listen for a moment?"
"Not my strong suit," Gwaine growls.
"I'm aware. Will you try?" Merlin pleads.
"Fine," Gwaine snaps. He crosses his arms. "Explain."
"Not here," Merlin says, glancing around the hall which becomes busier every moment. "Here."
He pulls them along down a maze of corridors, trying several doors until they finally find a supply room. It is blessedly empty, full of only racks of mops and brooms and buckets and rags and cleaning poultices and sacks of sawdust and bales of sweet hay. Thankfully, it is also large enough for Gwaine to be able to pace off some of his anxiety. Merlin settles, leaning against the door, and watches him for a few turns in the hopes that Gwaine's anger may dissipate a bit.
It doesn't.
Merlin figures it probably won't until Sir Pellinor is thoroughly humiliated and/or dead, so after a long while, he tries to speak.
"Sir Kay–"
"Sir Kay?!" Gwaine exclaims, and had it been anyone else, Merlin would've classified it as a screech.
"Yes," Merlin huffs. "He–"
"You named Sir Kay your second and not me. Not me, Gwaine, your best friend and sworn protector?"
"Since when–"
"Since always, Merlin. It comes with the bloody territory," Gwaine snaps, and kicks over a stray broom leaning against the wall as he passes it.
Merlin winces, partly at the clatter, mostly from the reaction.
"Okay, Gwaine. Point taken. But you said you'd try to listen, remember?"
Gwaine sets his jaw, but says nothing further. He continues to try to wear a line in the floor.
"Sir Kay," Merlin says, "threatened to fall on his sword for not acting quickly enough and for failing to issue the challenge himself."
"He…" Gwaine says, then trails off into confounded silence. He pauses in his pacing. It appears this response stumped him, which is no easy feat.
"Yes," Merlin says with some feeling, straightening. He can almost feel his advantage, and presses further. "You began shouting at Pellinor, and then followed him back to the castle shouting–"
"Which I don't regret," Gwaine says, glowering at Merlin and continuing his previous path back and forth across the cramped room.
"Right, but then you missed the part when Bedivere and I had to wrestle Kay's sword away from him after Pellinor departed. It was the only way to keep him from sacrificing himself to his stupid sense of honor. At least, the only way he accepted."
Gwaine is quiet for a moment, . It makes Merlin nervous. A thinking Gwaine is a dangerous Gwaine.
"So he's a nutter," the knight declares after a full minute. "Just more proof that I should be your second."
"Gwaine," Merlin says, pinching the bridge of his nose, "first off, this is the only way to keep Sir Kay from… doing something regrettable."
"But–"
"Second, in case you've forgotten, the primary duty of a second is to try to resolve the issue diplomatically and to avoid bloodshed. Could you do that? Could you treat with Duke Pellinor?"
Gwaine stops again, mouth open, looking ready to argue. Stops himself. Then, he grinds out a single word: "No."
"Right then," Merlin says. "So. Kay will be my second."
"Why not let me act for you?" Gwaine says. "Name me a champion or something."
"I can't let you do that."
"Yes, you can, and if I need to lock you in your chambers–"
"Damn it all, Gwaine!" Merlin shouts. He takes a large step forward, and almost seems to grow. His shoulders go back, he stands straighter, his stance widens. But more than that, he seems to fill the room with his presence. It is magnetic, and powerful, and strange.
Gwaine's mouth drops open–his friend has never shouted at him like this, much less had this.. Gravitas? Power?–but Merlin doesn't seem to notice.
Instead, the advisor continues, voice as taught as his every muscle, "I challenged Duke Pellinor. It's done. And the reasons why don't matter much anymore, but I'll explain them anyway: It's not just a matter of him threatening my mother. If it were, I would leave immediately and collect her. Pellinor could raze Ealdor, Gwaine. And Arthur and Gwen and Elena and the rest–they would help, I know they would, and in doing so, they would throw their countries into war. For me.
"That makes this a matter of saving more lives than just my mother's, or ending more than just mine. And I can't have you do this for me, because it was not you who was offended, it was not your honor that was questioned, it was not your family or your home at stake. And more than that, I will not have you do this for me because I have had too many friends toss themselves head-long at death for my sake. It will not happen again. Not so long as I draw breath."
Merlin falls silent, words finally having been spent. Gwaine continues his gaping.
"Look…" Merlin says gruffly. He clears his throat and settles against the door again, and the tension ebbs from the room as if it had never been there. "I know you want to do this for me. I appreciate why. So you should appreciate that my reasons for refusing you are much the same as your reasons for offering. And if you cannot accept that this is happening, Gwaine, then I will find a different solution. For you. If you cannot keep yourself from interfering, I will see to it myself that you can't. Do you understand?"
Gwaine is quiet for a long time. Then, he says, "Sorry, Merlin, but no. I get your reasons, and you get mine. We're at a stalemate."
Merlin sighs and goes to argue, but Gwaine shakes his head.
"Nah, mate. I really am sorry, but I made a promise to myself and to the princess that I'd keep you safe. And despite popular rumors, I am a man of my word. So you following through on this duel? It's not happening."
Gwaine takes a swaggering step forward.
Merlin acts without thinking. Again. He whirls around and is out the door before Gwaine can blink. He shuts the door behind him, leans against it heavily, squeezes his eyes shut. Then, he whispers a spell. There is an audible snick when the tumblers of the lock turn.
"Merlin," Gwaine says. He rattles the door handle. "Merlin."
"I warned you, Gwaine," Merlin says. "This is happening."
"Merlin, gods damn and–"
"Swefe nu," Merlin whispers.
There is a thump behind the door, followed by the sound of something heavy sliding against wood, followed by another dull series of thumps.
Merlin winces, then moves away from the door and deeper into the castle. He spends the rest of the morning trying to hide from people, friends and enemies alike. Eventually, as the sun reaches its zenith, a note finally finds him from Dagonet declaring his room cleared of visitors. Merlin drags himself back and naps for an hour, after which his servant wakes him, insists on a bath and at least a few bits of lunch, and another hour-long nap.
Then, the both set off for the tournament grounds.
Once there, Merlin is directed to a tent which had been set up near the melee grounds. He is told by the servant showing him to his tent that Sir Bors won, narrowly beating out Meleagant, and that there was considerable gossip around why Sir Gwaine, the representative for Camelot who had been set to join the melee, had not been there to win it all. Merlin says something vague and bland, and allows himself to be shown into the space which had been created for him, specifically for his duel.
It is decorated with the banners of Camelot, and it is at once new and painfully familiar. The wash basin, the table and chairs, the platter of foods and pitcher of wine: he had set up several of these tents himself over the years for Arthur.
Dagonet sits him down at the table and begins bustling about. Merlin tries to get up and help, but Dagonet swats at him and declares that Merlin would have visitors to worry about instead.
True to his word, people begin arriving. Fred and Galahad show up first, both heaping information on Merlin they had gleaned from watching the competitions and speaking with competitors: Pellinor is big, but slow; he acts impulsively and will seize any sign of weakness; he puts everything he has into each strike, relying on brute force over real skill.
They are eventually shooed away by Elena and Caradoc, who bring with them a gambeson and surcoat, both in Camelot's colors. They sit for a while and make sure he eats, both trying to keep the mood light with jokes and small talk. Before they take their leave, Elena provides Merlin with a brooch, a thing of silver and green. Gawant's colors. She helps Merlin affix it to the surcoat in a place of prominence.
Guinevere and Leon come in then, toting a heavy hauberk and leather bracers. Guinevere and Merlin take Dagonet through the slow procedure of dressing Merlin, bickering the entire time about whether to fit Merlin with plate mail. Eventually, with words of support from Leon, it is decided that plate armor would weigh Merlin down too much and possibly rid him of one of his few advantages: speed.
Guinevere assents, biting her lip uncertainly. She looks Merlin over and, to him, seems as if she is preparing to leave. But then she throws her arms around him, tears bursting forth, and insists on hanging on to him for close to a candlemark, weeping and apologizing and threatening all at once. Leon finally relents in the face of Merlin's distress and apparent helplessness. Leon coughs lightly, just enough to win Gwen's attention. She pulls herself away from Merlin, dabs at her eyes with a kerchief, and then wraps the cloth deftly about his bracer. He gives her a kiss on the cheek and watches her leave with Sir Leon, who gives Merlin a firm handshake and a nod of the head.
Next comes Bedivere and Ger. Bedivere takes a seat across from Merlin, fanning himself with a ridiculous hat.
"Hot today. You must be dying in that mail," Bedivere says, then winces at his words.
"It is hot," Merlin agrees.
Bedivere sighs, leans forward. "So… what's the plan?"
"The plan," Merlin repeats, voice flat.
"Well… you know. For the…" Bedivere whispers. "The duel. What's the plan, Emrys?"
Merlin screws up his face. "I would much rather–"
"I know, I know, it's Merlin. But you get my point. What do you have up your sleeve?"
"At the moment, a handkerchief, a brooch, and a veil."
"But… surely you must be planning on using–"
"No," Merlin interrupts. He notes the way Bedivere straightens, how Ger's eyes become a fraction wider.
"No," Bedivere repeats. "So you're…"
"I'm entered into a duel. There will be hundreds of people watching. Do you really think now the best time for me to–" Merlin begins, then flaps his hand vaguely and somewhat aggressively through the air.
"Yes," Bedivere insists. "I know that you can do magic subtly enough to pass beneath notice. You should do it now. Otherwise–"
"Really," Merlin says, slumping. "Why do people have so little faith–"
"Merlin, if this were a test of wits," Bedivere responds seriously, "or a battle of strategy, no one would be worried. But this–"
"This is a duel," Merlin mimics, tone sour. "I am aware, you know. I issued the challenge."
"There is no need for petulance," Bedivere says, leaning back in his chair again to get a better look at Merlin. "You're worried."
"Of course I'm worried. Worried enough for the whole blasted country, worried for my mother, worried about Arthur–"
"You're worried you're going to die," Bedivere finishes.
Merlin sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "To be fair, I'm always worried about that. But yes, Prince Bedivere. After all–"
"This is a duel."
"Right."
"So. No magic, then."
"No magic. I can't risk it. And anyway, I want to beat the living daylights out of Pellinor by my own merit."
"My lord, my apologies for interrupting, but it would be of your own merit still if you–" Ger says.
"It isn't happening," Merlin insists. "The most I'll do is… I suppose you could call it extending my senses. No gold in the eyes doing that, and no cheating required."
"Extending your senses?" Bedivere asks.
"It's like… it's like if you had to move through life only allowing yourself to hear sounds when you're alone. Or only able to see when it is dark. Most of the time, I block myself off from my arcane senses."
"Oh," Bedivere says, thinking. "Is this why you are so clumsy?"
"Partly," Merlin says with a chuckle. "The other part is just poor grace."
"My friend, you've the grace of kings," Bedivere responds seriously. "Look, I know that arguing with you is like–"
"Trying to persuade a tree to grow differently?"
"To put it kindly," Bedivere responds, a lopsided smile on his face. "But I beseech you, Merlin, to reconsider. Pellinor is a dangerous man."
"So am I," Merlin says. And something about him saying it, whether it is the weight of truth behind it, or the knowledge of who he truly is, something seems to reassure Bedivere.
"Very well. It seems as if you're full up on favors, so I won't leave mine," the prince tells him. "But do be careful, please. I would hate to see you out of commission for the rest of the fete due to an injury."
"Of course," Merlin says. "Will I see you there?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Bedivere tells him. "I'll be quite near Princess Mithian, so whenever you want to see me, just look for her."
He gives Merlin a wink that the advisor cannot decipher, and then lopes out of the tent, followed quickly by Ger.
The time is quite near now, Merlin can tell. It is spelled out in the particular slant of the buttery sunlight, in the transition of birdsong, in the new hum of dusk-loving insects. He turns and goes to the back of the tent, rummaging in a box of items Dagonet had ferried down for him earlier today. It is a strange mix of items: a pouch of bird feed, a stack of parchment papers and a quill with accompanying ink pot, the dagger Arthur had gifted Merlin early on in his service, an absurd hat, a blanket, a medicinal kit.
The flap to the tent opens again. Merlin is not sure who he expects, but it is certainly not who he sees.
Princess Mithian has come to see him. She slips inside with one last check for anyone nearby who could spot her, then secures the flap acting as a door. She turns to look at him, eyes wide.
"Hallo," Merlin says. He snatches an item from the box and holds it behind his back, then turns to look at her more fully. Looking at her now, he cannot shake the image of her from yesterday, all righteous anger and indignation, an angel of fury who lit upon the earth to set him to rights.
She does not look like that today. Light bags hang under her eyes, belying poor sleep. Her hair remains neatly braided, but she is absent a veil today. Her bow and quiver are strapped to her back, a dagger at her side. It is a strange combination of a woman's formal wear and a knight's, and it suits her perfectly. Her expression, however, does not. It is a brittle thing, a mask of impassivity. Merlin cannot tell if she wears it for his sake or her own.
She gives him a practiced smile and takes a step further into the tent. She looks him over carefully.
"I, um…" Mithian says, trailing off. Merlin gives her a grin–or tries to–an she tries again. "I wanted to see you, Lord Merlin."
"I am glad," Merlin tells her. "I wanted to see you, too."
Her smile gains something, softens, becomes more genuine. "I am worried, you know. I am aware that you are probably worried, too, but as I have reminded you before, I am your friend. And I reserve the right to be concerned for your well being."
"Of course," Merlin says, ducking his head into an imitation of a bow.
"And I just…" Mithian says. She looks at him a moment longer, and then, with a tinge of impatience, she asks, "What are you hiding behind your back?"
"Just my hand," Merlin says, displaying his left. He quickly puts it behind his back once more, switches the hand holding the object, and holds up his now-empty right hand. "My other hand."
Mithian raises an eyebrow. Merlin sighs.
"I suppose I had been hoping for more ceremony, but…"
He draws his hand out again to reveal the object. It is a small statuette, wooden, expertly crafted.
"I said I wanted to see you," Merlin says. "And I did. I… um. I would like you to hold onto this for me. As a kind of good luck charm. But only if you–"
"I would be honored," Mithian tells him. She takes the statuette gently and looks closely at it. It is a beautiful, hand-carved thing, made with much more skill that the falcon she had received from him so long ago. Its form is of a dragon, sitting upright and proud, its tail curled around its legs and wings stretched outward.
"It is beautiful," Mithian tells him truthfully. "What did you trade the old woman for it?"
"I didn't," Merlin says, and the princess looks up to see him fidgeting. Bashful. "I. Uh. It was a gift. My father gave it to me. Just before he died."
"Oh," Mithian says, eyes widening. "This was your father's?"
"No," Merlin says. "No, he made it for me. It's a long story."
"This…" Mithian says, tracing the length of a wing with her fingertip. "This is too prized a possession, Merlin. I…"
"That's why I wanted to give it to you," Merlin tells her. "So you can make sure it returns to me after the duel. And if. If I, um… it is yours to keep, should you wish, I mean, just if, if anything–"
Without warning, Mithian closes the distance between them. Her arms are flung about his neck and she buries her face in his neck. Even with the mail and the new clothes, his skin smells of woodsmoke and lavender, pine trees and sweet water, sweat and summer sunshine. She feels her locket pressed into her chest, the coldness of his mail shirt beneath the thin sleeves of her summer dress, the warmth of him and his smile and his personality pressing up against her, as solid as his chest.
He tenses, then relaxes. And, after a few excruciating moments, just as Mithian's mind catches up to her and thinks to pull back, one of his arms wraps around her shoulders, the other around her waist. She feels his breath rustling her hair, warm and even. It is not clear in her mind thinking on it later which one of them was sighing.
They are held in time there for a moment, perfectly alone.
"Whatever you ask of me, Merlin, it shall be done," Mithian whispers. And then she steps back, wipes her eyes, and gives him a smile. "With happiness."
"Thank you," Merlin tells her. "And thank you for… everything, I suppose."
Mithian sniffs. "You can thank me after."
"After?" Merlin asks, a smile appearing on his face.
"Yes," Mithian tells him. "I have quite a few things to say to you. Just… after."
Merlin's faze softens further, and… somehow, it opens. His expression, his personality, his feelings, everything comes across in the gentle upward tug of his lips, the slight line between his brows, the crinkling of his eyes.
"After, then," Merlin says quietly. "We will talk after, my princess."
"After, my Merlin," Mithian agrees.
She gives him a watery smile. Hesitates. Then, she is gone, disappearing through the door of the tent.
Out on the melee grounds, a horn bellows.
It is time.