It should all be familiar. King Arthur has competed in enough duels during Merlin's tenure, after all. And much of it is the same: the packed-earth tournament ring; the smell of stale sweat and animals and dirt; the oppressive heat of the summer sun; the tight, anticipatory shimmer of tension charging the air.
But this time, things are much different.
For one thing, the sheer number of spectators present surpasses even the busiest tournament days in Camelot. There must be over four hundred people present, split between the nobility and the servants. Surprisingly, the nobility comprise the vast majority of persons present to witness. They crowd–literally crowd–into serried rows of shining figures, varied in height due to the staggered levels of the stands. Dusklight glints, refracts, and reflects into Merlin's eyes, thrown back at him by the jewels and metallic brocades of their clothes, the jewels and metals of their jewelry, the hungry and humored shine of their eyes. Their movements in such an aggregate seem almost as coordinated and organic as that of a murmuration of birds.
Servants, marked by their negative space against the shining backdrop of the stands, hustle to and fro. They refill goblets, proffer snacks, and ferry messages. More still crowd about the fence, standing and sitting at least four rows deep.
A mighty cheer erupts from them, and the nobles they serve, when Merlin appears at the edge of the arena.
A tight knot of people stands in the ring, quite near a spot on the fence closest to the Royals' Box. At the cacophony of noise, the group looks up. Someone in shining armor detaches from the group and jogs over.
Merlin squints to get a look at the person's face above the searing reflection of the setting sun, which leaves brightly colored traces in his eyes. It is only when the person is a few feet away that he recognizes the golden curls and worried brown eyes of his second.
"Sir Kay," Merlin says. He sticks out his hand as Kay approaches. The scion shakes it firmly. "Any luck?"
"I am very sorry to report, my lord, that there was none to be found," Kay answers.
"Ah, well," Merlin says, eyes roving over the crowd. "I didn't make it easy on you, I fear."
"And you should not have," Sir Kay responds. "Sir Pellinor was entirely out of line, making a threat like that, much less to a dignitary of a foreign country. If you had set less lofty terms for the diplomatic resolution of the matter, the slight to your honor would not have been appropriately satisfied."
"Quite right," Merlin mutters.
His questing eyes rest for a moment on the Royals' Box. King Rodor and Queen Adelaide are both present, one sitting to either side of Princess Mithian. The princess has smoothed her hair and brushed out her gown slightly, and now, in the presence of so many people, her face is set into a neutral expression. Merlin thinks he still sees some tightness in her features, betraying that emotion she had confided in him just minutes before, but cannot be certain from this distance.
With the Nemethian royals are all of the others: Guinevere, clutching a handkerchief and looking solemn; Bedivere, shooting a nervous grin in Merlin's direction; Elena and Caradoc, both looking grim; Queen Annis, who bestows a nod upon the advisor. Merlin looks at all of them, gives them, collectively, a jaunty wave, and turns around. Sir Kay quickly shifts to stand alongside the advisor, but nonetheless studies his face.
Merlin pretends to study the blade of his shortsword.
"We will need to choose a shield, my lord," Kay says, voice miles gentler and phrase considerably shorter than expected.
Merlin nods, glancing at the rack in front of them.
"Whatever you recommend, Sir Kay," Merlin tells him.
Kay sighs minutely–or, perhaps, Merlin imagines he does. Little could be heard over the din of the crowd, after all.
The young scion studies the shields, then makes his choice. The shield surprises Merlin, at least enough to knock him from the turmoil of his own thoughts momentarily. Sir Kay plucks it from the group, tests its weight in his hands, then gives it to Merlin. The advisor takes the shield and appraises it, trying to think as he would if it were him offering the shield to Arthur.
The thing is terribly plain: unpainted wood with a copper dome atop it, already with a pronounced patina around its edge and at each place a copper nail fixes it into place at the rough center of the oak. The hand-loops are made of worn leather. And, despite the fact that it must have been used by several knights before–perhaps hundreds, judging from the number of scorch marks and notches in the wood–the leather straps of the arm-bracers fit securely over Merlin's forearm. It proves light enough to not weigh Merlin down, as a metal one might, nor is it too small to protect his most vulnerable parts: held carefully enough, it will protect his neck, his chest, his armpits, his groin, anywhere that might prove fatal with nary more than a nick.
Merlin looks at Kay, who gives him a slightly bashful look.
"Superstition, my lord. That shield has been used before. Many times."
"Then it must have saved many lives," Merlin mutters appreciatively. "Thank you."
"It is an honor, Lord Merlin," Sir Kay returns. His voice is heavy and thick as he speaks, and Merlin keeps his eyes trained on the ground to avoid looking at whatever expression the younger man–knight, prince, friend–wears.
Merlin clears his throat, throws on a grin, and turns to look at Sir Kay just as the horns blow again.
"An honor and a privilege, Sir Kay," Merlin says brightly. He uses a deft jut of his chin and a tilt of the head to indicate something behind him. Their friends? His friends? The Nemethians? Princess Mithian? The servants?
"Look after them, will you? For me," Merlin asks.
A thousand questions churn through the air between them. And instead of voicing a single one, Sir Kay gives Merlin a deep nod, which turns into a deeper bow.
"I swear it," Sir Kay tells him. The scion straightens, and gives Merlin a smile, the likes of which Merlin has not yet seen on the knight and would-be prince. It is fierce, proud, and certain. "Go get your satisfaction, Lord Merlin."
Merlin gives the other man a nod, and turns toward the arena.
Mithian looks on from high in the stands, shielding her eyes with a hand. It feels as if something has grown over her chest, sitting heavy and suffocating her. Her breaths come in short, sharp bursts. Anxiety limns her very bones, setting her spine alight. She sits primly, focused and still, and fights to keep the emotions roiling in her chest and raging in her mind from disturbing her placidly disapproving expression.
But then, Merlin and Pellinor both turn to bow to her, and then face one another again, and the duel begins.
A smile–no matter how grudging and small–flits across the princess's lips as Merlin gives his shortsword an experimental swing. She knows from her time spent watching knights train in Camelot that this is how Arthur begins near every fight, spar or not. People from the Camelot contingent–but a few surprising others, including Queen Annis–chuckle or cheer at the sight.
Pellinor copies the movement, and the mirth dies down. When Merlin had done it, it had been charming–a quick nod to his master and liege lord in a dire situation. When the duke executes the move, it is sharp, lethal, and nothing less than brutal.
Merlin hefts the shield up. Pellinor begins stalking to the side. Merlin turns slightly, following the duke's angle. But he pivots, turning to face the duke rather than moving away.
Pellinor hefts his sword, considering his opponent. Then, he charges forward.
Mithian's breath catches in her chest. Merlin stands solidly as if waiting for the impending strike, not even lifting his sword in an attempt to parry the blow.
Pellinor is a few short strides away. He holds his sword aloft, managing a heavy blade one-handed, and moves to bring it down in a lethal arc. A blow like that would easily send Merlin down, shield or no, simply from the weight of the blade, let alone the manner in which Pellinor's fluid movements threw his whole body into the blow.
The sword cuts through the air, blade flashing in the now-bloody light of a crimson sunset. It is halfway to Merlin's neck in less time than it takes to breathe.
But then Merlin is simply not there. Where he had stood a blink of time before is now simply unoccupied space. It takes Mithian, and indeed most in the crowd of spectators, a bewildered second to see him again. He has thrown himself to the ground–no, to the side–no, he has dived into a roll and picks himself back up to his feet immediately, moving with the grace and speed of an acrobat. Gasps resound from the crowd.
Pellinor cannot react quickly enough. The momentum of the duke's swing has already carried him this far; he has thrown everything, every last bit of strength, into what he assumed would be the first and last blow. There is no going back now. The very laws of nature demand that his sword continue in its motion.
The tip of the duke's sword buries itself in the ground. Its silver blade sinks perhaps three inches into the ground. This is no mean feat: the packed earth of the dueling grounds have long since been worn in. It is hard, compact. Near to stone.
The duke moves quickly, strangely. He must contort his large body so his shield, held in his left hand, can twist around to protect his right flank. And protect it he must. Merlin wastes no time gloating over his surprising dodge.
But he does not simply swing; no, Merlin strikes, and understanding hits Mithian with sudden clarity: Merlin's swordsmanship is comparative. Merlin was used as a practice dummy for the most accomplished swordsman in Albion–as a result, he looks rubbish compared to Arthur and his knights, the greatest warriors of their time. But he's managed to hold his own for near to nine years now. When he strikes, his posture is picture-perfect: a lunge of the front foot, planted firmly; a slight pivot to the back foot as he raises his sword behind him; a twist of the hips as he brings it forward and down in a flashing arc. True, he does not have the same strength or power as Pellinor, but the move is calculated and near-to-brutal in its force anyway.
Pellinor manages to get the shield between himself and Merlin's attack, but staggers–perhaps beneath the weight of the blow, perhaps beneath his own surprise. It is writ clear on his face, in the way his eyes bulge and his jaw works, even as he falls to one knee as Merlin's sword bites into the wood of the shield.
Mithian barely has time to see what is happening, much less comprehend or process it. To her, it is as if Pellinor was about to kill Merlin, and a heartbeat later, the advisor has gone on the offensive. She watches, equal parts terrified, proud, enthralled, and disgusted. And entirely overwhelmed. Perhaps, then, it is a result of her overwhelming feelings that the strangest details catch her attention, like focusing a rock caught in the rhythm of the surf without being capable of noticing the raging of the ocean itself.
Snatches of cut-off phrases, muttered and screamed and said like oaths, swim through Mithian's tight focus. People touch her, her hands and shoulders, and they jostle her, too. But they are distant things, perceived only by the body when her mind is already so full, and these details will only truly occur to her later. And only then will it feel strange that she remembered them at all.
To the princess's right, Queen Guinevere gasps, one hand raising to clutch at her chest, and says, "Oh dear gods." The queen's other hand gropes outward to find Mitihan's. The princess is aware that perhaps the queen is squeezing her hand, and doesn't know and doesn't care whether she returns the gesture.
"That's it, Merlin," Leon says quietly, clenching his fist, and it is only because he is sitting in a place of honor next to Guinevere–only a seat away from Mithian–that she hears it.
"ATTA BOY, LORD MERLIN!" shouts another voice–male, perhaps Sir Fred?–from well behind Mithian.
"I'll be gods damned," comes a breathy voice from behind Mithian, and she assigns the comment to Prince Bedivere without having a real reason. "He wasn't joking."
A hand squeezes Mithian's left shoulder, followed shortly thereafter by Princess Elena's scream, bless her soul, which is loud enough to shatter eardrums and momentarily shock the princess from her stupor. "THAT'S RIGHT! YOU TEACH THAT GORMLESS WORM A LESSON, PHYSICIAN'S APPRENTICE!"
And from beside the princess, a pained hiss, "Sister, please! This is already a spectacle without you–"
Any other words from her friends are swallowed in a tidal wave of noise as a cheer rips from the crowd. Mithian has never before heard this kind of cacophony. Nothing is audible beneath it. Hundreds of people surge to standing, stomp their feet, clap their hands, whistle in some ear-splitting fashion, shout words of praise, scream obscenities. And yet, it all feels miles away. Their din pales in comparison to her own heartbeat in her ears.
Pellinor yanks his sword from the ground and turns to face Merlin. The duke's face is smeared with a snarl. He is obviously not happy about being made a fool. Especially not when it should have been so easy a fight. Especially not when the opponent is Lord Merlin of Camelot and Ealdor, a man infamous for his poor handling of weaponry and predilection toward scholarship. Not when Pellinor is larger, and of better breeding, and a knight, whereas Merlin is nothing more than an uppity peasant. These thoughts and other more violent ones lie bare across the duke's face, expressed in the disdainful turn of the nose, the disgust dripping from the curled lips, the teeth bared in aggression and humiliation. Hate. That is the name for the expression he wears.
And Merlin–Merlin of Ealdor and Camelot, physician's apprentice, friend and advisor and hapless, hopeless, faithful, stupid, outrageous, courageous, infuriating Merlin–smiles. He says something to Pellinor. His words are instantly lost beneath the fervor of the crowd. Lost to everyone, that is, but who they were meant for. Whatever Merlin said, it makes the Duke's face contort further into fury.
While the princess can think of a few choice words of her own for the duke, Mithian cannot imagine what horrifying insult had passed the advisor's lips. She presses her own lips into a line, not sure if what she fights is a hysterical smile or a desperate frown.
In a burst of movement, the Duke lunges forward. This time his blade cuts upward instead of down, making as if to stab beneath Merlin's shield.
Merlin brings his sword up. To the horror of all watching, the advisor hefts his sword too late and too far to his right, moving as if to protect not his heart, but his side. Merlin's sword cuts through the air near perpendicular to where Pellinor's blade moves to go, failing to protect that which the Duke's blade seeks.
But, no. That isn't right. Once again, it seems to take an eternity for the crowd to catch up with the fighting pair. What they had just witnessed was not an error on Merlin's part, but a prescient move. While everyone watches carefully with bated breath, waiting for the strike to come from beneath Merlin's shield and hit home, they nearly miss the way the Merlin blocks Pellinor's real swing.
Merlin had seen the feint coming from miles away. He must have, given his reaction time to the move. Pellinor jabs up from below, pulls his strike, leans back across his body to pull the blade back-handed against what should now be his opponent's unprotected side. But Merlin's own blade intervenes at just the right moment, just the right angle, to deflect. It is not a block, but a redirection. The movement, though subtle, forces Pellinor's blade up instead of down, thrusting his sword and entire arm into the air. Watching it, one could almost think Pellinor himself had thrown his blade into the air, so natural was the parry from Merlin. And then, with blink-and-one-would-miss-it speed, Merlin strikes at the duke again. It is only when the cut of Merlin's blade has made it within a hair's breadth of the vulnerable juncture beneath Pellinor's arm and his torso, the place where the mail and the plate armor break to allow for movement, does the Duke jump backward to avoid a terrible wound.
Merlin, seeing Pellinor leap backward, presses his advantage, bringing his blade backward and viciously down again. His sword swings down faster than Pellinor can regain control of his own, and only a second retreat, this one consisting of large, stumbling steps, saves Pellinor from Merlin's sword.
Cheers shakes the bleachers. Mithian grits her teeth. She is vaguely aware of the people around her, sighing and cursing and clapping and whistling, but little of it truly gets through to her. She's too focused on the set of Merlin's jaw as he studies his opponent, too attentive to the way his chest heaves with exertion, too aware of the sweat that drips down his brow and plasters his slightly-too-long black locks to his forehead, too enraptured by his apparent and surprising and entirely unsurprising competence with a sword, too fearful of his opponent.
She watches, taking in the advisor's wide eyes, the way he shifts from foot to foot. He is surprised, Mithian realizes, perhaps at his own performance, perhaps the reaction of the crowd. Perhaps something else entirely. The advisor's blue eyes seem dark as they watch the Duke, The slant of the setting sun casts dark shadows and deep, saturated colors–pinks and oranges and blood reds–against the pale skin of both men. On Pellinor it looks hellish: his cheeks become hollower, his eyes shadowed, the severe downward curve of his lips looks sharp and grotesque. But on Merlin, it seems near to a painting. His eyes are lit not just with the riotous hues of the sunset, but with some internal fire and determination. Despite his slightly surprised mien, he also manages to look grim, determined, sorrowful, worried. Mithian is not quite sure how he manages it, but he does.
The advisor pauses, watching Pellinor. He allows the duke a few moments to regain his footing, and they both breathe deeply, though the duke's breaths seem slightly more ragged. Distantly, Mithian is aware of Leon muttering a low curse, followed quickly by a muttered commendation, which is in turn followed by a louder one, meant obviously to comfort his queen.
"He is fighting with honor, my queen," Leon says, his tone almost regretful.
Mithian can feel her own jaw working at the words, and can do little to stop it. Guinevere gives Mithian's hand a quick squeeze. At Mithian's other side, Elena's grip on her shoulder grows tighter. The Princess of Gawant's other hand appears busy pumping through the air.
Duke Pellinor appears to want to take his time now. He holds his sword ready, studying Merlin, pacing around him. This time, as opposed to pivoting, Merlin circles right back, keeping Pellinor to his front. But it can only last for so long. Pellinor seems to have understood what caused those close calls: Merlin relying on the element of surprise. His opponent had not been truly aware, nor truly believed, his speed nor strategy. But now he knows Merlin's little tricks.
It seems the waiting period is out. Merlin shuffles forward, attempting a feint of his own. Several hundred pairs of lungs suck air inwards. It is surprising any air at all remains above the grounds. Pellinor blocks it easily, casually. The duke, having drawn Merlin in, lunges forward himself. The resulting blow against Merlin's shield makes Mithian clench her jaw.
Pellinor forces himself forward, down, managing to tower over Merlin despite the advisor's own height. The duke presses his face close to Merlin's and hisses something in the advisor's face.
Merlin frowns. He takes a half step back, then a larger one, trying to disengage. But Pellinor has become a man possessed. He matches Merlin step for step, each one followed by a short, harsh blow to Merlin's shield. Again and again the duke's sword rains down blows on Merlin. The advisor grits his teeth. Falters. He cannot turn away to gain distance; doing so would only expose him to the duke's blade, and it would appear as if he were running away as well. He cannot effectively parry the blows, powerful and focused as they are. It seems, in this moment, that he has no choice but to suffer the blows behind his shield.
But then, in the breath of time between blows, Merlin pushes his shield up to meet Pellinor's blade, while the advisor's own cuts upward in a sharp arc. The move forces Pellinor to jump backward to avoid the blow. Pellinor's sword and Merlin's shield both are lowered quickly. They circle one another tightly, and only for a moment.
Pellinor, predictably, goes on the offensive again. He makes a wide swing at Merlin, lunging forward as he does so. Merlin leaps to the side. Pellinor's momentum once again takes him forward.
Merlin takes advantage of this, along with his newfound position facing the duke's profile. The advisor kicks a foot out, catching it behind Pellinor's forward one. With a single smooth movement, Merlin yanks his own foot to the side, forcing Pellinor's forward, and then using his shield pushes with all his might. Pellinor falls before he seems to have realized that Merlin has moved. As the duke lands on the hard ground, Merlin plants the foot that just tripped Pellinor and uses his other to land a vicious kick on the duke's wrist and fingers.
And just like that, Pellinor is on the ground, disarmed, with Merlin's sword at his throat.
There is a heavy silence. It lasts several heartbeats. Mithian counts them.
"I believe, Duke Pellinor," Merlin says into the quiet, voice steady and somewhat amused despite the previous exertion, "that if you took this moment to retract your earlier statement, I would find my honor quite satisfied."
The crowd holds its breath.
Pellinor says something, and despite the heavy silence of the crowd, it is inaudible. Merlin steps forward slightly, the sharp iron of his blade biting into Pellinor's throat. The duke looks at it as if it were a particularly nasty bug, then turns that same expression upon Merlin.
"Sorry?" Merlin asks. His smile is as cheeky as ever.
"I retract my statement," Pellinor says, his voice still a low rumble, but loud enough for those assembled to hear.
Merlin nods. He sheaths his sword and offers Pellinor a hand up. The knight does not take it, instead picking himself up and dusting himself off angrily. Nonetheless, Merlin gives him a bow. Then, Merlin turns to the Royals' Box. He gives a wink–but to whom, to Gwen? Bedivere? Caradoc? Mithian?–and then dips into a low bow.
The air is rent with cheers. It hurts Mithian's ears to hear it, but she doesn't mind, she doesn't care, because Merlin won. Merlin is alive and whole and victorious and Mithian feels as if she may faint. The advisor straightens, turns to the left, and bows again, then repeats the action to his right. As if he were a bard at the end of some epic tale, and not a warrior victorious on the battlefield.
Princess Mithian rises to her feet. But she does not clap. She does not stare admiringly at Merlin, as her heart begs her to. She does not do these things because she sees Pellinor rise to his feet, sees him pull a dagger from his boot, sees him cock his hand to aim at Merlin's turned back.
The princess reacts without thinking. Just as quickly as Merlin had moved during the duel, her bow is removed from her back, an arrow pulled from her quiver.
Once again the crowd stills, suddenly realizing they have missed some important event. Merlin, too, down on the tournament grounds, blinks at the sudden, tense quietude. He looks down at himself, as if checking for injuries. Then, he looks up at the Royals' Box. He sees Princess Mithian, bow still held strongly in her left hand, eyes still trained down the riser, her right wrist pressed against her right eye, fingers splayed. The advisor follows her eyes and her aim to a spot behind him. He turns, slowly, to see Duke Pellinor. The duke falls to one knee, his hand still behind his head. The knife that had been ready to fly from his fingers clatters to the ground instead. And the duke–and everyone else–stares dumbly at the arrow protruding from the middle of his hand, the tip just poking through his palm.
"Guards," Mithian snaps, and finally, people break into action.
The crowd bursts into boos, sneers, and shouts. A contingent of armored men break away from the sidelines, having been jostled from their focus on Merlin's victory, and go to encircle Duke Pellinor. Queen Guinevere squeezes Mithian's hand again, then moves to break through the crowd. Leon recognizes the movements and goes to lead the way, pleading through the crowd and, when that fails, shoving his way through the bleachers so his queen could reach Merlin. Bedivere is not far behind, nor is Princess Mithian, Princess Elena, and Prince Caradoc.
The advisor himself stumbles toward the fence. Sir Kay and Dagonet both hop over the wooden barrier and meet the man halfway. Merlin slings an arm over each man's shoulder and provides an easy smile. But even as he does so, his eyes search the bleachers, roving, moving, until they finally land on what they seek: his friends, scooting and jumping over or squeezing between or walking around the wooden perimeter of the tournament ring.
Guinevere reaches him first. She flings her arms around him and clings on for dear life. Merlin pats her back and looks at the other apologetically. Nonetheless, his eyes crinkle, and his voice gains that strange low tone to it streaked through with amusement–the voice he uses when obviously teasing.
"You weren't really worried about me, were you?"
Gwen laughs–or perhaps it's a sob–and swats at his chest as she says, voice thick, "If you ever do something like this again, Merlin, so help me–"
"I'm sorry, Gwen," Merlin says, petting at her hair and back in a way he probably hopes is soothing. After a long pause, he says, "...But I did do very well, I thought."
Sir Fred–when did he arrive? did he come with the rest of them?–laughs. "You did brilliantly, my boy."
"Our king would be proud," Leon tells his friend, clapping him on what shoulder is not covered by one of Guinevere's arms. "You did exceedingly well, my friend."
"Oh," Gwen hiccups, "if only he had been here to see you, Merlin." She pulls away then, eyes somehow becoming flinty and dark and impossibly imposing despite the tears streaking from them. "A pity he will never see such a thing. Nor will any of us. Ever again. Isn't that right, Merlin?"
Merlin chucks her beneath the chin and simply says, "Oh, Gwen. I'm sorry to put you through such a thing."
Guinevere seems to accept this answer, though it is not the vow she had so obviously sought. She relinquishes her hold on him, remembering herself once more, and contents herself with clasping his hands. Sir Kay, from seemingly thin air and still while supporting one of Merlin's arms, produces a handkerchief and offers it to the queen. She takes it gratefully and dabs at her eyes.
"A celebration is in order," Mithian announces crisply. Merlin, and all her friends, look at her with almost-blank expressions, so dazed are they all in the wake of Merlin's victory. "Dinner and drinks. In the gardens, tonight. Friends only. Say we meet two hours hence? The crown will provide dinner and drink, of course."
"I think," Merlin says slowly, "that is a wonderful idea. I would really love to get sloshed."
A few snorts chorus from the assembled group. Dagonet elbows his master.
"A bath and a nap for you first, my lord," the young manservant mutters, still trapped beneath one of Merlin's arms.
"Bless you," the advisor says. "You're a better manservant than I ever was, Dagonet."
Guinevere and Leon both make a choked noise, and no one, perhaps not even the pair of them, can parse if it is a snort of laughter, a sound of disagreement, or an amused concurrence. It does not matter anyway.
Merlin is led away by Dagonet and Sir Kay. Mithian casts a disdainful glance toward the treacherous Duke Pellinor–now surrounded by royal guards and being appraised distantly by her parents–then turns on a heel and stalks toward the castle. She feels people follow her–Sybil and guards and several others–but ignores them.
She turns her mind instead to organizing a party in the gardens, and on steadfastly ignoring the maelstrom of emotions bubbling in her chest.
It is a sultry night. The air hangs low, draping across and clinging to those who walk beneath the night air. Far above, stars twinkle like diamond dust against a dark sky. Torches flicker in bronze sconces, each as tall as the tallest among them. These, along with beeswax candles set along blue and red table runners, cast warm light across the faces of all those gathered here.
It is, Merlin thinks fondly, sitting at the middle of a long, ovoid table, a wonderful night. Guinevere sits to his right, Leon next to her. On Leon's other side is Gwaine, who remains quiet. This alone makes Merlin uncomfortable, but the night and the wake of his victory over Pellinor makes him wont to forget the anxiety caused by his friend. Princess Elena, Prince Caradoc, Sir Kay, and Prince Bedivere are also present, as are Sirs Fred and Galahad, and Lady Lian. Sitting at the table as well, and to the last fighting the urge to fill goblets and plates, are Dagonet, Sybil, and Greta.
It is a superlative night. Sir Pellinor sits in the dungeons, awaiting a conference with King Adelaine and King Rodor tomorrow. The duke, after all, displayed a great lack of character, honor, and sportsmanship in attempting to strike Merlin after the duel had been concluded. And after Merlin had spared the duke's life in a stunning concession after a more shocking victory.
Yet while the duke is in the dungeons, here Merlin is, no worse for wear, sitting surrounded by friends intent on celebrating him.
And what a celebration. Mithian and her group of Nemethian servants, many of whom had been witnesses at the duel, had pulled out all the stops. Dishes meant for other nobles were stopped and redirected, ovens were re-fired, meals were pulled from thin air, snacks and sides and desserts were produced without care for available materials nor planned meal schedules.
When Merlin finally arrived, having taken a bath and napped and had his hair forcibly combed then mussed again by his over-attentive manservant, a great table had already been surrounded by friends and laden with food.
There were bowls of pickled and fermented vegetables; rolls slathered in butter and dred in nuts; pastries doused in honey and stuffed with sweet cream and tart summer berries; fish stews, imbued with earthy herbs and hearty vegetables; sauteed summer squashes; glistening, roasted mutton; sausages bursting with grease; steak and kidney pies; spinach turnovers; pickled herring served on squares of toast; creamed cod offered with flat crackers; beef and barley stew; roasted chicken; crushed herbed potatoes swimming in butter and cream; flatbreads and hard cheeses and cured meats; platters of oysters and snails baked in garlic and oil; kegs of beer; jugs of ale; pitchers of wine.
There are toasts–multiple toasts–to Merlin's skill, his health, his victory. Hearty claps on the back are freely dispensed, as are words of commiseration and astonishment as tales of Merlin's performance that day ripple across the table. Sir Fred comments on Merlin's expert dodge, and then they discuss his incredible offense to throw Pellinor off, which succumb to dissections of his footwork throughout the duel.
And finally, once people have seemed to pair off for conversations about the small clearing they inhabit, Merlin paces off to have a moment alone among the roses. He has had an exceptionally long day, after all, one punctuated only by serious conversations and life-threatening duels and snatches of sleep and conversation.
So he wanders off, quietly taking his leave as servants are wont to do. As he does so, he leaves the knights in deep conversation together, all of whom endeavor to catch an incredibly surly Gwaine up to speed; a knot of royals gossiping with their servants with complete abandon; and one or two odd others simply joining in conversation when they can. None really note his departure, though they later will wonder at his sudden absence.
Merlin paces a while until he comes across a place where the hedgerows of roses give way to jagged, moon-soaked cliffside. He sits, legs dangling over the precipitous edge, and sips at a goblet of wine.
He does not seem to notice the person approaching. At least, he does not react upon discerning the footsteps, nor when someone settles themself so close to his side that he can feel the heat emanating from their skin, different only from the summer night in that they are one or two degrees warmer.
"You did well today," Mithian tells him. Her voice comes to him on the wind, strong and subtle as lavender, flitting across the wind on butterfly's wings.
"Thank you," Merlin says.
They are quiet together for a little while, watching the surf play hide-and-seek with the shore far below.
"I was worried," Mithian admits finally, clutching her own goblet to her chest.
"I know," Merlin sighs, and it feels almost as if he addresses the stars instead of the princess. When he speaks, she imagines they twinkle far above, just as his eyes so often do. "I am sorry."
"Don't be," Mithian tells him. She reaches out without looking and captures his hand in hers. "You did the right thing, I think."
"I hope," Merlin says. He pauses, then continues, his voice thick with some emotion she cannot place. "It seems all I can do is hope, sometimes."
"No, that's not right," Mithian tells him. She sips at her wine, not daring to face him, but his skin is warm beneath hers, and he twists his hand so that their fingers intertwine. Her hearts skips a beat at the action. She must swallow against air before she can manage in a fierce whisper, "You fight, too."
"I suppose so."
They are quiet again.
"Can I ask you something?" Mithian asks.
Merlin looks at her, his face at once surprised and bemused and pleased.
"You just did," Merlin says, butting his shoulder against hers.
Mithian chuckles. "Right. Can I ask you something else?"
"Of course," Merlin says softly.
His gaze stays on her, ignoring the vast landscape sprawling before them. His eyes are dark and glistening beneath the stars. Their fingers remain tangled together between them. Each is absolutely still, as if moving might break whatever tentative feeling rests between them.
"What were you thinking?" Mithian asks, just as quiet.
Merlin pauses. Then, he tells her, "I was thinking I needed to protect the things I love."
"And what about when you won?" Mithian asks. "What were you thinking then?"
Another pause, this one more careful, more considered. Then, Merlin answers simply, quietly, truthfully, "I was thinking of the things I love, I suppose."
Mithian nods sagely. "Cream tarts, then."
Merlin laughs. It is a sound just for her. Moments after the sound parts his lips, clear as a bell and light as a feather, it lands on Mithian's ears and then immediately becomes lost beneath the distant surf and the gentle wind and the intimate moment they share. Mithian smiles at him.
"You know me too well," Merlin tells her.
Mithian does not relinquish his hand, as she should do. Instead, she gives herself a selfish, private moment, and squeezes his hand in her own. It is a moment in which she can cling to him, no matter how small.
Once again, they lapse into a comfortable and thoughtful silence. Then, Mithian whispers, "I was scared for you, Merlin. I understand what you did, but I do not agree with it. And I fear forgiveness will not come so easily the next time you do something so foolish."
"You say that as if it is a given I will do something like that in the future," Merlin says, and though it is obvious he attempts to tease, it falls flat.
Mithian sighs and lowers her head to rest lightly on his shoulder.
"You will," Mithian says simply. "It is in your nature."
Merlin says nothing in response. It is concession enough. There is no question that faced with a question of the safety of his loved ones, Merlin would do things much more foolish than challenge someone twice his size to a duel. In the list of things he would do for the people he loves, it probably does not rank among the top five stupidest things he has and would do.
"I suppose it is in my nature to worry about you," Mithian sighs after a moment.
Merlin tilts his head so it rests on hers. They stay like that for a small eternity, watching the waves beat endlessly upon the shore, until finally, he says, "It doesn't have to be."
Mithian snorts, but her derision is short-lived. Beneath her, Merlin tenses, then shifts.
"I think, Princess Mithian, that you may have allowed yourself to… form too sentimental an attachment," Merlin says carefully.
Mithian herself stiffens.
"I beg your pardon?" she asks primly.
"I just…" Merlin says, then turns to face her. The princess picks her head up and twists so she can face him as well. He captures her hands in his own and studies her face. "I worry that… that an attachment may prove to be a vulnerability."
"A vulnerability," Mithian repeats.
"Yes," Merlin hisses. "And I think–"
"Are you saying you no longer wish to be friends?" Mithian asks.
Merlin's face falls. "No."
"Then what are you saying?"
"That–that–that I think, maybe, caring too much–"
"You care too much," Mithian protests, and it sounds weak and childish as she says it, but she presses on. "You do. You look after ill ducks and misbehaved princes and you cry during hunts–"
"That was one time–"
"And you challenge men to duels when they threaten your mother, and–and–and no, Merlin."
"No?"
"No," Mithian repeats vehemently, and swats at his ear for emphasis. He makes a half-hearted attempt to block her hand, but accomplishes little. "You will not push me out of your life out of some misguided attempt to spare me pain. Are you truly…"
"What?" Merlin asks, playing offended even while a smile quirks at his lips.
"So foolish?" Mithian asks, throwing her hands in the air. "Once again, you make me feel for your king. I want to call you every name in the book."
"I just–" Merlin tries again, voice gentler this time.
"You just nothing, Merlin," Mithian responds. "You are my friend. I am allowed to be worried about my friends. You are allowed to have friends. You are allowed to have friends who worry about you, and you're allowed to let them worry. Don't be such a martyr to you make a decision on my behalf that I don't deserve a friend like you in my life. That is selfish."
Merlin searches her face. Then, ever so slowly, the tension drains from his body.
"You are right, of course," he tells her.
"Of course I am," Mithian grumbles. She turns back to the landscape, taking some comfort in the heat she can feel coming from his side, so close to her own. Silence settles over them again.
"I don't mean to scold you, I suppose," Mithian eventually says. "I do hope you are enjoying your party, silly fights aside."
Merlin huffs. "I am, actually."
"You were, perhaps," Mithian corrects. "And then you snuck off here. To be alone, I presume. I must be foiling your plans for solitude. I come here, an interrupt you, and berate you for your feelings, and I–" She moves as if to get up, but Merlin's tightening grip on her hand stays her.
'I–" Merlin says. He clears his throat, then says, "I am glad you are here. I don't want to be really want to be alone. Would you stay, my princess?"
"You don't want to get back to your party?" Mithian asks slowly, casting a glance over her shoulder. The distant sounds of chatter and laughter float to them over the hedgerows.
But Merlin pulls a face at her, and Mithian stifles a laugh.
"I'm avoiding Gwaine," Merlin admits. He rubs the back of his neck and looks away as he tells her, "I locked him in a supply closet to keep him from interfering with the duel. He missed the whole thing, and was blamed for being a drunkard and missing it when found by Sir Leon."
Mithian laughs aloud at this, then claps a hand over her mouth. Merlin's eyes sparkle at her.
"Rude of me, I know," Merlin says dryly.
"Probably necessary, though," Mithian admits. She bumps his shoulder with her own in a mimicry of his earlier movement. Then, she asks, "Is that the only reason you don't want to go back to the party? I thought… I thought it might be nice. Celebrating your victory and all."
"No," Merlin says. His tone is forced-light, pensieve. Mithian sneaks a glance his way and finds his attention wholly on her. She must look away again quickly, so absorbing is his gaze. It threatens to make her fall into it. "It is nice. And it's not the only reason."
"Ah," Mithian responds, voice grave. "Not enough pie, then."
"Never," Merlin says, flashing a grin she can see even in her periphery. "No, I… I wanted this, actually."
"This?" Mithian asks innocently, looking out at the dark beach. "Pitch black and the sound of the ocean?"
"No," Merlin replies, a soft laugh escaping him like a sigh. He looks out at the beach again. His next words, whispered as they are over the cliffside, are nearly lost to the air. But somehow, some way, they find their way to land gently against the princess's ear. She thinks she may have imagined them, so softly do they flit across the space in between them. "No. A private moment with a friend I love. That's what I wanted."
She squeezes his hand, and they look out quietly at the dark beach again, each lost in their own thoughts.