Dear Prince Bedivere,
It would please me greatly if you were to consider accepting an invitation to explore the areas around Nemeth's castle with myself and Lord Merlin. We hope to see more of the natural beauty this place has to offer, and I am certain the conversation and company will be most interesting. We plan to depart an hour after dawn to-morrow, and will bring things for a picnic luncheon. I hope to see you there.
Most Sincerely,
Isildir
For the third time in as many hours, Merlin and Isildir wait while Bedivere struggles to recapture his breath. The three of them stand just inside the treeline hugging one of the dizzyingly tall cliffs that comprise Nemeth's bay. The air up here is fresh, light, tinged with salt and sunshine. It would be refreshing if Bedivere could manage to get more than gasping lungfuls past his lips.
To the prince's surprise, the advisor and Druid chieftan both seemed to possess better endurance and athleticism than he. At no point in their hike did Isildir ask to give his older bones a break, and at no point did the skinny, gangly man pause for breath; nor, indeed, have either truly broken a sweat.
But neither seem too put out by Bedivere's frequent calls for stops and rests. They simply glide to a rest, Isildir's hands wrapped around his walking stick, Merlin leaning against a tree, and continue their conversation as if nothing had changed. They do the same now, but take the opportunity to appreciate the sapphire sea stretched beneath them.
Merlin paces toward Bedivere, now stooped with his hands on his knees, and continues his train of thought.
"I just do not believe that Morgana is not around here somewhere," Merlin says. As he does so, he pulls on Bedivere's arms. The prince follows the movements silently, allowing the physician's apprentice to raise Bedivere's arms above his head. "Better for the lungs," Merlin explains, almost as an afterthought. He leans against a tree, rubbing at his chin which now boasts the beginnings of a real beard. "This many nobles in one place? It is too good an opportunity to pass up for her. She could find allies, or open the veil here, or–"
"Go after you," Bedivere gasps. He gasps again, then chokes out, "Or Queen Guinevere."
"Deep breaths, mate," Merlin mutters, his hand now rubbing the back of his neck. "Yes, I've thought about that, too."
"The queen is well-protected," Isildir says.
"Yes, but–" Bedivere says, wincing. He goes to let his hands drop, but catches Merlin's eye and instead laces his hands together atop his head. "But what good–" deep breath, "–is steel against Morgana's magic?"–intense inhale–"Any sorcerer would give a knight a run for their money, and the witch is more powerful than most."
"Ah, well," Merlin says, shuffling his feet, his face growing red. "When Isildir says she is well protected…"
"She knows of your magic?" Bedivere asks, mouth hanging open. "She let you put magic on her?"
"No, no," Merlin says quickly. "She does not. And, uh. Technically has not. But that does not mean I haven't… taken some precautions."
"Oh," Bedivere says. "So if Morgana were to try and harm the queen–"
"She'd never get close enough," Merlin says. From anyone else, it would sound bragadocious; from the warlock, it is grim, yet sure. "The most impressive protective measure is in fact thanks to Sir Quackenfell. He developed a symptom a while ago in which whenever one of the palace cats or stable cats or pet dogs ran swiped or nipped at him, he'd appear at my feet. Didn't matter where I was, what I was doing, what Sir Quackenfell was doing… he'd just suddenly appear in a squawking heap next to my boots."
Bedivere snorts. Isildir smiles.
"I was able to develop that into a spell, and then refine the spell," Merlin says, and Bedivere winces, thinking Merlin would begin talking theoretically, sketching out diagrams of runes and spell circles in the dirt. But instead, Merlin simply continues, "As it stands, if the queen's life is in imminent danger, she will be transported comewhere safe."
"To you?" Bedivere asks.
Merlin smiles. "No. Isildir's camp, wherever it may be at the time."
"Well thought-out," Bedivere muses. "King Arthur and Queen Guinevere already suspect every Druid of being magic-users."
"Druids are thought more of magic-users by default, in the popular mind," Isildir corrects mildly.
The prince flushes even deeper at this. Merlin claps him on the back, producing a cough from Sir Bedivere.
"Right," Bedivere says. "But a friendly group of magic-users, or the closest they think a people can come to it."
"Yes," Isildir says. "In fact, I believe I said much the same I suggested it to Emrys. He had posed the question to me during my last diplomatic stay in Camelot, of who he should send the queen to in times of distress, and I volunteered myself and my clan. We may be small by ourselves, but we are but one bloom on a larger bush."
"One with medicinal properties," Merlin says, smiling.
"And some thorns, if pressed," Isildir says, bowing his head, eyes twinkling.
"In any event," Merlin says, "the queen would be protected. But I cannot say the same for everyone else. The protection spell is a last resort, and requires quite a bit of power. Not like her other, more minor enchantments."
"What?" Bedivere asks, finally letting his hands drop.
Merlin's eyes widen. "Not enchantments, like anything that would impact her mind or heart, please do not understand me. Charms, more like. Or, uh…"
"Blessings," Isildir says pladicly.
Merlin turns a strange color. "I would not go so far–"
"You would have already been considered a high priest several years past," Isildir says, voice as mild as ever. "In fact, with the creation of your spellbook, one would likely consider you not only a high priest–one exceptionally learned and respectful of the Old Religion, its properties, and its uses–but a high wizard as well, one learned in the theories and alchemy of magic. The term for being two of those at once, in fact, is called a mage. Naught but a handful of individuals achieved such a thing in known history."
"Right," Merlin says. "Erm. Anyway. With Gwen–it's nothing much, and definitely nothing bad. A spell on her dresses, making them more resistant to damage from blades and fire. A little something to make her more resistant to mind- and memory- and emotion-changing magics. Something to make spills and stains less noticeable when they happen. Just… little things."
"And King Arthur?" Bedivere asks.
Merlin scowls. "Much the same, but another to keep his socks from smelling so bad. Even then… I think they must be magic-resistant. They remain, to this day and despite all of my efforts, hazards to the senses. I'm looking into it."
"When did you do all this?" Bedivere asks. "Doesn't it… take some effort to keep them going?"
Merlin shrugs. "To be honest, Prince Bedivere… no. Most of the time, I don't actually know I'm doing it. I just look one day, and… and my magic has done something. It took a lot of work and study to be actually able to identify what I've done, but nowadays, it seems easier."
"You're coming into your own, Emrys," Isildir says softly. "It is something for which we can all be happy."
"If you say so," Merlin says. His eyes cast down toward the sea, then behind them into the wood. When he speaks again, his voice is gravelly and low. "I think she's out here. I can feel it."
Bedivere thinks, at first, that he doesn't understand the turn of the conversation, but it hits him all at once: Isildir says Merlin is developing, coming into his power and his knowledge.
And Merlin is fated to kill Morgana, this most powerful of enemies. How, if they are discussing Merlin's power, could the warlock's mind not turn to his destiny? To the meanings behind his power, his very being?
"What are we going to do?" Bedivere asks, following the warlock's gaze into the forest.
"I don't know yet," Merlin says. "But, Prince Bedivere, if I were to call on you to make my excuses during events–"
"It is done," Bedivere says immediately. "The rumor mill has done its job, and we are well known as… as friends now, I think."
Merlin nods. It is curt, and his eyes remain roving across the forest, but Bedivere relaxes slightly at the gesture.
"I can make your excuses whenever you have occasion for me to make them," Bedivere finishes. "But… would you tell me what you are up to before I must do so?"
Merlin turns and looks at the prince, face betraying some surprise. "Oh. May I ask why?"
"I just," Bedivere says, "I suppose I would just like to know where to seek you out, should you not return within a reasonable amount of time."
"And what would that be?" Merlin asks. "A reasonable amount of time?"
"Half a day?" Bedivere hazards. At Merlin's wary look, Bedivere amens, "A day, then."
Still, Merlin looks hesitant. "I don't know."
"A day is perfectly reasonable," Bedivere insists. "I'm not asking to know all your plans. I'm just asking where to send the reinforcements in case Morgana gets to you before you get to her."
"I won't–"
"Humor me."
Merlin is quiet for a few moments, then sticks out his hand. "We have an accord, then."
Bedivere shakes his hand heartily. "I thank you, my friend, for doing this for me after you have already done so much."
"Not nearly enough yet," Merlin tells him. "We will free you of this affliction, Prince Bedivere. I swear it to you."
"I know it," Prince Bedivere says. "And I am grateful."
"And in the spirit of things…" Merlin begins, then rubs the back of his neck again, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
"Yes?" Bedivere asks.
"I have been sneaking out," Merlin admits. "Frequently."
"Where? And how frequently?"
Merlin gives the prince a constipated grin. "To the wood. Most nights."
Bedivere covers his face in his hands. Isildir chuckles.
"Doing what?" Bedivere demands.
"Well, really," Merlin answers, shifting where he stands, "that's why I called you both out here today."
Bedivere and Isildir both lean forward, suddenly rapt to attention as Merlin begins to explain.
Dear Sir Bors,
It would please me greatly if you were to join Queen Guinevere and I for tea to-morrow. Please kindly reply with confirmation that you will attend. We will be taking tea in the Great Western Sunroom two hours after luncheon.
Most Sincerely,
Princess Mithian of Nemeth
Queen Guinevere sits, teacup held perfectly in one hand, saucer in the other, with nary a clatter to be heard. She watches, expression mild and only slightly interested, as Princess Mithian paces before her. The queen's head moves back and forth with each volley of the princess's body across the sunroom.
The air is warm in here, and would be stifling were there not a Nemethian servant cranking a hand-wheel on the side of the room, causing several reed-fans affixed to the ceiling to move and agitate the air. As it is, the windows remain open to allow in honeysuckle-scented air. The breezes only cause the princess to periodically fuss with her braids and veil, caught as they become in the stirring air as she paces.
"What advice do you have for me?" Princess Mithian asks Guinevere, throwing her hands in the air and finally relinquishing her fiddling hands from her veil. She makes a tight turn and stalks to the other side of the sunroom. "I have little to know of Sir Bors other than reports that he is a good man."
"Then I suggest you consider that he might be a good man," Gwen replies, sipping her tea, "and proceed accordingly."
"But how?" Mithian asks.
"Good gracious gods above," Gwen mutters, setting her saucer and teacup down. She fixes the princess with a stare, which goes mostly unnoticed by the roving princess. "Mithian."
The princess slows to a stop. She looks at her friend.
"What is it you hope to find in Sir Bors?" Guinevere asks finally, having won the attention of her friend.
Mithian sighs. She fiddles with the pearls sewn to her dress–its plentiful fabric a deep sapphire color, embroidered with grey, meant to mimic the stormy seas of Nemeth's bay, decorated with pearls and small diamonds so as to make her shine and glitter–and sighs.
"Ridiculous thing," Mithian mutters.
"It's gorgeous," Guinevere tells her.
"Audacious, perhaps," Mithian says. "Wasteful, certainly."
"Princess Mithian…"
"I–" Mithian begins, then wipes her face. "I do not know, Queen Guinevere. My options at present time seem… limited."
"Limited? How? In what way? And to whom?"
Mithian sighs. "I suppose… I have few real avenues left. Sir Bors, for one. Prince Bedivere, for another. Sir Kay. He is still a viable option. Sir Meleagant for some horrible reason may still be in the running, per some courtiers."
Gwen makes some noncommittal sound and asks, "And how do you feel? About… all these different suitors?"
"In the dark, I suppose," Mithian responds, biting a thumbnail.
Guinevere watches the princess carefully. She asks, "Do you perhaps have a pair of gloves you could wear?"
Sybil peels herself away from the wall somewhere and hands her princess a pair of fine cream-colored cloves, shining and beautiful as the pearls across the bodice of the princess's dress. She pulls them on, crosses her arms, glares at the queen seated on the chaise lounge across the sunroom from her.
"What advice have you, oh beloved queen, wife to a besotted husband?" Princess Mithian demands. "What should I be feeling? What should I be looking for? A court and an entire country look to me. Do I court Bedivere? Mercia, after all, is a strong trade route. Second son though he may be, his is a duke, presiding over a large portion of his brother's lands, and could make for a good king of Nemeth. It would be a promotion, certainly, but not an unprecedented or even unexpected one."
"True," is all Guinevere says.
"Or do you think I should be more receptive to Sir Kay? He is, after all, the apparent heir to the throne of Caerleon. He is complimentary, and poetic–"
Guinevere snorts.
Mithian hesitates, fighting a smile, then finds her fire again. She continues, "He would make an excellent match. And he is handsome, and honorable, and there is not much more a woman in my position could ask of a potential match.
"What about Sir Bors? He is, by all accounts, a good man. He enjoys a vast estate in Gawant. He served as right hand to his king, and is one of a few men known to be looking forward to retirement as a knight. It speaks to his strength, his nobility of character, his… his…"
"We don't know much about Sir Bors," Guinevere admits for both of them, and gives Mithian an innocent-looking smile. Mithian swallows. The queen watches the princess for a moment, then asks, "And there is no one else you can think of who might play suitor? Nor king?"
"What do you mean? Who else could there be?"
Guinevere sighs and leans forward, her placid expression pulling into a frown. "Princess Mithian. Is there truly no one who sets your heart fluttering? Who can set you alight from the inside out? Is there no one for you that when you look at them… no matter where you are, it could feel like home?"
The princess takes a moment to think about this. Her fingers catch her gold locket and run it up and down its chain.
'I–," the princess says finally. "Is there–"
The door pulls open. Sybil rushes to it, murmurs to someone outside, and curtseys. She shuffles over to Mithian and Guinevere. "The Duke Bors, Head Knight of Gawant, Protector of the Heir to the Throne of Gawant and Princess of Gawant."
Sir Bors strides in. He wears today a green tunic, brown vestment, and leather overcoat. His hair looks shaggy, windswept and salt-spat, and his mustache looks particularly bushy.
"Your grace, your highness," Sir Bors says, bowing.
"Sir Bors," Guinevere says, bestowing a curtsey upon the knight. "We are so glad you accepted our invitation. Please, sit."
"I am honored to have received it, Queen Guinevere," Sir Bors replies, crossing the room to sit on an armchair.
"Yes," Mithian agrees, sitting across from the two of them on a chaise. "It is quite a beautiful day, is it not? I am pleased we could spend time in the sunroom."
"Yes," Guinevere says. She reaches toward a low table at which a tea set has been placed. She pours two cups, refills her own, and gestures toward the plate of sandwiches. "Help yourself, Sir Bors."
"Thank you," Bors replies. He picks up a sandwich in one hand, his tea in the other, and takes a small sip.
"So," Princess Mithian says brightly, inwardly wincing at her own tone of voice, "how are you finding your stay in Nemeth, Sir Bors?"
"Well, thank you," Sir Bors replies.
"And… what have you thought of the competitions thus far?" Gwen asks, valiantly attempting to salvage some conversation from the taciturn man.
Bors appears to think about this before answering, "Spirited."
"Have you had a favorite competition thus far?" Mithian asks, stirring cream into her tea.
"I suppose," Sir Bors says thoughtfully, "the labyrinth."
"Oh," Mithian says. "Not the tournament?"
"All well and good," Bors says evenly.
Gwen coughs. "What about the labyrinth caught your favor, Sir Bors?"
The knight, once again, thinks about his answer before saying, "The beauty."
"Ah," Gwen replies. "Of course."
There is a silence. Then, Bors says, "I have found there is little in life to savor aside from that which presents itself, organically, to be audacious in style and tenacious in nature. Those roses… It makes me think. That is all."
There is another silence.
"Makes you think about what, Sir Bors?" Guinevere asks.
"Nature, I suppose," Bors replies, spearing a vegetable with the tines of his fork.
"I quite agree, Sir Bors," Mithian says finally. "It is a thing to marvel at, when that which is designed to survive thrives instead."
"Exactly," Bors grumbles, and sips his tea. But his demeanor seems more at ease than before the comment, and Mithian exchanges a relieved glance with the queen across the table from her.
"Do you find a passion in natural philosophy?" Guinevere asks politely.
"Oh," Bors replies, "I have found I am quite past my days of passion. I seek only contentment, and find it in the company of a noble person or quiet natural space. There is little value I hold in excitement these days. Only happiness."
"I quite agree, Sir Bors," Mithian says, voice quiet and, though it is hidden beneath layers of training, with the barest hint of a pleased tone. "And what brings you happiness?"
"My occupations," Bors says. "And my hobbies."
"Ah, yes," Mithian says. "Head Knight of Gawant. Such an occupation must fill much of your time. It is a good thing then that it also brings you happiness."
"I agree," Bors says.
"What is it about your duties that brings you contentment or joy?" Guinevere asks.
Bors thinks about this. "All of it, I suppose. Knowing I am doing a good thing in serving my crown and protecting my city. Helping raise a new generation of knights skilled with swords and gentle in manner."
"That is lovely," Mithian murmurs. "I have not had such a chance to work directly with many people, as you do, but I imagine that the pride you feel at such a prospering city and country must be immeasurable."
"It is," Bors agrees. "Though there is always room for variety and surprises, which helps."
"And you are a duke as well," Mithian says. "So you manage your household, I imagine?"
"Yes," Bors agrees. "I live with my niece, nephew, and my widowed sister in the city, and manage a country estate as well."
"You must be a busy man," Guinevere comments. "It is commendable."
"I suppose so," Bors says genially. "But my family makes it easy upon me."
"Tell me more about them," Mithian prods.
"My niece is a wonderful girl," Bors says. "Skilled with a needle, sharp with her wit. I am afraid she shall never marry with such a disposition, but it aids her well in other, more important battles."
Guinevere smiles. "And her brother?"
"Still at the age of skinned knees and frog-catching, your highness," Bors tells them. "A most spirited child, and one who endeavors to keep me young."
"And your sister?"
"As spirited as both her children, and dearer to me still for it," Bors answers promptly. "A fine woman, my sister. In fact, you both remind me much of her. I am sure you would enjoy her company."
"I am certain we would," Mithian says. "With so much to do between your lordship, and your household, and your occupation, how do you manage time for hobbies?"
"Sparingly," Bors tells her. "I like to read before retiring every night to clear my mind. I hunt and fish. And once a week, I play chess with Isla–my niece, and walk about the river with Christopher, her brother, and spend time listening to my sister either play her harp or gossip."
"How lovely," Guinevere says. "Princess Mithian enjoys hunting, do you not, princess?"
"I do," Mithian replies. "Usually as an excuse to be free of the castle walls for a little, to be perfectly honest."
"One would go mad if one did not," Bors says mildly.
Mithian chuckles. "I certainly would."
"Well, we cannot have that," Bors tells her, smiling over his cup of wine. "What kind of game do you hunt in Nemeth, Princess Mithian?"
"Oh, pheasants, deer, boar. Nothing too far out of the ordinary, I'm afraid," Princess Mithian replies.
"Wondrous. I have little appetite for hunting foxes," Bors admits, spearing another forceful of food,"but the prospect of perhaps downing a deer during this week's event makes me more inclined to attend."
"I must admit," Mithian says, wiping delicately at the corners of her mouth, "foxes are not my favored prey either. But I suppose they were chosen to demonstrate a hunter's skill, quick and cunning prey as they are."
"Then I am most looking forward to seeing how you fare, Princess Mithian," Bors says. "Based off your skill with a bow and on horseback as you demonstrated during the tournament, I have a feeling you will walk away with another rose."
Mithian smiles. "Thank you, Sir Bors. That is the hope."
Bors lifts his cup in a small toast. "To your upcoming victory, then."
Princess Mithian,
It seems there is a particular noble taken to nighttime walks about the castle. These past few days, his promenades have taken him beyond the Upper and Lower Cities, and into the wood beyond. Perhaps this should require your attention.
Most Sincerely,
Captain of the Royal Guard
Sir Fred
It is midnight when the princess joins her formidable captain on the battlements of the castle. Stars twinkle overhead, and a waning moon large and pearlescent above them.
Sir Fred dips into a bow as his princess approaches, draped in a dark, hooded cloak though she is.
"My princess," Sir Fred says, and looks to the courtyard below him.
"Sir Fred," Princess Mithian returns, dipping into a quick bow. She assumes the spot at his right hand, dark eyes roving over the courtyard below him.
"It will be a challenge, catching him tonight," Sir Fred remarks, looking into the courtyard as well. His gaze is more calculating, more sure: a hunter, sizing up his landscape.
"Why?" Mithian asks.
"He's accustomed to the shadows," Sir Fred answers simply. "And suspects being watched, I think."
"Yet you called me out here," Mithian remarks. She tries to deepen her gaze, willing her eyes to see beyond the shadows gathered in the alcoves and strange corners of the courtyard below. "To see him move about my castle, rather than answering your questions. Why is that?"
Sir Fred does not answer her query. Instead, he observes, "He seems to move most nights, but always at different times. Past midnight, most usually, though sometimes before."
"And always out to the cities and the wood beyond?"
"Information becomes scarcer the further he moves," Sir Fred admits. "But those that have reported a figure moving about after curfew report similar things: a cloaked figure, over six feet in height, moving from the city to the outskirts silently. Whenever he is seen, something else happens very quickly to take their attention away from him, for at first, many suspect him to be but a shadow. Then, suddenly and in the opposite direction of where they saw him, there comes a clatter of footsteps, perhaps, or the falling of barrels. Something to take a trained guard from chasing shadows to investigating something suspicious. But ultimately, always, the clatter is meaningless, and the shadow becomes the barest mention in a guard's report."
"Quite interesting," Mithian replies. "And you think this… shadow… is a noble because…"
"Reports of this person, sparing though they may be, always originate close to the citadel, and move from there outward. Beyond the upper city, beyond the lower city, and out to the wilderness beyond. East, north, south, it does not matter: the figure disappears into the wood, and no one reports this person coming back in the next morning."
"So you think he comes from the castle and exits to… what? Prance about in the wood? And then miraculously reappears within the walls of the citadel the next day?"
"I don't know," Sir Fred admits, eyes trained on the cobbles beneath them.
There is a silence. Then, Mithian says, "It would not be extraordinary, I would think, if you were to suspect the witch were traversing the wood."
"I would have heard something," Sir Fred says immediately. "But…"
"But this man introduces suspicions."
"Right," Sir Fred replies.
Mithian nods.
And so do they spend the next two hours. Mithian eventually prises a promise of caution and continued information from her knight, then goes to bed, head full of images of figures clad in black sneaking about her citadel in the dead of night.
While she sleeps, a new bouquet appears at her doorstep: curling ferns, blue hyacinths, and night-blooming jasmine.
Dear Sir Gwaine,
Please join me for supper.
Your friend,
Merlin
Gwaine appears in Merlin's room unannounced. Dagonet tries to summon some form of disapproval but is dismissed by his master before he is able to do so. The knight and advisor are left to study one another, alone in the lord's chambers. Gwaine leans against the door, arms crossed. Merlin stands before an armchair, picking at the hem of his tunic.
Gwaine speaks first. "You could've tried a less conspicuous way of admitting your magic first, Merlin."
The advisor swallows. "I–"
"As it stands, you cast a spell on me," Gwaine says, sniffing. "You prevented me from helping you, from seeing the duel. From doing anything other than sleeping."
"I–"
"And then, Merlin, Leon accused me of being too deep into my cups and missing a duel my best friend issued against a madman."
"I…"
"You absolute dollop-head."
Merlin huffs a laugh, but seeing Gwaine's face–still angry, still confused, and, overwhelmingly, hurt, he sobers again.
"I'm sorry, Gwaine," Merlin says softly. "I should not have done that. Any of it. But the magic–"
"I'm much more angry with you for putting me to sleep so I could not interfere than I am with you having magic, you dummy," Gwaine replies gruffly.
Merlin's mouth drops open in surprise. Gwaine stares back at him, still angry-looking. Eventually, though, Gwaine gives the warlock an eye roll. The knight crosses the room in a few short strides, and before Merlin has time to properly react, has the lord in a headlock, knuckles scraping through black hair.
"I understand Arthur's behavior to be honest, you dolt. This is satisfying, after everything you've put me through recently.'"
"Rude," Merlin insists, but the word slips out amid his relieved laughter.
"Oh, I'm rude," Gwaine says, giving Merlin a rougher rub for good measure. Gwaine finally lets the warlock go, but fixes his friend with a serious stare. "You won't do something like that again, right, Merlin?" Gwaine asks.
The advisor shuffles beneath his friend's gaze, rakes his hand through his hair.
"I mean… you've got me, right?" Gwaine asks. "One person to tell your…"
Merlin pulls a face.
"Ah. Gaius, of course," Gwaine guesses. "And… Bedivere?"
"Yeah," Merlin says. "And Isildir. And, I guess, Rosaline. And Ger."
"Fine," Gwaine says, waving a hand through the air. "But I know you, and I know your little," he twiddles his fingers, "secret as well. So that's everything important–"
Merlin casts him a glance.
"Everything important," Gwaine repeats, tone dancing between surety and desperation.
"There's, um," Merlin tries. He clears his throat and continues, "There's probably some other things you should know."
"I think I need a drink," Gwaine huffs. Then, he gives Merlin a brief, eye-shining look, one much like the cat eying the cream. "You couldn't perhaps…"
Merlin laughs. He holds out a hand, whispers a few words, and his eyes glow. Gwaine watches all of this carefully before his gaze shifts to Merlin's hand, where a frosty mug of beer now awaits.
"You've been holding out on me, dear friend."
"I suppose I have," Merlin says, handing the mug to Gwaine producing another for himself. The pair take a seat at Merlin's low couch. "But no longer, huh? I guess… I guess I don't really know where to start."
"Start with making plates fly through the air by themselves," Gwaine orders, taking a deep drink of his beer. The action leaves a sudsy mustache over his upper lip, but he ignores it. "Start from our beginning."
Merlin groans. "That long, eh?"
"Magic, strength, and courage," Gwaine quotes, holding his mug up in a toast. "To us. And to honesty."
"Honesty," Merlin responds, holding up his own mug. "And… I'm sorry, Gwaine."
"You're making up for it," Gwaine assures him. "Again, you'll be making up for it as soon as you retell that tavern brawl, because it was one of the most entertaining of my life, and I'd like to know the real story behind it."
Merlin takes a deep swig of his own drink, then leans forward, body alight with excitement.
Dear Arthur,
This follows my previous letter informing you of Merlin's duel. Rest easy, my love, for it was fought and won. Please do know there is so much more to tell about what conspired than I can manage to summarize for you. I must confess, my wits were much overtaken by the thought of our longest friend in mortal peril, and so the combat itself went much unnoticed by your poor wife. Suffice to say that Merlin won out, and would have made you immeasurably proud. Please do box him about the ears the next time you see him. And embrace him, too, for his foolishness knows no bounds.
Your loving wife,
Guinevere
Your highness,
Forgive the familiar nature of my letter, for it is truly but a predecessor to a much more thorough report. But, my lord, I am elated to tell you that your former manservant and mobile target Lord Merlin won out against Duke Pellinor, a lord much larger and more senior and more well-appointed.
You would have beamed at Merlin's performance, my lord. He acted quickly, decisively. He executed dodges and rolls that an acrobat would have been envious of. It was as if in one moment, the duke's sword would surely cleave Merlin in twain, and the next, our man had popped up on the other side of the duke and was already busy executing an offensive of his own, even while the duke's own sword still plummeted to the place Merlin had been.
And the offensive–my king, you truly would have been proud.
I send this, your majesty, in the hopes that this letter finds you not long after my original did. Be happy, your highness, as all of us are. Merlin did us proud.
Most Sincerely,
Sir Leon
Dear Merlin,
You utter dollop-head. You cabbage-headed idiot, you absolute buffoon. You challenged a Duke to a duel? You are lucky that Queen Guinevere and Sir Leon's letters found me when they did. I had already concocted a marvelous plan with Sir Elyan to fake an illness, just so I could come and save your sorry arse.
You have not written me of a duel, nor of your victory. My wife and head knight has to inform me of such events. I am disappointed, Merlin, I thought I would have been a more trusted confidant, far though I may be from your particular venue. Enough, at least, for you to have written to me of your intentions and subsequent victory.
I'm told you fought with honor. I am proud of you, my friend. I would have expected none the less. You are truly worthy of your title.
Things proceed apace here in Camelot. I have heard of the witch, but only upon those northernmost of borders. Tell me, does Nemeth harbor rumors of Morgana along their boundary-lines? Or does my intelligence fail me in this regard?
Write soon, advisor.
Your friend,
Arthur
Dear Arthur,
Careful, now, dollop-head. You almost sound as if you cared. Rest assured, I can be found in the halest of health.
I have taken it upon myself to investigate these rumors you speak of. Though I am unfortunately unable to travel far from the venue of these celebrations, I can confirm that I, too, have heard rumor of the witch along Nemeth's border. Think you think this reason enough to bring such a concern to King Rodor and Queen Adelaide? I wish not to disturb their celebrations, but any hint of Morgana in one's lands is sure enough reason to cause for concern.
I am glad to hear life in Camelot proceeds. Please do tell me if anything requires my immediate attention. As your advisor, I am sure I would have myriad thoughts on any given matter.
Your friend,
Merlin
Dear Merlin,
I request your skills as a physician and expert in magical matters. Would you, perhaps, be available to-morrow during teatime?
Most sincerely,
Princess Mithian
Dearest Princess Mithian,
Of course. I would welcome your company on the morrow, should you grace me with it.
Most sincerely,
Merlin
Princess Mithian strides in, her body language and the set of her mouth communicating the severity of the occasion. Merlin gives her a slight smile, then indicates the armchair across from him.
"You wanted to see me, your highness," Merlin says.
They both nod at one another, then take their seats. Dagonet distributes plates of biscuits and saucers of tea, then excuses himself from the conversation by exiting the room.
The Princess of Nemeth sits across from the advisor to the King and Queen of Camelot. The pair are quite a long moment before one of them speaks. To both of their surprise, it is the advisor who speaks first.
"You sought me out," Merlin says, "to advise on… your flowers?"
"Among other things," Mithian replies, waving a hand through the air.
The pair are quiet again for some time.
"I have–" Merlin begins, just as Princess Mithian says, "I cannot help but–"
"Please," Merlin says, gesturing to the princess.
"The flowers," Mithian begins. She cuts herself off quickly, lips pressing into a line.
Merlin gives her a small smile. "Say what you are thinking, my princess."
Mithian takes a deep breath and says, "I do not think the flowers are malicious in nature."
Merlin simply stares at her.
"It just–" Mithian starts. She licks her lips, taking a moment to think about her next words. Instead of continuing her former thought, she says instead, "Sir Fred told me he had intelligence of someone moving outside the citadel toward the wood most nights."
"Ah," is all Merlin says in response.
"Do you know anything about this?" Mithian asks finally.
"I… think I might," Merlin admits.
"If it is you," Mithian says quickly, her words tumbling over Merlin's admission, "or someone you know, acting in interest of the crown and its assorted allies, all you need say is… that it is okay. And I will need you to mean it."
Merlin clears his throat. Then, he says, "My princess…"
"I do not need your solemn promise that our curfew is broken in good faith," Mithian continues. It seems that the words tumble from her unbidden. With her hair escaping her veil and their braids, and with her dress somewhat rumpled, and absent the servants who would normally cough or make some other sound to distract from the current conversation, Mithian seems somewhat younger, and every bit the princess she should be. A leader, grasping at any indication that her people are safe. "Nor do I need your word that we are safe, for as the head of a country, I know that such an assurance would be hollow comfort. But tell me, Merlin: is the witch near?"
"She is," Merlin responds quietly.
"And you," Mithian says, voice low, "are you doing something about it?"
The question is left to dangle in the air.
"I am," Merlin finally answers.
"And…." Mithian begins, then swallows. She continues, "And can I trust you?"
"Of course," is Merlin's response, low and near-inaudible as it is.
"And what of the flowers at my door, Merlin?" Mithian asks.
"Nothing," Merlin responds quietly. "Nothing more than, perhaps, the work of a fool. I suspect that as your affections move to a suitable man capable of pleasing your court, the flowers will cease to appear."
Mithian nods.
"This is a guess, of course, my princess," Merlin tells her.
"Of course," Mithian responds. A beat of silence bubbles between them, tenuous and fragile. "I just…. I have come to like some of the bouquets, I suppose. They are personal in a way. And…"
"Intrusive?" Merlin asks.
"No," Mithian responds, tone thoughtful, arms crossed across her body, eyes trained on the tea and biscuits set between them. "Intimate. I suppose."
She sneaks a glance at the advisor. He looks slightly red, though that is to be expected, she supposes.
"I thank you, Lord Merlin, for your insight," she says. "Will I be able to count on your presence during the foxhunt?"
"Of course," Merlin answers immediately. "Though do not count on me for competition."
"Of course not," Mithian tells him, hiding a smile behind her hand, "I know you better than that, Lord Merlin."
"One would hope," Merlin tells her.
The pair lapse into companionable silence, the weightiness of the moment lost amid their friendship.