For over two and a half hours now, Mithian has suppressed her lip-curl. She cannot imagine what indulgences Lady Reena has thought up to make the ball more outrageous than this foxhunt. Nemeth has clearly spared no expense, and Mithian despairs at not having insisted at taking a final look at the budget for this event before it continued, now that she stands amid its opulence.
She and hundreds of other nobles mill about in a large clearing. Trees had been cut and stumps removed from an acre of the forest to allow for this gathering. Granted, the land had been promised as a commons to ranchers and farmers surrounding the area, but tithes to the crown had been increased among them as well, as advance payment for the generosity of the monarchs.
Nonetheless, the deal having been struck two years ago and the land clear-cut just one before and allowed to lie fallow, a new meadow sprawls across the land. The number of horses and nobles trotting across the land throws the scents of fresh, earthy mud and crushed sweet grass into the dawn air.
Tables had been drawn out here, and cooking-fires erected on cleared spots about the meadow. Servants work busily flitting between each, carrying armfuls of coal-baked trenchers wrapped in white linens, toting baskets full of honey- and brandy-soaked manchet, hefting platters of swan- and pigeon-potato-and-pea pies, struggling beneath ceramic pots of custard layered with summer berries, dragging kegs of beer and barrels of wine, hurriedly arranging platters with bites of dried kelp chips and pickles and thimble-sized cups of mistbrandy. Nobles, on the other hand, await passing servants to pluck morsels of creamed haddock and rosemary crackers, or savory bits of mince and gravy and summer vegetables encased in golden flakes of thick crust, or mug of chilled ale, or carafes of steaming, mulled wine.
Stationed amid the cooking-fires and about the meadow are entertainers. Musicians are placed so that no music overlaps another, but so that most nobles nonetheless could enjoy the piping of a flute or the strum of a lute. Amid all this opulence, Nemeth and Caerleon had joined forces to arrange an informal parade of their finest steeds, many of which have been lent out to other monarchs for their use during the foxhunt.
Mithian takes grudging sips of an ale, and at the urging of Sybil, a few bites of a flat-bread still steaming from the coals. It tastes of nothing. Nerves overtake her as her eyes rake across the assembled nobles. The most competitors arrived for the labyrinth, with many contented to merely stroll along its sun-daubed, rose-heavy corridors rather than feign competing. The tournament winnowed that number down to a small few practiced in arms, and largely, those practiced in arms who had something to prove: green knights eager to prove their mettle, suitors vying for roses, representatives of countries seeking to earn themselves and their monarchs glory.
The hunt, it seems, has found the most attendants. Old lords and ladies, fond of a foxhunt, have turned out in droves to take in the air and relieve themselves of the castle. Young lords and ladies hum in anticipation, ready to eke out a pelt of their own or, failing that, finding some peace and perhaps romance beneath the boughs of the outer, gentler reaches of the Cloudwood, the ancient, moss-laden, fern-strewn forest surrounding Nemeth.
Mithian had argued herself away from an outfit as ostentatious as this event this morning and yet still feels conspicuous. Denied the hose, pantaloons, and tunic she so desired, Mithian had argued her way to a heavily embellished kirtle and sensible petticoats and girdle. The kirtle nonetheless, has been dyed a rich royal blue, and drips with Nemethian pearls and southern diamonds. The girdle, too, is a ridiculous thing, fashioned of beaten gold and jewels to match the bodice of her kirtle. Her sleeves, luckily, have been left unadorned, billowing though they are. Her hair is braided in the fashion of maidens in Nemeth, and so keeps out of her hair nicely, though her circlet insists on slipping down her sweat-slicked forehead.
Mithian finds herself deep in a stilted, awkward conversation with Sir Kay and Queen Annis when the criers announce that participants should mount their steeds and proceed to the edge of the wood. Mithian curteys at the scion and Queen of Carleon before walking purposefully–not hurrying, as a princess does not hurry, but makes haste–away to the place she sees the greatest concentration of Nemethian servants. It is quick work to spot Weynild, her favorite horse, towering as she us at sixteen hands.
Weynild is by far her most spirited mount, as well as the largest. She gallops easily, and runs as if it were a more natural state to her than breathing. Despite the deep bond between horse and rider, Weynild remains spirited to this day, and allows only a chosen few ostlers and stablehands to handle her in Mithian's absence. Weynild is a paloma horse, its coat sleek and golden when brushed to a shine as she is today.
Mithian walks toward Weynild and absently reaches for her reins. Upon doing so, she recognizes a pale, freckled hand holding it, and looks up at Dagonet. The boy gives her a sheepish smile.
"Master Dagonet," Mithian says, forcing some cheer into her voice despite her nerves. "Why, hello."
Wide, brown eyes take her in seriously.
"Your 'orse," Dagonet says lowly, "is more 'n a menace 'n Sir Quackenfell, I'll 'ave you know."
Weynild whickers and stamps a foot. Dagonet relinquishes the reins and backs up a few healthy paces, eying the horse suspiciously.
"Whyever are you minding him, and not an ostler?" Mithian asks, mounting the steed.
Weynild nickers and paws at the ground beneath the princess as she mounts, obviously eager to get going. Dagonet gives the horse a dirty look and scoots several paces backward.
"I volunteered, your 'ighness," Dagonet tells her, eyes remaining on the horse. "My master Lord Merlin is otherwise occupied, I suppose, an' I wanted to see the competition."
"Whatever is he occupied with?" Mithian asks, adjusting her seat. Weynild snorts, and Mithian pats her neck. "I expected to see him here."
"I've not a clue," Dagonet grumbles in response, crossing his arms, adopting a surly look that makes him appear a few years younger than the young man he always tries to be. An apparent conflict passes over his face, marked with a furrowed brow, a small frown, and an ill-disguised look of calculation at the princess. Then, the servant leans forward as much as he dares and confides in a low voice, ""E's been missin' all day, your 'ighness. I've not been able to find 'im, nor has Prince Bedivere or Sir Gwaine or Queen Guinevere or Princess Elena..."
"I did notice his absence at the festivities," Mithian murmurs, looking out at the woods. She suppresses a sigh. "You truly think he will not be joining us today?"
"I dunno. He's not one to abandon a responsibility unless he thinks it silly," Dagonet says, wringing his hands. Then, he pulls a face. "But I guess, as I understand it, anyway, your 'ighness, 'e is not much of a fan of 'untin' to begin with, so…"
"So it is likely he thinks this a silly responsibility," Mithian sighs. She chews at her cheek, considering this possibility. "Very well, Master Dagonet."
"Your 'ighness," Dagonet says, sweeping into a bow. Then, he glances up at her, giving a cheeky grin that reminds her of his master. "Good luck, Princess Mithian, I'm sure you'll leave this competition a rose the richer."
"Thank you, Master Dagonet," Mithian replies.
She goes to say something else, but it is then that Lady Reena orders the foxes loosed. From points arranged at every twenty paces about the edge of the clearing, foxes bolt from their cages and into the forest. Dogs bark, snarl, and howl. Lords and ladies titter with anticipation. Mithian clenches her thighs to get a better seat on Weynild and bends low over her horse's neck. Weynild paws at the ground again and tosses her head.
"Almost there," Mithian murmurs. "Just a little while longer."
A few minutes pass. It feels an eternity to Mithian.
Then, the bugles sound, and the second competition begins. Dagonet salutes Mithian cheerily, gives her a wink, and slaps Weynild on the rump. Mithian's horse rears slightly, then shoots into the Cloudwood, soon leaving everyone behind.
The sun has just begun to smear honey across a light-dampened sky when the bugles sound. Lips that had just been working in ceaseless patterns pause. A head cocks to the side, placing the brassy notes of the distant horns.
Then, the figure in the woods straightens. The person had been scratching designs in the soft, pine-littered loam of the cloudwood. What surrounds them now is a half-drawn circle of runs and strange geometric figures, some of which glow in the early morning light.
Time had slipped past, unnoticed. Dawn has already begun, and so has the hunt, and now this person is caught in a wood that will soon be crawling with nobles and surrounded by evidence of a highly illegal crime.
"Shit."
The Cloudwood is quiet for a time. Then, distantly, barely heard over the river rushing not far away, the bugles sound again.
"Bollocks," the figure hisses, this time with considerably more feeling. The figure glances up at the sky to find only a few tenacious stars left, glistering upon an indigo-and-peach-and-burned orange sky.
"I…" the figure says, looking at the half-formed circle of runes surrounding them. "Ah. Uh. I guess… Gods damn and keep me, I will–"
The figure mutters to itself as it hastily completes the circular drawing. They whisper something fervent. Beneath the drawn hood of a cloak, the figure's eyes glow gold, just as the circle of runes surrounding them does.
Far away, at the edge of a clearing, hoofbeats begin to pound through the forest.
Just as during the labyrinth, Mithian finds herself paused amid wilderness, considering her options.
She had given her escort the slip a while ago, quite near to the beginning of the competition thanks both to Dagonet's send-off and Weynild's unbeatable speed.
The sun must now be near to its zenith, and she has not seen nor heard another soul–not her escort of knights, not her escort of handmaidens upon their own steeds, not other competitors–for near to an hour now. This is her best guess, of course: the close-knit canopy of the Cloudwood not only catches clouds and spins them to heavy mist beneath its branches, but it disallows most light as well.
A brace of foxes hangs from her saddle: three, one for every two hours spent in the royal hunting grounds of the Cloudwood. Each fox had been shot through its eye, the aim deadly and the death instantaneous. Mithian could not bear anything other than a painless death for a fox, and as a result, only took shots she knew would be lethal. Foxes, after all, are not her preferred prey.
But the eye toward mercy and the endeavor to escape her retinue both had slowed her. By now, she should be nearly to the Deep River, the body of water which separated the seat of Nemeth from its outlying provinces and the edge of the demarcated hunting grounds, and likely one to two foxes the richer.
And though she is close to the river, evidenced by the moss-coated rocks and the curling ferns sprouting from high-up branches, she is still a ways away. And though a fox passed through here recently, judging from the bare tracks left in the springy loam, its path is difficult to discern without underbrush to break in the fox's path.
Mithian attempts to guide Weynild between the colossal trees, straining her eyes to make out the path of the fox. It is a difficult task, absent the hounds and naught but the glint of daylight, but the princess does well nonetheless.
So focused is the princess on ascertaining her location and, at the same time, tracking a fox, she does not see in time the serpent that sends Weynild into a near-vertical rear. The princess barely manages to cling on to her mount as it takes off at a gallop through the forest. Mithian ducks, trying to avoid some of the gnarled, lower-hanging branches of the trees, but nonetheless she feels leaves and twigs and needles snapping at her skin as she passes.
Weynild rushes forward blindly. Mithian tries all she can to rein in her steed, but finds herself at a loss. The horse finally runs itself into a clearing and rears unexpectedly again. Mithian tries to hold on–her thighs, already burning, clench at the saddle, her hands alleviate, then yank on the reins, her body tenses and hunches over the horse, becoming vertical with it–but nothing works. The princess feels herself losing purchase on the horse and falling, falling, plummeting toward the hard ground beneath the two of them.
Her breath is knocked from her as she meets the ground. She had tried to twist as she fell, perhaps to distribute some of her weight, but it results in the princess landing heavily on her left ankle. There is an audible snap, and a bright moment of clarity. A cry is ripped from her lungs, more from the fall than the ankle, and then the princess is left sitting in a small glade, watching her horse dart into the dark forest. Abandoning her in the Cloudwood, much nearer to its tangled heart than its gentle outskirts.
"Oh," Mithian breathes. The expulsion of breath is not followed directly by an inhale. Instead, her body stills after the jarring impact of her fall. Her chest refuses to expand. She gathers up her will and commands herself to inhale, but instead, all she manages is a strangled groan.
"Princess Mithian?" someone calls from nearby.
Mithian flings a hand into the air and trys to rake a breath inward again. But still, her lungs remain constricted, her throat tight.
Panic sets in then. It is a feeling she is much a stranger to these days. Perhaps its absence makes its presence now all the stronger. Her hand drops and clutches at her throat, the other at her breast.
"Princess Mithian!"
Footsteps rush across the clearing, barely audible above the blood rushing in her ears and her mind crying out in panic.
"Princess, what are you–oh, gods. Are you injured? Where is your horse?"
Whoever it is crouches next to her, placing hands on her shoulder. Mithian cannot reply. She tries fanning herself rapidly with a hand while the other remains on her throat, almost physically trying to claw air inward. Another strange groan makes its way from her and, with the sensation of her chest deflating further, tears spring to her eyes. She is suddenly overtaken with a fear like a fatal fever, one which rips hot and urgent through her: she will die like this, in the forest, having been thrown from her horse.
"You're okay," the person next to her says. "The wind was knocked from you, that is all. May I–"
Mithian reaches out to grip the hand of whoever it is, tightly, and squeezes her eyes shut, trying again to breathe in. It is useless. She sees in her periphery a pale hand clasped in her own, and another fluttering like a butterfly near her.
"May–I may need to–oh, gods take us both. Hold still, my princess."
The person moves the bodice of her kirtle aside and works at something. Mithian is vaguely aware, somewhere beneath her panic, that this person is loosening her corset. The same person, after giving relieving the pressure from her torso, makes quick work of the girdle, which summarily disappears from her waist.
An arm, wrapped in a rich lapis brocade sleeve, gently scoops beneath her knees, one behind her back, and the person manages to almost fold her so she sits now with her head nearer her now-bent knees.
The wind comes back to her all at once, ragged and cool and burning. Mithian takes several shuddering gasps, trying to regain her sense and beat back the silly tears which had sprung to her eyes. All the while, the person with her rubs soothing circles into her back.
She quiets, then stills.
"My princess?" the person asks, voice soft and limned with worry. "Are you injured?"
Mithian turns her head to look at the person who found her in such a state and sees Lord Merlin peering back at her, eyes crinkled at the edges, corners of his mouth pulled down. The picture of concern.
"L–Lord Merlin," Mithian stammers.
"Hullo," Merlin says gently. "Are you injured?"
"I am–I think–I don't know," Mithian responds. It is the truth, but the words sound silly when she says them.
"Mmhmm," Merlin responds, eyes raking her up and down. Assessing her. Looking at her. Seeing her.
She tries not to shift beneath his gaze. Tries, too, not to focus on the warmth of his arms as he continues to hold her.
"And how did you come to have the wind knocked from you?" Merlin asks, sharp eyes casting about the trees around them, and the shadows and mist undulating between the close-held trunks. "Where is Weynild? Where–Princess, where is your escort?"
"I left them," Mithian answers, the air, cool and thick like water refreshing her lungs with every inhale. She takes a few steadying breaths and does her best to ignore how the advisor had glanced back down at her as she spoke. "And Weynild left me. There was a serpent. It spooked her."
"She managed to throw you?" Merlin asks, eyebrow raised even as his eyes sparkle. He gives her one of his crooked grins, drawing heat into the princess's cheeks as his teeth flash at her. "An impressive steed, your Weynild. I imagine most horses could not throw such an accomplished rider."
As he says the words, something seems to occur to him. His eyes raise once more to scan the treeline around them. Mithian watches this, watches the working of a muscle in his jaw as his teeth clench, the way his eyes seem to pierce the fabric of shadow and mist pressing close from the heart of the Cloudwood. His face is serious and still as stone when he asks, "Where is your escort? What do you mean you lost them?"
"I suppose I mean they lost me," Mithian replies. "They slowed me down." She considers shifting to relieve herself of her grasp, but she casts a wary glance at her ankle. That it is free of pain right now must not be a good sign. She has no wish to shift her leg unnecessarily and invite it in.
Merlin frowns at her. "Nonetheless, you should not have sought to divest yourself of their company. No one should be unaccompanied this far into the Cloudwood. Much less a princess."
"I am princess of the Cloudwood," Mithian responds, suddenly surly. "I may go where I please, as I please."
"Not alone," Merlin says. The words sound bitten off, as if there is much more he would like to say, but does not allow himself. His eyes flit from her once more to cut across the trees.
"That is included in the 'as I please,'" Mithian tells him, and it sounds more snide than playful.
Merlin's gaze cuts back down. He studies her face for a moment. She looks away, her heart beating fast, her face heating.
"Where are you injured, my princess?" Merlin asks.
His voice is soft as down, and Mithian is sure that if she looked at him, his face would be just as concerned as before. Eyes crinkled. Mouth in an unnatural curve downward.
"I may not be a physician myself," the lord prods, "but I trained under the best of them. I can at least tide you over until I can get you to Master Silas."
"You should not be here," Mithian says instead of answering his question.
"What?" Merlin asks. He sounds thoroughly baffled, though Mithian keeps her gaze resolutely toward the forest, in the same direction Merlin had been looking before.
"Master Dagonet could not locate you all day. You were not at the gathering this morning, and so are not a competitor. You are supposed to be… I do not know. Reading, or some such. Studying your duck."
"Oh," Merlin says, and his voice has transformed again. Mithian cannot properly understand his tone of voice: soft, cutting, gravelly. They are quiet for a moment before Merlin says, "I gave you my word, Princess Mithian, that you could count on my presence here. I thought you would know–"
"So you–what? Appeared just after the bugles sounded and trudged into the forest with no particular aim?" Mithian asks. "I thought no one should venture into the Cloudwood this deep alone."
As she does says this, she notices her hands beginning to shake. It is just a slight tremble, but one she feels nonetheless. She crosses her arms and stuffs her hands beneath her armpits, keeping them in place. Merlin shifts slightly to allow for the movement, but does not relinquish his hold on the princess.
"If you must know," Merlin says, huffing good-naturedly, "I was actually already in the Cloudwood when the horns sounded, and found myself suddenly amidst the competition. I meant to attend as normal, but I was… caught up. So I found myself attending in a different way."
"You were–" Mithian begins, then finally glances back at Merlin. He gives her a sheepish smile, his cheeks, and the edges of his ears still visible beneath the flop and curl of his hair, now a thorough pink.
"Gathering herbs," Merlin tells her dryly, despite his obvious blush. "Lucky for you, I suppose. I gathered some herbs which will help with those cuts. And I thought to bring my medical bag with me today. So, really, two strokes of luck."
"Lucky," Mithian repeats darkly. Then, through the haze in her mind, echoes, "Cuts?"
Merlin gives her an odd look, then nods at her. Mithian looks down at her arms to see several places in which branches and thorns must have torn through the linen of her blouse. Several cuts weep blood, though all are shallow.
"I am fine," Mithian tries, but Merlin's look silences any further protests. His eyebrow-raise, she can tell, will one day rival Gaius and Silas's.
"I cannot do much here without Master Silas's stores at my disposal," Merlin says, carefully and slowly moving his arms away. "But I will do what I can, and enough to get you back to the castle. Quickly."
"But I must–"
"But nothing, Princess Mithian. We must find your escort and return you to the castle posthaste. Do you really think I would let you continue on in such a state?" Merlin shakes his head, black hair dancing across those blue eyes. "You must take me for a fool and worse."
"Never," Mithian responds.
Merlin gives her a derisive snort, followed quickly by an expectant look., Mithian moves her foot slowly and gingerly to the ground and attempts to push herself into a sitting position. She smothers a wince as she does so, a sharp throb pulsing from her ankle. The physician's assistant sighs, then helps her sit up carefully, his touch now much more the clinical one of a physician.
"If your highness permits," Merlin says brusquely, finally removing his arms now that she is sitting properly, "I would take a look at that ankle as well."
Mithian sighs, tightening her still-crossed arms. "I suppose I should have known better than to try and disguise it from you."
"Quite so," Merlin says, and the playful tease in his voice makes her smile despite herself.
He shuffles on his knees to get in front of her, then taps his thighs with his palms.
"Go on, then, highness. Ankle right here."
"Can we not address the cuts first?" Mithian asks. She clamps her jaw then, noticing that her teeth threaten to chatter.
"No," Merlin replies, tone brooking no argument. Catching her eye, however, he relents just enough to explain his reasoning. "You are in shock, princess. The best time for me to look at the ankle is now, while your mind is still catching up to things. It will hurt much more later, after the shock wears off."
Mithian catches her bottom lip between her teeth. Merlin sees this and gives her a small smile.
"I will be gentle. You have my word, my princess."
At this reassurance, though it in hindsight need not have been given, Mithian carefully lifts her foot and places it across his lap. Calloused fingertips brush at the skin of her calf as Merlin carefully moves the hemline of her dress up just enough to reveal the top of her boot. True to his word, his touch is gentle and light as his fingertips press gently into her calf, keeping the leg still, as his other hand quickly and without any movement removes her boot. Then, he takes off her sock.
He quickly inhales. It is more a sound of sympathy and concern than a gasp, but it is enough for Mithian to guess. She shifts herself slightly to sit up further and look at the ankle, now delicately held in his hand as he turns it a hairsbreadth each way.
The ankle is already swollen and purpling. Large swaths of it are yellow.
"Broken," Mithian guesses through gritted teeth. They keep threatening to chatter.
"Broken," Merlin agrees. "I would guess a clean break, though. No bones popping out."
Mithian gasps a laugh. Tears have sprung to her eyes again, now that her mind is aware of the break, though her body has not yet allowed itself to register the pain.
"I will not be able to dance at the ball," Mithian comments absently as Merlin continues to study her ankle. She tries to ignore the fire of the pain, the fire of his skin on hers.
Merlin glances sidelong at her. "Do you enjoy dancing?"
The tears flood Mithian's eyes, and to her own horror, her voice is thick as she responds, "Yes. I love dancing. I hate balls, but I love… love dancing."
"You will again," Merlin murmurs. "Just not for, perhaps, for a season or two."
He prods gently at her ankle, which elicits a cry. Merlin quickly, gently, wraps his cool hands around hers. How are his hands cool when the rest of him is warm? The building, throbbing heat in her ankle escapes, somehow, into the cool of his hand, and that combined with the perfect pressure of his fingers brings some relief to her ankle.
"I am sorry, my princess," Merlin says softly.
"Master Silas will insist on leeching it," Mithian says, angrily brushing tears from her lashes before they threaten to fall. "I hate leeches. I am sorry, Lord Merlin–" she cuts herself off, swallows hard, brushes away further tears, hen says, "I do not know why I am behaving like this, but my emotions have gotten the better of me. I am not usually so emotional–"
"You do not usually have a broken ankle," Merlin observes mildly. He gives her a tight smile. "I would not set the bone without Silas here, but I can apply a salve to your skin and bind the ankle as a means to get you back homeward, princess, and into the care of your castle physician."
Mithian sighs, considering her foot, clenching her jaw, clamping her arms over her hands. Then, she dares a look at the man kneeling at her feet, peering at her with such open empathy.
"Could you not… do something for the pain?" Mithian asks.
Merlin frowns. "I have no poppy or henbane," he says regretfully. "Only my honey-mint salves and willowbark to chew on. This is why I feel so urgent to get you back to your escort–"
"Why are you pressing to rejoin me with my knights?" Mithian asks, voice taught as her ankle throbs again, breaking through the fog in her head.
"You are injured," Merlin says. "And I have no pain remedy prepared for you beyond the barest necessities. I must get you away–"
"You are keeping something from me, Lord Merlin," Mithian accuses, trying to muster some anger even when his hand remains wrapped around her bare ankle. Merlin opens his mouth to protest, so the princess presses, "You were already in the Cloudwood before the festivities started. And you have your medical kit with you. And you were gathering herbs, but have no henbane, which grows plentiful this deep in the Cloudwood. And–" she hisses at another throb in her ankle. Merlin's thumb swipes over it automatically, making large arcs across her skin.
"Let me get you somewhere safe," Merlin says quietly.
"Safe," Mithian repeats. "Why exactly do you think the Cloudwood is unsafe?"
Merlin sighs, obviously exasperated at her obstinacy. "Must I recite the list of reported dwellers of the Cloudwood to its own princess? Gnomes, pixies, direwolves, twig-antlers, spirits, griffon, from time to time–"
"The last griffon sighting–"
"Oh, yes, speak to me of how we are safe from griffons when harpies and direwolves and forest spirits dwell here," Merlin snaps. "Please, princess, tell me all about how we are safe this near to the heart of the Cloudwood, this close to the Deep River. Look around us and tell me, do you feel safe?"
"Of course," Mithian says without really thinking. She winces at the pain in her ankle. "I am with you."
Her brain catches up to her own words a moment later, just in time to see whatever expression Merlin had been wearing a breath before meld into a physician's mask. Merlin inhales deeply, then says, "I have not the faintest notion where you got such a ridiculous idea, but I am not known–"
"Are you not?" Mithian cuts in, frowning at him, and then at her ankle. Her teeth continue to chatter, but now she feels some pain from the appendage. She takes a breath, grinds her teeth, then says, "You bested Sir Pellinor. You landed a wounding blow on the Lady Morgana. Should I not rely on your martial prowess?"
Merlin is quiet for a moment. When he goes to answer, Mithian cuts him off again, saying, "And… and you are an expert in magical things. And so will keep me safe against those who would do me harm. You know of the gnomes and the pixies and the twig-antlers and the spirits. You know how to keep me safe."
"Knowing of things does not necessarily–"
"You can keep me safe," Mithian says again, casting a careful look at him. "And, I think, you have something that can help me better than henbane or poppy or willowsbark. Something to ease my pain. Perhaps even something to avoid Master Silas's leeches."
Merlin looks back at her, gaze calculating. Beneath his look, Mithian's own face softens. Her hand strays to the golden locket around her neck, the one she wore upon Merlin's arrival and nearly every day hence.
"I know, Merlin," Mithian says softly. Then, searching his stone face, she tells him, "At least, I think I know."
After an interminable pause, Merlin asks, "What do you think you know, your grace?"
Mithian is quiet for a moment. Then, she opens her locket and hands the charm over to him, its golden chain whispering against her skin as she lifts it.
Inside, where there should be a miniature, are two violets, one on each side of the locket. Their vivid purple petals press against the glass panes of the locket. They are as vibrant as they would have been freshly picked. Perhaps more so.
"I have been promised they will never lose their color," Mithian says.
After the words leave her mouth, she wonders if they are inaudible, so softly do they leave her lips. But she knows they do. She can read it in the tightening of Merlin's facial features, in the way that the hand which does not wrap about her ankle flutters toward the locket before landing on the soft leaf-letter coating the ground. Then, Merlin carefully goes to pick up the locket. Mithian allows it to fall into his hand. She watches him carefully.
"You…" Merlin tries, then lapses into silence.
Mithian looks at him. One of her hands alights on his shoulder.
"Can you do something for my ankle, Lord Merlin?" Mithian asks.
Merlin takes her in, her wild hair, her dirt-streaked, sweat-soaked kirtle now divested of golden belt, the veil braided into her hair, the tiara on her head.
"Princess Mithian…" he says slowly.
"I think I know," Princess Mithian says seriously, "that you have magic. Am I wrong, Lord Merlin?"
Merlin stares at her. Then, barely audible, he chokes out, "It is true."
"Could you… could you do something about my ankle?" Princess Mithian asks.
Merlin frowns. "Are you certain, your highness?"
The princess simply gives him a nod. Merlin looks down at her ankle, dark lashes fluttering against pale cheekbones. He removes his hand, looks at her ankle in her lap, runs fingertips over the blooming, plum-colored bruise staining the pale skin there.
Merlin opens his mouth, but Mithian interrupts him once more.
"Look at me," she commands.
The advisor's blue eyes dart to her own. His face is unreadable. Then, his hand wraps around her ankle again, rough and cool and gentle.
"Ġehǣle," Merlin whispers, and the princess watches as his eyes melt from sky blue to molten gold.
Something flows into her ankle. She would call it warmth, but it does not burn as a fire or even as the sun; it is cool as starlight, refreshing as a salty sea breeze, soothing wherever it touches. Mithian hears another faint pop, just as she did when falling from the horse, but this time she feels no pain, nor any shock. In fact, her breathing evens as the wine-stain bruise retreats from her skin. And through it all, his eyes remain on hers. Watching.
"You fool," Mithian whispers. "Oh… my Merlin."
She pushes herself forward, flying from sitting back to tumbling into his arms. Their lips crash into each other. And the world changes. Opens, somehow, and closes, too. Dappled sunlight seems to break through the branches above, bathing them in gold and warming their skin, while the feeling of starlight and sea air and the mists of the Cloudwood envelop them. Sparks dance along her skin, lighting her spine and her shoulder and her very fingertips.
His hands, momentarily frozen, quickly move. His every movement sends gooseflesh growing in their wake as they roam across her back, trace her jaw, feather into her loosely braided hair. His touches are light, brief, and Mithian finds herself melting into his touch, craving it all the more for its sparing nature. Something about him has set her alight, and she chases every feeling, craves every moment.
His lips part, and so do hers, and their kiss deepens. Mithian's hands, which had been until now clinging to his shoulders, wrap tighter around him. Merlin does the same, pulling her closer, eliciting a small, satisfied sound from the princess. She decides, then and there, that the world could end around them and she would be happy.
And then, too soon, Merlin pulls away. When he breaks the kiss, he only goes far enough to rest his forehead against hers, his nose brushing her own.
"Mithian," Merlin breathes. "I… I…"
Mithian cups his chin in her hand. He leans into the touch, eyes closing.
"I cannot believe it," Mithian whispers. She watches as his eyes crack open to squint at her, feels his body stiffen beneath her hands. "I have been such a fool."
Merlin grins. He goes to say something in response.
But they are both stopped when they hear a branch break in the forest near them.
Merlin is on his feet in an instant, putting himself between Mithian and the sound. The princess climbs to her feet and retrieves the knife at her side, cursing her steed for leaving her without bow and arrow. She and Merlin both peer into the gloom, their every nerve alight.
From the shadows comes a rider astride an ash-gray horse. The rider wears black, the same color as her hair, and both are so dark as to give the impression of being fashioned from the shadows of the Cloudwood. Her milk-pale skin makes her look more of a vengeful spirit than anything else, an idea only exaggerated by the hatred and derision in her eyes.
Lady Morgana smiles at both of them. Then, she whispers a word, her eyes flashing gold.
In the little space that exists between the Lady Morgana and the princess and advisor, a small point of ashen light appears. It pulses, then begins to grow. Everywhere the dim light is cast, the greenery of the forest begins to fade to desiccated black and ash. Mithian tenses, her eyes cutting back to the witch.
"What have you done, witch?" Mithian demands.
"Justice," Morgana responds. "I am glad you have had a good day, Princess Mithian, Lord Merlin. It shall be your last."
With that, the witch turns her horse and spurs him deeper into the Cloudwood.
Mithian looks at the growing point of light–now the size of an apple–and back at Merlin.
"What do we do?" she asks.
Merlin catches his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes flitting between where Morgana had disappeared and where the orb she had thrown now grows.
"I… I think now, you run," Merlin says.
Mithian gapes at him. When he does not address her, she asks, "And leave you to do what, exactly?"
"Take care of this," Merlin says, some annoyance creeping into his voice. "Go. Find your retainers, gather the competitors back to the castle. Stay put."
"You… idiot," Mithian responds.
Merlin sighs and tears himself away from staring at the orb. He stalks to her and takes her by the arm, leading her into the forest.
"I am not going away," Mithian protests, literally digging her heels into the ground. Merlin stops with her, but pulls on her arm. He never comes close to hurting her, but Mithian can feel from his grip that getting away would require great effort on her part.
"My princess," Merlin says, breath short, "if I must transport you to your rooms, I will do so. In fact…"
"IYou would not dare," Mithian says quickly.
Merlin glances behind him and the princess, despite herself, follows his gaze. The orb is now larger than a loaf of bread and growing, its sickly light turning the Cloudwood into a desiccated version of itself. A bone-shuddering howl escapes from the orb. It sets Mithian's teeth on edge.
Merlin looks back at her, eyes wide.
"Do not," Mithian warns, pressing her finger further into his chest.
Merlin takes a quick step forward. His lips press into hers again. Their arms wrap around one another, desperate and worried. He pulls away a short moment later, resting his forehead against hers once again. She keeps her eyes closed, arms wrapped around him. Their breaths mingle in the cold air.
"Please, Merlin. Keep me near," Mithian murmurs.
"I will keep you safe," Merlin promises instead.
His fingertips tuck beneath her chin, pulling her in for another kiss. When they break apart, he whispers, "Onwīcst."
When she opens her eyes again, her arms hold nothing but air, and where the Cloudwood should stand, there are instead the stone walls of her bedchamber.