34. Play
Title: Abraham to kill him -
Author: manipulant, or B
Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin USTness
Word Count: ~2400
Warnings: None.
Summary: A players guild has come to Camelot from the old Roman colony of Londinium. Arthur has a bit of a meltdown during their performance, and Merlin intercedes. It's all very Hamlet.
Notes: The title of the fic is the title of an Emily Dickinson poem, which is lovely. Anachronisms abound - yay canon! - mystery plays were the forebears of morality plays, but still probably too late in the day to be entirely appropriate for the time period.
A guild of players has made its way from Londinium, away from the dwindling port-town in search of a place to perform and the sea. The faded banners on the old caravan flutter in the growing wind after harvest, and from Arthur's room, Merlin watches the guild approach the castle slowly, like flotsam making its way to shore. "Arthur," he calls, over his shoulder, and gestures for the prince to come and look.
Arthur abandons his halfhearted game of tossing an old dagger at one of the four posters on his bed and trying to get it to stick, and shuffles over to the window as well (he came back from patrol with a cold and Gaius demanded three days of bed-rest - they've been the longest three days of both boys' lives). "Ooh," he says, pleased, hooking his chin over Merlin's bony shoulder, his breath a puff of heat against Merlin's ear. Merlin tries not to close his eyes or shiver. "Well, this should be interesting. Fetch me some trousers, Merlin, we're going to go see what happens."
"What hap - Gaius said you weren't to leave til - "
"Yeah, funny thing about that, I don't really have to follow his orders," Arthur says, giving Merlin a fake smile. "Prince." He's already pulled his tunic on over his head, and is now beginning to look impatient. "Well? Are you going to find my trousers or are you going to stand there looking stupid? Though I'm absolutely certain of your ability to look stupid whilst performing any number of tasks."
Merlin rolls his eyes and goes to get the damned trousers. He follows a fully-clothed Arthur out the chamber door, and down towards the middle of the castle, the courtyard.
The caravan and the players have barely entered the gates before they're stopped in the courtyard, and thoroughly searched for any hints of magic - and then, plague. Uther watches the process with sharp eyes, and when it is done he smiles and welcomes them, gracious as he can, and requests a performance for that evening.
"Pallets'll have to be burnt after they've left," Arthur mutters to Merlin, as they watch the proceedings from behind a pillar on the second floor of the castle. Merlin snorts and rubs his hands together against the settling cold.
"Can't have the castle smelling of foreigners, can we?" he jests, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the unicorn he's attempting to carve from a bit of wood he saved from the hearth. He intends it as a present for Gwen, unless he proves too stupid at it, which Arthur has rated highly likely.
There's a shade of a smile on Arthur's face; his blue eyes snap in the cold air and sunlight of the courtyard. He steps out of the shadows, leans his arms against the railing of the atrium as he looks down into the mass of people below. "Well, we allowed you in," he sighs, turning to give Merlin a rueful look. "It's a slippery slope." He turns back to look over the crowd before he continues. "And we'll have to burn the pallets because there've been reports that there's cholera in Londinium this winter. Which is bad, Merlin. You see, cholera tends to kill people," he overexplains, and Merlin is confused for a moment by how such a prat can turn not only an insult but a lighthearted comment about death and disease into something he would actually smile at.
So: "Taxpayers, you mean. Not people," he says acidly, raising an eyebrow, accidentally slicing the horn off of his unicorn, suddenly just a horse.
There's a small pause, and Merlin glances up just quickly enough to see the the stunned, stung look slide off Arthur's face, replaced by a familiar smug little smile. "No no no, I'll allow the taxpayers to live."
"You'll fight off the cholera with your sword?" Merlin says, more statement than question, dry. He doesn't even raise an eyebrow.
"Yes, of course." Arthur favours him with a look that plainly says I find it equally irritating and delightful that you're even stupider than I pretend you are, and shrugs one shoulder. And then the smile returns - a little wider now. "Are you a taxpayer, Merlin?" he asks, eyebrows raised in innocence.
Merlin gapes for a moment, unable to think of a suitable reply (one that won't have him languishing in the stocks for half of the next day, anyway), and Arthur gives him a wide, pleased smile. He pats Merlin's shoulder as he wanders off, just forcefully enough for Merlin's pathetic little knife to slip on the whittling and nick his thumb.
Merlin yelps and sticks his thumb in his mouth, casting a glare at Arthur's back. He grumbles to himself for a moment, before he mutters the incantation under his breath, and winces at the twinge of his skin immediately healing.
---
The mystery play is Abraham and Isaac, and while Merlin is familiar with the story, he finds its depiction more interesting than it had been when the priest was reading it in Latin all those times in the chapel.
Of course, just as Abraham meets his infant son, the pace of the story quickening, Arthur motions for him to bring the wine. Merlin can't help rolling his eyes as he comes forward.
Arthur's the only one who notices, but he favours his servant with a glare. "Please, do that again. My subjects are restless, a good beheading would provide some excitement for them."
"But then who would find your trousers for you, sire?" Merlin asks very quietly, dutifully pouring the cup full. He keeps his eyes on the goblet, only looking up after a few pregnant seconds have passed. Arthur is regarding him carefully, somewhat warily, rather like he does with visiting nobles and unbroken horses.
"I would go trouserless," Arthur says finally, one corner of his mouth quirking into an odd little smile, "and say it was the new fashion."
Merlin can't help snorting a laugh, even as he takes a few steps back, hiding a bit behind Arthur's chair. "It'd be a bit draughty." He's pleased, warmed a bit by the snort Arthur gives in response, and then he goes to stand beside Gwen again, exchanging smiles with her as they go back to watching the scene.
The players are relatively good - nothing more than a ragged troupe of boys, really - only one of their number is old enough to have a convincing beard. They do display some aptitude, and even the highest-ranking wizened old bishop of Camelot is nodding his approbation at their efforts, as one boy deepens his voice in an effort to be the voice of the Almighty, and another makes an admirable show of Abraham's shock and horror at His commands.
The boy playing Isaac is slight, and quick with a smile. He gazes up at Abraham with a combination of adoration and fear that's so naked it makes Merlin a bit uncomfortable, but he can't keep his gaze away. Something about the boy - the light blue of his pupils or the half-blonde hair or the unrequited admiration in his eyes - is wrenchingly familiar.
The scene shifts. Merlin keeps one eye on Arthur's chair because he's not entirely pants at being a servant, after all. Therefore, he sees Arthur's grip on his goblet getting tighter, whiter in the knuckles as Abraham leads his son to the top of a mountain (really just a stack of wooden pallets) and prepares the sacrificial knife. Isaac is now being played by an older boy, about Arthur and Merlin's age, and Merlin suddenly understands.
He watches Arthur squirm through another minute of dialogue between the two players, growing a bit restless himself, fidgeting until Gwen touches two fingers to his arm, giving him a curious look. He sighs, glances at Arthur helplessly and back again at her. Confused, she looks over at the prince, and after a pause her mouth settles into a firm, grim line. She leans toward Merlin. "Sir Ulrich isn't here."
"He's not h - erm, okay?" Merlin murmurs back, just looking at her stupidly for a moment before he gets it and gives her a grin. Gwen returns it, and squeezes his arm before she lets her hand drop. He doesn't waste any time in quietly approaching the royal table - at the front of the hall, Abraham has just raised his knife. "Sire?"
Arthur jolts in his seat, and turns to give Merlin a startled sort of glare. "What?"
"Apologies, sire, but Sir Ulrich requires your attention at the gates. He says it's urgent."
Arthur swears under his breath, but nods, and quickly excuses himself from the table, gesturing for Merlin to follow behind. They fall in step as they both walk down one of the slim corridors, away from the hall, and Merlin has to break into a trot to manage to catch the hem of Arthur's sleeve. "Arthur."
The prince whirls around, the line of his shoulders tense, his expression brittle. "What, Merlin, I have to get to the - "
"Sir Ulrich isn't at the gates," Merlin says, all in a rush, his eyes going a little wide at his own honesty. "Sorry, I just. You looked." He frowns, gives a funny little roll of his shoulders. "Tired. You looked tired."
Arthur's jaw clenches, and Merlin is suddenly gripped by a wild rebellious glee - fine, you absolute pratting pratly prat, put me in the stocks, I won't regret it - but then Arthur's shoulders slump a bit, and he leans against the wall. A torch flickers a few feet from their heads, burnishing Arthur's hair into bronze and gold, deepening the shadows on his face. "I am, a bit."
His next words are even quieter: "Thank you, Merlin."
Merlin nods because, again, he can't think of anything to say. After a moment, he comes to stand beside Arthur, and cups the heel of his elbow with one hand, squeezing it lightly, giving him a small encouraging smile. "Well. You've been ill, after all."
Arthur's smile is welcome, but rather short-lived. "...Why would he do that? Abraham." His glance slides away from Merlin, out of the open windows of the corridor, down to the rest of the city below. "He loved his son." It's obvious Arthur doesn't want that to be a question, but.
Merlin winces, and mentally curses Uther for allowing that particular mystery play to be performed. "Yes, he did. I suppose," he says slowly, choosing his words carefully for all that Arthur isn't looking at him, for all that Arthur's expression is carefully neutral, " - I suppose he thought that God had asked it of him, and he couldn't say no." Merlin bites his lip, and takes a chance and rubs Arthur's arm just a bit, tiny circles of warm contact. "Besides, he didn't have to do it, in the end, did he? God didn't really want him to."
Arthur scowls, looking very young suddenly, and frustratedly pushes his head back against the wall. "God is very fickle, occasionally." Merlin laughs quietly and gives the prince a smile, prompting one in return. Which is a good sign, Merlin thinks.
"Occasionally."
"Why didn't Isaac do anything?" Arthur follows up quickly, his smile vanishing, his expression turning a little fierce. "He just...watched his father? Oh, la la la, just taking my sacrificial dagger out, la la la, just putting you on this slab here, Isaac m'boy," Arthur complains, adding ridiculous little hand gestures to his parody, his eyes widening comically. "Why didn't Isaac stop it?"
Torn between laughing some more and really courting death and giving Arthur a - a hug or something, Merlin snorts and shifts his weight, standing a little closer. "Perhaps he was waiting for the right moment."
Arthur lets out a short bark of a laugh, and then sighs, and slides an arm around Merlin's shoulders, tugging him in til their heads knock together lightly. It's all very familiar and friendly and safe, and then Arthur turns his head.
Merlin stops breathing, startled almost to fear by the sudden sensation of Arthur's nose against his cheek, Arthur's breath against his face. And then his shock sort of...melts away, and he finds himself draping an arm across Arthur's back, holding him just as close, enjoying the novelty of whatever this is, of this feeling of being a little unit with someone else, of having secrets and friends.
(For all he tries to convince himself, this feels absolutely nothing like when it's him and Gwen. This feels better.)
Arthur's hand transfers into his hair, ruffling it gently, and Merlin can feel his eyelids going heavy. "Isaac was a ponce," Arthur decides, quietly, his breath hot on Merlin's ear.
"Mm?" Merlin manages, which he thinks is pretty good, given his level of, ah, distraction.
"He was. He should've fought. Anybody else would've fought."
"You would've fought, certainly," Merlin says without thinking, and then curses himself a million times as he feels Arthur tense up beside him. "And you would've won," he continues, hastily, almost babbling, "but only because you would've resorted to devious tactics and jeering and throwing things, and you would've had all your knights, probably, and - "
"The important point being, of course, that I never lose," Arthur says, amused, obviously attempting to save Merlin from himself. Merlin huffs and shifts his weight, tilting his chin so that Arthur is almost nestled into the crook of his neck.
Merlin suspects, not for the first time, that the whole "chivalrous love" and emphasis on chastity and purity for knights has certain ulterior motives.
"No, the important point being, you have people looking out for you as well. Like Isaac did," he says, feeling his cheeks begin to burn.
Arthur pulls away, which is equally a relief and a bit of a let-down. His eyes are dancing. "Did my manservant just compare himself to God?" he asks, bemused.
Merlin gives him a quick grin. "No no, I'd never do that."
"That's a relief."
"I am God, actually."
The pleased laughter Merlin receives is as welcome as fire in his hearth, a warm bed on cold nights. He smiles, cheeks still a bit pink, and tries not to let his eyes go too girly-soft as Arthur presses a hand to the side of his neck gratefully. "Then we are all in very, very deep trouble."
"You especially. You'd better take care to be nicer to me," he answers, helping Arthur to push himself off the wall, keeping his arm around the prince's midsection as they head off to Arthur's chambers.
Feedback = lifetime adoration! Especially as this is my first rodeo in this fandom.
Author: manipulant, or B
Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin USTness
Word Count: ~2400
Warnings: None.
Summary: A players guild has come to Camelot from the old Roman colony of Londinium. Arthur has a bit of a meltdown during their performance, and Merlin intercedes. It's all very Hamlet.
Notes: The title of the fic is the title of an Emily Dickinson poem, which is lovely. Anachronisms abound - yay canon! - mystery plays were the forebears of morality plays, but still probably too late in the day to be entirely appropriate for the time period.
A guild of players has made its way from Londinium, away from the dwindling port-town in search of a place to perform and the sea. The faded banners on the old caravan flutter in the growing wind after harvest, and from Arthur's room, Merlin watches the guild approach the castle slowly, like flotsam making its way to shore. "Arthur," he calls, over his shoulder, and gestures for the prince to come and look.
Arthur abandons his halfhearted game of tossing an old dagger at one of the four posters on his bed and trying to get it to stick, and shuffles over to the window as well (he came back from patrol with a cold and Gaius demanded three days of bed-rest - they've been the longest three days of both boys' lives). "Ooh," he says, pleased, hooking his chin over Merlin's bony shoulder, his breath a puff of heat against Merlin's ear. Merlin tries not to close his eyes or shiver. "Well, this should be interesting. Fetch me some trousers, Merlin, we're going to go see what happens."
"What hap - Gaius said you weren't to leave til - "
"Yeah, funny thing about that, I don't really have to follow his orders," Arthur says, giving Merlin a fake smile. "Prince." He's already pulled his tunic on over his head, and is now beginning to look impatient. "Well? Are you going to find my trousers or are you going to stand there looking stupid? Though I'm absolutely certain of your ability to look stupid whilst performing any number of tasks."
Merlin rolls his eyes and goes to get the damned trousers. He follows a fully-clothed Arthur out the chamber door, and down towards the middle of the castle, the courtyard.
The caravan and the players have barely entered the gates before they're stopped in the courtyard, and thoroughly searched for any hints of magic - and then, plague. Uther watches the process with sharp eyes, and when it is done he smiles and welcomes them, gracious as he can, and requests a performance for that evening.
"Pallets'll have to be burnt after they've left," Arthur mutters to Merlin, as they watch the proceedings from behind a pillar on the second floor of the castle. Merlin snorts and rubs his hands together against the settling cold.
"Can't have the castle smelling of foreigners, can we?" he jests, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the unicorn he's attempting to carve from a bit of wood he saved from the hearth. He intends it as a present for Gwen, unless he proves too stupid at it, which Arthur has rated highly likely.
There's a shade of a smile on Arthur's face; his blue eyes snap in the cold air and sunlight of the courtyard. He steps out of the shadows, leans his arms against the railing of the atrium as he looks down into the mass of people below. "Well, we allowed you in," he sighs, turning to give Merlin a rueful look. "It's a slippery slope." He turns back to look over the crowd before he continues. "And we'll have to burn the pallets because there've been reports that there's cholera in Londinium this winter. Which is bad, Merlin. You see, cholera tends to kill people," he overexplains, and Merlin is confused for a moment by how such a prat can turn not only an insult but a lighthearted comment about death and disease into something he would actually smile at.
So: "Taxpayers, you mean. Not people," he says acidly, raising an eyebrow, accidentally slicing the horn off of his unicorn, suddenly just a horse.
There's a small pause, and Merlin glances up just quickly enough to see the the stunned, stung look slide off Arthur's face, replaced by a familiar smug little smile. "No no no, I'll allow the taxpayers to live."
"You'll fight off the cholera with your sword?" Merlin says, more statement than question, dry. He doesn't even raise an eyebrow.
"Yes, of course." Arthur favours him with a look that plainly says I find it equally irritating and delightful that you're even stupider than I pretend you are, and shrugs one shoulder. And then the smile returns - a little wider now. "Are you a taxpayer, Merlin?" he asks, eyebrows raised in innocence.
Merlin gapes for a moment, unable to think of a suitable reply (one that won't have him languishing in the stocks for half of the next day, anyway), and Arthur gives him a wide, pleased smile. He pats Merlin's shoulder as he wanders off, just forcefully enough for Merlin's pathetic little knife to slip on the whittling and nick his thumb.
Merlin yelps and sticks his thumb in his mouth, casting a glare at Arthur's back. He grumbles to himself for a moment, before he mutters the incantation under his breath, and winces at the twinge of his skin immediately healing.
---
The mystery play is Abraham and Isaac, and while Merlin is familiar with the story, he finds its depiction more interesting than it had been when the priest was reading it in Latin all those times in the chapel.
Of course, just as Abraham meets his infant son, the pace of the story quickening, Arthur motions for him to bring the wine. Merlin can't help rolling his eyes as he comes forward.
Arthur's the only one who notices, but he favours his servant with a glare. "Please, do that again. My subjects are restless, a good beheading would provide some excitement for them."
"But then who would find your trousers for you, sire?" Merlin asks very quietly, dutifully pouring the cup full. He keeps his eyes on the goblet, only looking up after a few pregnant seconds have passed. Arthur is regarding him carefully, somewhat warily, rather like he does with visiting nobles and unbroken horses.
"I would go trouserless," Arthur says finally, one corner of his mouth quirking into an odd little smile, "and say it was the new fashion."
Merlin can't help snorting a laugh, even as he takes a few steps back, hiding a bit behind Arthur's chair. "It'd be a bit draughty." He's pleased, warmed a bit by the snort Arthur gives in response, and then he goes to stand beside Gwen again, exchanging smiles with her as they go back to watching the scene.
The players are relatively good - nothing more than a ragged troupe of boys, really - only one of their number is old enough to have a convincing beard. They do display some aptitude, and even the highest-ranking wizened old bishop of Camelot is nodding his approbation at their efforts, as one boy deepens his voice in an effort to be the voice of the Almighty, and another makes an admirable show of Abraham's shock and horror at His commands.
The boy playing Isaac is slight, and quick with a smile. He gazes up at Abraham with a combination of adoration and fear that's so naked it makes Merlin a bit uncomfortable, but he can't keep his gaze away. Something about the boy - the light blue of his pupils or the half-blonde hair or the unrequited admiration in his eyes - is wrenchingly familiar.
The scene shifts. Merlin keeps one eye on Arthur's chair because he's not entirely pants at being a servant, after all. Therefore, he sees Arthur's grip on his goblet getting tighter, whiter in the knuckles as Abraham leads his son to the top of a mountain (really just a stack of wooden pallets) and prepares the sacrificial knife. Isaac is now being played by an older boy, about Arthur and Merlin's age, and Merlin suddenly understands.
He watches Arthur squirm through another minute of dialogue between the two players, growing a bit restless himself, fidgeting until Gwen touches two fingers to his arm, giving him a curious look. He sighs, glances at Arthur helplessly and back again at her. Confused, she looks over at the prince, and after a pause her mouth settles into a firm, grim line. She leans toward Merlin. "Sir Ulrich isn't here."
"He's not h - erm, okay?" Merlin murmurs back, just looking at her stupidly for a moment before he gets it and gives her a grin. Gwen returns it, and squeezes his arm before she lets her hand drop. He doesn't waste any time in quietly approaching the royal table - at the front of the hall, Abraham has just raised his knife. "Sire?"
Arthur jolts in his seat, and turns to give Merlin a startled sort of glare. "What?"
"Apologies, sire, but Sir Ulrich requires your attention at the gates. He says it's urgent."
Arthur swears under his breath, but nods, and quickly excuses himself from the table, gesturing for Merlin to follow behind. They fall in step as they both walk down one of the slim corridors, away from the hall, and Merlin has to break into a trot to manage to catch the hem of Arthur's sleeve. "Arthur."
The prince whirls around, the line of his shoulders tense, his expression brittle. "What, Merlin, I have to get to the - "
"Sir Ulrich isn't at the gates," Merlin says, all in a rush, his eyes going a little wide at his own honesty. "Sorry, I just. You looked." He frowns, gives a funny little roll of his shoulders. "Tired. You looked tired."
Arthur's jaw clenches, and Merlin is suddenly gripped by a wild rebellious glee - fine, you absolute pratting pratly prat, put me in the stocks, I won't regret it - but then Arthur's shoulders slump a bit, and he leans against the wall. A torch flickers a few feet from their heads, burnishing Arthur's hair into bronze and gold, deepening the shadows on his face. "I am, a bit."
His next words are even quieter: "Thank you, Merlin."
Merlin nods because, again, he can't think of anything to say. After a moment, he comes to stand beside Arthur, and cups the heel of his elbow with one hand, squeezing it lightly, giving him a small encouraging smile. "Well. You've been ill, after all."
Arthur's smile is welcome, but rather short-lived. "...Why would he do that? Abraham." His glance slides away from Merlin, out of the open windows of the corridor, down to the rest of the city below. "He loved his son." It's obvious Arthur doesn't want that to be a question, but.
Merlin winces, and mentally curses Uther for allowing that particular mystery play to be performed. "Yes, he did. I suppose," he says slowly, choosing his words carefully for all that Arthur isn't looking at him, for all that Arthur's expression is carefully neutral, " - I suppose he thought that God had asked it of him, and he couldn't say no." Merlin bites his lip, and takes a chance and rubs Arthur's arm just a bit, tiny circles of warm contact. "Besides, he didn't have to do it, in the end, did he? God didn't really want him to."
Arthur scowls, looking very young suddenly, and frustratedly pushes his head back against the wall. "God is very fickle, occasionally." Merlin laughs quietly and gives the prince a smile, prompting one in return. Which is a good sign, Merlin thinks.
"Occasionally."
"Why didn't Isaac do anything?" Arthur follows up quickly, his smile vanishing, his expression turning a little fierce. "He just...watched his father? Oh, la la la, just taking my sacrificial dagger out, la la la, just putting you on this slab here, Isaac m'boy," Arthur complains, adding ridiculous little hand gestures to his parody, his eyes widening comically. "Why didn't Isaac stop it?"
Torn between laughing some more and really courting death and giving Arthur a - a hug or something, Merlin snorts and shifts his weight, standing a little closer. "Perhaps he was waiting for the right moment."
Arthur lets out a short bark of a laugh, and then sighs, and slides an arm around Merlin's shoulders, tugging him in til their heads knock together lightly. It's all very familiar and friendly and safe, and then Arthur turns his head.
Merlin stops breathing, startled almost to fear by the sudden sensation of Arthur's nose against his cheek, Arthur's breath against his face. And then his shock sort of...melts away, and he finds himself draping an arm across Arthur's back, holding him just as close, enjoying the novelty of whatever this is, of this feeling of being a little unit with someone else, of having secrets and friends.
(For all he tries to convince himself, this feels absolutely nothing like when it's him and Gwen. This feels better.)
Arthur's hand transfers into his hair, ruffling it gently, and Merlin can feel his eyelids going heavy. "Isaac was a ponce," Arthur decides, quietly, his breath hot on Merlin's ear.
"Mm?" Merlin manages, which he thinks is pretty good, given his level of, ah, distraction.
"He was. He should've fought. Anybody else would've fought."
"You would've fought, certainly," Merlin says without thinking, and then curses himself a million times as he feels Arthur tense up beside him. "And you would've won," he continues, hastily, almost babbling, "but only because you would've resorted to devious tactics and jeering and throwing things, and you would've had all your knights, probably, and - "
"The important point being, of course, that I never lose," Arthur says, amused, obviously attempting to save Merlin from himself. Merlin huffs and shifts his weight, tilting his chin so that Arthur is almost nestled into the crook of his neck.
Merlin suspects, not for the first time, that the whole "chivalrous love" and emphasis on chastity and purity for knights has certain ulterior motives.
"No, the important point being, you have people looking out for you as well. Like Isaac did," he says, feeling his cheeks begin to burn.
Arthur pulls away, which is equally a relief and a bit of a let-down. His eyes are dancing. "Did my manservant just compare himself to God?" he asks, bemused.
Merlin gives him a quick grin. "No no, I'd never do that."
"That's a relief."
"I am God, actually."
The pleased laughter Merlin receives is as welcome as fire in his hearth, a warm bed on cold nights. He smiles, cheeks still a bit pink, and tries not to let his eyes go too girly-soft as Arthur presses a hand to the side of his neck gratefully. "Then we are all in very, very deep trouble."
"You especially. You'd better take care to be nicer to me," he answers, helping Arthur to push himself off the wall, keeping his arm around the prince's midsection as they head off to Arthur's chambers.
Feedback = lifetime adoration! Especially as this is my first rodeo in this fandom.