Dark forest-green eyes, almost black, peered curiously over her spectacles at the man, this Merlin of Arthurian fame. She wondered, for a moment, if she should be generous and give her name.
Names were precious commodities. Offering the mythical Merlin a warm and softh half-smile, she gently wrapped one of her arms through his as he offered it, the warmth emanating from both his body and from within his home a welcome distraction of the cold chaos beyond.
"Oh! How forgetful of me not to share it sooner! Names are such flighty things, you know." She sniffed lightly, inclining her chin as she did. Leeks, yes. Vegetables. Soup without garlic was blasphemy, and she smelled that, as well. Chicken, brown meat, hearty for the soul, mind and bones. The smells were intoxicating. Food, like names and identities, was precious, and to share food as well as a name meant a great deal. Even if the name was not true, in full. "Beatrice. And the soup smells delightful! Autumnal meals are so fine. Call me Baba if you so like," she paused, letting the weight of Baba only suggest she was, indeed, a grandmother, and nothing more. Baba, by itself, was just a word.
With autumn came the death of summer, and the descent into darkness.