Rose stares, eyebrows risen, eyes still wide. Merlyn. The Merlyn, out of Arthurian legend, the matter of Britain itself. After years of growing up in a house full of wizard statues and wizard paintings, after staring down Zazzerpan's ridiculous countenance every time she dared pass the front of the house, after penning wizard fics with prose so purple it should see a doctor about it--

"Holy shit," she utters, because it merits it. Then looking down and clearing her voice, "Sorry. I just--I never expected to meet a wizard at all, let alone... I thought you were just a story."

There's a moment of sharp blinking as she forces back the wondering thought of what her mother would think, before she looks him in his face again.

"It's an honor. Honestly."