Hello!

This story is a multi-chapter series of OneShots of all shapes and sizes, all genres and characters. It does not rest in a specific timeline. If the OneShot is found within or after an episode, context will be found within the snippet itself. I must warn against possible spoilers for all seasons, because I don't really have a plan, and they could end up anywhere. I found these prompts on livejournal, in tables. I'm not sure how the tables work, I'm just sort of using the prompts.

Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. All characters and rights belong to BBC and Shine.

Enjoy!

~Lillibella

1) Evidence

His hand brushed the foliage of the forest floor. Only a trained eye could have caught what he did, but there it was: a slight bend in the shrubbery surrounding them. Arthur felt his heart momentarily stutter and involuntarily clenched his hands. A deep breath kept his emotions in check, but it was harder to manage when he caught sight of the object beneath the streaks of green.

"Here," he breathed, but Lancelot was thankfully near enough to catch it. The dark haired man looked to his prince, crouched and staring at the ground. About to question the sudden declaration, Lancelot moved forward toward him, but Arthur simply repeated himself, albeit louder than before.

"Here. There's something over here." The man's voice was carefully measured, but knowing Arthur for as long as he had did have it's benefits. Beneath the calm was an underlying excitement, and something else that could have been fear. Quickly moving to kneel by him, Lancelot searched the greenery for what Arthur had seen. A swell of emotion rose in his chest as he caught sight of it, and braced his hand on Arthur's shoulder. Although, at this point, he didn't know if it was for the prince's sake or his own.

Arthur, who hadn't dared to breathe as Lancelot inspected the item from his side, felt the gesture and slowly moved his hand to retrieve the scrap of red material that could not be mistaken for anything other than Merlin's. All these years teasing his servant about the ratty scarf worn about his neck, and here it was, the first piece of evidence they had to go on. Merlin would never remove this on purpose. He must have known, must have trusted Arthur to come after him.

By this point, the rest of the knights had gathered around. Arthur tore his eyes away from the neckerchief to look at his comrades, his friends. It took three words, but in seconds they were moving to the horses, to their swords, to anything that may help in the next stretch of their quest.

"We've got him."

2) I'm Here

One hour and forty-three minutes.

Arthur sat at his desk, fuming. He had thankfully been woken by some stray noises in the corridor outside his room, dressed himself, and was now reviewing some reports that had been dropped off the previous evening.

It had been one hour and forty-three minutes since Merlin was due in his room to begin his duties.

A few minutes late, Arthur could handle. Who didn't get a late start sometimes? But this...this was unbelievable. The boy couldn't even arrive on time, let alone finish his chores and finish them well. To add onto everything, Merlin wasn't here, so he hadn't eaten breakfast. And nothing ever looked pleasing when he hadn't eaten breakfast. He was already compiling a list of chores for Merlin to do once he arrived, whenever that happened to be. If he had to work into the night, so be it.

And if Arthur was a little worried about his manservant...well, he didn't show it.

So when Merlin stumbled through his door a few minutes later, carrying a silver platter and pitcher and calling, "I'm here! I'm here! I'm sorry, I slept in and Gaius was already gone so he couldn't wake me and here's your breakfast and..." Arthur let out a small sigh in response. He made sure it sounded appropriately put-out, but in truth, it was mostly relief. He was the prince of Camelot. He already had too much to worry about, and he didn't need an inept manservant falling down the stairs or knocking himself out to worry about.

3) Funeral

"Come on, Merlin. Just a little further and we'll set up camp."

Finally. After hours upon hours of trekking through heavy forest and shooting at innocent animals, Merlin was quite ready for a rest. Had he ever mentioned how much he hated hunting?

"Yes. Repeatedly. Now, catch up, will you?"

Oh. He had said that out loud. Excellent, that meant he was really ready for a rest. And no, he thought, I can't catch up, because I'm carrying your crossbow, and the provisions, and the medical supplies, and the bedrolls, and EVERYTHING ELSE. It also didn't help that he was beginning to feel strange. Not really sick, not even symptoms of exhaustion. It began a short time ago as a sort of buzzing in his head, and had steadily increased to gooseflesh appearing on his arms and a strong sense of we shouldn't be here. But he couldn't place it. It felt like magic, strong magic, yet not that of an enemy. More like...that of an ancient.

"Ah. Here, this is a perfect spot. Start setting up the bedrolls, and I'll give the area a once over. Seems alright, but one never knows. Just over by that-Merlin?"

But Merlin hadn't heard anything past here. Because now he knew why his insides were rolling and his instincts screaming out at him. Frozen at the edge of the small clearing, he stared at the lake placed placidly in the nest of green forest and white-capped mountains. He felt his face drain of all colour, and his heart leaped into his throat.

"Merlin? Did you hear me?"

Arthur couldn't have led them to a worse place. He would truly have preferred bandit attacks or enemy kingdoms, just not here. Because here, he'd have to think about her. She was still with him, his Lady of the Lake, a wound on his heart that would never fully close, but it was healing. Slowly, time was numbing the guilt and loss. Until now.

"Merlin? Merlin, look at me. What's wrong? Merlin!"

He was snapped out of his thoughts by a rough hand on his shoulder and a pair of blue eyes peering concernedly at him. Right. Arthur. He held the king's gaze for only a moment, until it was drawn back out to the sparking blue waters.

"We...I..." he started, but couldn't find words. There were no words. Unfortunately, this did not deter Arthur. In fact, he looked intently at him, and if Merlin didn't know better, he looked rather worried.

"Sit down, you look like you're going to pass out." Merlin was slowly guided to rest on a nearby boulder, Arthur's hand's around his shoulders, just in case he did just that. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"We...we can't stay here. Please, a little further off, not far at all...just not here." Normally he would care that his voice broke on the last word.

"Why?" And at this, Merlin finally looked at Arthur. The young king gazed back at him with earnest eyes, not a trace of laughter or teasing on his face. Only concern and confusion. Merlin didn't want to answer at first, he really didn't. It hurt too much to think, let alone talk about it. However, Merlin was beginning to realize that Arthur, for all the shows of arrogance, was truly becoming the man he was destined to be. And if being honest would help, then honest he would be. At least, partially. Not...not everything. Merlin turned his gaze to the soft earth beneath his feet.

"I had a friend. She was...I...she was really important to me. She died...I buried her here. She had no family. Her pyre...it was on the lake."

He couldn't go on. He glanced back at the shining water, where he knew she lay in wait just beneath the surface. For him. For Arthur. For Camelot.

"I'm sorry."

Arthur's expression was stoic, and he kept a firm hand on Merlin's shoulder, squeezing a bit in reassurance. Nodding, he continued, staring out across the lake as well.

"I understand grief. The people we love leave holes when they are taken from us. They are never fully repaired, but they become a part of you, like patches or scars. They play their own part in shaping who we are. This...friend of yours. What was her name?"

Merlin's mouth turned up in a small smile, remembering lighting candles in a underground cavern, and roses and dresses and life that could have been.

"Freya. Her name was Freya."

4) Gloves

Mucking out the royal stables was never a fun job to begin with. It was even less fun in the dead of winter. The piles of horse dung that never seemed to end and left his clothes smelling like something had died in them became frozen solid piles of horse dung that left his clothes smelling.

And it really didn't help that it was possibly the coldest day that Merlin had ever experienced in his life. The bitter wind seeped through his worn "winter" jacket, past his thin tunic and settled right in his bones. His ears, frightfully obvious to begin with, were now cherry red and almost completely numb. It seemed, however, that his hands took the brunt of the discomfort. Forced to cling to a wood shovel in the frigid weather for a few hours, they most likely had frozen in place. He couldn't really feel them at all, which led him to believe that he wouldn't be able to move them either.

Yet he soldiered on, as His Royal Highness most likely basked in the warmth of a fire, in his cozy chambers...with a hot drink...under down blankets...No. Stop that. Thinking of heat didn't do anything to make his fingers feel better. But still...warm tea...

It was about then that a noise towards the front of the stables brought his attention away from his thoughts and back to frosty reality. Prying his frozen fingers off the shovel, he made his way to the entryway. No one was there, but something caught his eye and warmed his heart more than any fire could. Well, two things, really.

One was the retreating form of Lancelot, his red cape stark against the snow covered ground.

The other was a soft, modest, and perfect pair of gloves resting on a nearby stool.

5) Muse

Arthur was hopeless with poetry.

Growing up he'd had tutors. Oh yes. They did their best to learn him in every subject under the sun. For a future king, they said, must be a well rounded individual. Geography? No problem. Arithmetic? Simple. Logic and strategy? He had a mind calibrated for battle.

But was his mind calibrated for art? No. Not in the slightest. Well, he could appreciate art, and comment on art, and recognize good art. But understanding it, let alone creating it? Highly unlikely.

Which is exactly why he had immense trouble courting Guinevere.

Women liked art, right? Right. Therefore he could impress her with a piece of poetry, right? Right. Was it more likely that Merlin would suddenly become the image of subservience and his father would retract the law on magic whilst writing a law stating the importance of fashionable bonnets? Yes.

He tried for days, filling his spare time with reading snippets of epics and researching techniques and staring at flowers for long periods of time (Merlin suggested that one...looking back on it, he decided that it may not have been needed to come up with ideas for comparisons) all while maintaining the image of "siege research." And all of this culminated in one rather hideous line involving Guinevere's hair and lyre strings.

It was when he found himself staring at her during a feast that it finally hit him. Her hands, calloused and firm from years of work, lightly gripped a silver pitcher as she moved silently through the throng of people. Her skin shining, glowing in the candle light, a rich tone with pink tinged cheeks from heat and delight. Her full lips turning up in a shy smile every time he caught her eye. And her eyes...

Why he had ever bothered with classics or technique or anything else was now a mystery to him.

On the subject of Guinevere, poetry practically wrote itself.