For Arthur, only a fraction of the hunting experience was about the kill. Mostly, it was about colors—the verdant trees after a rainstorm, the rich brown of his leather boots, finches in the wildflowers, Merlin's red scarf. The trip was unplanned, no knights or dogs or ceremony to mar the restful atmosphere. He watched Merlin flounder through the undergrowth from a distance, not particularly minding when the stag dashed away. Teasing would be necessary, but they both knew he never meant it. Arthur was happier having an honest friend to share his camp than pleasing his father with expected success.