A/N: Feste the Fool encouraged me that writing a fic composed entirely of oneshots and drabbles was a perfectly acceptable pastime, so please enjoy my splurge writing.

It wasn't unusual for Terence to leave Camelot. Knights and Squires aside, Terence was a duke. As such, he had plenty of duties back in Avalon to attend to when he wasn't scrubbing armor or serving at banquets. He left for Avalon with relative frequency, especially when Gawain was staying at court for long periods of time. When no one would miss him, he would excuse himself from Gawain's service for a few days and leave for his home.

The life of a squire was busy enough that Terence never ran out of excuses. He was running errands, Gawain would tell Tor and Arthur, when they asked after the missing squire. He was helping a friend in the kitchens. He was cleaning armor. Tending to Guingalet. Running messages. Teaching other squires.

Alright, 'never' might've been a generous word. Usually, Terence came and went – even if he was gone for a week or more – without anyone noticing. Gawain would prepare an excuse for every absence beforehand, and no one was the wiser about Terence's actual whereabouts.

But then, Avalon went through political seasons just as Camelot or any other court. In the past few months, the Seelie court had been through no less than a dozen scandals, and a handful of major crimes. It didn't spell war or ultimate disaster, but it was one giant pain in the neck, and the brunt of the damage came down on Terence's shoulders.

He'd left for an entire week and came back, only to leave again the next day when Robin came to fetch him. Between the trials and councils and managerial duties, and having to come back to Camelot and act like a normal squire all over again, Terence's longsuffering nerves were reaching their breaking point.

It was something Gawain had never seen before, and he'd been treading on eggshells around his friend ever since the fiasco had started. His own nerves were suffering, too. He felt duty-bound to cover for Terence as completely as possible so the squire wouldn't have to deal with it when he got back, and was growing weary of the effort. To take his mind off it, Gawain took advantage of Terence's absence by having Arthur over for a private visit. It was usually the king who was stressed and in need of a reprieve, but when things were well in Camelot, Arthur was of a presence more calming than Terence's most masterfully brewed cup of tea.

They'd had dinner (provided by the kitches, of course, not Terence) and a good hearty debate over the political benefit of hosting frequent banquets and tournaments (Arthur was of the mind that banquets were more productive, Gawain of course favored tournaments) but now the conversation had died, the hour was late, and worse of all, the cider was nearly gone.

"Something's been troubling you," Arthur said, and it sounded as though he'd been waiting to say it for a while. "I've seen you worried before, but these days, you look constantly irritated."

Gawain sighed, and shook his head. "My Lord, I… I'm alright. Just… had a rough week, is all."

Arthur shot him a look, but didn't pursue it. "It's not that, I can tell. But alright." He took a swallow of his cider. "Now. I believe you said something about berry pasties, earlier, didn't you?"

At that moment, the door opened and slammed shut. Footsteps sounded at the entryway, and Gawain knew immediately who it was.

"Terence? That you?" He called loudly, hoping his tone would alert Terence that they weren't alone. "You're back early," He added. Judging by the breath he took, it sounded as though Arthur was about to speak up as well, but before could, Terence broke in angrily,

"If that blasted, green-faced idiot carts his pointy-eared self within half a mile of me in the next decade," He was stomping down the hallway but still not in sight, "I will personally sign his reassignment to the nearest bogland before he can lift a finger to-"

Terence had come into the main room, seen Arthur, and froze. Arthur was perhaps as startled as Terence was, because Terence didn't look like… Terence. In place of his usual plain squire's tunic was a rich blue quilted doublet, smooth and embroidered with subtle filigree designs, with a stiff collar whose high sides and back emphasized his face flatteringly. His hair was freshly cleaned and amidst the black curls, Arthur could see a gold circlet resting atop his head.

Beside Arthur, Gawain looked like he wished the ground would swallow him. He brought a hand up to his face and looked down, anywhere but at Terence, and especially not at Arthur.

"…Squire Terence," Arthur mustered eventually.

Terence was looking directly at Arthur. The shock of seeing the king had worn off, but Terence kept on staring, as if just by not looking down at himself, the formal wear would disappear and Arthur would forget he'd ever seen anything out of the ordinary.

Of course, no such luck. After a very tense silence, Terence sighed.

"That's it," he snapped. "Gawain, I'm going to bed." He took a step and paused for a wince when he realized he'd said 'Gawain' and not 'my lord'. Shaking his head, (because honestly, how much worse could this get?) he reached up, ripped the circlet off his head, and stomped into his room.

It was a long, long time before either knight or king said anything. Gawain took his half-full tankard and tipped it into his mouth, letting it stay there until it was dry.

"Sir Gawain," Arthur said, and Gawain wondered exactly how much trouble something like this might merit. Damn Terence for abandoning him with a confused king and conversation this convoluted to handle on his own. His Royal Highness, Duke of Avalon or not, Gawain thought it was uncalled for.

"Yes, my liege?" Gawain asked, hoping that if he just sounded casual enough, Arthur would drop it.

"…Is there something you want to explain to me, nephew?"

"I have no idea what you could be referring to, your Majesty," Gawain was pressing his luck.

Of course Terence had to step in and make it even worse.

"Oh, by the way, Gawain," Terence poked his head out of the door. He was shirtless, now, but the royal crest of Avalon still hung from his neck on a pendant. "Lorie and my father send their love. You might as well take this before I forget about it." He flicked a letter at Gawain, who caught it in his lap. Terence's door slammed behind him.

Arthur reached across and picked up the envelope and turned it over. A neat wax seal held the page closed, and the crest imprinted on the wax was clear and readable.

"Avalon," Arthur read, and shot his eyes up to Gawain. "…are you sure there's nothing to explain to me, Sir Gawain?" He asked.

Gawain let his head sink into his hands. "Damnit, Terence."