Part One - "Home is Where the Heart Is"

***

365 days is a long time to miss someone.

Despite what he had told himself in those first few weeks of raw emotion and pain that curled beneath his ribs like the taloned claws of a dragon, Arthur found that the loss of Merlin had dulled over time. The ache of the first few months gradually faded into something bearable, something that he could live with; something that didn't threaten to steal his breath every time Merlin's name was mentioned in his presence.

But it had been hard.

It was still hard.

***

Arthur pulled his fingers through the damp snarls in his hair as he strode down the hall towards his father's chambers, his skin prickling uncomfortably beneath his armor as the humidity from outside seemed to bleed through the walls. It always seemed like the air was denser the closer he drew to his father's quarters, ever the more during the long days of summer. Everything felt too moist and it made Arthur's feel perpetually wet and the slightest bit soggy.

He came to an abrupt halt outside of his father's door, and held up a hand to the pair of guardsmen standing at attention when they moved to open it for him. Arthur stood for a moment and gathered himself, staring hard at the polished wood as if he might glean some measure of understanding from it - namely, just what his father wanted with him.

He and his father didn't have a proper conversation for at least a month or two after Merlin had been sent away. Those months were filled with silent meals and broken gestures; Uther had tried to bridge the chasm that split them, but Arthur had not.

Eventually, they'd been forced to interact; polite smiles and empty displays, all demonstrated for benefit of the public. It was a well-performed masquerade all things considered, but Arthur realized that he couldn't keep up the wall of silence forever. He might never forgive his father for what he had done but he couldn't avoid speaking to him, all the same.

It didn't mean he had to like it.

Arthur shut his eyes, inhaled a deep breath, and felt the air flow thickly into his lungs.

When he opened them, his blue irises were laced with a clear look of resignation. He gave a curt nod to the guards, who promptly opened the double doors and allowed him admittance.

***

"Arthur," greeted Uther with a quick nod. He gestured to a seat at the table, which Arthur deigned to take. He instead crossed to a nearby window and glanced out towards the orchard with feigned disinterest.

"What is it, Uther?" asked Arthur in a quick, clipped tone. He could practically feel his father's frown settle between his shoulder blades at the use of his first name. He hadn't called Uther Pendragon "father", in months Truth be told, he didn't much care either, though a small part of him would forever seek Uther's approval.

"As long as you insist on this childish game of yours, Arthur," replied Uther, "then you will address me as 'my lord' or 'sire'. Is that understood?" His father's voice was neutral, betraying no hint of the frustration Arthur imagined was brewing just beneath the surface of his bland tone. It was the voice that he used when he was being purposefully diplomatic and it grated on Arthur's patience, which, granted, had been virtually non-existent as of late.

He couldn't hold back the flicker of annoyance that crossed his features when he turned away and looked towards Uther, but he did manage to keep his tone cool when he answered - he'd learned from the best, after all. "Yes sire, I understand."

"Good," said Uther with a brittle smile, "then we shall continue." He shuffled some papers around on his desk until he pulled out a rolled parchment. He handed it to Arthur who accepted it quickly. He scanned the contents of the note with disinterest until he saw just who the letter was from. He felt the color drain from his face and his lips tighten.

"Absolutely not," Arthur bit out, tossing the note onto the table as if it had scalded his hand. "I won't do it." (He managed to hold back the unspoken and childish, "And you can't make me!", but just barely.)

From Uther's expression, Arthur knew that he'd been expecting this sort of reaction, more or less. The knowledge did little to calm the riot of surprise, anxiety, and resentment that clashed freely in his chest; rather, it made him want to scream in frustration and storm out. Uther sat down and tucked into a bit of suckling pig that had been brought up for his lunch. He ate with measured leisure and Arthur felt his hands clench at his sides.

His father was baiting him; he bit the inside of his cheek, determined not to be tempted into making a fool of himself by acting overtly churlish.

"You will," assured Uther calmly, pausing to wash a bite of food down with a long drink from his wine goblet, "because you must. You will someday be king, Arthur." His eyes grew flinty and he continued in a deadly serious tone. "You will need to learn to put personal feelings aside and go to the aide of our allies when they request it."

"I have no personal feelings in this matter," said Arthur quickly, averting his eyes from his father's probing gaze. He snatched the parchment back up and scanned through it again, aware of Uther's stare heavy and cold upon the side of his face. "I just don't think that a Rom problem in Darlington warrants sending out my knights." He shook his head and pushed his limp blonde locks from his brow with the back of his hand. "Lord Aurelianus should be able to handle this on his own."

Uther nodded, conceding the point. "Normally I would agree with you," he replied as he set down his fork and steepled his fingers, "but this is an unusual circumstance. It seems that the tribe which has settled near Darlington is quite large and led by a cutthroat bandoleer named Emilian. His tribe has started to encroach upon the outer borough and they've been waylaying merchants and other travelers along the main road to the town. As you know, Ambrosius relies heavily on trade to sustain his economy and we rely on him for political reasons."

At Arthur's dour look, Uther stood and leaned over the table, his fingers splayed wide against the dark wood. "It's the way of things, Arthur. I am King of Camelot but it will amount to nothing in the end if we don't have the support of the aristocracy. This will also show the people that Camelot will take care of those who are loyal to the crown. It will rally their spirits."

"Oh I'm sure," Arthur spat darkly, his temper careening to the fore, "that the people of Camelot and Darlington will be most joyous over our conquest of the Rom." He leaned forward, unconsciously matching his father's stance as he placed him palms upon tabletop. "You wouldn't have done this for Ealdor."

"Ealdor," said Uther, his voice steady yet as cold as winter frost, "was below our concern."

Arthur heard the message beneath his father's words, however: Merlin, was beneath our concern.

He grit his teeth. "I suppose I don't have a choice in the matter," he ground out as he spun away from his father and moved toward the door. "Seems like I don't have a choice in much anymore," he muttered, just loud enough to be sure that Uther had heard.

"Arthur."

Arthur stopped, tensing when he felt Uther walk up behind him and put a hand upon his shoulder. He wanted to shrink from the contact - it was unwelcome. It made the anger that slithered through his veins and banded around his heart threaten to erupt. "Yes?" Arthur asked stiffly, stoically refusing to look at him.

Tell me now - is this going to be problem? Are you still too personally involved?"

Arthur couldn't hold back the flinch that came when he heard the disappointment and disdain in his father's voice, but when he spoke his voice was steady, despite the curious and suddenly frantic beat of his heart. "No, it won't be a problem."

"Good." Uther released his shoulder and patted him on the back. "I'm pleased to hear that."

"I'll take care of it, sire," Arthur replied shortly and strode out, every muscle wound tight to keep himself from breaking into a run and fleeing the room altogether.

***

Arthur wasn't surprised that he found his way to the battlements, though he still blinked when he felt the slight breeze stir the humid air against his cheek.

He rarely came up here anymore.

The initial weeks after Merlin's banishment had been filled with varying degrees of anger and denial for Arthur. He'd slept poorly, though each morning he'd wake before dawn and go onto the parapet. He'd hunker down and square his shoulders against the crosswind that swept across the cold grey stone, and wait, tense with anticipation. He'd wait and he'd watch, vigilant for any sign that Merlin had returned; for any sign that Merlin was returning.

In those first few weeks he'd believed that Merlin would find a way to escape Brom and come back to him, because he was unable to go to Merlin himself - Uther had practically barricaded him in his room just to prevent such a thing. He'd still tried.

The last time he had, Arthur had gotten nearly halfway to Darlington before the knights Uther had sent after him caught up with him. He'd fought with them, threatening blood and violence if they prevented him from continuing on to Darlington. The knights - his knights - had been uncertain. In the end they had managed to pin him, kicking and screaming like a child in the throes of a full temper tantrum, to the ground. They'd hog-tied him and tossed him across the back of a horse like a sack.

Suffice to say, the journey back to Camelot had been uncomfortable and humiliating. Worse, when they'd arrived back at the castle, Uther had been so furious with him that he'd thrown him in the dungeons. Arthur had railed at his father and thrown himself against the bars. He'd threatened self-harm if he wasn't allowed to go to Merlin. In retaliation and as a "lesson in princely etiquette", Uther had had him chained like a dangerous criminal.

Then he'd left Arthur there for the better part of a week, until he'd learned his lesson.

Arthur had. He'd borne the marks of his lesson for a long while afterwards in the chafed, bruised skin around his wrists and ankles. He'd been reminded of his lesson in the indiscreet whispers that followed him when he walked through the halls. The lesson had been driven home, however, when he saw the lost respect in the faces of his knights when they looked at him.

That had been the last rescue mission that Arthur had mounted. Merlin just needed some time.

So he waited.

The weeks passed and as they passed, his denial became harder and harder to hold onto. It became harder to rationalize. It became harder for him to understand why Merlin hadn't at least tried to contact him.

He began to doubt. Maybe Merlin had actually liked living with Brom. Maybe Merlin hadn't returned because he didn't want to.

By the end of three months, Arthur began to believe it. By four, he quit going to the battlements altogether. During the sixth, Arthur gave up waiting and hoping. He had to move on. He had to try and live. He got used to the void within himself that Merlin left. He learned to live with the empty space in his heart; space that Merlin used to occupy.

Even still, Merlin was never too far from his thoughts.

Arthur stared down into the courtyard where Camelot's citizens were moving sluggishly in the heat, like he were looking down into a fishbowl and everyone were floating lazily beneath the water. As he gazed down, looking for something and nothing all at once, he rolled a name around in his mouth. He scraped the syllables against his teeth, testing it out and getting a feel for it.

When he spoke it, the sound blundered forth from the confines of his throat. His voice was shaky. "Merlin," he whispered.

In response, the ache that he couldn't suppress squeezed his chest until he couldn't breathe for reasons other than the cloying, moist air. Gods, what was he going to do? For months Merlin had been the only thing on his mind. He'd been the only thing keeping him up at night and the only reason he'd wanted to get up in the morning. For nearly a year, Arthur had done nothing but damn well pine for his former manservant, and now, faced with the prospect of seeing him again, he wasn't so sure he wanted to.

He wasn't so sure he could bear it if he saw that Merlin was happy with someone other than himself. He wasn't sure he could bear knowing that Brom had gotten to touch Merlin for months upon months, while he had to settle for the memory of him.

And it wasn't even that: he'd forgo the physical in a heartbeat if he could be sure he had Merlin back with him and if he could be sure that he had Merlin's forgiveness...

...if he could just make sure that he still had Merlin's love.

Arthur caught sight of a swish of red moving through the courtyard below and recognized it as belonging to Morgana, even from that distance. He grimaced and forwent the urge to hunker down behind the battlement wall to avoid being seen. Ever since she'd found out what had happened in her absence, Morgana had made Arthur's life a living hell. More than one occasion had found the pair in the midst of a magnificent row in plain view of servants, courtesans, his knights - pretty much anyone who was unfortunate enough to be around when they happened to run into one another. Consequently, Arthur had taken to avoiding Morgana whenever he could.

Morgana, however, was if anything dogged in her pursuit of him - doubly so after he'd given up trying to rescue Merlin. Lately though, there had been something more in her glare when she'd turned it on him, something complicated that Arthur was too afraid to try and decipher. If he did, he would have to acknowledge his current problem. It was easier not to.

Far below him, Morgana paused and then moved on, eventually disappearing from view. A sigh slid from between clenched teeth as his thoughts turned to the latest issue that Morgana had taken up with him: Guinevere.

He thought of their most recent conversation on the subject.

"Arthur what you're doing with Gwen is wrong." Arthur glanced away from Morgana's steady glare determinedly, fixing his gaze on a point just over her shoulder. However, Morgana took a deliberate step into his line of sight and Arthur was forced to relent and acknowledge her. He fixed her with a cool stare, though his throat felt tight as he replied to her in a terse, clipped tone.

"What I do or don't do with Guinevere is my business," he said. "I hardly need your permission, but if you must know it's..." he trailed off, uncertain for a moment before swallowing hard and continuing on. "It's complicated, Morgana."

Morgana stared at him, her expression colder than frost on a winter's day. "It's complicated?" she repeated, incredulously. Arthur jerked his head, hoping that his lack of response would deter Morgana from continuing their conversation. It didn't.

"Arthur, you shouldn't be sleeping with her!" Morgana exclaimed loudly, causing him to wince and glance around self-consciously. Her words whipped across the small space that separated them and cracked against his ears. He felt a flash of heat sweep through him and tamped down his guilt and anger with considerable effort. He pulled himself straighter, his back stiff with the tension that wound through him.

"Why's that?" he snapped, some of his irritation bleeding into his tone despite his effort to rein it in.

"Because she cares for you and YOU care for Merlin," replied Morgana, enunciating each syllable as if she were speaking to someone who was unforgivably stupid. Arthur's mouth pulled into a thin, hard line as he pressed his lips together to keep from yelling.

"No," he said quietly. "No. He...I..." Arthur looked down for a moment, as if he might find his answer in the grey stone beneath his feet. There were none to be found. He continued after a lengthy pause. "Despite what I might have felt for Merlin once, he's gone. He wants to be there, alright? Otherwise he would have returned by now, or at least have tried to contact me."

Morgana stared at him in silence for another minute, an expression of utter astonishment written across her features. She narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath - Arthur mentally steeled himself for the tirade he was sure was coming. Morgana only gathered her skirts however, and said, "You, Arthur Pendragon, are an insufferable fool and terribly stupid." Then she turned and walked off with a swish of fabric.

"Arthur?"

Arthur, tugged from his thoughts, turned slowly towards Guinevere who stood several feet away, by the entrance to the parapet. He offerred her a forced smile and pushed Morgana's words to the back of his mind. Arthur's gaze wandered over Gwen appreciatively, as she walked to him. Her dusky skin was bright with sweat, and her dark hair was pulled loosely atop her head in an attempt to keep cool. 'Gwen has a lovely neck,' Arthur thought as he watched rivulets of moisture trail down her throat and disappear between her breasts, 'but it's not like his.'

"Guinevere," he greeted when she drew near, his eyes dropping to his hand when she reached out and took it in her own. It was small and it fit nicely inside of his; her skin was a pleasing contrast of nut-brown against his own paleness. He rubbed his thumb lightly across her palm and was rewarded when a faint shiver rippled through her body.

"What are you doing up here?" she questioned, her gaze searching his face for something he hoped was hidden. After a moment, she dropped her eyes and instead studied their entwined fingers, a line of consternation stitched between her brows.

Arthur stared at her down-turned face. His gaze skimmed her pretty features, which, individually weren't terribly remarkable - not like Morgana's eyes, for instance - but arranged together created a rather lovely portrait. There was peace to be found in her, should he want it, and there was love too, brimming in the depths of her kind eyes.

He knew on some level that she loved him, perhaps even before they'd started to share a bed. Try as he might, however, Arthur didn't love Guinevere - not exactly. She offered him a reprieve from the nightmares and offered acceptance in the fullness of her breasts and heat between her thighs as he sunk himself into her body. She didn't judge him for what had happened; more importantly, she didn't judge him for what he'd become.

For that Arthur was infinitely grateful.

And that was it: he was grateful - but he didn't love her, at least not like she deserved. Morgana knew it and he knew it. He simply chose not to openly admit it. He and Gwen came together under the wrong circumstances for their union to be anything but imperfect. Most nights Arthur knew he should tell Gwen no, that this was the last time he would share his bed with her, but his resolve was weak.

He needed the comfort she had to offer. He needed the reprieve from the ache he'd felt since the day Merlin had been taken. He needed her implicit understanding of his foolishness as much as he needed her acceptance of it. He needed her strength; he needed the subtle resolve he heard in her voice when she brushed her fingers down his bare chest and whispered, "It's okay to move on, Arthur. This is okay."

Arthur needed that and he was selfish enough to keep taking what Gwen offered, even if he knew he could never return exactly what she wanted.

Guinevere glanced up at him with an honest curiosity reflected in her gaze and he wondered that if under the right circumstances or if given enough time, if he could learn to love her. Maybe he could. Either way, it was almost foolish to ponder: he was a prince and she was not royalty. Even their casual acquaintance would likely be frowned upon.

This was convenience, nothing more. Arthur wouldn't - and couldn't - allow it be more.

He realized that he'd been silent a bit too long when Gwen began to fidget under his stare. He broke the tension with a crooked smile and tugged her fingers up to his mouth. He kissed the tips lightly. "Sorry," he said. He dropped her hand and turned back towards the wall, and resumed peering down into the city. "I just came from Uther's quarters. I needed some place to think." He felt her settle beside him and caught a glimpse of a dark curl from the corner his eye. He refrained from brushing it back behind her ear.

"I see," said Gwen carefully after a moment or two. Arthur was quietly amazed at her poise; often she seemed flustered and at a loss for words. It was another reminder of how much had changed and were continuing to change. "What did he have to say?" There was something else in her voice: an unspoken question lined with focused curiosity. Arthur realized that she already knew what he'd seen Uther about, which meant that Morgana had known before him.

So he was the last to know - yet again.

Arthur couldn't be surprised. "So you know I'll be going to help out with a Rom tribe near Darlington." It was a statement of fact and not a question. He heard Guinevere's sigh and quiet admission.

"Yes," she replied, "Morgana, um, told me after breakfast this morning. She said I would be, well, you know - interested in knowing that you were going, because..."

Arthur let her trail off. He didn't try to finish her train of thought. They both knew why Morgana had said that. He made a disgruntled sound in the back of this throat and straightened, suddenly irritated with the heat, the conversation, and Camelot in general. "I don't even want to go," he muttered and turned away from his aimless perusal of the courtyard below. "Duke Aurelianus can take care of his own Rom problem. They're just colourful thieves, after all, nothing more. He should chase the lot of them out with fire and dogs - that's how you extinguish vermin."

"I think you should go," said Gwen quietly.

Her words, though soft-spoken, held such regal temerity that Arthur felt his irritation fall away. "You really think so?" he asked, somewhat mollified by the quiet confidence in her voice; a type of confidence that he was learning was unique to Gwen alone.

"Yes," she replied with tremulous smile that betrayed the resolve of her tone. "You need this Arthur. You," she paused and took a breath, "you need closure."

It sounded like it took a lot for her to make that admission.

"Closure," repeated Arthur. He looked at her and saw a delicate sort of hope clearly etched across her brown face. He smiled at her and cupped her cheek, before leaning down to brush his lips across hers in a chaste kiss. "You may be right, Guinevere." He felt guilt slice deeply into him when she smiled back at him, wide and full of an emotion he simply couldn't find in himself to reciprocate.

"Be careful," she said, grabbing his wrist boldly - she was never quite timid, not really, Arthur had just been blind to her inner strength for a long time - halting him before he could stride away. "Arthur," she bit her lip and averted her eyes, as if suddenly aware she was talking to Arthur, the Prince of Camelot and not the Arthur she shared her bed with. Gwen took a deep breath and released his wrist. "If you see him and he's not..." she paused, clearly searching for the correct words. "If he's not happy," she continued, "please bring him back." She touched his face, bringing Arthur's gaze back to her when he looked away uncomfortably. "Arthur, promise me you will. Please."

She didn't need to clarify who him was. Arthur stared down into her face for a long time, trying to sort out the knot of emotion that suddenly rose in him at her words. "Why would you have me do that?" he asked in a low, hushed tone. "Why when we...?"

Guinevere reached out to touch him again, her hands fluttering birdlike before settling carefully, one on his chest the other on his shoulder. "Because it's the right thing to do, Arthur," she replied softly, though with conviction. "Because despite what we have now, Merlin is still our friend. I miss him, you know?" Moisture brimmed in her eyes and Arthur gently brushed away a teardrop with the pad of his thumb.

Gwen's words hurt fiercely. Her kindness was at once baffling and overwhelming to him, and Arthur couldn't decide how to respond to it. He just nodded, not trusting himself to say the right thing. Guinevere closed her eyes when he pressed a soft kiss to her brow. She fisted her fingers in his shirt when he moved to step back. He paused and gave her a questioning look. "Don't..." she opened her eyes and looked at him, her expression insecure, "don't forget about what we have."

Arthur was dim to a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid. He could see the words she truly wanted to say dance about the tip of her tongue. He knew what Guinevere was asking and suddenly, he wished he didn't have to lie to her so baldly. He squeezed her hand briefly. Her palm was warm against his own. "I won't forget," he lied and kissed her cheek.

Her eyes said: 'I love you.' Arthur knew what she wanted him to say. Some part of him wanted to give Guinevere what she deserved to hear, but when he opened his mouth to say the words they turned to ash on his tongue. He couldn't say it. He couldn't tell Gwen that he loved her.

He wouldn't. He was too used to the dull bite of Merlin's absence in his life, in his heart. He was accustomed to it; it was a reminder of why he couldn't let Guinevere become too close. Arthur's expression went flat and Gwen inhaled a shaky breath. Arthur could verily feel the hurt that trembled against her lips. He looked away from her. Then, without a single glance back, he turned and walked away.

(To be continued...)