It was a long time before he ventured out of the cave at all. Daylight hurt his eyes and made his flesh creep. He liked the night, when the dark canopy of trees overhead felt almost as safe as the roof of his cave. Then he would sit at the edge of the entrance, listening entranced to the trickling, soothing sound of the stream nearby. It called to him, and, for those blessed moments, eased the horrible keening sound that never left his mind. Slowly, he would slink forward, kneel by the water, and drink his fill. He was always thirsty…

…and he was always reluctant to leave. The shadows played with the moonlight on the water, splashing and running down the silvery path. They mesmerized him.

He was still watching them when she came.

Her thoughts hit him all at once, the white-hot hate sending him sprawling backward. Mute with fear, he scrambled to his feet and threw himself back in the safety of his cave. To his horror, she followed. She was calling to him, laughing, her words and thoughts tearing his mind into shreds. Over rocks, through little hollows with shallow pools he crept, frantic, never far enough away. In the end, he found himself against the back wall of the cave, pressing into the rock, gasping and whimpering as her smothering presence drew closer.

The light she had conjured went away, and lovely darkness crept in. But she ruined it—he knew she was still there. The sound of his breathing, harsh and desperate, filled the cave, joined with the crunch of rock as his feet shifted nervously over and over again.

Then two rings of gold flashed in front of his eyes. In the damp dark, hands reached for him and her thoughts skewered his mind easily and her cold hands pressed him against the wall, hard—harder, and all the while she was whispering...

The rock behind him was softening, moving, welcoming him, just like the pit.

No! Merlin wanted to scream, sudden clarity taking his breath. Merlin! That's my name! Yes! It was Morgana pressing him into the rock. And he wouldn't—

The rings of gold brightened, showing a hateful face inches away, and the whispering grew until it seemed more like a scream, and the keening, confusion and pain drowned his thoughts. Then the darkness was his home, and the rock was welcoming him, growing a perfectly shaped space just for him. His head fell back limply, cradled by soft rock. He was so….tired. Why had he been fighting so hard? Hiding? The rings of light aren't so bad. He could still see them, disembodied, floating, fading. Somehow, the rock surrounding him was letting him breathe, like a suit of armor made of stone, except he was pretty sure that he couldn't move very much.

At first, that was okay.

And then the golden circles of light died. Darkness closed in, the rock grew hard…and he couldn't move. The terror began as a small, icy seed, but it blossomed fast and expanded until nothing else fit inside him but panic. He was straining every muscle, pushing, pulling, screaming, gasping, fighting to get out—to move—to take in air— please!Terminally short of breath, muscles burning, helpless against the rock, he felt his senses die…one by one.

Arthur, his head occupied with thoughts of leading his council toward a more lenient stance on tax evasion, stopped in midsentence when his guards interrupted, dragging a disheveled, dirty figure inside. The council members began whispering among themselves. Arthur raised a hand to censure his guards, but froze mid-gesture as the man on his knees raised his head to cast a feral look at the king. It was Gwaine.

Arthur strode from the table, stopping abruptly as he realized that he could not very well begin yelling the questions he desperately wanted to ask before the council. Where was Merlin? Everything about Gwaine's posture screamed that something was wrong. Why else would he be here?

The guard was speaking, something about Gwaine shouting at the guard outside the gates. Apparently, he had been rather insulting.

"No doubt," Arthur said drily. He could feel the stares of the council, their questioning glances, but none of them knew their king had threatened Merlin and Gwaine with death upon their return. For them, the story of the servant returning to Ealdor because of illness and the knight accompanying him was the last they had heard, though surely they were coming to the same conclusion as Arthur: Merlin was dead, or injured and dying.

"Guys," Gwaine said in a low tone. "You can let go now."

The guards waited for Arthur's nod before releasing Gwaine's arms. The knight immediately stood, tossed his hair out of his eyes and gave Arthur an even look. "Arthur."

Arthur blinked. The guards rushed back over and struck Gwaine in the knees so that he knelt again. A dagger appeared at his throat. "You will be respectful to your king."

"He's not my king, not even in name," Gwaine ground out between clenched teeth. "Not until he earns it again. Now let me go."

Two months ago, Arthur would have thrown him into the dungeons without a twinge of guilt, but not now. Now he understood the dark anger bordering on hatred that he saw in Gwaine's eyes. Only he and Gwaine knew why his stomach curdled with shame when he remembered that day and how he had treated his servant, his protector, his friend. In light of Merlin's efforts to protect and guide Arthur, however misguided and dangerous they might have been, Arthur's treatment of him had been appalling. Gwaine, a trusted knight simply being loyal to his friend, should never have gotten caught in the crossfire, much less banished for exhibiting noble behavior. Because of this, Arthur felt that he not only could excuse Gwaine's disrespect toward him, but deserved it from this man. He gestured to the guards, who, with some surprise, stepped back and removed themselves to stand by the door.

Gwaine once again stood and crossed his arms. "I'm here about Merlin."

Arthur's heart started beating hard and fast. "I thought as much. Please," he turned to the council members, "leave us. We will reconvene…I will let you know when we will reconvene." When they looked back as they scurried away with their parchments and sour looks, Arthur smiled as reassuringly as he could. "Thank you."

He dropped the smile as soon as the door closed and stepped closer to Gwaine. "What happened?"

"Morgana," Gwaine growled. "She got to him somehow, and managed to keep me back. I…I can't even describe what it was she did to him…"

A wild storm of emotion took hold of Arthur, but he fought it back. Taking another step, he felt his whole world narrow down to one question. "But he lives?"

"I think so," Gwaine said softly. "But she's messed up his head, made him see all people as his enemies, or that's what it looked like. He couldn't stand to be near anybody, not even me. He ran and…his trail went cold about a week ago."

"A week? Where?"

"Deep in the forest of Ascetir. I marked the spot—"

"Then we go—" Arthur was already sprinting for the door when he slowed his steps, holding a hand out to halt Gwaine. This was it, the point of no return. The two sides of himself that had argued for months, duty and love, had not yet come to a truce, and they battled in his head even now. He could do what his kingdom needed, or do what his heart told him.

Gwaine, seeming to sense his reason for hesitation, started right in, battering Arthur with angry words. Arthur had no focus left to give the man; his whole being was fixed on the divergent path before him. He had to choose, as always. But did he have to choose between his kingdom and himself?

Merlin would have counseled against pure duty, saying that what was good for the king was good for his kingdom. It was almost as if the man were standing beside him, thinking with him.Yes.Merlin had taught Arthur that even a king had a right to choose what made him happy, what made his heart whole. Arthur had chosen to forgive Gwen, to ask her for her hand on the basis of that counsel. He had given up trying to guess at how his late father would have handled matters, and had instead begun to explore his own kingly convictions, in many small areas. But this…?

Arthur's feet, as though predicting his outcome, began walking. His head lifted. And with a smile of blessed relief that brought tears to his eyes, he knew what he was going to do. Yes, this.

Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, was going to save his best friend—his servant—duty and consequences be damned.

Nothing had changed when he next stirred. Darkness, dripping water somewhere, a smothering cocoon of rock—that was the extent of his world. Eventually he realized that his face was wet and that the air against his face was fresh, coming from somewhere beyond his tomb of darkness. How? It was so dark that the blackness felt pressed against his eyelids; he could not tell where the rock began and ended around him. Despite the fresh air, he could barely breathe.

The panic that had so recently burned itself out in him rekindled. Every movement scraped against rock, his sore muscles helplessly trembling in the small space. He fought against the fear, trying to calm himself, trying to find something to hold on to in the blankness of his mind. But…there was nothing for him to remember. His mind was a void—no memories, no name, no…anything.

Blurred faces were all that remained, and…

There was a fragment, just the barest breath of a place left in his memory. It was a lake, placid, still as glass. Another fragment was held a wood, so beautiful, so transcendent—could it have been real? There were ripples on the lake now, and a boat…and flames? The images were torn for some reason, disjointed. Someone was in the boat, but he could not see who. Why flames? There was no answer inside him.

The lake made him weep, but the vision steadied him. Somehow he knew that there, at that place, he had loved. He had loved, had been loved, and had done something important, something worthy of remembering. If only he could...

It seemed like hours before he could hold the lake and the woods and the boat and the flames in his mind without them dissolving again, but finally, he managed it. Then, like a whisper, a name came to him. It resonated deep within him, like a dream or a destiny…

Avalon.

At first, it was all he could see. He shifted minutely in his tomb, holding the panic at bay, searching his mind for something else, anything else to give him a name, a life, a reason for being in this hell. But beyond Avalon, the blackness in his mind very nearly matched the blackness around him. It was enough to drive him mad and keening again, but he held on to his one memory and waited.

Eventually, he gave up and let go again, drifting…not thinking at all, just waiting. And then—yes—another fragment of memory flickered by. A pile of armor on the ground beside him. A warm shaft of sunlight making the dancing dust motes in the air twinkle. His hand, cleaner that he could ever remember seeing it, holding a soft cloth and rubbing it in neat circles on the cool, smooth surface of a breastplate, calmly, sanely. He was humming something tuneless, glad to be sitting and taking a break from…something else. Whose was the armor? What had he been taking a break from? He hummed?

This memory wasn't charged with emotion, wasn't hard to piece together. It was a small moment, something tucked away without him even realizing. He had been happy that day. The feeling of warmth and contentment pushed back the black for a long time.

Avalon…and armor. Love and happiness. He could remember that. What else was there buried in his mind, beneath the terrible fog of nothingness?

He let his mind drift again, but it took a long, long time for another memory to surface. This time, it was in tiny pieces—a dark, dusty floor, hard against his back. Nearby, a fire. People were scattered around him, sleeping. There were whispers…and a terrible task lay before him. But he hadn't been alone. In fact, something about that moment had cemented that feeling strongly in his heart: you are not alone.

Tears again filled his eyes. You are not alone. Painstakingly, he pulled the images together, weaving them into a whole. Had he been inside a castle? Yes…beside a warm fire, not alone, waiting through a long night to do the impossible. He somehow got the feeling that he did that often.

Avalon, armor, and a warm fire. Love, happiness, and companionship. He smiled tremulously and wrapped the memories around himself like a warm blanket.

They arrived at the town of Dorst in a flurry of horses, shouts, and kingly commands. Arthur's nerves were stretched thin by this point, caught between a driving fever for haste and a fierce need for caution. So far, their luck had run both ways. They had managed to avoid any of King Lot's soldiers as they traveled through Essetir but they had yet to find even a single sign of Merlin's trail in the forest where Gwaine had last seen his tracks. Which was why they had pressed on to the place Gwaine had last seen Merlin in his right mind.

Arthur took one look at the building and strode toward Gwaine. "This, Gwaine, is a tavern. Are you telling me that you took him here?" The ex-knight only glowered in return. Arthur gritted his teeth and stepped in closer, biting his words off. "You know Merlin can't hold his drink. You were exposing him to every kind of—"

"What the hell—" Gwaine cursed furiously and yelled in return, "You exposed him when you kicked him out of Camelot!"

Arthur glared, taking several deep breaths through flared nostrils before turning away. "You said there was a girl. Find her."

It didn't take long. Questions put to the tavern crowd by Arthur's knights quickly revealed that the girl had fallen ill and was abed at her mother's cottage. The knights and Arthur wasted no time in riding to the other side of the town, where a weary and overwhelmed lady opened the door and tremulously agreed to let the king of Camelot see her daughter, Lianne.

Arthur put on his most humble manners and knelt beside the girl's bedside as his knights lurked in the doorway. "Lianne, can you tell me about a young man you met a few days ago—tall and lanky, with black hair and striking blue eyes? He would have been dressed very humbly, with a red or blue neckerchief."

"Red," Gwaine corrected abruptly.

"Red," Arthur repeated, then turned his attention back to the girl. She was pretty enough—blonde and fine-browed—but there was a grayish, waxy cast to her skin. The young girl lay cast back awkwardly upon her pillow as though too weak to change positions. Her lips trembled, and her lilting voice was a whisper.

"Yes, yes. His eyes…but I barely remember. A fog was in my brain, it was. An' I did somethin'…I think. But I don't know…I don't know what." Tears rolled down her face, and Percival, behind Arthur, shifted. Arthur held a hand back to still the large man.

"Please. We must find him. Anything you can remember…anything at all."

She seized his gloved hand suddenly, and her wild brown eyes found his. "I didna know I had done it until I woke, you ha' to believe me."

"What did you do?"

She sniffed. "I mixed somethin'…herbs…I don't know why! I swear I'm no witch. Please…believe me."

Arthur bowed his head briefly. "I believe you. There was a witch here that night. She may have enchanted you."

The girl lay back, sighing so deeply that her body went limp. "Yes," she said, tears leaking out of her eyes. "I didna even remember until they showed me—the herbs an' the mortar an' pestle. I mixed somethin' an'…an' put it in his drink, the poor lad…an' he was the one she took, an'…an' I helped to do that to him."

Arthur gripped her hand tightly. "You are far less guilty than I. Put your mind at rest. We will help him, I swear." Her brown eyes slowly went blank and wandered again. Arthur stood and nodded at his men to leave the poor girl alone. The mother pushed her way through and knelt by her daughter's side.

Arthur hesitated before speaking again. "Thank you for your help. I hope she recovers soon." When the lady wept instead of speaking, Arthur took his leave. By way of a token of thanks and sympathy, he had Percival drop five gold coins from the royal purse on the table.

The bright sunlight shone in their faces as they strode back to the horses. "Well, at least now we know how she got to Merlin. He was drugged," Leon said in a dark voice.

"Sire?" Elyan said quietly, gesturing. Arthur stopped, looking back toward the house where Gwaine—as pale as skimmed milk—had dropped to his knees. Arthur took a deep breath and rubbed at the nasty ache between his eyes; then he strode back to the man and crouched beside him. Gwaine was already talking, seemingly to himself.

"…but it was through me. She got to him through me," Gwaine said, trailing off in a choked whisper.

"And me," Arthur said succinctly. "But I am resolved to do whatever it takes to make amends." Gwaine's eyes found his and they shared a look of guilt that slowly grew into resolve. "Are you with me?"

Gwaine gave a nod and picked himself up off the ground. He flicked his hair out of his face and stayed a pace behind Arthur on his way to the horses.

"What do we do now, sire?" Leon asked.

Arthur sucked in a deep breath and let it out steadily. "We wait."

Percival and Elyan exchanged glances. "And why do we wait, sire?" Elyan finally managed to ask.

"Because Morgana wants me. She knows I'm here. She'll come."

"But, sire," Leon spoke up after shaking his head, "she might take the opportunity to march against Camelot. If we wait for her here, we'll be playing right into her hands."

Arthur turned to stare at Leon. "Sir Leon, tread carefully. Are you saying that Merlin is not important enough to warrant our staying to engage Morgana?"

"No, sire! No. I…understand. We stay until we find Merlin, then."

"We do," Arthur agreed firmly. "Morgana has already taken Camelot once. I was the only thing she did not take, to her detriment. This time, she will be after me. And Merlin, though I would give my right arm to have it otherwise, is the bait." Arthur saw each of his men nod in understanding after a moment's thought. "She will come soon, and she will tell me how to find him."

But despite his readiness, she did not come in the way that he expected.

A/N: According to Merlin wikia, which knows waaaay more than I do, the Forest of Ascetir is spelled differently than the land in which it is located: Essetir. I have no idea why there is this discrepancy, but let's just go with it, all right?

A/N: Huge thanks to Eilonwyn, who is a fantastic beta!