Chapter 6: Lingering

Gwen was almost sure she was going to lose the game. Arthur was concentrating on his strategy and moves in order to keep the conversation on safer, less thought-provoking ground. The knock on the door, a casual courtesy since it stood open, was sometime of a relief.

"My lord," Percival said, "Lady Guinevere?"

Arthur stood, and Gwen motioned for the knight to enter, so she wouldn't have to crane her neck looking at him in a position mostly behind her. "What news?" she said.

"The sorceress attacked, in the West Half of the city," Percival told them, and Arthur took an involuntary step forward, his jaw tight and his eyes hard, his hands in fists at his side. Percival inclined his head to the prince and added, "Your sorcerer defeated her. We have just brought her body to the palace in preparation for the disposal of both corpses together."

Gwen sighed, sinking back in her seat. It was terrible to think of the kindly old servant and her son dead – but they had made their choices. Terrible ones, with terrible consequences. She felt bad that Merlin had been the one to deal with them both. And thankful, at the same time, that he was strong enough and skillful enough and willing, to do it for them.

"And Merlin?" Arthur asked.

"Sleeping." At the prince's look of blatant incredulity, Percival glanced at Gwen. "The man he stayed with last night, the man who reported on the death of Mary Collins, he's a friend of mine. We figured on letting Merlin rest – he's earned it, hasn't he - and he'll be looked after, there."

Arthur gave her a look of indecision, and she said, "He'll still send you that message when he wakes, won't he?"

"I should go see him," Arthur said. There was a moment of awkward silence, in which Percival looked again at Gwen and neither of them repeated the obvious, he's sleeping – what did Arthur think he'd be able to do, other than interrupt that rest and wake him up. The prince caught the glance and amended, "Well, then, could you please ask Leon to check on him?"

Percival gave a brief polite bow. "Yes, my lord."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya spent the afternoon watching Merlin sleep. More or less, between odd jobs around the house, quieter chores. So of course it happened that he woke the first time she was out of sight for more than a few minutes.

She pushed her way through the door, trying to be as quiet as possible, trying not to spill any of the well-water from her bucket. She glanced over at Gwaine's cot – after this long, she hadn't really expected much change, though logically he couldn't sleep forever – and stopped.

He was sitting up on the edge of the cot, feet on the floor, elbows on his knees, head resting on the heel of one hand. Motionless, and she wondered if he'd heard her come in at all.

There was something different about him. The confidence and determination she'd seen in that brief instant he'd paused in his pursuit of Thomas through the twisted alleyways was diminished, while the humility was more pronounced, and the loyalty was almost overwhelmingly strong. But the magic…

His shoulders were slumped in a weary kind of way, in spite of the hours he'd spent in slumber – then again, she did not know what it felt like to be responsible for another's death, justified or not. Gwaine had, she knew, though she'd never asked to hear particulars; he didn't seem to regret the death of his enemy so much as the necessity of it, that it had fallen to him once more to shoulder that responsibility.

Maybe that was what she saw in Merlin.

"You're awake," she ventured, and he jumped like she'd thrown something at him, reacting startled and wary and taking a moment, she realized, to recognize his surroundings. And her.

"What happened?" he said, his voice so raspy she almost couldn't understand the words. "With Mary? You're all right, aren't you?"
She set her bucket of water down next to the storage barrel in the corner, retrieving the dipper to fill a cup for him. He swallowed a mouthful dutifully, then rested the cup on his knees as she leaned her hip against the side of the table.

"Mary's dead," she told him softly. He stared at her, uncomprehending, and she added, "When Gwaine came home, he found her body – in the alley." She didn't mention the condition of the corpse; Gwaine had used few enough words, and yet still too many. Burned, had been one. Unrecognizable, another. He hadn't realized it was Mary until she'd told him what happened. Then he'd taken her oldest blanket, and ordered her to remain inside until the matter was dealt with.

Merlin's eyes, dark with exhaustion in his pale face, shifted past her as he processed the information, then nodded in numb acceptance. "Where is he now?" His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

"He went with the guards, and – Mary's body," she said. After Gwaine had moved Merlin to his own cot, stripped off his jacket and washed him up a bit. Dirt and blood on his hands, and neither of them speculated to the other about how that had come about; his errand to apprehend Thomas the sorcerer-assassin was explanation enough.

He looked down into the water in the cup, then up into Freya's eyes, blank confusion on his face. "How long have I been here?" he asked.

"A little over five hours," she told him, and his eyes widened in disbelief. "They decided… since you were only sleeping, just to let you sleep. You'd earned it, they said." She gave him a smile.

"They?"

"The knights."

"And Arthur?" He pushed himself up from the cot carefully, as if he half-expected to fall, perhaps still physically disoriented by his experiences and the long period of unconscious sleep.

"I'm sure they've told him by now – what happened, and where you are, and that you're all right." She watched him closely, determined to do her best to catch him if he did fall, even if he ended up knocking her to the ground again. He took two steps, then three, and put his hand out blindly to brace himself on the table. "Merlin – are you all right?" He gave his head a quick little shake. "What is it?" she added, more concerned.

"The magic." He lifted his eyes to her and offered a tired smile. "I had it out with Thomas this morning for a while – well, with Thomas and Mary, both. She was with the hunting party. In revenge for… Thomas' death, she put the illusion of a deer onto the Lady Guinevere." Freya gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. "No, she was fine," Merlin added, forestalling her question. "But that required more magic, to reverse the enchantment and heal Gwen, and then the transportation spell to return here, and then Mary…" He stopped and squinted down, as if trying to figure out why he'd said so much.

Poor boy. "No wonder you were tired," Freya said. And hungry, too? "I'm – just about to start dinner, if – if you'd like to stay? Gwaine should be home…" Sometime. Although she wouldn't be surprised to learn that he'd passed by the tavern for a drink first. The expression in his eyes and on his face as he stood looking down on Merlin unconscious in his bed – the black of his hair in sharp contrast with the white of his skin – was so very much the same as how he'd looked down at Gareth, she knew Gwaine had been thinking of the younger brother they'd lost.

Tension seemed to drop from Merlin's body, and the smile he gave her was beautiful. "I would love to stay," he told her. "But… not very late. And I should send that message to Arthur."

When he didn't move, she turned to lift the inkwell and quill from the shelf for him, and rummaged in her little collection of spare parchment for a piece small enough to tie to a pigeon's leg. Still he hesitated, and she slid the bench to him. He dropped onto it and leaned over the table, pushing his fingers into his hair and then gripping it. She watched him for a moment, then turned back to her own work.

Now that he was awake, and because they no longer needed to fear an attack, she'd decided to move the honeyflower and motherwort to the roof as well, and all of her plants needed water. She waited for Merlin to go to the roof, for the sake of his company, or to continue to keep an eye on him – why, though, she couldn't answer, maybe the habit of the afternoon hours – but he took twice as long writing that short note to his prince as he had the night before.

She took the honeyflower in the crook of one elbow and gripped the rim of the other pot so the long stalk of the motherwort could rest against her shoulder, and led the way up the steep and narrow steps to the roof. He followed more slowly, his head down and one hand on the wall for balance or support. And when she stopped at the table to release and re-arrange her burden, he went to the parapet at the front of the street without speaking to her. If he spoke the spell to call the pigeon aloud, she didn't hear it. She did wonder if it was the same bird, when it flapped to a perch beside him.

When she returned to the roof with a bucketful of the rain-water from the barrel at the corner of the building, he was still seated on the front parapet overlooking the street, his legs dangling over the outside edge, and his shoulders slumped as if he felt the weight of ages. There was a bit of darkness around him, or in him, and once again she saw that his magic was – different. Affected. Unsettled. As she dipped an appropriate amount of water for each of her plants she saw that he still seemed oblivious to his surroundings – nothing in the street caught his attention. She wanted to ask again, but felt awkward questioning the wellbeing of a powerful sorcerer, or the health of a physician's apprentice.

Or – maybe that was it.

It was hard enough for someone like Gwaine – or one of the knights, or Merlin's prince – to take a life in defense of himself or another innocent, but for someone like Merlin it was probably worse. He'd been trained in and was studying further the healing arts. Maybe that was the turmoil she sensed from his magic, used for such opposite purposes in a short amount of time.

She approached him quietly; he was studying the palms of his hands lying unmoving in his lap. She seated herself on the parapet next to him but facing inward, not quite close enough for her hip to touch his.

"Do you believe in destiny?" she said, with gentle good humor using the question he'd posed to her the night before.

He snorted, and shook his head. "Sometimes," he said, lifting his eyes and turning his head to look at the palace towers rising over the city in the near distance, "I don't know what to believe."

Shyly, she reached to take his hand in both of hers, cradle it in her lap. His hands matched the rest of him, she thought, fingers long and lean, knobby bones, unexpected strength. She brushed her fingertips across the calluses on his palm, the insides of his fingers. It was not such a surprising thing to find, after all, evidence of hard labor on the hands of a man capable of – she believed – doing almost anything and everything with magic, when you remembered the humility that was such a part of his character.

There was something else, though, that whispered to her of innocence sacrificed.

"It is worth it, though, isn't it?" she said.

He turned to her with a swift mild shock, and the blue of his eyes was bright with unshed tears. She wanted to do something for him to make him feel better, say something to comfort him, show him… She wasn't quite brave enough to spread her arms for another embrace. Maybe he was no longer a stranger, but he was not a native of her city, his presence only temporary. His relationship with his prince placed him in regular company with nobility – compared to whom, she was nobody.

So she only rested her head against his shoulder, her face turned away, offering companionable but limited contact. So it would not be misunderstood to the embarrassment of either; she had not forgotten Mary's accusation.

He turned slightly to accommodate her, and after a moment laid his head down on her shoulder, also. For all his slumped posture, there was tension in every muscle, but as he drew in one breath after another against the collar of her dress and her neck and the side of her hair, she felt that strain slowly fade. And she was reasonably sure she smelled a bit better than yesterday, when he'd pulled her from Halig's cage.

"Yes," he mumbled against her. "It was worth it." After a moment he added, "Freya… I am glad for these two days."

She didn't try to unravel hidden meaning from his words, to assume any more than the honest truth in his words, but answered with equal candor, "I am too, Merlin."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen tested her ankle walking across the room. Enid had returned ostensibly to help her prepare for dinner, but since she didn't intend to change, there wasn't anything to be done.

There was stiffness and a mild ache, but she could manage on her own. She'd be careful about the stairs, and since the morning's confrontation had prompted her father to postpone the banquet for another night, there would be no dancing, no standing, no strolling required of her. She'd be fine.

It was Arthur she was concerned about.

After his admission of his experience with enchantments, he'd seemed to retreat back into proper courtly behavior – kind and correct and honest, but… She hadn't known what to say. To reassure him that he hadn't made a mistake confiding his feelings. To sympathize with the concern – that everyone held to a certain extent, it seemed to her – that true, reciprocated love would somehow pass by. She'd answered in the same way, the civility of mere acquaintances once again. But it left her dissatisfied, somehow.

"Where are you going?" Enid asked as Gwen made her way slowly but determinedly to the door.

"I think I'll offer to escort Prince Arthur to dinner tonight," Gwen said.

"Do you want me to walk with you?" the maid offered, pausing as she swept the stone floor.

"No, I can make it."

"It's early yet," Enid reminded her.

She gave the older girl a cheerful smile. "Then I'll have plenty of time to get there."

It seemed a little movement helped with the stiffness. She traveled the hallway at a reasonable speed, and negotiated the stairway with caution. By the time she reached the door to the guest chamber below hers, where Arthur was staying, she flattered herself that the limp wasn't even noticeable.

Pleased with herself, she rapped her knuckles on the door, and heard Arthur's voice call out, Come in. That answered the question of whether he was alone or not; whatever servant had been assigned to him upon his arrival was not in attendance to answer the door.

She turned the handle to disengage the latch and pushed through – and froze very nearly mid-step.

The prince was not dressed for dinner, yet. In fact he was almost not dressed at all.

Shirtless and barefoot, he stood at the wash basin on the commode with his back to her, just hanging the towel he'd used over the bar. It wasn't the display of his muscles that caught her attention, though they were well-defined, bunching and stretching as he moved, beneath skin pale and smooth and somehow perfectly matched to the golden sheen of his hair.

It was the scar that shocked her speechless, as he turned saying negligently, "Leon, I thought –" He stopped abruptly, seeing her, but since her eyes were on his side and not his face, she had no idea of his expression – embarrassment or outraged dignity or... It was a thick scar, and white; as she moved closer she could see a deeper lavender beneath the surface, fine striations crossing the width of the mark that started near his navel and descended past his belt where it rode his left hip.

"Arthur," she whispered, reaching to trace it in disbelief.

"Dinas Emrys," he said in a low mild tone. She glanced up right into the light blue of his eyes and he gave her half a smile. "I told you he saved my life."

"But –" she said. "But this…" she passed her thumb over the scar, tugging at his belt to find the other end of the mark, just below and outside his hipbone.

"Morgana said –" He cleared his throat. "It looked like someone had tried to chop me in half."

She felt inexplicable tears filling her eyes. She knew he'd been but a boy when he went to that battle, but she hadn't realized what a near thing his death had been. It seemed to her a tragedy of the highest order, that such a young man – strong and handsome, yes, skillful and smart, maybe, kind and wise – all the makings of a great king, might have ended his life before it had really begun. His loss would have hurt more than his family. More than Camelot. All of Albion would have suffered irreparable loss at his untimely death.

She remembered that the same young sorcerer had healed her own wound, just that morning, leaving no outward indication at all. "He's gotten better at healing magic, I suppose," she said.

"Because of the scar?" Arthur said. "No, that was… my father didn't give him the chance, at the time, and later… it just never seemed important. It's a good reminder."

"Of what?" she asked.

He gave her another half-smile, which again took the arrogance from his words and added a shattering sincerity, "The cost of destiny."

And any other lordling prating about destiny she'd dismiss immediately as intolerably conceited. For Arthur, it was only the truth, and because it awed her a bit, she dropped her eyes from the clear frankness of his gaze, and realized what she was doing.

Oh, dear heavens, the prince was half naked. She'd somehow forgotten that in her concern over the evidence of the injury. And she was touching him! She snatched her hand away, trying to erase from her memory the warm smooth tautness of his skin, the hint of hard muscle beneath. Trying to deny the irresistible curious desire to run her fingers over his shoulders, through the fine golden hair on his chest and –

She closed her eyes and gave her head a little shake and took an unsteady half-step backward.

"Guinevere," he said, his voice little more than a throaty whisper. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak or to look into his eyes. "I want to… but I'm not sure that… we probably shouldn't…"

It was the uncertainty in his tone that coaxed her to look at him. His eyes traced her lips, then searched hers again, as if for permission.

One kiss. That one stolen, hurried mashing of her lips against Lancelot's beautiful mouth was her only experience with this. Her heart thudded in her chest as a snarl of questions and emotions and doubts tumbled through her mind. His stammered fragments were eloquent compared to the jumble that might have come out of her mouth had she tried to speak.

In the end, she didn't remember making the decision at all. She looked at his mouth and suddenly everything was simple and straightforward and she stepped in to him at the same time as he did to her.

And yelped, jumping back at the sudden spark of ice against sensitive skin.

"What is it? I'm sorry," he blurted, concern flooding his face as he pulled back.

She felt a little heat rise to her face with her smile. How absolutely absurd it was, but - "Your belt buckle," she said, pointing at the offending bit of metal just below his navel. Then dragging her eyes upward from the hint of another sprinkling of fascinating golden hair. "It's freezing."

His mouth fell open slightly, and his eyes dropped to the skin exposed on her belly, between the amethyst bodice and trousers. And for some reason, that made her heart pound again.

He slid his left hand over the buckle and closed the distance between them again, slowly, giving her the chance to reconsider and retreat.

She didn't. It probably wasn't smart, under the circumstances, and odds were that she'd regret it later, but…

He reached to brush the backs of his fingers lightly over the curve of her cheek and she shivered at the tenderness of his touch. She lifted her hand to cup his – bigger and rougher and stronger – as he began to drop it. And so she was still holding it as he bent his head over hers and she tipped her chin up to bring her lips to his.

She felt his breath on her face; the first kiss was delicate and pure, inquisitive. Experimental, almost. He drew back fractionally, but not enough to break the contact, grazing the curve of her lips with his own before increasing the pressure. The kiss deliberately explored, undemanding and patient, and she surprised herself with the urge to taste it – the very tip of her tongue to the lowest curve of his lip. The slightest tantalizing hint of salt, and he responded with a brief gentle pull on her upper lip.

She felt the backs of his fingers move subtly against the sensitive skin of her belly, as he protected her from his buckle, and it started delightful ripples of reaction that spread outward as well as a deep slow heat, as though the sun was rising inside of her.

His mouth lingered on hers, and she had time to catch her breath and govern her racing pulse before he stepped back. The blue of his eyes was shaded with emotion for a moment as he stared at her. Then he straightened and shifted his gaze about a foot to her right, as if struggling to recollect scattered thoughts.

"Guinevere," he said. "I…"

She said nothing. Not to apologize, or excuse, or encourage. But whatever he might have said was lost in a sudden flutter of wings and the purring call of a pigeon on the balcony ledge.

"Shall I get that?' she offered, deliberately keeping her eyes on his face. "You can… finish." He nodded and turned away.

She walked to the balcony slowly and carefully, mindful of the weakness of her ankle and the fact that the floor seemed to be several inches below her soles. The fresh air, cooler now near sunset, cut through the pleasant haze and returned to her a measure of control. The pigeon bobbed as it stepped along the railing - sure enough with the white roll of a message on its leg - but when she extended her hands, it flutter-hopped several feet away. After the third time, Gwen didn't try again, just waited for Arthur.

I kissed Prince Arthur, she told herself, and didn't quite believe it. I kissed the prince of Camelot, and for no other reason than we both wanted to. She didn't quite believe that either. And then there was, and I liked it…

He joined her on the balcony in a plain but fine white shirt and a jacket of deep red velvet, quilted with tiny brass studs; the collar was high and he hadn't yet buttoned it over the shirt. He glanced at her before reaching for the pigeon, but she could not tell what feeling might be uppermost in his heart. Once the little scrap was detached from the slender twig-like leg and Arthur placed it back on the rail, it spread its wings in a flurry of escape to free flight once more.

They watched it go, and Gwen remarked, "I guess he doesn't need an answer, this time?"

Arthur unrolled the small message and read it through, then repeated it aloud as a small wrinkle formed between his eyes. "Arthur. I'm sorry about today. I won't see you tonight, but I'm sure you've been told that the witch is no longer a threat to anyone. Don't worry about me, you'll understand everything in the morning. See you soon. Merlin."

"So he's all right," Gwen said.

Arthur made a noise of incomplete agreement. "I wish he'd come here, though," he said, lifting his head to stare out across the rooftops of the city, beginning to blend together in the soft dusk.

"Perhaps he's – more comfortable? staying in the city with this family, than he would be here in the palace?" Gwen suggested. In her brief meeting with the young sorcerer, she had noticed his choice of dress, the straightforward manner that could be at odds with more courtly behavior. Not that anyone here would hold that against him or think less of him for his casual forthrightness, but if he felt uncomfortable with the formality of noble company, she had no desire to urge that on him.

"You mean he might be lingering in the city to avoid dressing for dinner?" Arthur said in mock-outrage.

"Perhaps there's a girl in this family," Gwen said lightly.

The prince's sideways smile was ironic. "Merlin doesn't really notice girls," he told her.

She didn't quite dare to say, And you?

He sighed, crumpling the little scrap in his fist and affecting to shake it in the direction of his young friend, somewhere in the city. "Until tomorrow, then," he said, making it sound like a partially-playful threat. Then he gave her a little bow, and extended his arm. "Dinner, my lady?" he said.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was Freya's idea to go back inside, in part because she was half-afraid Merlin would take a tumble off the parapet. She had nothing like the power evidently at his command; she had no way of knowing whether it was normal for the amount of magic he'd expended to leave him looking tired and betraying the slightest hint of dizziness at times. If he caught her looking at him he gave her a smile of reassurance that was almost intimate, a whole conversation without needing words.

He'd gone back to the quill and parchment at the table while she took a twig from the fire and lit the candles all around the room. This time, it seemed, he had no trouble finding the words to set down, scratching with hardly a pause to dip the quill until the whole sheet was full.

"Who are you writing to?" she asked, returning to the table to cut the cold roast thin, and the bread thick, and the cheese in chunks, in preparation for their dinner.

"My mother," he answered absently. "For one." He looked up at her and she tipped her head inquisitively. "All this," he explained, his face softening. "It makes me think, how lucky I was – I am – to have her. Arthur never knew his mother. Lady de Gransse died when her children were small, and yours… It just makes me want to… tell her some things. That's all."

She wondered whether it would be inappropriate for her to send her own thanks to the special woman who had the raising of the young sorcerer who sat at her table. Night and day difference to Mary Collins, almost certainly, whose son had somehow thought nothing of committing murder, and who resorted to violent revenge, herself.

"Where is your home?" she asked.

"Camelot."

"Your mother lives in Camelot?" she said quizzically – surely he'd only been gone a few days, not even a week. And he was writing as though he hadn't spoken to her in months.

"Ah, no." He realized the misunderstanding, and said, "Ealdor?" She shook her head; she'd never heard of that town, before. "It's a small village, near Dinas Emrys. A few fields, a couple of cows. Nothing special."

"You'll have to call an eagle to get that letter to her," she commented, reaching to tap what he'd written, and he rolled it quickly.

"Arthur will make sure it gets to her," he said, tucking the roll under the edge of the plate she'd set nearest him.

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled to hear from you," she told him.

He sighed and leaned sideways at the table, his head on his hand and his elbow sprawled across the rough wooden surface. "It's one of my regrets, actually, that I didn't… get to see her much, after I left Ealdor." He watched her arrange the wedges of pale yellow cheese on a small serving platter, then suddenly straightened on the bench and shivered, rubbed his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve.

"Goose walk over your grave?" she said teasingly.

"No – sorry – sunset," he explained, a husky note of strain in his voice that warned her not to question.

"Well, we can eat now, or we can wait for Gwaine," she said. "Are you hungry?"

He ignored her question to give her one of those sweet-yet-sly smiles she could not help responding to. "Now, if you could have anything to eat, with this, what would it be?"

She looked down at the simple meal she'd spread around his writing materials and considered. A spot of color, maybe, and something fresh. Juicy. Fruit? "Strawberries," she said, leaning across the table, saying very plainly, I dare you, with her tone.

He cupped his hands together, paused to give her a challenging grin, then whispered into the gap between his thumbs. His eyes glowed briefly and he opened his hands on his offering – a dainty red rosebud.

"That's not strawberries," she said, trying not to laugh. Still it was impressive, though he was studying the blossom with a look of bewildered chagrin. As if he'd intended on the fruit, and knew himself capable of conjuring it, and yet somehow his magic had betrayed him by producing a rose instead.

She wondered if the switch was completely random, or whether it was an unconscious message for one or both of them.

"It's the right color." His eyes on the little flower, he shrugged to himself, then stood and rounded the table.

She kept still, her eyes fixed on his, as he reached to tuck the rosebud into her hair, behind her ear. "Why are you so good to me?" she blurted.

"Because – I can't help it." He frowned at himself as though his mouth was saying more than he'd intended, and tried to smile at her at the same time. "I don't know. I like you."

She tried to control her involuntary blush. He didn't mean it like that.

The door opened with the characteristic vehemence that told her of Gwaine's arrival before she could look or recognize him. Merlin retreated to his place on the bench in silence.

She said to Gwaine reproachfully, "You're late."

"Yeah," he said. "Good to see you're awake, mate," he added to Merlin, who glanced up and grinned but said nothing further. "Nasty business," Gwaine continued. He draped his jacket on the hook on the wall beside the door, then unbuckled his swordbelt to hang up also. He washed at the basin in the corner as she slid onto the bench opposite Merlin. "Good riddance, though, that's what I have to say." He gave Merlin's shoulder a comradely slap as he straddled the other end of the bench. "Now I owe you two." He reached for the bread, and so missed the shadow that passed over Merlin's face.

She wondered at that, and at the unintended quirk of his magic that gave her a rose instead of berries.

"This morning," Merlin said to Gwaine. "And Halig?"

Gwaine gave him a wicked grin. "We took them by surprise," he said. "The slaver and a few others are in Lord Lionel's dungeon. Half a dozen of his men weren't so lucky."

"You're all right, though?" Merlin said, and Gwaine huffed indignantly in answer.

"Where were you, this afternoon?" she asked her brother. For the time he'd been gone, she'd expected him to come home stumbling and raucous, smelling of hops and smoke. "Not the tavern?"

"Not for long," he said breezily, admitting the weakness without discomfort. "Old man Shefydd came in, asking had anyone seen Nell, she's gone missing again."

Freya explained to Merlin, "Shefydd and Nell live next to us," pointing to the wall behind her curtained sleeping alcove. "She's very sweet but a little vague, since she's gotten older. She wanders away about once a fortnight, and then can't find her way home. Last time it was the next day, when someone alerted the guard, and she'd gotten to the East Half without any memory of crossing the main street."

Merlin gave Gwaine a questioning look. "Should we go help look for her?"

He shook his head, swallowing his bite before speaking. "Shef has half a dozen men helping him, and the guard. She'll turn up. Now, the man next to me in the tavern said that his wife –"

Freya watched and listened as her older brother, lively and talkative even sober, proceeded to regale them with story after story, rolling from one to the next without any need for a connection, it seemed to her. She was used to it, but she smiled to see Merlin attentive and amused, as though he'd wanted nothing more that evening than to sit with the two of them and their hearty if coarse meal, listening to stories that were also hearty if a bit coarse. He didn't interrupt, and betrayed no impatience or offense whatsoever, though he did occasionally meet her glance with a small smile that caused his eyes to crinkle at the corners. As if the three of them were old friends, and the two of them long used to sitting through Gwaine's stories with tolerant fondness.

"Gwaine, all your stories begin, I was once in a tavern when," she finally interjected, rolling her eyes.

She noticed that Merlin's strange melancholy - that she'd attributed to the draining of energy after using a great deal of magic, or the burden of enemy deaths on his conscience - had seemed to worsen rather than improve with time. His smiles were fewer and more weary, his rousing from lethargy to show interest a blink slower; the candlelight seemed to emphasize the purple shadow beneath his eyes. Gwaine, who had not stopped talking since they'd sat down, had managed to consume more of the meal than his audience; Merlin had seemed content to absently shred his meager dinner on his plate rather than eat heartily, though he'd had as busy a day as Gwaine, and probably without the noon meal. She hoped that, in spite of the long hours of rest that afternoon, he only needed a good night's sleep, and maybe was just too polite to interrupt to take his leave.

"That's not true," Gwaine protested, sharing a mischievous grin with their guest. "I have a few that start, I knew a woman once who… or Once I had to fight my way out of…" He leaned to nudge Merlin with his shoulder, and snagged the last chunk of cheese. She rose to begin clearing away.

Merlin murmured, "Two hours until midnight." His eyes were on his jacket, hung between Gwaine's and her cloak; his fingers closed around the rolled letter he'd written earlier.

"You can stay the night here, again," Gwaine said, glancing up at her. No, not her, exactly, but the rose in her hair.

"No, I cannot," Merlin said distinctly, pushing himself up, as if the invitation provided the impetus he needed. He paused and added to her, as if trying to soften the resolution, "I wish I could stay."

Gwaine followed him to the door, watching as he pulled his jacket on clumsily and tucked his letter away. "You'll be in Lionys for a while yet, yes? You're welcome to stop by anytime."

Merlin paused, his hand on the door, and looked from Gwaine to her, a moment of sheer aching longing on his face before he put on a wry smile. A moment and a glimpse which served to confuse her – what did he want so badly? And why was he resisting it so hard? If there had been anything about her to attract a man – beauty or wealth, if she was clever or witty or quite strong in magic as well – she might have guessed that he was denying himself the exploration of a possible relationship because of the transitory nature of their association, or the prior claim of his prince, but…

"I do appreciate the offer," he said only.

She set down the plate and followed Gwaine as Merlin ducked his head and yanked the door open, almost staggering out into the darkness of the night. She stood on the open threshold, and shivered as Merlin put his hand on the wall of the next building and leaned on it, his head still down.

"Merlin, mate, that's the wrong way," Gwaine said, going to his side. "The palace is south." His tone was cheerful enough, but the glance he gave her over Merlin's shoulder had her stepping into the alley to join them. "Maybe I should walk with you, yeah?"

"Right, south," Merlin said, pushing away from the wall to stand a little straighter, still facing Gwaine as Freya came alongside. "No, I'm fine to go alone."

"It's a nice night," Gwaine remarked, still indefatigably cheerful. "Nothing to settle a good meal like a leisurely walk."

Merlin didn't move, didn't look at her. "No," he said stubbornly.

Gwaine cocked his head. "Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not telling us?" he said. Freya thought suddenly that her brother must have noticed the same thing she did, at dinner, that his stories were meant to cover for Merlin, and to exhaust the time so that the younger man would agree to stay.

Freya spoke her thought as it occurred to her. "You're not all right, are you, Merlin?" Both young men looked at her. She continued, "Whatever Mary did – whatever she was going to do to me… you're not all right."

He didn't deny it. Gwaine said with dismay, "Why didn't you tell us before?"

"Wouldn't do any good," Merlin mumbled. "There's nothing to be done, except…"

"Except what? Leave?" Gwaine said.

"Gwaine, please – I don't want to part from you like this," Merlin said, and a note of desperation entered his voice. "You have to let me go. Alone."

"Sorry, we're not going to do that. That's not the way I pay off my debts, mate. Freya? what do you think?"
"We could take him to Finna's," Freya suggested, and explained to Merlin, "She's a healer, she can help." He shook his head violently before she was through speaking.

"Good idea." Gwaine leaned his face closer to Merlin's in the faint torchlight, and gave him a flat grin. "You'll have to use magic on me to stop me."

Merlin took a step back and raised his palm slightly. "Don't think I won't," he said, "for your own good."

Gwaine glanced at her, then reached to pluck the rosebud from behind her ear, and showed it to him. "Are you going to use magic on her?"

Merlin looked at the red blossom a long moment, then met her eyes. "If I agree to go with Gwaine, will you promise to stay inside your house til dawn?" She lifted her hands to her hips in answer, giving him her best you're late and you smell like ale glare. He gave a cynical chuckle. "Bring your sword, then, Gwaine," he said to her brother.

"Why?"

"Just in case," Merlin said. "To protect yourself and your sister."

"From who?" Freya said, as Gwaine loped back to retrieve his swordbelt and shut their door.

Merlin's eyes glittered in the faint lamplight. "From me."

A/N: Some dialogue again from ep. 2.9 "The Lady of the Lake."

LCT – Glad you liked Gwen's recovery… and everything it led to? *nudge nudge, wink wink, know what I mean?* And a few more hints of what happened to Mary, and to Merlin…