SEVEN


Having trundled far and wide in his time, trundling through darkened woodland he had no familiarity with was hardly a new thing. Indeed, neither was the act of 'trundling'. Creeping would probably have been a more accurate choice of descriptive for what he was currently doing, but thinking of it that way didn't really appeal. Creeping was for the cautious and the craven. Seeing as he was neither of those, it didn't fit. He didn't do creeping.

Lot's men had the woods pretty well covered, but it was still easy enough to dodge them, even in plain sight. It was something he had learned very long ago, that if you acted as though you belonged, then you were generally believed to belong. So it was no trouble at all to transition from trundling to striding, and then to simply stride right up to the main body of the enemy camp and settle against a tree to survey the goings on therein.

That old adage that armies marched on their stomachs was diligently observed here, as men in varying degrees and qualities of armour gathered around a series of cooking fires while serving maids worked ladling stew into waiting bowls. The unusual level of good behaviour and courtesy from soldier to serving girl told a very interesting tale. One that had him searching the assorted girls and their drab clothing for a splash of colour and an inevitably sour expression.

It was from one of the smaller fires, hefting a pot from its tripod to carry off into the trees that he found what he was looking for. With a low whistle, he stuck his hands in his pockets and skirted his way around the edge of the camp to intercept his target.

She was busy tipping the remaining water from the stew into the roots of a soon-to-be very ill oak tree when he halted to lean against another tree and fold his arms over his chest. Unable to help himself, he grinned.

"Hello, Clare."

The girl froze, and sucked in a breath. Without a word she dropped the pot into the leaf mould with a dull thump and whirled to face him

They stared at one another for what felt like an age; he with a bright grin on his face, her with a frown of uncertainty. Suddenly, the spell was broken. She strode forward boldly to close the gap between them, drew back her fist, and socked him hard in the stomach.

The impact sent him reeling from the tree a few steps, doubled over and thoroughly winded. She still had one hell of an arm on her.

"Love you too." He managed through a pained wheeze.

Clare's expression twisted. She snarled in a thick accent "Gwaine! What are you doing here?"

"You know," he replied, forcing a grin and fighting to regain his lost breath, "Just passing through."

"You ass! I thought you were dead."

"Feels like you wished it, too."

With a loud huff, Clare grimaced. "Do you have any idea what you put me through?"

"Didn't know you cared."

She raised her fist once more, quietly satisfied when he recoiled and threw an arm up in defence. "What are you really doing here?"

Gwaine took a deep breath and straightened cautiously when the punch did not come. "Thought I'd stop in for a chat. Can't stay too long, mind. Don't think Lot'd be too pleased to know I'm here. Banishment, and all that."

"Goodness sakes." She shook her head, exasperated, and thumped him on the arm in a fit of needing to thump something. "Don't give me toss. What d'you want? I'm not in the mood for silly beggars."

There was the crunch. Clare didn't want to play. Clare had had enough. Gwaine propped himself against the healthy tree he had heretofore claimed as his private leaning post, and took up a relaxed tilt. He considered the girl in front of him thoughtfully. She had changed since the last time he had seen her. She was no taller than she had been, nor wider, but the look of constant irritation on her face seemed carved more deeply into her features. Dark eyes still held the look of a caged animal wanting desperately to tear the face off anyone who peered through the bars the wrong way, and her long hair still lost some of its length in an untended frizz of base brown. Like somebody had dragged her through a hedge by it, and probably got their eyes scratched out for the indignance caused. She kept her talons sharp for that very purpose. Clare did like to scratch people.

That in mind...

"I'm here to see your brother."

Clare cocked a dark, elegant eyebrow at him. "My brother?"

"Hm."

"What? Gaheris?"

Gwaine scoffed. "I'd hardly need to see Gareth now, would I, Clarissant?"

"Depends." She answered offhandedly. "Do you want to know what the weather is going to do tomorrow, and how it will make him feel more awful than he does already?" At the grimace on his face, she waved a dismissive hand. "Why do you need to see Gaheris?"

"That's between him and me?"

"And you think I'm going to take you to him on the strength of that? Get your head out your arse, Gwaine. What do you want from him? I'm not taking you to him just so you can go at one another."

"Tell me you wouldn't love that?" Gwaine smiled sweetly. "Seem to recall you enjoy goading boys to fight each other for your entertainment."

"You're not a boy." She shot back with a rough bark of laughter. "Though it would be funny to watch you two hair pull."

"Jealous of my hair."

"Give me a reason. Why should I let you see him?"

"Cause I want to." He cocked his head to one side, and stared at her.

"Go away."

He continued to stare for what must have been a good few minutes, she glaring back at him and growing increasingly irritated with the stupid, carefree smile on his ridiculous face.

She threw her hands in the air and turned away, "FINE! You can see him! Can't say I didn't try and get rid of you. Bring the pot."

Gwaine couldn't help the genuine grin that spread across his face. He did as she demanded and bent to retrieve the cooking pot.

"Thanks, Princess."

"Shut it and follow me."

The two of them made their way through the soldiers as the men enjoyed their evening meal. Nobody questioned the presence of the dishevelled oaf toiling along with a cooking pot in their Princess' wake. Gwaine found himself free to wander through their ranks, drop off the pot at the relevant fire for someone else to wash, and follow Clare towards a tent near the heart of the camp.

She halted outside, apparently loathe to go any further, and threw a cautious glance over her shoulder at the soldiers gathered around the fires.

"This is as far as I go." She told him in a gruff tone. "I'm not coming in with you. Gaheris has been in a foul mood all day, so I can't say how he'll react to seeing you."

"Better than you did, I'm hoping."

Clare chose not to dignify that with a direct answer. "Hurry up. I don't want anyone to remember seeing us together if he decides to have you executed, or challenge you to single combat, or anything."

"Don't think there's much chance of that."

"He's sore like a bastard after today, Gwaine. Take nothing for granted."

The self-assured grin fell from Gwaine's face, replaced by a thoughtful frown. "Why? What happened today?"

"You'll have to ask him yourself, and at your own peril." She replied tartly. "I'm staying well out of it." With that, she thrust out a hand and snatched the tent flap aside roughly to allow him entry, and held it there with a sour frown on her face.

Shrugging, Gwaine passed her and stepped through -

- and immediately found himself seized by his shoulders and forced to the floor by two burly soldiers.

"Not my ideal night out." Chuckling at himself, he raised his head and looked around.

It was a thing he had never really understood himself, but royalty seemed predisposed towards bringing their damn castles with them whenever they gallivanted off to war or siege or whatever took their fancy that week. Not only had somebody gone to the trouble of putting up this rather large, and warm tent, but they had also had the presence of mind to fetch a bed, a good-sized dinner table, and several chairs complete with cushions to furnish it with. Seemed a bit silly to him. What was wrong with sleeping under that stars with the rest of the men?

Seated at the table, looking back at him with wide, blinking eyes and a grape halfway to his mouth, was Gaheris. The Crown Prince of Essetir did not seemed particularly worried that his dinner had been interrupted, but more bewildered at the sudden presence of an imbecile in common clothing being thrust onto his floor. He didn't seem to spare a thought at all for the large plate of fruit and beef in front of him as recognition dawned on his face, and he broke out into a wide, beaming smile. "Well, well."

Gwaine eyed him. "Alright, big brother?"

Gaheris shoved his chair back and got to his feet, grin still in place. "How are you, Gwaine?"

"Mightily uncomfortable."

The Prince threw a glare at his guards. "Get out."

Neither man appeared keen to go, throwing uncertain glances at one another.

"Now."

They hesitated no further and hastily made themselves scarce.

Gwaine got to his feet, rubbing feeling back into his arms. "Good grip."

"You know father. Gaheris returned flippantly. "Strongest equals best."

"Flawed logic, that." Gwaine breathed a small breath through a weak smile. "How is the old goat?"

"Bad tempered. Murderous. Rough as the back end of a badger."

"Perfectly normal, then."

With a snort of laughter, Gaheris approached and clapped Gwaine on the shoulder. "So, what's the prodigal returned for this time?"

Gwaine shrugged. "Heard the relatives were in town. Thought it was time I paid a visit."

"Well then!" Gaheris gripped the back of his brother's neck and shoved him forward towards the table. "Join me! This is cause for a drink."

"I'll never say no."

While Gaheris collapsed back into his chair and set about pouring two goblets of wine, Gwaine busied himself rummaging in the fruit bowl.

"Comfortable set up you have here." He remarked, withdrawing an apple from the bowl's depths and buffing it on his sleeve. "Very comfortable."

"Large scale operation." Gaheris returned absently.

"You got the downstairs dinner table from the little hall." Gwaine observed. "Very large scale operation indeed."

"Well remembered."

"A large scale operation, and yet the King isn't here. Old man's leaving everything to you now, is he?"

Gaheris fixed him with a pointed, yet not unamused look. "Alright, Gwaine. What are you doing here this time?"

"I'm glad you asked." Taking a bite of his apple and chewing appreciatively a moment, glad to see the tell-tale twitch of an eyebrow that gave away irritation in his brother, Gwaine explained, "I have a problem."

The Prince sighed. "If it's money then you know what the answer is. The King's a tight-fisted old sod."

Gwaine shook his head. "Money's not the problem. It's more land."

Intrigued, Gaheris leant forward, steepling his hands against his chin. "Go on."

"Well, I don't have any. Don't get me wrong-" Gwaine held up a placating hand, expression earnest "-I don't want any. Too much hassle. Nah. See, the thing is, I can't help noticing that the King's got an eye for it, and has gained something of a reputation for grabbing it since losing the Kingdom over the sea. Morcades, now Essetir. Heard he's got his sights set on Camelot."

"And that is your problem why?"

Casual, Gwaine strolled around the table that he faced his brother across it, and took another bite of his apple. "My problem's that I'm fast running out of places I want to live. Lot keeps conquering them, and seeing as I'm banished-"

"You're not banished, Gwaine. You banished yourself."

"-Details, details. Anyway, Camelot's my home. I don't want to move on if it's taken."

"You are perfectly welcome to stay, Little brother."

Gwaine smiled. "Ah. That's not my only problem." His tone, and his smile melted away. He leant on the table, eye to eye with his brother, a cold stare on his face. "Arthur's a friend of mine. A very good friend. I'm here to let you know - If you don't back down and hand him over to Camelot, then there's going to be trouble. War is the only outcome. Arthur's knights would die for him. Every man. Camelot won't rest until he's back on her lands."

Gaheris stared back at him in disbelief. "Is that a threat, Gwaine?"

"It's a promise." Gwaine picked up his goblet and knocked back the entire contents. He straightened, and set a finger on Gaheris. "And that's Sir Gwaine to you."

Without a further word he slammed the goblet down on the table and strode from the tent, leaving his brother staring after him in his wake.


There was something in the air this morning. Whatever it was, Arthur didn't like it. He suffered and ailed and all things horrid under a hangover of monstrous proportions. Confining himself beneath his blanket and refusing to acknowledge the day had seemed like a wonderful idea.

He had heard from Geoffrey once, having been forced to actually go to the library himself in search of a book by his tutor, that there was a far off land well known to the Romans where animal-headed Gods were worshipped and Kings were treated as land based incarnations of more Gods therefore had absolute power as deities. One of them would surely have the power to decree that the day not be acknowledged, therefore not have to worry about cheerfully chirpy, tone deaf whistling manservants hauling them out of bed by their toes when they felt like rubbish.

Unfortunately for him, Arthur was not a God, as unfair as that was, and so had to deal with facing the painful light of day. He had to live with his headache, and had to restrain himself from punching that stupid wide grin off Merlin's stupid smug face.

As wonderful as this holiday in the country had proven to be thus far (if one discounted being forced into holes in the ground, losing battles of wits with chickens and living on constant alert for the ninety-nine per cent of Essetir's population out for his blood), it had long passed time to go home. Hunith's hospitality was wonderful as her porridge was awful (yet her baking was splendid), and it was, admittedly, nice to have someone to play with who didn't care about his royal status, even if that somebody was Merlin, who never gave two hoots about his royal status anyway, but that was absolutely beside the point. He needed to be in Camelot.

Unfortunately, no plan of action had come to him as yet. It was all down to him of course, as Merlin had done absolutely nothing towards finding a way out of this mess. He was too busy whining about actually having to do some work to be useful at present. No, being King, and a warrior it was up to him, Arthur, to work out a plan. So he ought not to blame Merlin for being useless in this situation, even if he was being an annoying, smuggist (was that even a word? Well it should be!) git.

Taking a break from gathering and winnowing, Arthur straightened and glanced over at his manservant.

Merlin currently worked threshing the last of the standing wheat alongside Luke and some of the others of their age on the other side of the field. Just like Luke and the others, he had stripped off that threadbare tunic of his and worked shirtless. It was a wonder nobody had been blinded by his skin, or enveloped by disturbed moths, or ticks, or whatever else surely dwelt in the rubbish heap he called clothing.

Oh well.

Returning to his work, Arthur found himself frowning.

He had scoffed when Merlin stripped off like the others were doing. 'This is going to be good', he'd thought. The idea of Merlin next to all those strapping lads was just too funny.

Then the unthinkable had happened.

They had stopped working and gathered around Merlin, occasionally prodding him and asking him questions that were too faint by distance for Arthur to eavesdrop on. It had taken a moment for Arthur to understand that they weren't messing with Merlin as was expected, but asking him questions about his scars.

For a moment Arthur was concerned. He kept an eye out to ensure that no haranguing was about to take place. As much as he called Merlin a girl and made fun of him for hiding behind trees when the going got tough, he knew that his servant was one of, if not the bravest man he knew. Not that he would tell Merlin that, of course. No, no. It would go straight to the idiot's head.

He also knew about the collection of scars Merlin had accrued throughout his mishap-prone life. A couple came from battle: that one from being hit across the chest with a mace, and the cut on his arm from the knights of Medhir, but the others had all come from various acts of general idiocy: Falling over and landing flat on a cooking fire before coming to Camelot (that one would be almost unbelievable, if it weren't Merlin), falling down a flight of stone stairs, cutting the back of his neck (surprisingly skilfully) whilst attempting to cut his own hair, falling down the stairs and landing on the tray he had been carrying. Really it was a wonder he still had all of his limbs.

Whatever Merlin told his inquisition, the lads slapped him on the back and joined in comparing their own scars (and missing fingers and toes) before getting stuck into work once more.

While Arthur wished he had been put on threshing and not winnowing so that he too could join in with the jocularity, he was glad that he hadn't as he was unsure that his banging head could take the raucous laughter this morning.

So he got back to work, lamenting drinking so much ale the previous night, as well as whatever that... substance Alfred had brought along was - a few sips of that and he was certain that the blindness was permanent – gritting his teeth he put his back into it and winnowed for all that he was worth until Hunith stopped him and asked him if he would like something to drink.

So he found himself standing amid his temporary colleagues, sipping weak ale and watching the others rampaging against the remaining crops in the middle distance. To look at, the whole process appeared like some very one-sided comedy battle. A riot of men with a burning prejudice against wheat.

A few times Merlin fell over his own feet, or somebody else's. Every time he was hauled up by one arm and set right. It was quite heart warming to watch. Merlin had told him once, in this very village, that he had left because he no longer fit in there. Arthur had noticed himself some of the annoyed glances and inexplicable huffs that the older villagers occasionally threw at Merlin. His servant cheerfully pretended he didn't notice, but Arthur did. It annoyed him.

The younger lads, however... They didn't seem to mind Merlin's clumsiness, and some of them appeared to study him now and again as though he was some fascinating new creature they had never come across before. Quite why that should be, Arthur could not fathom.

A deep, gnawing feeling settled in the pit of Arthur's stomach.

Merlin did enjoy coming home to visit his mother, and the village. He rarely got the opportunity to do so. Arthur had not realised before exactly how much his manservant enjoyed being home. If he started to feel at home here again, would he want to stay? Would he not want to return to Camelot?

Arthur scoffed at himself. That was stupid. Of course Merlin would want to return to Camelot!

Yet, he couldn't help the irrational worry...

"Arthur? Are you alright?"

Hunith was beside him, looking him over in concern.

He forced a smile. "Of course."

Clearly she did not believe him, and that part of his mind ever insecure and suspicious thought that maybe she knew what worried him. Sincerely he hoped not.

Chilled by the thought of his head not being as private and sacrosanct a temple as he normally believed it to be, he turned his thoughts away from Merlin and back towards the plan he would inevitably arrive at if he bullied probability enough.

There was little he could do from this side of the border. In an ideal world he could sit back and rely on his knights to come and engage in glorious battle at his side as he forced his way back over the ridge to safety. Unfortunately as worlds went this one was not always ideal, and equipped with what he currently had – some chainmail, one rather fine sword, and Merlin – the chances of forcing his way anywhere were slim at best, and any glory at an all time low ebb of nil as the whole situation would just be ridiculous, and he would die of embarrassment before ever reaching the ridge while the enemy laughed at him.

He had to ask the question: What was going on back at Camelot?

Surely the knights would be on their way by now? Surely Guinevere would have realised that something was wrong? He should have been back by now. That he was not must have sparked suspicion at least that something has gone awry. The place would have been so quiet without Merlin crashing down every flight of stairs at random angles, and bursting into rooms without knocking that all of Camelot must be aware that something was amiss by now?

"Are you absolutely sure that you're alright, Arthur?" Hunith asked him again. "You're grinding your teeth."

The King let out a deep sigh, and called himself back to himself. "I'm fine, Hunith. Just a little stressed after all that has happened."

She offered him a tentative smile. "That's understandable. Come on. Why don't you help us with the winnowing again? It's good for the stress."

Yes, he suppose it was. You could get some real oomph behind a good throw. Work out the old aggressions. Perhaps he should get out and take part in some of the harvests around Camelot once he made it back? The way Merlin had been complaining about helping out with this one, being volunteered for some more was exactly what he needed.

Grinning at his idea, Arthur resumed his winnowing, careful not to step on the skirts of those working alongside him. He ought to try and get done as much as was humanly possible of this now. There was a busy day ahead. Things needed feeding, places tidying, bread to be made, laundry to be... laundered?

Oh. What?

Arthur straightened and took a deep, centring breath. He closed his eyes and waited a moment, two moments, and then opened them again. As much as such an action could not physically alter anything around him, he had still hoped that opening his eyes would prove his suspicions wrong.

He was right. Not about the miraculous reality-altering powers of his own will, but about what he supposed had happened.

All those winnowing with him were female. Every one. Every member of the group threshing were male.

They had stuck him with the women. The villagers expected him to do women's work all day long! Cooking, and cleaning, and tossing grain in the air. While the men and bloody Merlin got to perform man-tasks. For goodness sakes, they were going to stop for lunch soon; sit down in the field while they ate the food their women brought to them! What did that make him? Merlin's woman!?No wonder the big-eared idiot had been grinning and giggling while the jobs were assigned that morning.

Arthur's scowl became murderous. All along bloody Merlin knew that he had been given women's bloody tasks. Bloody irritating, smug little -

He lowered his hands, realising that he had dropped his basket in favour of making throttling motions in the air. Without a word, he began stalking across the fields towards his prey.

Merlin was going to pay. First he had some explaining to do, and then he was going to pay.


"Where did you go to last night?"

Gwaine put on his most carefree grin, and raised his head to answer Percival with as much sincerity as he could muster and force into the confines of a lie. "Fancied a midnight stroll."

"You don't stroll, Gwaine." The largest knight reminded him with a smile. "You shamble."

"Trundling is a better description."

"You … Trundle."

"Much better."

They rode on in silence a little further, the buckles and billets of their horses' tack jingling quietly in the calm forest.

"So," Percival began again, "did you see anything interesting on your midnight trundle?"

"It's an engaging business, trundling. Doesn't leave time for much else."

"Hm."

The village of Jarret's outpost was not far from the Camelot/Essetir border. Its name was also a description. Just past Lower Barrow, the village served as a Headquarters for observing changes on the border. It was from there that news had originally reached Camelot of movement by Lot's army. It was from there that the Round table had learned that Arthur and Merlin had indeed made it close to Essetir. The King had called in at the outpost to see if anything new had been observed since their message was received in Camelot. Wherever Arthur and Merlin had become separated from Spumador and Bryn, it was between the outpost and the Forest of Ascetir.

Both Percival and Gwaine headed for the outpost now on Leon's orders to dispatch a rider back to the castle and send for reinforcements.

"So where did you trundle off to?"

Cocking an amused glance at his friend, Gwaine leant back a little in his saddle that he could take in Percival's body language in full. "You're asking a lot of questions about a little constitutional."

"You were gone a while."

"Lots to see so far from the city."

The look Percival gave his friend was enough to put the rogue knight on the back foot. It was far from violent, or threatening, but it spoke volumes: 'enough'. The time for stonewalling was over. Percival did not believe him. He wanted the truth.

"Went to check on our friends in the valley."

Percival nodded. That was more like it."And?"

"Just as ugly up close and personal as from a distance. Thousands of men. Pointy weapons. Bad teeth. Not something we'd do well facing on our own, but we already knew that.

"Any sign of Arthur and Merlin?"

Sighing gustily, Gwaine flicked his hair. "None. I doubt they've been captured. They're still on the lam, then they won't be able to get through if they try to escape into Camelot. They're stuck back there."

Percival lowered his head in thought, mulling over the situation and what may be happening behind enemy lines. "Merlin's village is back there." He murmured after a moment. "They like Arthur there. He assisted against raiders that were targeting their grain stores. It would be a sensible place to shelter."

"Ealdor?" Gwaine nodded to himself. "Merlin's mam is there. Good woman, from the tales he tells. She'll look after them."

"Yes... Are you ready to tell me what you were really doing last night?"

Gwaine grinned, and shook his head lightly. "Not just yet, my friend. There are some things I'd rather pretend weren't real for a little while longer."

Percival screwed up his face, reaching his own conclusions. "... Nasty."


It was not difficult to escape from the fields for a short period. Nobody was going to say no to Hunith borrowing her son for a little while to help her in preparing evening supper for the workers, so it had been no trouble to get away. Once the door was safely closed and all inquiring eyes left outside, Merlin hurried about the house searching out the things he would need.

Though she had been aware all along of the ruse, Hunith rested a hand on the tabletop and watched Merlin in his pillaging of the cupboards and various nooks and crannies about the house with quiet curiousity. "As far as I am aware, the necessary items for making bread and cheese are not kept in the wood store."

Merlin shimmied backwards from the small cupboard beside the stove and sat back on his feet. "I'm looking for parchment and ink." He appeared puzzled, his head titled to one side.

"In the wood store?"

"You've moved them since I lived here. They used to be in the drawers." With a careless flick of his fingers, the offending chest rattled its drawers quietly.

"Merlin, don't manipulate the furniture." His mother scolded him lightly, and made for the chest of drawers with a small shake of her head. From inside the top drawer she produced a quill, ink, and parchment, and laid them out on the table. That done, she placed her hands on her hips and stared at Merlin expectantly.

He lowered his head, a sheepish grin plastered across his face. "Ah."

Hunith nodded. "Exactly where they have always been." Quietly amused, she watched Merlin spring inelegantly to his feet and grab the quill to begin writing a missive. "What are you doing?"

"Sending a message to Gaius." He answered, scribbling messily. "I have to get a message back to Camelot. The only way Arthur's going to get out of here alive is with outside help. I have to let Gwen know what's happening here, and the only way is through Gaius. I can't reach any one who doesn't know about my magic."

In some roundabout way, that probably all made sense, Hunith was sure. Her son operated on a different level of sense to most other people. She loved that, as it was a part of what made Merlin who he was, but she knew better than to question it. His methods, however - "How do you intend on doing that?"

Merlin looked up from where he hunched over his note, and gave a bright, innocent grin. "Watch."

After years of bailing her beloved boy out of trouble, Hunith knew to beware of that grin. While it sometimes meant that he was about to perform some amazing and beautiful feat of magic, it more often meant trouble. Somehow, someway, she felt that this time it would be the latter.

As she watched him stand at the window reciting an incantation, because incanting at windows looked to be a sign of trouble if ever she saw one though she could not explain why exactly, the feeling of foreboding only grew.

After he had finished, the little house fell into silence, and that way it seemed set to remain. Time drifted lazily by, and nothing happened. Merlin's smile slowly evaporated to be replaced by a gradually deepening frown.

At last, he turned to face his mother. "I don't understand." He said, brow furrowed in uncertainty. "It should have worked."

Before Hunith could enquire as to what he had been trying to do her voice was overpowered in her throat by an almighty swishing sound.

And then the world exploded in a mass of grey and white feathers and shrieking.

It bombed in through the window like a shot from a catapult, flapping and jerking and wheeling, knocking things over. It barely missed Merlin in its entrance, and made straight for Hunith. She just. managed to get out of its path unscathed. It was as though some kind soul had gotten hold of a particularly enthusiastic banshee, released it into her house and encouraged it to 'just go wild'.

Merlin felt numb. Just for a moment, before the urge to throw his hands in the air and rant about the stupidity of his life and its problems got the better of him. Though he was robbed of the chance as the apparently fitting bird twirled in the air suddenly and made a wildly flapping beeline right for the dresser and Hunith's remaining earthenware.

"Merlin!" His mother cried out in fear for the lives of her remaining crockery.

Without further hesitation Merlin dove forward to land sprawled belly-down on the table and fling out his hand towards the mad bird, "oflinn!"*

Just like that, the bird did, coming to perch on the end of the table to stare fixedly, almost hypnotised, at Merlin's outstretched hand.

"Friþ."*

The bird lowered its head, eyes shuttering. It seemed as though about to fall asleep, but not before throwing its head out and snapping at Merlin's fingers with its long, sharp beak.

"Ow!" Merlin withdrew his hand and rubbed at the bite mark tenderly with the uninjured fingers of his other hand.

Any further action on his part was stayed in favour of staring at the bird in disbelief. He was joined in that activity by his mother, who was unsure herself what to make of the latest guest in her house.

After a moment of silence, Hunith looked to her son. "Well?"

"It's a seagull." Merlin said blankly, looking rather dumbfoundedly back at the large avian sitting quiet, but far from ashamed of itself on his mother's kitchen table.

Hunith nodded. "Yes it is."

"Why is it a seagull?" Merlin droned forlornly. "It was s'posed to be a raven."

"Alfred and the others have been scaring the ravens off." Hunith explained in a soft voice. "To stop them from dropping sticks down our chimneys.

"... Why a seagull?"

"It must have come in from the coast of Gedref to pick at the harvest."

Intent on the bugs dredged up by the winnowing. That made sense. As the general stupidity and difficulty of the situation made sense. It was in keeping with the overall tone of the mess he found himself in, after all.

Merlin huffed and rubbed tiredly at his eyes with the fingers of one hand. This was just an all around bad day, wasn't it? What with the lingering threat of imminent capture and brutal stabbing coupled with hard physical labour, Arthur was in an absolutely foul mood. Granted it had been utterly hilarious when the King had been assigned to assist the women that morning, and Merlin was the first to admit that he had cackled inwardly as the jobs were handed out. Poor Alfred had clearly been worried that Arthur would be insulted. Knowing Arthur and knowing exactly how oblivious he was of that which stared him directly in the eye, got bored and eventually punched him in the face, Merlin had been maybe a little too amused to see his King grin, nod and position himself among the village ladies, completely clueless and happy as Larry as his assorted colleagues immediately began to fuss over him. Arthur did enjoy being the centre of attention.

The whole thing had lost its appeal a little this afternoon. Merlin grimaced at the seagull which replied by snapping its stupid, lumpy beak at him. He had a sore shoulder after Arthur had determined the day's embarrassment to be his fault, and wrenched his arm up behind his back. His ear still rung a little after being bellowed in for a prolonged period of time. Merlin had known that some form of retribution was marching steadily on his position all morning. It had taken a little longer to arrive than he had expected, and really he should have known better than to stay put when he saw Arthur stampeding his way across the field braying.

It wasn't as though he had actually done anything, but in Arthur's unique mind, blaming him seemed like the logical thing to do. Alfred needn't have looked so afraid. Arthur wouldn't declare war on Ealdor, or Essetir for something as silly as a perceived slight.

He would just declare it on Merlin instead.

The thought made Merlin rub at his aching shoulder.

Stupid Arthur. Shouldn't be so damn useless at threshing. Then he wouldn't get given winnowing.

But all that was of little importance. What was important was the need to get a message to Camelot. Just like everything else it lacked ease of accomplishment, and just like everything else thus far in this entirely avoidable gaggle of horror, Merlin resigned himself to the fact that he would just have to take what he could get.

So he sighed, blinked, and reached for his missive and a short length of twine.

Hunith watched, and shook her head as her son began negotiating with the bad tempered bird. She seriously doubted that it understood his low, firm words, but got the impression that it was determined to be belligerent in everything when it hunkered down on the table, fluffed itself up into a ball and stuck its neck out to make short, sharp shrieking sounds at Merlin.

It only bit him twice more before he managed to get the message tied around its leg, and only clawed him once.

When the note was secure, and he was convinced that the irritating creature wasn't going to pull it off in a fit of defiance, Merlin leant on the table to look the gull in the eye (out of pecking range) and gave it his instructions.

"Lyftfleógend. Ic besécan õu ábere min ærendebócæt Gaius beinnan Camelot. Hlytans edcierr æt mé."*

It shrieked at him.

He shot it a 'look'. "Bitýnan."*

It threw a birdy glare his way, snapped at him petulantly and hopped a few strides across the table into flight to disappear through the window.

Both mother and son watched after it until it wheeled away and vanished out of sight beyond the treetops of the forest. Hunith glanced at Merlin in apprehension.

"Do you think it will deliver the message?"

Valiantly attempting to appear relaxed, Merlin shrugged both shoulders and sighed gustily. "It's heading in the right direction. That's a promising start."

"Hmm." Hunith watched the empty sky a moment longer before letting out a small sigh of her own and giving her boy a concerned smile. "Come on. Let's see to your poor fingers."

He wasn't about to argue. He would have to come up with a lie to explain to Arthur why he was sporting several bloody stumps instead of fingers suddenly (melodramatic, maybe, but the biting had hurt!). For the sake of his rapidly waning dignity he was not going to admit to being assaulted by a seagull, nor suffer the humiliation of Arthur neglecting to even ask why he had been wrestling a seagull in the first place. The way he was feeling just then, he could do without one of his master's 'knowing' looks. He had endured enough humiliation for one day.

So, wearily, Merlin collapsed into a chair and rested his head on the table, foregoing the urge to start pounding his skull against it, while his mother searched out the things she would need to clean his wounds for the second time in his short stay.


* Oflinn – Stop

* Friþ - Peace

* Lyftfleógend. Ic besécan õu ábere min ærendebócæt Gaius beinnan Camelot. Hlytans edcierr æt mé. - Flier in the air. I beseech you take my message to Gaius in Camelot. Do not return to me without reply.

* Bitýnan – Shut up.

A new chapter appears! I said I wouldn't abandon this, and I won't. Sorry for the MA-HAS-SAVE delay in updates. The reasons for my absence on this have been explained in the ANs for Red Dragon, but for those who don't follow that, My horse nearly died :( I had to dedicate as much free time as possible to nursing him through his danger period. He is now over it, and just waiting for the final sign off from the vet :D I am one relieved owner, and a very happy bunny!

Also, this chapter was a bitch and would not cooperate.

So, this chapter. Merlin's not the only one with a secret. In legend, Gwaine, Gaheris, Gareth and Clarissant are the children of Lot and Anna, sometimes Morgause, and they sometimes get good old Mordred whacked into their dysfunctional family. Mordred fulfills the role of Sir Not Appearing In This Fanfic, here, however. The seagull was always going to happen. I'm glad he/she/it has made their debut! I already have ideas for the next chapter, so hopefully not too long until that one makes its appearance.

And a final shameless plug: Check out my new drabble/thing/whatchmajig series, Ffurflenni, or returns.

Thanks all!

xxx

Asphodel Lark: Wow, just checked my emails and there you were as I was working on this! As you can see, RR's not abandoned ;) I'm glad you like it! xxx