Merlin heard the horse's hooves and ducked into the shrubbery just in case, dragging John and Sherlock with him, but he needn't have worried; it was only Arthur, riding his own horse and leading Merlin's alongside. Both animals had packs and water skins. Arthur had even remembered to bring spare weapons. Merlin was impressed, but he resisted the urge to make a sarcastic comment.

"Arthur!"

Arthur reigned the horse to a stop, caught sight of Merlin, and smiled thinly. "This is still a bad idea."

"Since when have any of our trips ever been a good idea?" Merlin stepped out of the bushes and motioned the others to follow. "Did you do what I said?"

Arthur nodded. "I told them that I didn't need to take the guard for two thieves. My father thought my abilities were being wasted going after petty criminals, of course."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I was getting restless and wanted something to do. I think the fact that I told him it wasn't likely to be dangerous tipped the scale."

"And me?"

"Said you were coming with me. No-one knows who helped the prisoners escape."

Merlin swung himself up onto his horse and settled in the saddle, finding the reigns. "Alright, Sherlock, you're with me, John, you're with Arthur." He'd impressed onto both of them that Arthur knew absolutely nothing about sorcery or the future, and that he wasn't going to find out any time soon. He trusted both of them, but he thought that John was far more likely to remember instructions. Sherlock had a tendency to wander, especially when he was thinking, and he was almost always thinking. Besides, he and Sherlock needed to go ahead, seeing as they were pretending it was Sherlock who knew the way. The little golden trail stretched ahead of them, shining like the sunlight off Arthur's armour.

Watching Sherlock and John try and get on the horses was intensely amusing, but they managed it with a little help. The sun was rising into the sky. Sherlock sat awkwardly on the horse's rear, his arms tightly clasped around the bottom of Merlin's shirt to prevent himself falling. Arthur and John were a few paces behind, talking softly; Merlin tried to hear what they were saying, and although he couldn't pick it up there didn't seem to be any cause for alarm.

"Not got many horses where you are, then?" Merlin murmured eventually, mostly to distract himself from his own worries.

Sherlock let out a tight hum, and swatted at a fly that shot past Merlin's ear with a panicked buzz. "Far fewer. Not many people ride them."

"How do you get around then?"

"We have…I suppose you could call them carts, but they don't need the horses to pull them."

Merlin laughed. Sherlock's hands clenched around his shirt as the horse swayed in alarm.

"What?" Sherlock hissed, sounding peeved. "What's so funny?"

"When you first got here, you didn't believe in magic. But you have carts that pull themselves." Merlin shrugged.

There was a snuffling sound from behind him, but it took Merlin a moment to work out that Sherlock was giggling.


"Have you never been on a horse before?"

John resisted the urge to curse, forced himself to remember that this was a prince, that this was bloody King Arthur he was sitting behind, and kept his temper. "No."

That seemed to throw Arthur a little; his tone became less patronising, more curious. "Never? Do you not have them?"

John thought for a moment. He could see Merlin and Sherlock laughing ahead of them. "The terrain isn't very suitable for horses. Most people…walk."

"I see." Arthur flipped the reins a little. "You're sitting too far back, by the way – you need to come forward, or you're going to slide off."

Reluctantly, John shuffled forward a couple of inches, keeping his hands hooked into the back of Arthur's belt and trying to ignore the sword, which wasn't as far from his hands as he would have liked. He didn't speak; he understood the delicacy of the situation, and he understood that Merlin was scared. But after lunch, which consisted eating an apple – apparently they didn't have time to stop to eat – on the back of a horse that smelled bad and attracted flies, John couldn't stand the silence any more. In short, he was bored.

Sherlock was rubbing off on him, it seemed.

"So, your father is the king?"

"Yes." Arthur didn't take his eyes off the road; his voice was measured. John found himself wondering if he was cooking inside his armour, but he didn't look uncomfortable. "King Uther Pendragon."

"So you'll be king after…"

"Yes. But not for a long time – my father is healthy, and a good fighter."

John doubted, somewhat, that it would be as long as Arthur thought. It struck him, then, that the man he was sitting behind was going to die. He looked barely older than a boy. And Merlin? What had happened to Merlin?

"How did you come to know Merlin, John?"

"We stayed with him once, in Ealdor," John said, perhaps a little too quickly, knowing he was being tested. Merlin had gone over the pronunciation of Ealdor before they met Arthur, and judging from the way Arthur nodded, he'd said it correctly.

"You travel?"

"Yes."

"Is Sherlock your manservant? Squire?"

John snorted. "Do I look like a knight to you?"

Arthur shrugged. "Some men find it prudent to dress as if they weren't lords when travelling. It can…attract attention."

John resisted the urge to say 'I see you don't mind attracting attention', and instead went for "Why are you helping us?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Why are you helping us to get home?" It had been decided that this would be the story; that Boulby was close to where they lived. John tightened his grip on Arthur's belt as the horse came to a small slope in the path. He didn't know why he was playing with fire; perhaps he had too many romantic views of Arthur built into his head from stories. He seemed far from the Arthur of the tales; from what Merlin had told them, he was moody and sullen and almost stroppy. And John was pushing him. Great idea.

Sherlock had always said he was drawn to danger.

"Because Merlin asked me to."

John blinked; he hadn't expected a reply. "What?"

"He swore to me that you weren't thieves; that you were his friends. I'm doing this because he asked, not because of you." Arthur flicked the reins. "Besides, you can't be any trouble – Merlin's a terrible liar."

John had to bite his lip to stop himself spluttering. Merlin was clever; he let Arthur believe he was an idiot, and all the time, he was there…protecting Arthur, he supposed.

It must hurt him, to pretend.

But Arthur was kind, he realised. He was spoiled and strange, but he cared, even if he wouldn't admit it. Perhaps that made it bearable. Perhaps that was enough.

Not paying attention, he let his hand slip off the belt, and yelped as he burned his fingers on the hot chainmail.


It got dark early, but the moon was bright and Arthur decided they should keep going for a little. Merlin could tell Sherlock had fallen asleep; his head was leaning against his shoulder, and every time they caught a bump his nose would dig into Merlin's back.

They splashed across a small stream, throwing water up the horse's legs, and Sherlock woke with a jerk and a grunt as the cold water hit their boots. "What?"

"Nothing," Merlin said, smirking. "You fell asleep."

"I didn't."

"You did."

Sherlock sulked. Merlin carried on smirking, glad Sherlock couldn't see it in the darkness, and eased them to the left, following the golden path. It was almost silver in the moonlight, rippling and ghost-like.

A twig cracked. The horse twisted its head, ears swivelling, and came to an abrupt halt. Sherlock was suddenly alert, straightening his back; Merlin could hear him breathing heavily. "What was that?" he hissed.

"Shh." Merlin turned his head and listened. The snapping had come in front of them, but the light showed nothing. Arthur drew up alongside them; both he and John were totally silent. The horses snorted and stamped. Arthur slid from the saddle and drew his sword. Merlin hastily dismounted, pulling Sherlock with him, and John followed their example, scrambling down with a thud. Merlin found and seized a stick – he had a knife, but he felt like something heftier would serve him better. He wasn't planning on getting close.

John had drawn the dagger that Merlin had given to him earlier and was weighing it, looking doubtful. Something touched his neck, and Merlin whipped round, only to see Sherlock had stolen his neckerchief and was winding it between his hands, stretching it taut.

There was no time to ask what they were playing at; no time to wonder if John had ever used a dagger before. Sherlock hadn't even bothered reaching for his; he and John were pressed back to back. Arthur was ahead, sword raised. Merlin hovered in the shadows, waiting. The branch was gritty under his palms.

Nothing happened. For a heartbeat, Merlin thought the twig snapping must have been a fox or rabbit, and, almost despite himself, his arms began to relax.

The bandits burst from the trees like water over a ledge. The horses whinnied in terror, turned and ran into the darkness. There was no time to stop them. Merlin retreated, keeping his branch steady, knowing that Arthur was going to call him a coward when this was over and deciding that he didn't care so long as they made it out alive.

A tree branch snapped under the weight of his will and hurtled down, smashing two bandits to the floor at once.

"On me!" Arthur shouted, charging forward; his sword flickered like dying firelight. Sherlock and John ignored the order – perhaps they didn't even know what it meant – and stayed where they were, still back to back, circling. Waiting.

The first of the bandits slipped past Arthur. For a moment, Merlin jerked forward, ready to intervene, and then the man fell back with John's thrown knife buried in his shoulder. Arthur's sword found a target, someone howled, and one of the bandit's weapons flew out of his grip and smashed into a rock as Merlin moved his gaze towards him.

John reached for the dagger in Sherlock's belt and made feints with it, but his inexperience was obvious; he was a good thrower, but he only had one weapon left, and it was clear he was reluctant to release it. Sherlock was by his side; as Merlin watched he tangled a knife in the neckerchief and held it. John smashed the handle of the knife into the man's head, bringing him down. There was blood in his hair, blood on Sherlock's nose.

Arthur ran into difficulty, going up against three men at once, with a fourth slipping, unnoticed, behind him. Merlin took his eyes off Sherlock and John for a moment, heating the man's sword to molten temperatures even as he swung it. The bandit dropped the weapon with a howl, Arthur span and pushed through the last of his opponents, and Sherlock let out a scream that made Merlin's heart stutter in his chest.


Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!

To be continued.