A/N: Hi Everyone! Apologies for the long wait, but real life does interrupt at times and other things become more important. Many thanks again to the ever artistic and talented KIMMIKY for helping to bring out the best in me and the story. Thanks to tubahayes for keeping me on the straight and narrow. This one is nice and long, and I hope you enjoy. As usual, I don't own Merlin.

The Sorrows of Pendragons

Chapter 9 By Any Means Necessary

It was tradition, an old ritual, and something that was rumored the New Religion frowned upon. But the Festival of Beltane was so entrenched in society that the king continued to allow them to celebrate pagan festivals though he remained strict against the practice of pagan magic. He didn't mind this ritual actually, the true meaning of it not lost on him since he was in love. Had been in love. It was one of the few celebrations he had actually looked forward to. Now, misery was the company he kept this year. The solitude weighing heavily upon him as he remembered with bittersweet fondness those previous years.

The first Beltane with Guinevere as his secret lover, he dressed as a commoner, hood and all, and danced with her around the bonfire in the section where the servants were celebrating, giving her a handful of flowers and a courtly bow afterward, before needing to leave and disappearing into the crowd. They met later that night, after the royal feast, with timid embraces and awkward kisses, and for her to give him fresh picked flowers.

The second year, Guinevere had to serve during the royal feast, and Arthur had a hard time concentrating on anything except her. She wore some of the flowers he'd given her earlier twined in her hair, and around her wrists. He watched her move gracefully around the room and she had noticed him watching her and blushed from the twinkle in his eyes and the smile he gave only to her. They didn't get to dance that year. But he would see her later after the feast, and make it up to her. He'd had dinner waiting for her in her home with five more bunches of flowers and a spool of purple thread.

The third year he had filled every corner of Guinevere's house with flowers of every color and variety available that time of year, including bluebells and gillyflowers. Gwen thought it was very romantic and they embraced in a hug and shared soft, sensual, kisses. And then a bee buzzed somewhere nearby and her eyes snapped open during the kiss. He hadn't factored the amount of pollen all the flowers created in her tiny home nor all the critters they would attract. As much as he tried to fight it, twitching his nose and stifling the sniffs, he couldn't stop the sneezes. Gwen left him to his own and grabbed her broom, swinging wildly at the bees. His sneezing fit and her swinging frenzy, he stepped right into a perfect swat that knocked him in the head. He said "Ow" and she said "Oh" and he grabbed his head and then her hand and swiftly led her out into the cool fresh air. After they calmed down from their uncontrollable laughing fit in an alley behind her house, he sent Merlin in to deal with the flowers. And the bees. He'd never laughed so heartily with any of his noble admirers.

Last year, he took her on a picnic in a field of bluebells, the riotous color stretching for miles. It was a cold spring morning, the pollen was low, and they had spent most of the time huddled under blankets in each other's arms, the closeness of their bodies and the passion of their kisses heating the very air they breathed. It was so much better than the previous year, and he didn't want it to end. But his father expected him to commence the Maypole festivities at the eleventh hour, so it was probably for the best for that to end. Everything about her made it near impossible to hide his desire for her. That day was no different. He had to vow a long time ago to uphold his chivalry with her even in the heat of the moment. A woman's virtue was a gift to her husband and it was something they both treasured, and was worth waiting for. He had planted a deep kiss on her lips, then they had packed up and returned to the castle.

This year he had planned to take her to Tintagel by the sea, and they would have celebrated their love in holy matrimony.

This year, until the heartbreak of her betrayal, he had courted her properly, openly, when her status changed and she'd become a lady of standing being the sister of a knight. He took great pleasure in knowing how much it irritated some of the nobles but had greater pleasure in knowing how much it meant to her to finally be able to follow some semblance of custom, to not have to hide away as if ashamed.

Before Uther died, Arthur had told his father of their courtship and his deep-seated desire to marry her. Under normal circumstances, there would have been fierce opposition to Arthur's choice of wife and future queen. Uther had banished her once upon realizing Arthur's passionate feelings for the servant and sentenced her to death on two other occasions when the use of sorcery pointed to her. Their history had been stained with dislike and distrust. As it stood, Uther had been devoid of all fight and vigor and mind. In a way, Arthur would have preferred a row with his father rather than no reaction at all. It felt dishonest somehow to finally reveal their intentions when his father could no longer oppose it.

With dinner complete and a goblet in his hand, his gaze wandered around the Great Hall disinterestedly. The din of laughter and music filling the hall to the rafters and an air of gaiety hung in the space, but it meant nothing to him. They would have been married by now, and he would have kissed her every chance given him today, no matter who might have seen. He could admit to himself that he missed Gwen with a fierce passion, and while friends and lovers, husbands and wives around him enjoyed the celebration in each other's presence, and in some cases, in each other's arms, he was reminded of his constant companion of late: utter and bitter loneliness.

He missed the chance to name her, his Guinevere. Why he called her that, he didn't know. It sounded so possessive, so insecure right now, and someone else could very well be calling her that by now. That thought brought a soft, almost inaudible moan to his throat, and he took a longer, desperate gulp from the goblet. Merlin was there near instantaneously and refilled his cup.

He kept bringing her up, and somehow Arthur didn't mind too much anymore. He was conflicted by her constant presence in his thoughts anyway. She had the softest hair, he could almost feel it running through his fingers again like the most expensive silk. He wanted to taste the sweetness of her lips, but he had to settle for the tang of the wine instead. When propriety slipped, and her freckles darkened in a blush, he would never be able to tease her mercilessly about it again. Arthur would never be able to hold her, just to draw comfort or strength for his sake or her own. Was someone else holding her or giving her flowers? These thoughts darkened Arthur's mood even further. This was the worst Beltane he'd ever experienced including the ones before he ever knew her.

The letter from Fredrick had arrived the very day Princess Mithian left, a week ago now. The news was brief, yet favorable. Guinevere was safe in Longstead, so it read, the Southrons having moved north and deeper into Lot's kingdom, away from his borders. Arthur should have been relieved if that were so. His gut feeling and intuition were telling him otherwise. How did her wedding band come to be so close to the city? Why was there evidence of it being forcefully torn from around someone's neck, presumably Gwen's? Had someone stolen it from her? Did they hurt her? There had been no other news and his thoughts raced with so many questions leading him to darker and more sinister places. Was sending Fredrick and Erwan to look after her enough?

The alarm in Gwaine's voice sobered them all and was far more foreboding than the warning bell that accompanied it. The Southrons were inside the city gates, the lower town alight with bonfires of devastation and death, instead of bonfires of love and hope that was Mayday. The parties were over and destruction now reigned.

The rush of adrenaline brought the warrior to the forefront, Arthur barking out orders before taking up arms. Knights at his back, he slashed at the invaders already filling the halls of his castle, repelling them, keeping them away from the inner chambers he'd sent everyone else to, including Merlin.

He supposed it was a lucky strike if lucky meant getting the full blade of a sloppy downward slash that broke his ribs from the force of the blow, instead of slicing through his mail. At least, he wouldn't bleed out. To add insult to his injury, he saw with his own eyes and scarcely believed Agravaine marching with arrogance alongside Morgana, a man he assumed to be the warlord, Helios, and far too many aggressors for the king to do anything about. Arthur was furious and rather ashamed to admit he'd been wrong yet again.

It wasn't just about losing Camelot now; his family plotted against him once more, making him feel like a helpless fool in the process.

….

It would take all of the present company of knights to rescue the captives, and a vow of secrecy made amongst them was the only way to do it effectively. Maxwell agreed very reluctantly to reveal his magic to the rest of the knights, putting his life in the hands of his fellows, which led to a much-heated argument. The knights immediately started speaking over each other, their voices rising in a cacophony of confusion and disagreement. Several baseless accusations were made, making Maxwell wish the forest floor would open and swallow either himself or those who spoke out against him, just so he would hear no more. Some were angry, and many felt betrayed to varying degrees by Maxwell, having fought by his side for many years, and his having magic all this time. Everyone was looking at each other with extreme concern because the trust had been jeopardized. How many more would there be amongst them with such a secret, they wondered?

Kolby had hand-picked these men, some having been with him since his promotion, most since his childhood, all having proved a fierceness for justice that ran true like his own. And it helped that their lord did not feel as strong as the king regarding sorcery, often dismissing accusations against people that used magic when hard evidence was lacking. Those where he had no choice, he always sent to the king to mete out his royal justice, though he sometimes hated himself afterward. Over the years, Kolby hoped that some of them had learned to appreciate Gregory's fairness in knowing that not all magic was an attack on the crown.

The arguments continued for some time, and then all but died when Maxwell with much prodding from his fellows humbly retold accounts of when he saved almost every one of their lives using sorcery to one degree or another, from one extreme to the next. They were astounded, each recalling those times vividly, and seeing them now with renewed perspectives they couldn't deny, now feeling thankful, grateful even for what their brother in arms had done for them at great risk to himself. Though there were still the odd resentful looks directed his way, for the most part, they accepted him. And just as Fredrick had to concede, for the sake of the captives, they agreed the mission could not succeed without Maxwell's abilities. They were at war. They would defy their king's decree, all of them duty-bound to save everyone captured by any means necessary.

And then, out of their loyalty to Maxwell, they swore to protect his secret with their lives.

Fredrick was ever the voice in defense of the king but was not surprised nor even particularly annoyed at the knights' dedication to their brother. He'd seen it before, he'd experienced it before. These men had been together since they were boys, living, fighting, and dying side by side, binding them together as brothers. It was beyond friendship, as strong and true as the armor they wore. It was the knight's way of life.

Fredrick looked upon the faces of these young men knowing that some of them would not live to be his age, let alone make it through the night. They lived and died for the sake of others. He understood that. The king was so far removed and his edicts easily broken when the lives of others were at stake. It was a conflict of principles, but it happened all the time. They would worry about explaining their actions to their sovereign later. That is if they decided to tell him at all.

Fredrick felt like a traitor, but they knew their brother, and if they accepted him then he could do no less.

The swish of an arrow from one of the Clarwick archers pulled his reflection back into focus just as Maxwell froze the enemy lookout in his death stance high above the ground, the Clarwick archer then taking up a position in the next tree. Their archers would line the path the captives would take on their escape out of the camp, their short bows used to eliminate enemies from a distance.

A flash of gold, a few whispered words, and fog rolled in easily with Fredrick and the Clarwick knights entering the camp at the easiest access point, between the latrine ditches, then making their way through the domesticated animal pens and cages toward the heavily populated areas of the encampment. Maxwell, having used the same tactic as Morgana, enabled his fellows to see as if there were no fog. It was an eerie sensation.

They had watched the camp for patterns in their behavior on three separate occasions so the increase in guards on patrol and lookouts in the trees was noticed by them all, and they all went on high alert, something more than the usual was happening, but they could not be put off. The knights and the soldier from Camelot crept through the encampment, any enemy combatant encountered proving to be an easy target with the fog on their side.

They had a good idea where the Captain of the guard would be too if that part of their routine had not changed. They needed his key to open the cages. Ector and Maxwell had to get that key by any means necessary, as well. Fredrick grabbed a Southron unfortunate enough to cross their path and stabbed him through the ribs, quick and clean. Kolby just eliminated a man with a slit to the throat. It was a strange feeling walking somewhat open in the camp, blind to the enemy though their targets so unaware and plain to see.

The captain had been no different. As he stepped outside of his tent, the stab clean through his throat felled him immediately, and he crumbled with only the barest gurgle. Ector removed the single master key from his waistband and then gave it to Maxwell. Kolby and a few other knights approached, and right in front of them, his eyes flashed gold, and Maxwell handed each man his own key. Ector and Kolby exchanged a knowing glance with raised eyebrows and a small shake of their heads. They had no time to dwell on what just happened and left with haste to complete their own objectives.

The cages were clustered together, it being easier to watch with fewer guards in the smaller encampment. There were six of them with as many as eight captives each. Only Helios' two personal prison cages were entrenched within the Scorpion tents near the base of the mountains. They were Ector and Maxwell's next target.

Fredrick and the knights with him struck hard at the Southrons guarding the cages simultaneously, each using a slice or stab technique to silence them where they stood. As one of the guards fell, he tripped over a pot, stumbling into a stack of battleaxes, knocking them down. One of the axes cut the rope that secured the gate on a wagon full of barrels and released them. They fell unmercifully with a crash. It was a domino effect that only the hand of Fate or fickle luck could have orchestrated.

As it were, they froze on reflex, enough noise now to immediately alert everyone in the vicinity. Southrons came out of their tents, looking in the direction of the disturbance, some looking right at the knights, but the fog prevented them from seeing anything. Nevertheless, they started moving toward the Camelot defenders determined to investigate so odd a sound.

The fog, had it not been for its unnatural defense, the rescue would have been over before it had barely begun. The Southrons were blinded, some stood around while others stumbled forward, and all had swords drawn. Believing they were exposed, the knights were still frozen. Bertram, one of the older knights in his late thirties, unaccustomed to using sorcery so openly in battle and the newness of it, realized how silly it was for them to remain like statues almost started laughing and proceeded to cut the throat of a Southron walking right toward him with his victim barely aware he was even there. The other knights followed in time clearing the path for the captives while Fred and the others began to release them as quickly and as silently as they could. The captives, now all pressed against the bars and waiting with marked fear and barely held patience, were ready, having received instruction from Fredrick and Kolby on their last visit to be prepared to escape.

It didn't take long for all the other cages to be opened and they were all led out, guided by knights back down the way they had come. Archers and other knights would protect them along the way. Fredrick was hesitant to think that magic in the form of the fog was being used as a force for good.

But it wasn't enough. The Southrons would chase them down with their horses before they could effectively get any distance if the alarm were raised. Fredrick and Kolby's next objective then was to release the cavalry's horses, drive them off and steal as many as they could for themselves. The war horses in Helios' squadron would do them no good, too well-trained to be spooked or used by anyone other than their owners, they would have to hamstring those mounts or kill them. It was a waste of life but it was them or the captives' lives.

It took Fredrick a moment to realize Jacinth was so close behind that he felt her elbow scrape across his back, wielding a sword with two quivering hands, though looking as if she was going nowhere any time real soon. He groaned with disapproval and urged her to follow the others to safety. He could not afford worrying over her.

"I'm going with you," she said, feeling the rush of battle for the first time in her life, the thirst already in her eyes, and crowding further into his personal space.

"We head toward danger, Jacinth. Please. Go with the others." Her captivity had stolen some of her innocence though it seemed to have strengthened her courage. She was stronger, her stubbornness notwithstanding, but still inexperienced and a liability.

"We've already lost sight of them." She smiled mischievously, knowing that Fredrick would not send her out alone. She had come to know him well enough while in Longstead, his honor to justice, his defense of the weak, his steadfast loyalty to Gwen. His, and Erwan's, and even though she may be considered a country girl of low standing, her intelligence was not.

"This isn't a game, child." Jacinth bristled visibly at the condescending description he held of her, and he knew instinctively he'd said exactly the wrong thing.

"I'm not a child, and I don't think I can ever play another game. I'll never be a victim again, Fredrick." All the mischief of before had been subsumed beneath her determination as she made her way around him. He made to disagree further, but someone barreled past them that kept him silent.

"There's no time to argue," Kolby hissed, pushing ahead of them toward the tents where the cavalry slept. Tense words were thrown back over his retreating shoulder. "We must release the horses or they will have a means to follow us."

He took three more steps and stopped when several of his knights were suddenly struck with arrows and fell with harsh cries of surprise and agony. He and Fredrick cursed at the same time, fearing the veil of the fog suddenly lifted when all the Southrons turned and faced them. Fredrick was the first to recover, shoving Jacinth behind a wagon and stabbing the nearest Southron with a quick jab to the gut, then throwing the dagger at another. Someone let out a berserker yell and then the arrows and daggers flew in earnest.

….

This was the third night in a row of restlessness and Guinevere longed for sleep. It wasn't because of the buzz of the Mayday celebration and the smell of the freshly gathered flowers drifting in through her open window. Its festive energy washed over her, but could not soothe her. She refused to go with Hunith to the Beltane celebrations though she had helped to prepare in any way she could to transform the humble village into a romantic setting for lovers and friends. She felt out of place since she had neither. She laid on a cot under the window deep in her own despair trying not to let the memories of yesteryears overwhelm her.

Maybe it was because she still resisted the chance to relax, ready for the next catastrophe to befall her and upheave her life once again. There was no reason to believe Fate would be kind to her and leave her alone. It never had before. Her feelings had never mattered to the wheels of time that ground slowly onward, crushing its cruel desires on whomever it chose. She dared to think this could be her new home if she let it. That she could find some measure of peace to soothe her troubled soul. But still, sleep was far from her reaches tonight. It was Beltane, a night for lovers unbound.

Perhaps it was this place, the memories they made here years ago, now assaulting her with fondness nearly every place she went in the small village. When there had been a side to Morgana that had made her a sister and not the enemy, when she first saw layers Arthur had managed to keep hidden unfold. Merlin, of all of them, had not changed in any fundamental way from those days. Morgana was now lost to them, Gwen was a stranger to herself, her valor emergence, and Arthur had become so much more than he had appeared to be, when he began to look at her as more than just Morgana's maid.

He'd had no business being in that village, in another kingdom, but Merlin needed help, and the prince showed cunning, resourcefulness, and courage to protect his servant's hometown from marauders. Gwen didn't believe he was capable of thinking about anyone but himself before then, but his actions added another dimension to the spoiled prince she'd never seen before. Merlin had become more than just his servant whether the man realized it or not.

And then the imaged of his humility crumbled when his thankless and snobbish behavior appeared over the meager meals he had to eat. She'd rebuked him solidly, and he seemed to appreciate it in earnest and admire her bravery to stand up to him, something few men had the guts to do. It began their deliciously slow, yet mostly painful, orbit around one another, each taking turns to sabotage the relationship one way or another over the years until they finally gave in to their own desires and wrapped themselves in a love so deep that it hurt when they were apart. It almost made her laugh at their insanity, though there was little if any, humor to be had.

Maybe it was knowing that Camelot could be under attack this very moment. The Southrons could be killing her friends, or Elyan captured, or Arthur executed. Just as she thought it, a knot coiled in her stomach so intensely that she turned on her side and drew her legs in tight into a fetal position. Gwen wrapped her arms around her knees, involuntary tears streaming down her cheeks. She had never needed her long dead mother more than at this point. She had held her emotions in for so long that now her defenses crumbled just as assuredly as her composure, and in a mass of conflict and pain, she cried out in anger and hurt.

"Arthur!"

She was supposed to be in Tintagel with Arthur today, standing beside him as his wife, and he had promised to dance with her by the sea. So much more had been wrapped in that promise, and she had yet to let it go. He had told her the waves would crash upon the shore in rhythm with the way they moved, in and out of the intricate forms of the dance, their hands touching one upon the other for so brief a time it would be maddening, and they would see the stars reflected in each other's eyes. It was a promise of what would have come after they had retired from the public eye.

Now instead, she was in Ealdor, a poor substitute for the splendor lost. The little village was still beautifully decorated even in its simplicity. She had made sure to make as many garlands as she could, her deft fingers weaving the blooms with consummate skill, and was pleased to see them hung between trees and poles and lining the tables. But it was the first time in years she was spending this holiday without her love, and the loneliness was crushing her soul.

When Hunith had returned to the house she hadn't noticed, too lost within her own misery, but Merlin's mother was at her side immediately. "Guinevere, oh, my dear." She pulled the girl into an embrace that only a mother could give and rocked her gently. She wasn't her own mother, but she was here and she was real.

"I still love him, Hunith," Gwen cried, dissolving in the comfort of the older woman's arms. They didn't know each other very well, but the last few weeks they had developed a comfortable relationship. Guinevere saw where Merlin got his gentleness and fairness. And it had been so long since she was held with so much love that she started to tremble. "I can't stop myself from loving him."

"Love is something out of our control. Once it has you, I mean truly has you, all you can do is embrace it and see where it takes you. Most of the time it's a wonderful journey."

"It hurts."

"Of course, it does. You lost a part of yourself."

"I want to be there. I should be there fighting at his side."

"I'm sure he's grateful that you're not."

Gwen wanted to believe on some level that was true, that Arthur would rather have her far removed from the conflict than entrenched in the ugliness of battle. She had become a fair swordswoman and knew she could hold her own. But with her not there, her safety was one less thing for the King to worry about. One less distraction that could get him killed with concern for her.

Well, maybe he would have cared before all this, but not now, she reminded herself, and the tears came again.

"What happened, Gwen?" Now, with Merlin's mother, a near stranger, she felt ready, safe, a burning desire to finally break her silence if only just a little of it.

"I am so ashamed of what I did. I betrayed Arthur." She twisted her face as much as her hands, wringing through the heartache that was her life. "He found me in the arms of another, a man I thought I no longer—loved. Arthur was…enraged, drew his sword, and they fought." This was the first time she'd spoken about it. Not even with Mary did she tell what happened. It had been too early, too soon then, her spirit still brittle with thoughts of her own foolishness. And then after a while, she just wanted to forget it had happened and move on with her life even though she knew how cleansing the telling would offer.

"You should have seen the shock and pain in his face, Hunith, when I stopped him from killing Lancelot. By stepping between them, I wounded Arthur deeper than any sword. How could he not think I'd chosen Lancelot to protect? That wasn't the case. I didn't want either of them hurt."

"They were friends?"

"We were all friends, Arthur's best knight. And I ruined it."

"I'm sure there's enough blame to go around. You mustn't shoulder it all."

"Maybe Arthur was right. Maybe it was more than just getting married. That deep down I truly had doubts—not about him. Not really. More about me. The role, the responsibility. That it was less about who I was marrying and more about what I was marrying into. Everyone waiting for me to fail. And then seeing Lancelot alive and well pushed me over the edge. I think I even daydreamed what it would be like to be married to him, to someone closer to my station, even though he was a knight."

"Do you believe that?"

"My feelings for him seemed real enough at the time."

"Oh, child." Hunith saw her turmoil clearly, on her face, in her voice, in her body language, a woman in utter conflict. She had lost her one true love long ago, so she was familiar with the pain of losing such love.

"When we were alone, after, in the council chamber, he could barely hold his contempt of me, and I was so distraught that I could hardly speak. He was so angry, Hunith. He only wanted an explanation and I could not give him one. I had never been so far from him than in those moments. And when he banished me, my world ended. I was the most frightened than I'd ever been. Not that I was being sent away…that I was being parted from him."

Hunith wrapped her arms around the woman as warm and tenderly as a mother would. "I'm so sorry, Gwen."

"I have never loved someone like this in my life. This was worse than dying. The hurting will never stop."

"Time heals heartbreak differently for each of us if we're strong enough to allow it."

Gwen cried, and Hunith let her, stroking her hair and comforting her with whispered words of encouragement. She could tell this was the first time the young maiden had released her tears, for how long she had held to herself, Hunith knew it must have been for some time. She had been in Gwen's place herself.

Hunith guided Gwen to lie upon the cot after young woman ceased her crying, covered her with a blanket, and helped her to dry her tears. There was a calm over her now; perhaps she would sleep tonight. "Get some rest. You'll feel better in the morning."

Hunith slipped through the door and the sounds of revelry spilled in, but Gwen was already close to slumber's embrace. "Time does not heal wounds as deep as the one I cut."

….

There was so much screaming around them, the clang of metal and the cry of death, a chilling combination too oft familiar for the citizens of Camelot. They were under siege again.

Everyone knew the king would rather die defending Camelot than abandon his city or people, and he would die if Morgana had her way when she inevitably found him. Percival wasn't willing for that to happen, and just as the screaming seemed to intensify, he and Gwaine barricaded the doors of the inner chambers, sealing them, the injured king, and a handful of others inside. The screaming lessened but it didn't go away completely, the closed doors making the cries run past in search of more accessible hiding places. Arthur could barely stand it, nor the pain wracking his ribs. Despite it all, he still wanted the fight, and no one was brave enough to stop him.

Gaius and Merlin spoke quickly of something Percival could not hear before they blocked Arthur in front and behind. Gaius knew just how much force it would take and where to press on Arthur's injured ribs to distract the king with pain by touching those sensitive areas, popping his ribs back into place in the process. His whole body shook in sheer agony, his cry of pain filling the room. It was cut short, though, Merlin using magic that ripped out all of the backbone, the determination, the willpower that defined the man. The warlock winced, knowing that it was a terrible abuse of power. But Arthur's stubbornness was legendary and he would kill himself with nary a thought to the fact that he would leave his kingdom in a worse state if he were to die for what he thought was the good of his people.

It dazed the king losing so much an essential part of him, but the pain in his side was temporarily forgotten. Gwaine and Percival were at his side almost instantly, taking his unfocused gaze as shock and pain from the injury and the resetting. The crash against the doors made them all jump, Morgana's men on the other side battering the thick wood mercilessly. It wasn't going to hold for very much longer.

Percival wasn't sure what surprised him more, the urgency and command in Merlin's voice when he demanded they leave, or Arthur, in a drunken-like daze, snapping to his feet and unassertively agreeing to go. The giant knight glanced at Gwaine only long enough to see the wary look on the other knight's face, the sudden banging at the door reminding them that this was indeed a good thing and they had to leave with haste. They would sort out the king's condition later when they had time enough and enemies were no longer trying to kill them all.

Hauling the injured king forward, Percival dragged Arthur out through the servant's entrance, Merlin not too far behind them. His heart sank when he didn't see Gaius and couldn't help looking to Merlin to see his reaction. The servant's face was set hard, stone-like, and resigned to his guardian putting himself in such danger as he stayed with Gwaine to slow down Morgana and hopefully buy them time.

The south end tower wasn't that far away, but hauling an injured man in chain mail and tripping over his long red cloak slowed him down and threw him off balance. Arthur wasn't helping any with his less than adequate responses as if he'd downed a barrel of mead to himself and was just now being helped home. It took Percival a few extra swings to take out the opponents suddenly blocking their way. Arthur tried to help, his uncoordinated left-handed swipe, usually as adept as his dominant hand, could barely hit anything and nearly took off Percival's arm, twice. Merlin hurried forward and took the king's sword, and then took point. His form was clumsy, as was to be expected of someone untrained, but he was effective. They were descending the stairs with little resistance until they reached the basement level. The next cellar was one of the junctures for the siege tunnels, and it was crawling with Southrons. Their cellar led directly to the postern gate, a false wall separating them from the hallway of Southrons spewing out of the siege tunnels.

The passageway was dark and narrow, and no one thought to bring a torch. The king was sandwiched between Merlin and Percival, their breathing uneasy. The crunching of sand and rock under their feet, the rustling of their clothes so loud and distinct in their ears as they brushed against the rough stone walls, enough of a distraction to take away from the despair of losing Camelot, and focus on the never-ending darkness stretching toward the outer wall. They pressed forward, silent, each wrestling with his own dreadful thoughts, except maybe Arthur. It seemed forever, but knowing it wasn't, Merlin soon found himself pressed against the wooden inner door.

"We're here," he said, breathing heavily. "Keys, Sire."

"Of course." Arthur unclipped the ring of metal on his belt and easily handed them to his manservant. There were nearly a dozen keys in the lot and after all these years, Merlin still did not know what they were all for. He'd needed to steal a few of them since the beginning of his servitude from time to time, but there were plenty still Merlin hadn't bothered to figure out. When he used this exit (and he'd used it on regular occasion), he had magic to unlock the gate. He couldn't very well take the easy route now, so he looked to Arthur, his face twisted with indecisiveness and a silent plea.

Arthur smiled at him blankly for only a second, and when Merlin jingled the keys closer to his face, his own more desperate, he then pointed. "Oh. That one."

Within seconds, they hurried through the postern gate on the southwest curtain wall, smoke and ash from the lower town burning their nostrils, the screams of her citizens filling their ears. It was enough to freeze their blood and they all stopped, a moment of decision to return and defend, for it was their duty. To save the king was their duty now and it took only a few seconds more to realize that. There was nothing they could do except pray they could escape, hide until Morgana was done toying with them, plan to take back what was theirs when their odds were more favorable.

Merlin and Percival pressed forward with reticence toward the Forest of Brechffa, gaining at least half a league between them and the city. They slowed to a stop to catch their breaths and check on the king's injuries when Percival heard it immediately, the footfalls of someone running toward them. He shushed his companions, his stance readying for a fight just as Elyan ran into him, his reflexes so fast that he caught Gwen's brother by the shoulders and swung him around with a fierce jerk.

"Don't hold back on my account," Elyan joked. Percival couldn't help but smile though he didn't want to. Anyone able to escape the ravaged city was a good thing. But he had exchanged words with Elyan a few weeks after Gwen's banishment when he was unable to keep his silence about the situation any longer. Percival was a man of little words, so when he spoke so long and so passionately about what he thought, everyone in earshot listened with astonishment.

He'd accused Elyan of being the worst kind of coward, the kind that abandoned family. He'd said many biting truths, standards that he had held in his friend were abandoned and a knife wedged into their friendship to where the two of them had resigned to speaking only when duty necessitated, and then falling into familiar old habits as friends so often did before one or the other realized it, and withdrew with awkward silence. Such was not the moment, the situation bigger than them. They set aside their differences to discuss stratagem, recognizing the need for their best to be better.

Arthur turned toward the screams barely heard now with the look akin to a little boy not seeming to comprehend the enormity of all that had befallen his beloved city. Fire could be seen in the upper town now and smoke billowed from the lower. He was fleeing his home, abandoning his people, leaving his friends during a fight. Father would not have liked that. Something was wrong with him. He did not feel himself. Why was everyone screaming? Where was Gwen? Merlin's gentle voice captured Arthur's attention and urged him to come with him, the king losing those thoughts and feelings of loneliness almost instantly.

The spell was more powerful than Merlin had expected, leaving Arthur with the uncharacteristic mentality of a young child, innocent, and too easy to manipulate. The enchantment stripped not just his sense of self, but all of his royal countenance, intellect, and tenacity. Merlin was sure the king didn't understand how desperate things were, of the devastating loss of Camelot again, of his citizens fighting for their lives and dying again, nor even the seriousness of his own wound. The king was so dependent on the servant to lead and make the decisions now that it was almost amusing if the situation had not been so dire.

The king was injured and the countryside was littered with enemies, towns and garrisons likely overrun with Southrons. They needed to get Arthur to Ealdor by any means necessary where Merlin knew would find temporary safety.

And Gwen.

….

A/N: I couldn't help adding in Arthur's sneezing fit with the flowers after seeing Bradley James have a small one in one of their behind-the-scenes videos. I hope you enjoyed that scene as much as I did writing it.