Chapter 9: Forming Connections

"I've never ridden a horse before in my life," Merlin confided to Percival, under the cover of the others packing their last bits and pieces, adjusting and buckling and mounting.

His horse, a brown mare whose sides gleamed a bit reddish where they caught the light, turned her head as if to stare at him in one-eyed disillusionment. Sorry, he thought at her, and her head swung around to face forward once again.

"It shouldn't be a problem," Percival said, quietly and privately, which Merlin appreciated – then gave him one of his rare wide grins. "For anyone but you, that is. By the time we get to the harder riding in the mountains, you'll have learned. For now – you'll probably only fall off if you fall asleep. And expect a bit of teasing about the soreness."

Soreness, Merlin mused glumly – but his mood dissipated quickly once legs and rear settled into the contours of the saddle, and Arthur led the party at a slow walk toward the city's north gate. It was exciting to feel a horse's latent strength and power underneath him, to view his city from a loftier perch and travel the streets with a minimum of effort on his part. The eyes of the people on him, on them – slaves and citizens – in recognition, straightened his spine with pride, for the first time.

The three of them had each been given clothes for the journey, rough but sturdy and well-made, earth-colored trousers, lighter tan shirts, tunics of boiled leather that Merlin suspected might serve as protection at least, if not armor. Rations packed on their saddles that Leon assured him would last for a week. Comparing himself to the more muscular fighters – and taking into account his accustomed fare, with his mother and Gaius, and then with only his old tutor – Merlin privately guessed that his could last him two weeks, if necessary. Other than that, all bedding and cooking vessels or utensils, would be up to him. He was a bit nervous about conjuring items to order under the critical gaze of strangers – and one his employer – but in any case, it couldn't be as bad as the arena.

They passed through the city gates and Merlin's mare picked up her pace in response to the other mounts in the party following Arthur's leadership. For a good long while after, his thoughts were occupied by the novelty of the terrain.

He could see so far. Green squares of crop-land or pasture, divided by hedges or low stone walls, and even the road was at least half as busy as the city – women driving carts pulled by donkeys or goats, men bent under burdens, children chasing dogs or chivvying small flocks of various poultry.

Gradually left behind.

More than once he twisted to look back; they were definitely leaving the more prosperous areas closer to the city. Midmorning, there were ramshackle huts in clusters, weeds where there wasn't bare earth, trees where there weren't weeds.

"The kingdom's wealth," Leon commented over his shoulder, from ahead of Merlin and to his right, "is definitely centered around its cities."

That didn't sit right with Merlin, but he couldn't articulate why. But for the capital, Camelot's cities were all garrisons, holding the borders against enemies. On all sides, it seemed.

"Camelot doesn't have any allies," he said aloud, "because…"

Once again it was Leon who answered; Tristan riding abreast of him ignored Merlin to watch the party's left flank, and Percival and Gwaine were silent, behind Merlin. "Because they're ruled by kings."

He wondered, then, whether the kings resented Camelot's female-dominated society, or whether it was the other way around. He was trying to phrase that into a question that wouldn't sound ignorant or offensive, when Arthur glanced over his shoulder. He made a few incomprehensible signals with his right hand, reined in as Tristan trotted his gray-white mount around, then held his nearly-black horse in position, releasing it to return to the group's pace when he was alongside Merlin.

Merlin watched the golden-haired lord out of the corner of his eye, full of questions but feeling a bit reticent about asking. Knowing that Arthur was likely evaluating him, too.

"Conjuration takes," Arthur said casually, angling toward Merlin but not turning all the way to look at him directly, "energy and concentration, so I understand." He continued right over Merlin's hesitant murmur of corroboration, "Is that something you think you can do while riding, or would you have to dismount?"

"It depends on what I'm conjuring," Merlin answered, glad Arthur's query wasn't more personal. "If it's something very large, or very heavy – I don't know how the horse would react."

"Weapons," Arthur said. "Possibly armor. Can you do that?" Merlin shifted uncomfortably, and Arthur added, "Not that I think we'll have to defend ourselves within Camelot, bandits rarely get more than a few miles inside the border, and fugitives will avoid us just because of our number. But if it's something you need to practice, it might be good to get that out of the way before we cross out of the queen's territory."

"Yes," Merlin said, a bit relieved. "It's always easiest doing something to a pattern I'm familiar with – things I've already handled, seen, tasted, and so on –"

"And that hasn't been weaponry," Arthur guessed with a mild irony that served to raise Merlin's defensiveness.

"No." He watched Arthur's profile as they jogged along, and decided to relent a bit. "It's also… easier to do things that are… simpler, in their construction."

"So – shields before armor. And chainmail is right out?" Merlin cringed at the thought of conjuring those thousands of tiny metal links into any kind of a garment, much less five – or six. "All right, never mind," Arthur said, reading his answer in a single swift glance. "Would have been nice, but the cost of buying real – and then the questions and curiosity – would be too great. So… What can you do?"

Merlin wedged the knot of his reins under his left thigh, cupped his hands together and concentrated. The blade appeared as he drew his hands apart; he glanced from tip to cross-guard and then hilt to make sure that his intent manifested correctly.

And the intent stare of Arthur's blue eyes startled him. "What?"

"Nothing, just… It is true, your eyes turn gold. I've never seen that before, though I've read…" Arthur seemed to realize Merlin's discomfort, and twitched off his intensity, focusing instead on the blade wavering in Merlin's hands with the gait of his mare. "That's not bad," he said approvingly. Merlin caught Leon's encouraging smile – and Tristan's ill-tempered scowl – before the two soldiers faced forward again. "May I?"

Merlin twisted to hand the sword to Arthur hilt-first, and the lord hefted, swung, spun, and lifted it to squinted along the length, one-handed, and without so much as a twitched-ear response from his mount. "That's Percival's," Merlin ventured to explain, glancing over his shoulder to his big friend's grin of anticipation. "Just – tell me what you'd like the same, what you want different…"

"Really," Arthur said, still studying the sword, and Merlin couldn't tell what he was thinking. He gave the weapon a little toss, and caught the blade in his gloved hand near the point, letting the hilt fall back toward Percival – whose waiting hand was ready.

Merlin concentrated again; Gwaine's was different. Lighter and more slender, but an inch or so longer, was how he preferred his sword. Without speaking, Merlin handed that one to Arthur also, who tested it before passing it back to Gwaine.

"We'll have to talk about sheaths, too," Arthur remarked.

"Where we're going," Gwaine raised his voice to address Arthur, "you expect we'll use these things on a daily basis, or is it more of a… precaution?"

For a moment Merlin wondered if Arthur had even heard Gwaine's question. Then the lord turned his golden head to meet Merlin's curious gaze squarely.

"Beyond our northern border, and the garrison of Ealdor," Arthur said slowly – and if he noticed Merlin's violent start of surprise, he didn't let on. "Through the White Mountains. There are tales of wild tribes, and monsters. I hope not daily –" he emphasized the word with a mocking backward glance for Gwaine, "but I do think we'll need them."

He gathered the reins in both hands, shifting his seat like he intended to take the lead again, and Merlin leaned toward him, reaching as if to grasp his sleeve, without actually touching him. "We're going past Ealdor?"

"We're going through Ealdor," Arthur corrected. He spoke casually, but his blue eyes were keen, and Merlin retracted his hand. "It'll probably be the last place we can sleep in beds and taste anything but our own cooking, that'll be worth a few extra coins. Why?"

"Oh, my… mother was stationed in Ealdor," he stammered. "Once."

Arthur eyed him, but asked nothing further, and after another moment of Merlin's awkward silence, he made a ambiguous noise – and signaled his mount to increase its pace, past Tristan into the lead. And as Tristan exchanged positions with their leader, Leon dropped back next to Merlin.

"How are you getting on with her?" he said conversationally.

"Who?" Merlin said.

Leon smiled. "Your mare. Percival said he guessed you didn't have much opportunity for the sort of riding we're used to on garrison patrols."

"No," Merlin agreed, wryly thankful that both soldiers had been so charitable toward his inexperience. "She's lovely, though."

"Unfortunately, there's no way to get used to riding except to suffer through it," Leon sympathized. "Have you ever been north to Ealdor?"

Merlin reminded himself, private conversation was probably going to be rare, on this excursion. "No, I've… never been outside the city."

"Your first journey will be – memorable, I think," Leon said, with optimistic tact. "Arthur mentioned he'd like you to conjure weapons?"

"And sheaths," Merlin said, frowning a little. Percival and Gwaine had sparred with their weapons for a while, before he'd dismissed the conjuration; he'd never done sheaths to hold and carry the swords, before.

"I can help you with that," Leon offered. "Just, let me know if you're getting tired?"

It wasn't as hard as Merlin feared. Really, when it came down to it, he needed only to conjure a tough sort of leather around the blade, and then include straps so it could be tied to saddle or belt.

"That's quite handy to be able to do," Leon commented, as Merlin dismissed the last of his failed attempts with a careless toss, and Gwaine and Percival settled their sheathed weapons behind them. "Now, as I'm fairly rubbish with a sword – how are you with bows and arrows?"

Not very good, it turned out. There was more to a good bow than the shape; it was all about materials. And a fletched arrow, Merlin could just, not make happen. Perhaps if he'd done it for real once or twice… Merlin appreciated that Leon didn't coddle him about the truth of his disastrous attempts, but the older fighter never lost patience, either. He finally suggested, crossbow bolts. A shorter-range projectile, but easier than fletched arrows. With a little direction, Merlin could pull bolts out of thin air one every other second.

But for conjuring a crossbow. There Merlin stuck again. The bow and string didn't matter quite so much as a longbow evidently, but the firing mechanism totally eluded him.

Merlin was tiring – in body and magic – and frustrated, and conscious that his activity was a focus of attention for the other four as they rode through the countryside. Regardless, he bit his tongue and tried to understand what it was he was missing, as Leon pointed out the flaws of his last effort, leaning sideways in the saddle next to Merlin.

Percival spoke from Merlin's other side. "You can break that down pretty easily. Are you as good at assembling one?"

Leon looked past Merlin at the big man, inspiration and hope showing on his face. "I am."

"What if he conjures the pieces, and you put it together?" Percival suggested.

Leon smiled at Merlin, lifting his eyebrows. "How about trying that, once?"

A couple of the more intricate pieces took Merlin several tries to master, but when Arthur called a dismount for a quick noontime meal-and-rest, Leon was satisfied with the result of his weapon, and Merlin was happy enough at that, to ignore his aches and pains.

It wasn't a long break. Travel fast, Arthur had said. Gwaine, Percival, and Leon had all asked how he was doing, and he replied cheerfully, but in trying to keep attention off his own discomfort, he noticed Arthur and Tristan arguing. Quiet, and intense – the older soldier resisting some order Arthur felt compelled to give. It ended with Tristan's acquiescence – Merlin wasn't surprised – and they two were the last to mount as the party continued the journey again into the afternoon.

Merlin thought he'd guessed what the issue was, when he found himself beside the oldest of their group – ahead of Percival and behind Arthur, behind Leon and Gwaine in the lead. Wondering what issue the oldest of the soldiers, had with him personally.

"Swords," Tristan said shortly, not even cutting his eyes toward Merlin.

"Excuse me?" Merlin still did not know what to think of Tristan. He was quiet, but had a sense of humor, though it was sarcastic and even bitter sometimes. Tristan had made no effort to get to know any of the three of them – yet he'd volunteered to accompany and protect Arthur to the capital.

"Two of them. Slender, curved, shorter than the one you gave your big slave."

Merlin wanted to object, to remind the older man that he knew, and therefore should use, Percival's name. But Percival was right behind them – if he took offense, he could say something – and he didn't. Would he feel like Merlin was tacitly taking the master's role, to say something – would he assume Merlin should? Even glancing back would feel awkward, and Merlin resented Tristan for that.

So he said nothing, tucking his reins out of his way, and focused on creating sharp curved steel out of thin air.

He could understand Leon's need for a specific result in the weapon he favored; he appreciated Leon's concern for the difficulty, and energy it required, his gratitude when it was accomplished. But Tristan remained unsatisfied, and unhelpful, snapping out a single terse criticism and tossing each offered blade contemptuously to the ditch, where Merlin had to silently dismiss the rejected conjuration, so as not to leave them lying there for the next full day.

Too long. Too short. Not curved enough. Too curved. Curve too close to the point – misshapen point – curve too close to the hilt, which was also all wrong. Smaller cross-guard. Thinner cross-guard – no, not so thin. Leather-wrapped hilt. Braided leather – which Merlin had to twist from three slender strips himself – no, just cross-hatched… No, that wasn't right either.

With Leon Merlin had felt encouraged and respected – his frustration was the complexity of the weapon itself and his desire to please. With Tristan, he felt like his best was never going to be good enough, like it was him that the older soldier found fault with, not just the conjurations.

Finally, Arthur twisted around in his saddle, bracing himself with one hand on its back, to loose a stern glare directly at Tristan. And Merlin had the distinct impression that Arthur had been fully aware of what was going on, and that he'd let it happen.

Tristan said belligerently – to Arthur, rather than Merlin – "One of them has to be left-handed."

Merlin was so angry he wanted to cry. Instead he focused, concentrated, trying to feel the way a hilt would need to be different for his off hand, and handed the weapon over, exhausted.

Arthur hadn't faced forward, letting his near-black mount follow along with his fellows carrying Leon and Gwaine. He watched Tristan clench the reins in his teeth, tense in the saddle, and sling both wickedly-curved blades around him simultaneously, with a sinister hiss of steel slicing air. Merlin's mare sidled a bit nervously, but otherwise held her pace and position.

Tristan spat out his reins and said sarcastically to Merlin, "Is it going to take all day every time?"

His answer was the two tough-leather tie-strap sheaths – perfectly curved – that would secure the soldier's new weapons to his saddle. Tristan grunted, accepting them with a snatch, then urged his gray-white mount to pass both Arthur and Gwaine to take the lead again.

Merlin let his body slump, chin bobbing to his chest, feeling the ache of unaccustomed riding in bones and muscles, and the drain of his magic. For a moment he wondered if it was worth it – the demand, the attitude, trusting a stranger after he'd just been betrayed by a stranger… Then he decided, it would be like the young mother with the little girl who'd burned her foot. He wouldn't give up trying to coax acceptance from his new companions.

"All right, there?" Arthur said from his left. Merlin opened his eyes and turned his head just enough to bring the other into focus, but otherwise did not try for a straighter posture. "Not going to… spontaneously fall asleep?" He made a diving motion with his hand which Merlin assumed was himself tipping headfirst off his horse.

"What do you want?" Merlin said tiredly.

"Glory, fame, and honor," Arthur said dryly. "And to make four or five more leagues before we camp for the night."

"No, I mean – a sword, as well?"

Arthur's head whipped around to study him, blue eyes narrowed – and Merlin had no idea what he'd said to provoke such a response. "Oh, you mean… No, I can wait til tomorrow for that. Like I said, I don't believe we'll need to use our weapons this side of the border, but it's a good thing if you already know what each man wants and can make it for him quickly."

Merlin snorted. "Quickly."

Arthur's lips quirked as he directed his gaze forward to Tristan. "About that. It isn't personal."

"The last person who said that to me," Merlin spoke deliberately, "was Morgause."

Arthur's smile vanished. He watched the back of his oldest soldier a moment more, then glanced behind, as if to gauge how close Percival was. Merlin did the same, and was mildly surprised to see Percival rein his mount back a few paces, giving them space and privacy without offense.

"Leon and Tristan weren't at the arena to see what you did, that day," Arthur said, with an air of explanation or excuse. "And I wasn't exaggerating the risks of this trip."

Merlin wondered, why the queen had sent Arthur, rather than a female citizen or officer, and why then with no magical support. He opened his mouth to ask, but Arthur's next comment drove the question right out of his mind.

"Tristan can conjure, you see." Arthur glanced over at him. "And, if you value my mother's money paying your debt, you won't breathe a word of this to anyone, because he will kill me. At least, in a fit of temper, he'd try."

Merlin studied Arthur again. Why tell a stranger, then, such a secret – and he realized, Arthur was testing him. Trusting him, to know if he could trust him, maybe as a prelude to revealing more about this journey that might not be normal or ordinary, after all. And another blue glance told him, Arthur knew Merlin had caught on to that fact.

"Flowers," Arthur said, with another sideways smile. "And only, flowers. Any bloom or blossom you could name or describe. Gorgeous stuff, I've seen it - but nothing to take to the arena for citizenship."

"You're kidding," Merlin said, half-expecting the lord to laugh at Merlin for beginning to believe, and admit the joke.

Instead, Arthur shook his head. "When Tristan was young, he fell in love. A junior officer, not much for conjuration herself, but a terror with a blade, and her smile… I still remember her smile." Merlin asked wordlessly, eyebrows raised, and Arthur explained, "I was seven years old. The two of them used me as a messenger. Back and forth, over the course of their affair."

Merlin chuckled, trying to imagine the dignified lord as a child, a golden-haired rascal with a crooked grin – and found he could, easily. "What happened?"

"She transferred." Merlin said nothing – because really, didn't that explain it all? – and after a careful moment, Arthur added, "It was several more years before I learned… She was in love with him, too. Asked for the transfer before… she got him into trouble over their… relationship."

In Merlin's imagination, the young officer with the memorable smile – the young soldier conjuring flowers for her – the little boy who may have looked quite like the soldier's son, himself – changed. And Merlin saw Hunith young, with a memorable – sorrowful – smile herself. Some faceless soldier, desperately in love but unable to say so – and himself, watching enthralled as his father conjured flowers for his mother.

He hid his cringe at the pang of longing and loss that sent spiking through his chest.

"It's unfair," he blurted to Arthur. "All of it. Magic doesn't make you a better person. Any more than – being born male, makes you dangerous. They fear us and we mistrust them and every citizen is a killer and we're all told, because it's necessary. And we have no allies, and marriages are nearly unheard of and how can that be a good thing?"

Arthur's expression of surprise caught him up short with the realization that he'd let his mouth move faster than his judgment, and he shut it firmly.

After a moment, Arthur criticized mildly, "Again with the questions, Merlin."

No wonder Morgana thought he belonged in slavery, Merlin thought glumly, as Arthur moved his mount past the three ahead of them, into the lead – though at least he hadn't positioned himself abreast of Tristan, to tell him of the conversation. He was subversive, all of a sudden. Was that what happened when one became a man? He couldn't remember minding the inequality of genders, as a child.

Then again, without that inequality to separate two people who had trusted each other enough to fall in love – even without knowing if that had been his mother's situation, or not – he might have known his father. The other side of that was, then he wouldn't have known Gaius. But without a citizen-trial, he wouldn't have needed Gaius – and he wouldn't have met Gwaine and Percival…

Who had moved up to take Arthur's position next to him, with a questioning look for Merlin's wellbeing.

"Riding," Merlin informed him, "gives you too much time to think."

Percival's square face split into one of his rare boyish grins. "That is so, sir."

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

"My lady?" The younger of Gwen's two secretaries, a shy uncertain girl only a year or two into a citizenship that sometimes still seemed to surprise her, was pale – and probably trembling – over her interruption of the princess. Even though that was her job, upon occasion, she was new enough to the job, and probably the palace, to doubt Gwen's reactions.

"What is it, Sefa?" she said, setting her quill back in its stand.

"Your lady mother demands your presence immediately," the younger girl said, dropping her gaze to the floor near her feet, hands nervously smoothing the black tunic she wore over her crisp white shirt, down to the black skirt that brushed her boot-tops.

Immediately was unusual. And coupled with demands… Gwen rose with a sigh, straightening the folds of her own bronze silk gown, and quirked a finger for her secretary to follow her.

Everyone's loyalty was first to the queen, and everyone knew that. Questions would be answered honestly, no information would be withheld. Things Gwen did not want her mother to know, she did not share with maid or secretary. But her personal employees' loyalty was to her second – from everyone but the queen, those secrets or details would be kept.

"Is the queen alone?" she asked as they walked at a decent pace – haste was unseemly, but delay would not be tolerated – toward her mother's office.

"No, my lady." Sefa hesitated only briefly. "The… Twins are with her?"

The Twins. Gwen didn't so much as pause, but her thoughts went right to the last time she'd seen them – late on the night of this year's arena-trials, in Arthur's company and surprised to learn of their families' antipathy and its cause. Connections began to form, reasons for their visit and Nimueh's impatience; her arrival at the queen's office door interrupted the process.

The slave had seen her coming, and bowed as he opened the door. Gwen made a sign for Sefa to follow her inside, but the queen turned from a standing position behind her desk – rigid with fury – and ordered the secretary, "Leave us."

Sefa retreated, and the slave closed the door. The silence fairly crackled with tension. The Twins – Morgause facing away from Gwen, and Morgana at right angles to her sister – lounged in Nimueh's guest chairs, affecting indifference.

Gwen clasped her hands loosely in front of her and resisted the urge to shift nervously as she tried to remember her latest misdeed or shortcoming. And when Nimueh spoke, the topic that had evidently provoked her temper took Gwen by surprise.

"Damn your foolish quest."

"Excuse me?" Gwen said. The queen had laughed and joked about the nonsensical task she'd set for her suitors, the last they'd spoken of it. "Your Majesty, has something happened?"

"Lord Arthur," Nimueh said icily. From the corner of her eye, Gwen noticed Morgause turn her head, enough to see the smirk. "Where did he go?"

"He didn't say," Gwen answered truthfully. And she hadn't asked, either him or Lancelot.

"When did he leave?"

"Early this morning, I believe." Gwen watched her mother share a significant glance with the Twins, and added, "Why, may I ask?"

She might ask, but that didn't guarantee an answer. Coming around her desk to lean backwards against the front of it, Nimueh continued. "And did he tell you what artifact he was after?"

"No." Gwen took two steps forward, to be at least as close to her mother as Nimueh was to the other two women, and lifted her chin. "Something happened, that changed your – amused support, of my decision?"

"Arthur took Merlin with him." Nimueh crossed her arms and arched her brows challengingly.

For a moment Gwen waited for the rest, before realizing, that was the fact that irked the queen. Puzzled, she said, "Yes, I know, he told me he intended to."

"What?" That was Morgana, shocked out of silence into interrupting, sliding to the edge of her seat. Morgause twisted around to face Gwen, and the smirk was gone.

"Why?" Nimueh demanded narrowly.

Honestly, why did the situation or that detail warrant such intent focus? "He said that there were complications with Merlin's first business venture, and that he subsequently hired Merlin to accompany him on the quest."

He'd also said, I anticipate you finding out… better to tell you immediately, and myself. Which made her think now, he'd spoken in fairly innocuous general terms, and there was possibly more to it.

"But you have no idea what the object of his quest was," Nimueh pressed, "or why he'd need Merlin's help?"

"No. I assumed it was equal parts, for the use of his conjuration, and Arthur taking pity on his… predicament."

Merlin had a loan – then, complications – and Arthur purchased the loan. Gwen looked at the Twins. The money-lenders. And what, she asked herself, was their interest in her quest, or in Arthur and Merlin's partnership?

"It should be simple enough to discover which direction they took, leaving the city." Morgause was speaking to the queen, and Gwen had the feeling – again – there were things that only she, out of the four women in the room, didn't know. She settled her expression into regal impassivity. "It would be difficult and expensive for me to send anyone after them, but…"

"No," Nimueh said, lowering her eyes to the rug thoughtfully. "It's possible that Lord Arthur's concern with Merlin is more mercenary than cooperative in nature, that he anticipates a high degree of danger or risk, in this quest. It makes more sense to… wait, and… meet them upon their return."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Morgause said. She rose to her feet – and Morgana a half-second later.

"Let me know what else you can discover." Nimueh waved a hand, and the twins – with a deeper curtsy to the queen than the princess – let themselves out of the room.

"Mother?" Gwen said expectantly, keeping irritation – which would only serve to irritate her mother – in check. "I don't see why Arthur's employment of Merlin is a problem, nor what business it is of –"

"You don't see why it's a problem," Nimueh repeated. She shook her head, beaded braids rippling in the rest of her loose curls, then circled the desk to seat herself again. "Why a freedman with the title of lord, entering into a partnership with our first male citizen in a century –" and by her tone, Nimueh was not pleased with the boy's victory in the arena – "and leaving the city to travel the kingdom unsupervised, is cause for concern?"

"Unsupervised?" Gwen said incredulously. "Freedmen and citizens alike have the freedom to travel as they will, and can."

Nimueh gave her a look of disappointed disgust. "Suppose one's success coupled with the other's sense of entitlement begins to spread dissatisfaction among the males of our population? There have been uprisings in the past, Guinevere, and while we have the magic and the power to quell such things, it is not without loss, or risk of weakening ourselves to foreign attack."

Gwen could see her mother's point. But was that reason enough to circumvent law-given rights and freedoms?

"I'm sure you're exaggerating the danger," she said.

Nimueh studied her a moment, brilliant blue eyes unreadable. "And you might think otherwise, was it your throne to protect," she said softly. "We shall see, I suppose. You are dismissed."

Gwen bowed her head respectfully, and let herself out of the room as well. The Twins were no longer in sight, but Sefa was waiting, wringing her hands anxiously and maybe even unconsciously, and jumped in shock when Gwen appeared. Her nerves seemed to be heightened, and didn't abate as they walked back to the royal chamber, but Gwen waited til they were alone before speaking.

"What is it?" she said gently, facing the secretary as she turned from closing the door behind them.

Initially, Sefa stiffened, frightened at being caught out, maybe considering denial – but her brown eyes welled with tears, and she struggled to overcome her hesitation. "My older sister," she finally murmured. "Works as a clerk in the Twins' lending-house."

"I see," Gwen said, calculating possibilities of information exchange, in either direction, past or future.

"They must have just found that out – in the hall, they asked me –"

"Sefa," Gwen said, stopping her with one hand on both of the other girl's, cold fingers tangled together. "I won't ask you to betray your loyalty to your sister, or ask her to betray hers to her employers. But I have to believe that you will not betray my trust in you, either." She made the last a question, waiting til her secretary met her eyes.

She ducked her head in initial agreement. "They - they asked me about… you and Lord Arthur. And – I mentioned a few days ago that Merlin might come talk to you, to my sister, just as a curiosity. I don't know if she told them – she doesn't really like working for them, but if they asked…"

"It's fine," Gwen said soothingly. "What's done is done."

She thought she understood, a little better. If the Twins had given Merlin his loan, and if Arthur had gotten involved in the situation, even out of concern for Merlin, it made sense that the two women would have taken offense, given their feud with Arthur's family. Even if it did seem extreme that they would try to get him in trouble with the queen, in retaliation.

"Just – practice discretion?" Gwen added to Sefa. "If your sister loves you, she won't ask you to tell her things you shouldn't, okay?"

"Yes, my lady." Sefa sniffled, flashed a brief and watery smile, and bobbed a curtsy.

"Now. We have plenty more to do today, so let's get to it," Gwen suggested, and headed for her desk, as Sefa scampered for the door.

And. Plenty now to think about, too.

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

Percival was on guard duty. He hadn't spoken to Gwaine about the detail yet, but he'd privately decided, for future reference, Merlin's concerns took precedence over Arthur's. Which was why he was standing guard, rather than helping about the campsite.

A muffled groan turned into an inarticulate curse, and Percival resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, or ask again after the young man's well-being. He had a feeling that repeated concern would prove offensive, in Merlin's current condition and mood. So he leaned nonchalantly sideways against a large tree, a stone's toss to the east of camp, and watched the others work.

Arthur had pushed them til the sun had set, half an hour ago. The color was fading from the sky, half-hidden by leaf-canopy, and in another half-hour it would be dark. Just now, the fire was more useful as heat for their dinner, than light for their other chores. Conjured wood burned better, it seemed, and the flame caught instantly, though Percival regretted that brief expression of grim maturity that shadowed Merlin's face as he looked at the conjured flame, and probably remembered the clinic.

Leon was cooking tonight. He'd volunteered in a self-deprecating way, and Arthur, in accepting, had informed them they could expect to take turns on subsequent nights.

Tristan was organizing the material Merlin had conjured, into bedding – on the ground, padded by bracken and detritus. Gwaine had made a joke about silk sheets and mahogany bed-frames – which made Percival and Merlin laugh, though the other three hadn't understood – before heading off somewhere to help Arthur with the horses. Downstream of where Percival guarded Merlin's privacy, maybe.

He appeared, tramping to join Percival alongside the meandering brook, but whatever he had been about to say was lost in the distraction of another self-pitying moan from behind Percival. It caught Gwaine's attention over Percival's shoulder, though he couldn't see anything anyway – Merlin had chosen an area well-concealed with low bushes, and a bit of distance from Percival, also.

"Is he okay?" Gwaine asked, keeping his voice too low to travel to their boy-master in his misery.

Percival allowed a slight smile and lifted his brows, and Gwaine rolled his eyes in realization. "Just that, though?"

"It'll be worse in the morning," Percival told him.

Gwaine nodded, but he probably didn't understand. He'd grown up in a garrison, probably begging rides throughout his childhood and adolescence. His first extended campaign had probably not been near as bad as this Merlin's first time a-horseback. Percival, as a fellow city-raised boy, could sympathize.

"So what do you think?" he asked his long-haired friend, jerking his chin slightly toward their camp.

"Leon's a good man," Gwaine said, turning to watch the other two soldiers. "A bit unimaginative, unambitious…"

"Which probably makes him a very good soldier," Percival agreed, and Gwaine nodded.

"Tristan's a surly bastard – but he's not lazy, and Leon and Arthur don't seem to mind him. Arthur's a puzzle, but he seems like –"

"Where is he, anyway?" Percival interrupted, pushing upright and away from the tree, eyes scanning the dusky limits of sight around their camp and not finding the golden-haired lord.

"He was going to –" Gwaine gestured aimlessly and glanced around also.

And Arthur's voice came from a point behind Percival that made him cringe – but keep his back turned. "Merlin, why are you all the way –" sudden change of tone – "What are you doing?"

"Trying for a moment of privacy," Merlin snarled. Gwaine snickered and Percival elbowed him. "Lords, Arthur, can't you –"

"What do you want me to do, knock?" Arthur retorted, sounding annoyed and embarrassed – annoyed because he was embarrassed, maybe. "How was I to know you needed a personal moment?"

"My trousers around my ankles didn't give it away to you?"

Percival made to turn around, intending to interrupt and force Arthur to take his leave, lord or no, but Gwaine stopped him with a hand on his arm. He leaned closer to suggest with quiet humor, "Let them have their moment."

Well. The harm was probably already done, and Merlin could take care of himself…

Arthur had continued speaking. "Fine. I will find a tree trunk and bloody my knuckles rapping, the next time I come to deliberately interrupt your precious priv- What is that stuff?" Another tone change, from annoyed to interested.

"Lords, Arthur." Silence for a moment. "This is for muscle ache and this is for blisters, are you happy now?"

Placating tone. "Merlin, it's all right, we all understand if you need to –"

Merlin was having none of it. "Don't bother slowing your pace for me. And laugh all you like – really, you're welcome to it. I'll live."

Crackling of forest-floor detritus, a swish or two of angrily-hastily swiped branches, and Merlin stormed past, stiff with mortified temper. His tunic was slung over the crook of his elbow as he paused to finish tying the drawstring of his trousers. "Thanks so much," he snapped, "both of you. Wonderful job keeping an eye out for anyone coming my way."

"Apologies for the slip-up, sir," Percival said dryly, and had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smiling at the glare Merlin shot him for the honorific.

Arthur joined them as they watched the youngest of their group stalk back to the camp. He began in a low voice, "I am sorry for –"

"Never mind," Percival advised, though he appreciated Arthur's impulse to express regret for his blunder. "It'll be fine. Just let him…" He gestured.

Leon had looked up from his crouch over the stewpot, saying something to Merlin, who shook his hand once over the steaming vessel. Salt, Percival guessed – he'd learned that conjured flavorings were just as good as real, since they were unnecessary for actual sustenance, at least for the duration of the trip. Merlin then cupped his hands and bowls popped up, one after another, nestling inside the next – wood, probably, as the boy explained was easier than clay. The young man fairly tossed the dishes down to Leon – who looked surprised, at Merlin's mood more than his conjuration, it might be. Spoons were next, by the brief metallic glint, as fast as Merlin could pass them from one hand to the other, before he dropped them to Leon's lap as well, and turned toward the bedding Tristan had laid out. Leon twisted to say something more, and the three of them heard Merlin's terse response clearly.

"I'm not hungry." Tristan glanced over as the boy stretched his length gingerly along one of the bedrolls, pulling a light cover against moisture over him, and Gwaine chuckled at Merlin's more audible retort. "Shut up!"

As Leon began to spoon their dinner into the bowls – Percival was pleased to see no hesitation over using the conjured materials - Arthur moved to lead the two of them back to the campsite.

"He'll be all right," Percival said, noticing Arthur's look, halfway between serious and unhappy. "He's allowed his moments, I think, but that boy is nothing if not cheerful."

"He's got spirit, I'll give him that," Arthur murmured, as they stepped into the circle of firelight.

Percival decided to save Merlin a share of dinner, and wake his boy-master to make sure he ate, when it was his turn at watch. Otherwise, sleep was best. Morning would come sooner than Merlin would be happy with, he suspected.

A/N: Nothing from the book, aside from the fact of the quest (I honestly don't remember the point of it, in the book) and the mc doing conjuration to help it along.