TEN

The night was well advanced by the time the water was warmed and suitably salted. The way in which the landlord prepared it and eyed Merlin's wounds spoke of some small knowledge of the healing arts. Curious, but every man had a story. He dipped a clean rag in the salted water and wrung it out, taking the seat beside Merlin at the bar, and shifting closer to begin cleaning the lad's wounds.

Despite appearances, the gruff man had a surprisingly gentle touch. He puffed on his pipe the entire time he cleaned the grazes on Merlin's cheek and forehead, looking over each superficial wound and the young man's features with a curious expression.

Merlin was unsure about letting himself be treated by a total stranger without the official mantle of a physician, but he felt that he ought to sit quiet on the subject in this instance. He seemed to be safe in the bar, and the man was offering without asking for anything in return at present. It may be wise to wait this out while Gaheris' men were still in the immediate area.

After a little while of treatment, Merlin cleared his throat lightly and pulled himself from his own curious, suspicious thoughts.

"Thank you," he managed awkwardly, "for helping me. You didn't have to."

The landlord said nothing by way of reply. He grunted slightly, and turned his attention to cleaning Merlin's skinned fingers.

The action of straightening Merlin's arm and laying it on the bar made him wince, but gave the landlord pause. When Merlin did not protest, or try to take his arm back, the man carefully uncurled his fingers and began to clean them.

Uncomfortable in the silence, Merlin engaged himself in looking around. The bar had not changed particularly since he and Arthur had visited previously. The walls were still drear and slightly damp to look at, with the addition of a mounted hogshead that had clearly seen better days, one tusk missing and a great swathe of moth-eaten pelt dangling from one cheek.

"Nice place." Immediately the comment met air Merlin bit his tongue, hoping to claw it back. His eyebrows rose of their own accord in incredulity of his own words before he could control them.

Again, the landlord grunted. Certainly not a man prone to conversation. On the bright side, if he was interested in treating his wounds, then Merlin surmised that he did not want him dead. If he had then there was no need to hide him and put himself in danger. He could have simply handed the limping article over to Gaheris and his men and saved himself a troublesome night.

"Why are you helping me?" Merlin asked, curiousity getting the better of him. Having been met with such hostility the last time in Engerd, this act of kindness was not one he had expected.

"Why do the King's men want you?" Came the sharp, gruff reply. The landlord's eyes flicked up from his work to fix on Merlin's pale face with piercing intensity.

Taken aback, Merlin raised his shoulders in a shrug, instantly regretting it at the bolt of pain through his back. "I couldn't say," he returned levelly.

"S'because of what you are."

Merlin froze. He paled. "I don't know what you -"

"Dragonlord."

If his heart were predisposed towards weakness, it may well have stopped there and then. Hurriedly, he shook his head. "No-"

"You are a Dragonlord." The landlord asserted, staring him in the eye.

Merlin forced a tremulous smile. "What's a Dragonlord? Never heard of them before."

The landlord did not look amused, his eyes roving Merlin's face and twitching smile with the quiet impatience of a man aware that he was being lied to. "I should doubt the evidence of my own eyes?" he demanded in a little above a snarl. "I know what you are. Saw you passing above the village on your beast. Every night you come. I know what you are."

Merlin was silent. He bit his lip, watching the man wring out the rag in the bloodied water, and breathed a small, resigned sigh through his nose.

"What do you know of Dragonlords?" he murmured quietly, afraid to meet the man's eyes. To confess any of his secrets made him feel physically ill. It was as though the most vulnerable parts of him were laid bare to attack, despite those same parts being possessed of more power than any other could lay claim to.

"Brave men," the landlord answered flatly, and turned Merlin's hand over to begin cleaning an abrasion on the soft heel. "Noble, good men."

Merlin looked at him in uncertainty, his lips pursed slightly and his brow furrowed. It seemed for a moment that the man was not going to continue, but after dabbing at Merlin's hand a moment longer, he went on in a low tone filled with apprehension, as though aware that he should never speak on this subject,

"Knew a man once. A Dragonlord. Was said to be the last."

"Balinor." The name slipped out before Merlin could check himself.

The landlord looked up at him a moment, before returning to his work. "Good man."

"Yeah," Merlin nodded, a lump forming in his throat, obstructing his words. "... Yeah."

Silence passed between them, the landlord pausing in his work to watch Merlin's reaction thoughtfully before he continued. "You found 'im after."

It wasn't a question. Still, Merlin nodded his head, silent.

"You look like 'im." The landlord wrung out the rag and pushed it and the bowl away a little along the bar. "You got his bones. And 'is ears."

Despite the lump, Merlin gave a breathy laugh. At the very least, provided his potion was still in effect, this man meant him no harm. Not if he could see him for who he really was. He drew his arm back and inspected his wounds gratefully. "You knew him well?"

"Knew 'im a long time ago." The landlord glanced at Merlin, noting the strange way that the young man stared back at him – like an astonished fawn – and inelegantly thrust his hand out to him. "Ned."

Merlin's smaller, finer-boned hand met his, clasping it confidently. "Merlin."

Ned grunted. "Like them little hunting birds?"

"I suppose so." Merlin let Ned have his hand back, watching with great interest as the man stood and began clearing up the bowl and rag. "You really were my father's friend?"

Ned gave a small nod. "From boys. Knew his father, too."

Distantly, Merlin recalled the journey to find Balinor, how Arthur had offered Ned a handsome sum of gold in return for information.

'Never 'eard of 'im' he had said, and taken only the payment for their ale.

"Is that-" Merlin moved to stand, remembering his injured ankle and refraining. Ned turned to look at him, bowl in one hand. Merlin swallowed, and tried again, "-is that why you're helping me?" he asked, unsure, "because I'm his son?"

Ned blinked. "Part and part," and turned to walk away, leaving Merlin sitting on his stool, staring after him.

"Then, why?" the young warlock almost demanded, apprehension getting the better of him. He so wanted to trust Ned, but could not allow himself to. Not yet.

"Gaheris is a tosser," came the distant reply as Ned disappeared through a doorway behind the bar, leaving Merlin alone, an unbidden grin tugging at his lips and a chuckle in his throat.

The morning air was crisp, and clear, still wet with the dew glistening in the grass and encrusting cobwebs spun amongst the blades with diamonds kissed by golden sunlight.

Arthur turned onto his back and screwed his eyelids shut fast in an effort to ignore it. He struck out with his foot as he went. A small frown creased his brow further, drawing him fully from the regal dreamland reserved only for slumbering Kings to blink groggily in the weak light of dawn.

Something was wrong. Not just with the fact that it was obscenely early and he was awake without harassment. There was something missing. It took a moment longer of mental harrying and irritated head lifting from his pillow to work out what.

The Dread Lord Bed-Thug was nowhere to be seen.

Moving about under the blanket and not finding one's feet coming into contact with the bony bits of Merlin must have been unusual enough to flag up a danger warning in his brain. Being a finely-tuned killing machine, it seemed only logical that something different ought to be detectable by his razor-sharp wits, even in sleep. At least, he thought so anyway.

Looking around and finding no trace of Merlin in the small house, Arthur pushed himself to sit and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. For a moment, he was worried. Not overly worried, but enough to briefly acknowledge the feeling's presence. His logical mind put it that, seeing as Hunith was also missing, Merlin may well have gone to help her in her early morning chores looking after Ealdor's assorted animals. It also reminded him that Merlin had, in fact, been sneaking out after dark for a few nights now. Likely to see that girl he had mentioned.

Arthur scoffed silently at the the thought. That Merlin had always come crawling back into bed around dawn looking bedraggled, and that he was not yet back, maybe he had finally convinced the girl that he was somewhat desirable? Unlikely, but then again, he was manservant to a King, and that could be impressive to someone from so far out in the sticks. As jobs went, it was a pretty damn good one, far above the bloke who collected lant*, and more respectable than the knocker-upper*. The latter had to get up stupidly early, but did get given a long stick made specifically for bashing, which was a huge plus, while the former was expected to provide his own equipment and had an infinitely more... unpleasant task. Depending entirely on how pleased those 'knocked-up' were about it. Windows did seem to be made for throwing nasty things out of, as well as looking through (the unexpected rain of old pilchards from the upstairs window of a tavern in Greenwood sprung to mind), but he was digressing. Maybe Merlin had managed to get in good with his mystery girl?

Unless, of course, he was not with a girl at all, but drinking ale behind the pig pen in lieu of Ealdor actually having a tavern. If there was one, then he would almost certainly be in it. It fit his modus operandi concerning absence...

Disappear without explanation – be in the tavern.

He did looked flushed and rosy-cheeked when he came crawling back in the early hours. Much the way he did when he had enjoyed a tipple of cider. Or may likely do after engaging in the unspeakable with some impressionable young lady. Perhaps it was time to have 'the talk' with Merlin? Prevent any mishaps? One Merlin running around was more than enough...

Arthur wrinkled his nose in disgust and shook his head to dislodge the very notion. Merlin was a grown man, and would be well aware of these things, he imagined. More than that, he had developed a rather broad medical knowledge and skill set from his time with Gaius. Perhaps this was an instance for giving him his due?

Still, Merlin and the 'S' word? He focused instead on much more pleasant thoughts: It was a beautiful new day and Lot still wanted to gut him. There. Lovely. Normal service had been resumed.

Stiff, Arthur drew up a leg and feebly booted away the coarse woollen blanket that he may get up. Stumbling on his feet, he yawned, and rubbed again at his eyes. He did take Merlin for granted on occasion, he knew. Not that he would ever admit it out loud to anyone. Or even out loud to himself. Yes, Merlin was his servant. He could be made to live in a pit if Arthur so wished for... some reason, and while his father would tell him to stop being so soft-hearted, Arthur did acknowledge that it was possible to take a servant for granted. That was just the way of things. The nobility ran things in the Kingdom, and presided over their lands, while taking their servants for granted. Sometimes servants walked out of their jobs, but more often that not, that was not an option. Personal pride and starvation, or swallow it down and toil to put food on the table? Again the lant collector rose to mind. Nobody in their right mind would do that by choice. Unless they were very strange, and doubtless they were. His Kingdom was made up of a rich variety of people, with... a range of different beliefs, he had once been told. Though Gaius likely hadn't meant the lant bloke(s).

Yes. Anyway. Merlin. Taking for granted and whatnot. On some level, it made Arthur more than a little uncomfortable.

He had had the opportunity to look at the old ideas from a new perspective, he reasoned. Guinevere was once a serving girl, after all. She had told him the servant's perspective several times, as had Merlin, but that was normally taken as grumbling. More often than not though, Merlin did make a good point, and even before he had realised his feelings for Gwen, Arthur acknowledged that those good points had driven themselves deep into his brain and gotten stuck. He knew all of the things that Merlin did for him on a daily basis, and he appreciated every single one. Quietly. From a distance. From such a great distance that Merlin probably had no idea that he appreciated them, but that was a good thing as it saved that whole feelings malarkey.

Besides, it was all part of the banter, wasn't it?

He had however, changed for the better since acquiring Merlin. There was more to his manservant than met the eye, and while he had yet to work out exactly what that was, Arthur admitted to himself that he was grateful for it, and the infectious thinking that emanated from Merlin like a poisonous, belligerent cloud of reason.

Though he was still very much torn on the issue of dressing oneself. As he had said to Morgana many years ago, you don't have a dog and fetch the stick yourself. It had, however begun to beggar his belief, that there were middle aged men who did not know how to put on a tunic. How simple it was to do, and yet some people of his father's age were dumbfounded by it. Noblemen, admittedly. It did pain Arthur to recognise it, and he never would in earshot of anyone else, but in some respects the nobility were absolutely useless.

They didn't even feed themselves. Not really. If there were no peasants to farm the land, then the high-born would find themselves cast out in the centre of the pond without a paddle for their coracle. It was hard, hot, heavy work to produce food, as he now knew well enough. The nobility he knew would never, ever subject themselves to peasant work. Except maybe Leon, but he had been brought up exposed to the common man.

In his young life Arthur had never been aware of peasants as people. The faces he saw wandering around the lower town did not gel with the small, ant-like figures working far off in Camelot's fields. The ants were the peasants. The faces were the people – his father's people, and his people eventually.

He knew now, and understood that it was the peasants that provided his food. The peasants were the same thing as the people, therefore it was his people who provided his food. People like Merlin, and Guinevere, so he must show his gratitude by looking after them.

Because at the end of the day, peasants were rather wonderful. Something that the nobility seemed unable to grasp. Just as some of them were unable to grasp the simple concept that they would have no food, if their peasants suffered, and were unable to work the fields. That was seen as indolence. One had to look after their serfs: they were in the habit of dying of disease, or starvation, or accident in the fields, or getting eaten by wolves, or mauled by griffins, or raiders, or both...

Then one had to watch out for success. Too many serfs and the population would crash, as it had in the great famine of 437, as Geoffrey had droned at him once during a visit to the library to sift through some records.

Managing serfs was hard.

But they were good, intrepid, worthy people, and Camelot had always looked after her peasants. Aside from when a threat arose and it was seen as safer to shut the gates in their faces to save the nobility. Priorities had still needed smoothing out in that respect until recently, but on the whole, they were looked after. In return, Camelot was a strong Kingdom. The hard-working peasants deserved a King who would look after them, and knew how to put his own clothes on (except for that ceremonial shirt with the built-in corset for the bi-annual celebration of the pig-rearers guild. That awful contraption was a two man job. One that, if ever mentioned would see Merlin living the rest of his days strung upside down from the dungeon walls, as he had been informed while trying to lace Arthur into it, his foot placed squarely in the King's back at the time), even if it was not always correct protocol to not be dressed by a servant.*

To not be able to do things for oneself without the aid of a servant was... well... a bit pathetic.

How could somebody be expected to be in charge of anything when they couldn't even take charge of lacing their own breeches?

… Merlin really had been poisoning his mind against the nobility. Even if the poison administered was good sense. This way of thinking was probably something to do with that humility Merlin had been chuntering on about.

With a huff, Arthur scrubbed his hands over his face. All thoughts of peasants predisposed towards the tendencies of lemmings, and of Merlin poisoning him did was make him hungry. Also, that he needed to get back to Camelot in order to shepherd his lemmings towards a prosperous winter, and the castle staff towards preparing him a hot bath. Perhaps he would get them to prepare one for Merlin, also? He did deserve something after all of the work he had put in over the last few days in the fields, and he had been in need of a break before they left Camelot. Arthur had meant to arrange some time off for him, but had been so wrapped up in Guinevere, and the knights, and... everything else, that he had forgotten. That made him feel quite awful.

It was then that he realised just how long he must have been stood inanimate and shirtless, thinking about naked nobility and famines and idiots that he was glad that he was alone in the house. He mentally slapped himself and resolved to find Merlin and admonish him for shirking breakfast duties. Even if only for appearances' sakes.

Or...

A wild idea hit him, coupled with an almost manic grin.

Maybe he could make the breakfast? Show Hunith and Merlin that he appreciated their hospitality and loyalty. Then, once breakfast was done, he and Merlin would scout the area, see if the enemy positions had changed, and if they could make any headway towards escape.

Moving eastwards had begun to present itself as a viable plan. The two of them may be able to make their way back to Camelot through Tir Mawr. Though cover would be limited. Those lands were not well forested, and very flat. Times were getting desperate, and desperate times called for desperate measures, as the saying went.

First, breakfast. It would not be a good idea to escape on an empty stomach. Having watched Merlin cook often enough, Arthur supposed that he should be able to make something as apparently simple as porridge. How hard could it be?

What he created could be called porridge. In bizarre gastro-sadist circles, at least. Whether or not one was meant to be able to take the spoon out was debatable.

Sitting and looking at his breakfast, Arthur found himself wondering what he should do next. Merlin and Hunith had yet to return. If they didn't hurry, then their porridge would get cold. He got to his feet, and shrugged his shoulders in his uncomfortable tunic, and fingered the neckline with distaste. He twisted out a grimace.

Merlin hadn't laid out any clean clothes for him the night previous. Nor had he hung this tunic up to dry. It was still damp with sweat from yesterday's work. He had tumbled into bed, clearly very tired and grumbling about needing a lie down before sorting Arthur's clothes for the following day. Clearly he had never gotten around to it, leaving this manky thing as the only option. There was an old tunic of Merlin's hanging on the washing line outside the house, but Arthur acknowledged that he would never get into it. Not any more. The line was all wrong for someone of his... build, even if he could fit into it. The thing looked fine on Merlin, even where the hitherto stick thin man had started to put on weight. Still, Merlin could dress in a sack with leg holes if he so wished. He was not a King, so did not need to project a certain image. That was difficult enough in a moth-eaten old shirt that Hunith had fished out of her shed. Even gnawed around the hem by mice it was still finer than anything Merlin chose to wear. Just a shame it was damp, and slimy. He tried to ignore the nasty sensations and made for the door to head outside in search of his hosts. Perhaps they had headed to the fields already?

Stepping out into the cold morning air, Arthur shivered in his clammy tunic. He didn't have to look far before he spotted Hunith.

She stood near the fork in the path, beside the small pond, gazing out across the beech field towards the woods. Her tense stance and pensive expression set Arthur's nerves a-jangling. A rather angry-looking seagull bobbed on the pond's surface, watching Hunith closely as she appeared to have been ripping bits from a lump of stale bread she held and tossing them onto the water for it. Arthur folded his arms around himself against the chill, and started towards her.

"Hunith."

She jumped slightly and turned to face him, likely surprised to see him up and about so early. Her tight expression did not ease. "Arthur."

The King came to stand beside her, glancing from the glaring gull to the woods, and finally back to Hunith. "Where's Merlin? He didn't wake me this morning."

For a moment, just a moment, he thought perhaps he saw a shadow pass over her face. Just like that it was gone, though her brows drew together in clear worry. "He wasn't in when I woke."

Arthur shivered again, vaguely aware of it when she tore off a chunk of bread and tossed it onto the pond to be set upon by the gull. "He told me he'd been seeing... a girl."

Both of Hunith's eyebrows rose at that, but she lost the worry and surprise beneath a contemplative frown. "I know that Rosie the mason's daughter had eyes for him some time back, but..." she huffed, and shook her head, unable to stop her eyes wandering to the woods again.

Arthur followed them. "You don't think he was with her last night," he stated flatly. "You think he went in there."

Quite why Merlin should venture into the danger-infested woods at night, Arthur couldn't fathom. Then, as he had thought earlier, he couldn't fathom Merlin in general. He was still a riddle that would not be solved. A particularly irritating riddle that likely ended in an insult if the idiot had indeed gone into the woods. Had that been where he was going all along? If it was, then why not just say so? Why make up some story about a girl?

Arthur frowned, but after a moment decided not to expend too much energy on figuring it out and chalked it up to idiocy.

Misguided idiocy? Yes.

Brave idiocy? Most certainly.

Nefarious idiocy? No.

That Hunith did not deny his conclusion only made him more certain. Merlin had gone into the woods, and not come back. Whatever his reasons, Arthur didn't doubt that it was somehow with the best of intentions. After all, this was Merlin. The same Merlin that had faced a dragon with him, followed him to a private meeting with a vengeful Queen and nearly lost his head for his trouble, and catapulted himself at a howling spirit to prevent its getting at his King. Maybe this time he had just decided to pre-empt Arthur's venturing into the woods himself, cut out the usual middle happenings and jumped straight to the foolishly brave part?

Because that's what he was, though Arthur would deny it to anyone who insinuated that he thought that way. Merlin was brave and loyal to the detriment of his own safety.

The thought chilled Arthur to the bone.

He grit his teeth, and turned to go back inside the house to fetch his boots and sword.

"Arthur."

He glanced over his shoulder to see Hunith approaching with that same worried look on her face.

"What are you doing?"

"The only thing I can," he told her almost tartly. "Going to look for him." - 'And hope that the bandits have him,' he didn't say.

If the bandits did have Merlin, then the chances of getting him back were higher than if Lot's men had him. Bandits were more disorganised and sloppy than trained soldiers. They were also more inclined to torment and mistreat Merlin, but Arthur forced himself not to think about that. On his own he had more chance of sneaking up and quietly extracting Merlin from a bandit camp than from one of the military ones. Foolish as it was to even attempt it, that was exactly what he was going to do once he tracked Merlin down. There was absolutely no way in hell that he was going to sit back in the village and do nothing. Merlin was his responsibility. Merlin was one of his people, and he must be protected.

More than that, Merlin was his friend, and he'd be damned if he was going to lose him now.

He stormed his way back into the house and retrieved his sword from the chair in his make-shift throne room, stooping to grab his boots from underneath.

First thing first, the village had to be searched. He would get some people together and they would check every house, rummage through every shed and turn over every stone looking for the absent servant. If there was still no sign of him, then it was into the woods for King Arthur.

He was going to get his favourite lemming back and that was that. He just prayed that he was not already too late.

* Arthur knows how to dress himself, even if not perfectly, yet still for some reason gets Gaius to do it that time in series five. He appears to know how to do things himself, and just doesn't because he doesn't have to. Thought this could explain it ;)

* Lant - stale urine used as dye and for other industrial purposes. Was naughty and used my university access to the OED to double check the definition. Just to be sure.

* The knocker-upper was a guy employed to go around villages at dawn tapping on people's windows with a long stick to wake them up for work. I doubt he was popular.

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Almost a year to the day since I last updated, and I apologise profusely. Real life, work and uni took over and demanded attention, such is its way (academia has infected my brain and eaten my energy :( ), shan't bore you [XD], but I'm back now, and intend to get this yarn spun. Gwaine has been added to the listed characters for this story as he's taking more of a starring role than I anticipated with his dysfunctional clan. An appearance by Ned, who with this history is a recurring character in some of my Merlin stories, better known as He-who-slams-ale-down-grumpily-on-tables in The Last Dragonlord. I like Ned :) Still writing this without a set in stone plan, just a vague idea of what will happen next as is the experiment. Just know that we will be diverging a bit from canon in the near future. Next chapter will be up in the next week or so.

...

Reply to reviews: *Beware, epic ahead*

Guest: Hi :) Thanks for reviewing! I've seen this subject brought up in the reviews on a few Merlin fics. Right then *claps hands in readiness* Merlin doesn't need to tell Arthur everything about himself, and it certainly is not a betrayal to keep quiet something that would get him killed. I agree with you entirely. It all springs from Merlin's point of view in those paragraphs. He knows Arthur better than anyone, and is best placed to judge the likely reactions from finding out about his magic. He knows how Arthur would feel about it as he's had to pick up the pieces following Morgana and Agravaine's betrayals. While he hasn't betrayed Arthur himself, Arthur would unlikely see it that way. Finding out in the show, Arthur's initial response is one of betrayal, "You've lied to me all this time" (Diamond of the Day Part 2). If he was able-bodied at the time, hitting and sword-drawing may almost certainly have occured, in my opinion. I thought that maybe being Arthur's friend, and after seeing the hurt caused by others "lying" to him, Merlin doesn't want to cause Arthur any hurt himself.

In terms of killing Merlin, I also agree that he wouldn't sit there and let it happen. He doesn't believe that Arthur would accept him, which is why he waits so long to tell him. He believes that Arthur would kill him:

Daegal: Does anyone know?

Merlin: Only Gaius.

Daegal: Not Arthur?

Merlin: No. And if he ever found out, he'd probably hang me. (The Hollow Queen)

I wanted to try something different with this story, so forewent my usual matter-of-fact narrative for a stab at a more tongue-in-cheek one. I'm not going for a humour story, but a more unconventional voice telling it. Maybe some work needs doing on the delivery if it's coming across as too serious? :/ If you're still with us, let me know! You prompted me to go back and edit that section to make it clearer (think Merlin's rant at Gaius about his chores during series 2, and the wilddeoren incident "Oh! oh, what's that wilddeoren eating? It's alright. It's just Merlin!"), and also to see the glaring continuity mistake I made (Oops!). Thank you for that! and again, thank you for reviewing! This essay would probably have been better in a PM as it's longer than Atlas Shrugged, and hopefully didn't bore you, but that option is unavailable :( To cut a long story short, I agree, but could maybe have done better in expressing so! If you're still alive and so inclined, enjoy the rest of the story!

Thank you to everyone else who reviewed! It's been so long I can't remember if I replied to anyone, so I don't want to spam your inboxes! Just know that I'm grateful for your time and feedback! Good or bad its all grist to my mill! I can't get enough grist for future utilisation. Thank you all! xxx