Here's the "Arthur Learns About Terence" miniseries I promised. The following three (four?) chapters are connected and for the most part unrelated to the rest of this story. One (two?) is (are?) funny, one is quiet and tense, and one is nerve-wrecking. They are very AU and have all the spoilers you would expect to find in a reveal story. Enjoy.

Arthur pulled his horse up short, listening for a moment. There was a large, rather ominous crashing sound coming from somewhere to his left. Common sense told him he should be riding away, as fast as he could. But where was the adventure in that? He turned his horse to the left and urged it through the brush.

Just as another thing crashed through a bush on the other side. There was a curious rustling, what appeared to be a small explosion of movement that clouded Arthur's vision. When the dust cleared he found himself looking at an unarmed, solitary figure, also blinking as if unsure of what had just happened. And the figure was familiar, albeit dressed in clothing he would never have imagined.

"Terence?" he asked, disbelieving, before he could stop himself.

"…Your Majesty?" The squire asked, raising his hand to block the sun as he recognized the voice.

"What are you doing here?" both asked at the same time.

A short, awkward silence later, Arthur lifted his visor to reveal a dark blush. "…I asked you first."

"No you didn't." Terence bit his lip and blushed at the words that had burst from his mouth unchecked, obviously surprised past all court decorum. "I mean, we asked at the same time, sire." And he raised that stupid, cursed eyebrow, so well-known among the inner court. It was a sort of deferential half-challenge that didn't suit a normal squire at all, but was part of what made Terence Terence. The king didn't have a response.

Arthur felt ridiculously like a young boy being scolded by his mother and he squirmed in the saddle. His mare nickered and twitched, picking up on her rider's nervousness. "I'm, um…I'm praying."

Terence smirked, knowing exactly what was going on. "You mount a horse, dress in full armor, and ride ten miles from the castle to…pray?"

"I pray better when I'm bashing another knight about."

"I'm sure the knight being bashed prays better, too, Sire."

"Indeed. Holiness all around," Arthur said, holding back a smile. "And you? What are you doing ten miles from Camelot?"

"Running away," Terence said, straight-faced, his voice deadpan. "I cannot stand another day of demeaning servitude. Let the knights scrub their own armor. And Gawain snores. I'm through. I'm going to be a cook at King Mark's court instead."

Arthur's lips curled. "Didn't Mark recently execute a cook because he found a hair in his flan?"

"Exactly. There's an opening now."

They held serious expressions for another few seconds before bursting out laughing. "Really, Terence," Arthur said at last, wiping a tear of mirth from his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Who, me?" The squire shrugged and dusted an invisible fleck of dirt off his shoulder. "Nothing. Walking. Marching, actually. Participating in a march. So, marching. That's all."

It was Arthur's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Marching? Wearing that?" He let eyes wandering over the squire's lanky frame, admiring the outfit despite himself. Terence was notorious for being a very plain-dressing squire—the epitome of the careless English woodsman, the French pages called him. That reputation would change if they saw him now. One would think the resplendent short-sleeved sapphire tunic with silver embroidery, silvery-fawn colored leggings, brilliant blue boots (blue! Leather boots! How?), silver filigree armband around his bicep, and crown of green leaves and blue flowers on his brow might have looked more at place on a show knight; Terence wore the finery as a second skin. The squire didn't look foolish. He looked a little frightening, although not happy with Arthur's silent appraisal.

He fidgeted under Arthur's cool gaze. "It's a ceremonial march."

"And where is your company?"

He hesitated a moment, then gave a high-pitched whistle and a hundred…things melted from the shadows. Arthur's horse startled in surprise and it took a moment to get her under control again. When he did, he looked at the company and stared. They had skin colors that Arthur was certain were never meant to be skin colors—like bright yellow and steel gray, for instance. A few of them had more eyes than anything had a right to have. Half of the company was under three feet tall, and most of them appeared to have leaves for hair. Arthur looked, wide-eyed, at Terence, who shrugged. "Like I said, ceremonial march."

As if that explained anything. "Ah…Terence? Have you ever figured out how much faery blood you have?"

"…Half, sire. On my father's side. But I'd prefer it if you didn't go spreading it around."

"Of course not. Half, you say?" The squire nodded. "Half human and half faery?"

"Yes, sire."

"…Right then. Carry on. I'll be back in Camelot before sundown if you will."

Terence's lips twitched. "I'll see if I can manage, sire. Good day to you."

"Good day."

They blinked at each other a moment before turning on their heels—or hooves, in Arthur's case—and went off in opposite directions, each trying to convince themselves they had only imagined the meeting.