A/N: At this point I should mention that there will be more Arthur/Gwen interaction from now, if anyone who ships them feels they haven't gotten much so far. :) It was hard to choose a primary couple since, as I said in the prologue, I did intend for the story to be about all four. I hope no one feels misled and that most of you are enjoying it. Thanks for reading. -SW


The pond was delicious, especially after one had gone for three days without washing more than face and hands. Gwen lay on her back, feeling the warm mid-morning sun on her neck and the water pushing against the tips of her fingers, holding her up. She closed her eyes. Further down the shore, as her ears came in and out of the water, she could hear the muffled [unmuffled] chirps of sandbirds.

She was actively trying to empty her head, just for now, just for a few moments, and lose herself in the stillness, the warmth and wet, but thoughts crowded themselves in her minds anyway, like ants converging on spilled crumbs.

Should be hurrying back, shouldn't leave those two alone for long, there is something between them, though Merlin wouldn't tell me what. Should get back, so I can hang up my clothes, do something about a midday meal...

It was hard for her, simply to relax in the moment, any moment. She was so accustomed to having at least her hands busy with needlework, that it felt gratuitous, lazy even, to be doing absolutely nothing at all. Coming here to wash had been purposeful, but she had scrubbed herself already and was now merely floating. There was no excuse to linger.

Her world was orange heat against her eyelids and wet.

Her world was...work, and move, and make, and keep the memories as far as possible...

Her throat hurt.

Swallowing, she lost balance in the water a little and turned over, finding the swampy bottom with her feet beneath her, about waist deep it was, streaming water and a few weeds as she stood up, swaying, the weight of her clothing pulling at her arms, her thighs.

The crown prince of Camelot was standing a dozen paces from the shore with his sword hanging from his hand as if he'd forgotten he was holding it.

Arthur...oh, dear. A good thing she'd decided at the last moment that she should keep her clothes on. Gwen took a step forward and staggered in the muddy silt along the bottom. She regained her balance in time, planted her feet firmly and tried to look gracefully enquiring. Difficult to do, convincingly, when you had weeds clinging to your hips.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Guinevere. What are you doing?"

Attempting to swim across the great sea of Meredor, of course.

Gwen pressed her lips together and smiled. "I am only taking a bath, my lord. No need for alarm."

"I am...not alarmed," Arthur said slowly.

They stared at each other for a few moments.

"Right." Arthur turned, sheathed the sword, and made as if to go back up the hill. Then he stopped, without turning, and added: "I'll wait for you. Up by the stones."

Gwen started to protest but he didn't pause long enough for that, and promptly disappeared.

So much for a few stolen, relaxing moments! She waded to the shore, and wrung out as much of her clothing as it would allow. Stripping it off, she scrambled into her fresh clothes—her workdress, the only one she owned—as quickly as possible. (She assumed that a knight would have far too much honour to spy on her, but one never knew.) Gwen used a sack to towel-dry her hair, tied its recalcitrant masses back with a strip of fabric, and smoothed her apron over her dress. It was less convenient to ride in than her tunic and trousers, but was all she had for now.

Gathering up the previously filled waterbags and the rest of her things, Gwen marched up through the grasses. She had tethered her mare halfway down the hill, but Arthur had brought the animal up by his so they were waiting together.

"I am done," she announced, with a touch of defiance.

Arthur acknowledged the remark with a nod. Silently he helped her up on the mare; he must have noticed that it would be more difficult to do in her new attire, and she was grateful because she was sure she would have looked quite ridiculous trying to do so by herself. Not to mention the havoc it might have wreaked upon her dress. Rather clumsily astride the horse, she exhaled.

By the time they arrived back at the top of the ridge, the sun had slipped out of view behind growing clouds. The horses kept pace, stepping gently among the undergrowth, side by side, until they came upon their campsite of the previous night.

Gwen stared at the destruction of the shelter. Black charcoal where the fire had been. No Morgana, recuperating; no Merlin gathering firewood. A knot of fear lodged itself firmly in her stomach. "Whatever could have happened?"

Arthur waved her back as she was about to swing down. "Stay on the horse."

He dismounted and took a quick visual summary of the immediate area, then a more thorough one, examining the ground for tracks. After a few minutes had passed, he came back to her side. "No one else has been here. Both their packs are gone and the horses left together or shortly after each other, the tracks are just about as fresh."

"But that doesn't make sense. How could Morgana ride? She was worse this morning. And why would one of them tear down the shelter?" Gwen stared at the haphazard pile of rubble.

Arthur ran a hand through hair dampened by perspiration, tumbling it. He looked up at her grimly, wordlessly, and she suddenly wondered, irrationally perhaps, when things had gotten so confusing. Shouldn't she still be the little girl who had played with her brother in the fields? Wasn't she supposed to be placing a bowl of stew at her smiling father's place, or sitting by the fire with a lap full of sewing, but her mind blessedly free to wander where it would?

She bit her lip. That is over now. I don't want to feel sorry for myself. Not now—there's no time for it. It won't help me, it won't help us find our friends.

Sitting up a bit straighter in the saddle, Gwen resolved to be as helpful as possible on their new mission. Arthur didn't need her doubts added to his—and he clearly had his, he wasn't even trying to hide them; the way he stood, his forehead furrowed, trying to process the evidence that lay around them that, after all, only told them one thing—Merlin and Morgana were gone.


When the rain first started to fall, Morgana welcomed it.

True, she was going to get soaked, and riding horseback was never especially pleasant when it was pouring, although in this warm weather there was no danger of catching a chill. But if there was any kind of serious rainfall (and judging from the angry purple swathing the horizon, such was on its way) Merlin was going to have a hard time following her tracks.

The trouble was, he wasn't very far behind.

And she didn't, really, have any purposeful destination point ahead of her. She suspected she was heading more or less north, towards the lands of Mercia now. But with no maps and no sun for a visual guide, it was impossible to know.

It didn't matter to her. After the clash with Arthur and the subsequent forced inactivity, she was grateful purely to have freedom of movement back, for the open forest stretching out and onwards.

Still, I have no sword, few supplies, and am no longer within Camelot's borders. She was aware she'd have to reassess the situation from a practical standpoint soon, but that moment was not just yet.

The ridge they had been camped on was only one in a series of many. The terrain was far more mountainous here, and it made for slower, more dangerous going, but it also was what had alerted her to the fact that Merlin was following; it was fairly impossible to hide on a shale slope or coming down from a vertiginous height into a sparsely treed valley. She intended to widen the gap between them as quickly as possible, because now there was no way even to stop and rest the horse for a little without risking him catching up to her.

Ahead, through the now steadily falling rain, Morgana could see her options limited for forging across the upcoming terrain. To the left, a cliff. Straight ahead, a hill that veered sharply downwards, (at which the gelding would likely balk) or off to the right, a more gradual incline ribboned with stone that would take probably twice as long to navigate.

The gelding flicked his ears back when she nudged him forward, prancing nervously, unwilling to try the drop, as she'd predicted. She didn't wait to re-consider the decision. This was the opportunity to put a significant bit of distance between herself and her pursuer, who would almost certainly take the more prudent course. She was quite sure she wanted to elude him more than he wanted to catch her. He was just trying to impress his master, no doubt.

"Hah!" Morgana batted tangled, wet hair out of her eyes and dug her booted heels into the gelding's sides. He snorted in irritation and bolted forwards over the precipice.

And it was as if the earth fell away beneath both of them, and she was plunging, flying through the air.

Merlin was too far back to stop it from happening. He didn't really even see it happening, because she had disappeared just as his mare was cantering up the last stretch. When he arrived at the edge he scrambled off the horse and yelled Morgana's name down into the rain. The hill was pouring streams of mud and was peppered with rocks. The gelding floundered below, neighing frantically. Morgana slowly arose from somewhere near, clutching her shoulder.

He plunged down the hillside, skidding and nearly sliding further than he meant to go till he reached her side, demanding, "Are you all right?"

She nodded, although there was a long muddy scrape along her jaw. "My horse..."

They climbed together over to the animal. Merlin was no expert in equine matters but even he could see that the beast's leg was broken.

"I thought he could do it," she said, a little distantly.

He rarely had violent thoughts but he had an urge to slap her. If she'd just taken the sensible route. He looked away, unable to bear the panicked whites of the horse's rolling eyes. Arthur would have been able to put an injured animal down with no compunction, but he was sensitive to suffering and now, out of necessity, the task fell to him.

"Get back, Morgana."

"What are you—"

"Get back!" He stabbed his hand up the hill.

Slowly, she moved, gathering her mud-sodden cloak about her. He waited until she was at the top again, by his mare. Which he knew she wouldn't have the gall to steal, not now. Merlin focused on one of the larger rocks, moved his hand towards it with splayed fingers, concentrating.

The rock unearthed itself and then with dizzying force met its target in the head of the horse.

The hillside went silent, but for the dripping rain.

He felt...dirty. Tired. He tipped his head back and looked up at the grey sky, trying to unsee the whole thing. It was a few moments before he could make himself move, clambering over the rocks to the hill's top, where she stood, silently, waiting. Hood drawn up, eyes downcast. Looking regretful, and that vindictively pleased him for an instant, except it wasn't enough.

"Why do you insist on causing so much trouble?" he fired at her.

"I had...to get away," she said.

"Then go!"

His shout seemed to reverberate in the hills. Morgana actually jumped a little. Stared at him as though she weren't sure if he were serious. Then slowly she began to move down the incline, the edge of her cloak trailing along the ribboned rock.

Merlin swung back up on his mare and sat in the saddle. He wanted to be angry. He was still angry, but for some reason it didn't occur to him to make her march back in the direction they'd come. He just rode behind her. And if the back of her sodden, hooded head made him feel a twinge of guilt he kept it in.

It wouldn't kill the lady Morgana Pendragon to walk for once. Especially when it was through her own foolishness she'd lost her ride.