Disclaimer: Merlin is not mine.

Arthur was becoming very methodical.

It was a trait fairly recently acquired and, as Arthur had to admit, acquired somewhat backwards. He imagined that the typical way in which a man—even one so mighty as Arthur—developed methodology was by viewing a large issue and breaking it down, step by step.

Not so for Arthur. Apparently, he mused, part of being king involved taking relatively simple processes and making them as spectacularly difficult as was possible. He'd found that there were so many details that were so very easy to discern, that could be taken care of quickly and independently, that it was remarkably easy to overlook their roles as parts of a larger scenario.

Yes, for the first time, Arthur was truly seeing the big picture. He was facing the little facts, those small bits of information that he absolutely knew to be true, and was forced now to at least try to reconcile them with the situation before him. It was time to fit the details into their proper frame.

But it was not so simple. It felt as though he was trying to reconstruct a entirely shattered statue without knowing its original shape. The only conceivable solution was to examine carefully, one by one, each little certainty that had become so precious to him over the recent weeks of confusion.

This would be easy enough. The things that he knew…

Merlin was gone.

Arthur hoped that he looked either inordinately offended or particularly pathetic—in a very dignified way—as he traversed the corridors of his castle that morning, having left the stable to its long-term occupants as they stamped their hooves in waking irritation at the invader. If he didn't look as though he were sincerely suffering on some count or other, he would never hear the end of it. His rather public declarations that Merlin would surely be deciding to stay in the dungeons would have opened him to at least some teasing among certain of his subjects, whether he was privy to it or not. Best to look as though he was too forlorn or angry to be subject of ridicule.

For Merlin was indeed gone. Arthur had had the presence of mind to stop by Gaius' chambers to check in with the older man, striding purposefully in that direction after leaving the stable. Whether it was because it was ridiculously early in the morning or because Arthur had banished Gaius' surrogate son whom he loved more than any other person in the world for the rest of his life, the physician did not seem to be feeling his most courteous to the king. He did not, however, give the impression of any falsehood when he answered Arthur's single question, seemingly accepting Arthur's expressions of sympathy for the loss that was, for all intents and purposes as far as the aging man was concerned, the same as Merlin's execution. Potential change of heart or not, Gaius seemed to know that it was unlikely that Arthur would call Merlin back home before he himself died.

Arthur was glad for the apparent honesty; his admittedly useless statements of apology and empathy came from the heart. And he was glad for the swiftness of Gaius' response; he was not sure that he could have faced the heartbroken expression in the physician's eyes for much longer than he had to.

After all, he only needed to know when Gaius had last seen Merlin.

And so Arthur found another thing that he knew.

Merlin had left sometime shortly after midnight.

Arthur had briefly considered that perhaps Gaius was not the last to see Merlin, and that Merlin could have stopped to make plenty more farewells. But Arthur doubted it. Merlin loved Gaius as a father; he would have wanted to delay their parting for as long as possible. And Arthur was fairly certain that there would have been no way for Merlin to have managed to remain in the castle for long after bidding his guardian goodbye. Gaius was certainly the last—or almost last—to have seen Merlin.

Yes, Merlin would have saved Gaius for last. He'd certainly made plenty of farewells; Arthur knew that Merlin had barely stopped to sit down for more than a few moments since Arthur had freed him—officially—from his cell. Merlin had been a busy boy for his last day.

Which led Arthur to a next realization. He was so flabbergasted by his own wit that he almost didn't realize what he was doing as he turned, barely of his own volition, to walk back to the stables.

Merlin would not have slept in more than a day.

Merlin had been a busy boy indeed. From a passing glance toward Merlin's room before fleeing Gaius' somber chambers, he'd seen the walls, bed, and desk stripped. Merlin had to have spent at least an hour or two packing up his possessions. From the reports that Arthur had rather surreptitiously ordered regarding the young man's movements throughout the lower town and citadel—not out of concern, of course—Arthur was merely keen on avoiding any accidental meetings between the two of them—he'd been saying hellos and goodbyes to just about everyone whom he had ever met.

Silly sentimental boy.

Of course, that's not how Merlin had been described in the reports given to Arthur. They had been delivered by certain of the knights, who seemed to be dividing their day equally between tailing Merlin and composing the most complimentary ways to describe the young man's actions and the most sullen ways to address the king without coming out and stating their true opinions on the matter.

Gwaine in particular seemed quite skilled at multitasking in this manner, although his glowing descriptions of Merlin became less…luminescent as the day passed. Arthur had the distinct impression that Gwaine was insulted that he had not yet been targeted by Merlin's sympathies.

Arthur figured that Merlin was just saving Gwaine for toward the end of his biddings farewell. Whether it was because he had noticed Gwaine's following him or because saying goodbye to Gwaine would have been one of the most difficult for Merlin to deliver without a lip quiver or two and was therefore preferable for conveyance under the cover of darkness, Arthur was not certain. But surely Merlin had just saved Gwaine for the end. After all, hadn't the knight stopped giving word to the king as night fell?

Sentimentality seemed strangely more masculine on Gwaine than on Merlin. Maybe it was the sword skills or battle scars. Or the strangely expressive nature of his hair. How did it move so gracefully even in the midst of battle? Arthur knew that it was almost as impressive as his own. Almost.

Yes, Merlin would not have slept for more than a day. He would never have given himself the chance. So how fast could he really be moving? Merlin had been known to manage to fall asleep and flop off of a horse when deprived of slumber.

Having reached the stable, he patted Merlin's mare once more, as though to reassure her that he didn't blame her for Merlin being idiot enough to fall asleep on a moving horse when not even weighed down by anything. Merlin didn't even have to wear armor!

Then Arthur's brain jolted to a stop, another idea having occurred to him. It took him a moment to process the new thought; his brain rarely moved at the speed with which it was rushing that morning, and the sudden intrusion of a yet another new idea dizzied him for a moment.

Which he supposed said something about his regular state of mind.

But no matter. This was about Merlin.

Merlin had taken all of his clothes and most of his belongings.

Of course he had. How had this not occurred to Arthur earlier? He had failed yet again to see the big picture, to see what the little details that he had observed truly meant with regard to the overall situation. Merlin's cell had been empty, save for the furniture, and all of his possessions that had not been smuggled to him in prison had been taken from his bedroom. Merlin had seemed positive in his last conversation with Arthur that he would not be returning to Camelot; why should he have left anything of his behind?

Plus, Arthur realized, with a pang, that Merlin may have assumed that Arthur would confiscate and destroy anything not taken with him. That was the official policy for exiled individuals. He had overlooked it in Guinevere's case, but he also hadn't imprisoned Guinevere for a month with orders to deprive her of food. He couldn't blame Merlin if he assumed that Arthur would not treat the circumstances of his banishment as he had Guinevere's.

So Merlin had taken everything that he could carry, which in and of itself was an optimistic choice for a man with almost as much upper body strength as Arthur's practice broadsword dummy. After all, Merlin had been ordered to be out of Camelot and in some other kingdom by dawn; did he really expect to make it to the borders, weighed down by all of his possessions, even if he had left immediately after his parting with Gaius at midnight? He'd have been caught easily enough by any pursuers looking to guarantee his absence from Camelot.

Another thought occurred to him; more prepared this time, Arthur was less bewildered by the flurry of creativity going on within his head.

Merlin would not be expecting to be hunted by Arthur's men.

Merlin may not have assumed that his own banishment was being handled with as much lenience as Guinevere's, but Arthur had hardly had him surrounded by guards during his final hours in the castle to make sure that he did, in fact, go. Arthur hadn't even expected him to leave and had trusted him to lock himself back up in the dungeon forever; surely Arthur would have trusted him to head for the borders without…persuasion. So why would Arthur send any of his knights out to see that Merlin was following the order to be out by dawn? Hell, why would Merlin assume that any of the knights would actually do anything to him if he wasn't?

No, surely, Merlin would not have been expecting any pursuers. It wouldn't have mattered if he was weighed down by everything that he owned; surely, if he was out of sight of the citadel, Arthur would not be particularly fussed to chase after him and make sure of his flight. Despite his recent crisis of faith with regard to what he'd thought that he'd known of his most loyal servant, Arthur was positive that Merlin would not foresee any hunt, mystic sorcery or not. He'd probably figured that he could mosey his way out of the kingdom of Camelot without any particular urgency. Arthur couldn't blame him; he was correct.

Merlin's mare suddenly stamped her hooves and shook her head, as though she sensed that Arthur was thinking so seriously about her most frequent rider. Now that Arthur thought about it, maybe she was. Maybe Merlin had enchanted her with some sort of magic horse spell to give them a psychic connection that would hold no matter what the distance, demonstrating yet another flouting of Arthur's laws and throwing in his face that Merlin could control with his magic any man or beast that dared to behave contrarily to his devious will of malice and manipulation.

Or the mare was becoming restless from lack of exercise, usually having been taken out already by someone at this hour. That was another possibility.

Or maybe she just missed Merlin. Magical or not, they'd seemed to have a bond of sorts. When attacked by bandits, she was consistently the calmer of the two, generally remaining in her place rather than panicking like her rider. Yes, they were a solid pair together. Arthur couldn't have imagined that Merlin would have left her behind. Granted, it wasn't like Arthur would have killed her, even if he had decided to destroy anything of Merlin's that had been left behind, but this was Merlin's horse. He had so cared for her, and he wouldn't have exactly had to carry her on his back. It would have been so easy to take her with him.

Wait.

Merlin had not taken his horse.

It had been looking him in the face since the sun had risen. Merlin had left his poor mare to miss him in the stable; all of the other horses seemed to be in their proper places, so Merlin hadn't taken it upon himself to inexplicably steal one of those. Arthur did check to see that Merlin hadn't freed Arthur's horse, just to spite him, but all was in order.

Merlin had left his horse. He was carrying, on his own back or in his own arms or, by this point, dragging grumpily on the ground behind him, all that he owned. He had not slept for at least a day; he had not slept comfortably for at least a month; he was hardly well-fed; he would have been at least somewhat out of shape from lack of movement; walking on uneven terrain after a month of relative immobility would have been exhausting; he had left only six or seven hours ago; and he hadn't taken his horse.

This could mean only one thing, and it thrilled Arthur to the bone.

Merlin could not have gotten very far.

Not yet.

No, Merlin could not be far.

Arthur began to pace back and forth. This was somewhat difficult; he had been standing within the stall of Merlin's mare, and it did not require many paces for him to have to turn back and beginning again. Merlin's mare seemed unimpressed. Perhaps she did have a psychic connection with Merlin.

But Arthur didn't care.

No, Arthur didn't care, because Arthur knew how to be methodical, and Arthur now knew lots of things.

This, in and of itself, was a welcome change from his general state of mind over the last month. Despite the general comfort of overall ignorance, Arthur had found that it was healthiest to maintain a knowledge of what was going on around him. After all, if he hadn't been kept so in the dark regarding Merlin's magic, the resultant crisis that struck his court would have been so much less devastating. Oh, if he had only known lots of things then.

Now, however, he felt that it was not enough. It was certainly better than knowing nothing; hadn't he seen for himself how damaging knowing nothing could be? But knowing lots of things wasn't enough anymore. Not with a situation of such magnitude. He knew the how, the what, the who, even the when. But Arthur did not know the why.

And that was completely unacceptable.

Fantastic.

More helplessness. That's all that Arthur needed. He was once again as useless as he had been for the past weeks. He was beginning to feel as though passivity was to become his defining trait. His life was going to become nothing but a spectator sport in which he watched the world go by and tried to keep up with it. Arthur thanked the heavens that the world was flat; it was almost unimaginable how dizzying it would have been to have to watch the world go round. Having to watch without effect was difficult enough as it was.

No.

No.

What Arthur needed was to stop allowing himself to be helpless, to be unaware. This was an unknown situation, yes, an almost impossible situation. There was no precedent, in memory or even in myth. But why should Arthur have to embrace his own impotence? He was as much a player in this game as was the man who had made the first move. Merlin may not have acquainted him with the rules, but hadn't that been part of the whole ordeal as he'd intended it? That Arthur would have to figure out the rules by which he should govern himself and his kingdom on his own?

And govern he would. He would be proactive; no more waiting for others, whether friend or foe or some irritatingly enigmatic combination of the two, to make the first move. He would rule the kingdom as he saw fit for the good of everyone. He would be the best king that he possibly could manage. He would make his metaphors as overly complicated as he wanted. Was he king or was he king?

Power, that was the key. Had that been the key all along? Did it matter if it was monarchial or magical, so long as it was used for good? Arthur didn't know. It had undeniably played its part, but so had so many other factors. They were all shifting and crumbling into each other now, power mixing with wonder mixing with fear mixing with sadness mixing with admiration mixing with determination mixing with strength mixing with weakness and oh, how had he not seen it all before?

He would know the why. Not just because he could; of course he could. He was the bloody king, and a man of his stature and intelligence could understand anything that he wanted to. Anything that he did not understand was surely just unimportant.

But he would not know this just because he could. He would know why because he should. Because it was his job to know things that would otherwise not be known, to ask questions that would otherwise not be asked, to make the difficult decisions so that no one else would have to.

At the sound of a particularly sharp whinny, Arthur jerked himself out of his reverie and looked around the stable. Judging from the angle of the rays of sun that were streaming through the warm wooden windowpanes, Arthur hadn't been there for more than an hour. Had so little time truly passed? It was hard to believe that he had come to so many conclusions in so little time when he had been so very lost for the past month.

That didn't matter. If anything, it was good that there had been so insignificant a passage of time for what Arthur was going to do. He called out for a groom; he knew that there had to be one or two in the area, probably just staying out of their domain for fear of provoking that admittedly rather moody king as of late.

Arthur was right; a young man in faded and patched clothing bowed his way into the stable and waited for instruction. Biting down an annoyed remark regarding how everything would go far faster if servants were somewhat more concise in their courtesies and how he'd never had to put up with this as prince, Arthur ordered the boy to saddle the mare against whom Arthur had been more or less leaning since his return to the stable.

Fortunately, the boy was either too young or too intimidated by the king's presence to question the strange order; Arthur's own perfectly healthy warhorse was waiting only a few stalls down. But Arthur was glad for the boy's reluctance; if he'd asked why Arthur had instructed him thusly, Arthur had no excuse prepared. Not even the flimsiest of explanations.

But no matter. Regardless of what he might have come up with to explain his sudden eagerness to neglect his own stallion in favor of a placid mare, any person who knew anything of Arthur would have known to true reason for his flight. What would have been the point of lying? They would have had to pretend to believe his excuses, out of propriety and respect and an eagerness to spread the story as soon as he was out of earshot, and oh how he missed Merlin at times like this, and they would have all known what he was truly doing.

Arthur didn't care. It didn't matter anymore. There was nothing to be ashamed of. What the hell else was he supposed to do?

The saddle properly affixed, Arthur sent the boy running back to the castle to retrieve an admittedly lengthy list of items to pack into the saddlebags. Arthur only hoped that the boy would remember everything; he'd found that this groom was yet another servant who had never been taught to read. Perhaps he should do something about that when he returned from his mission. Reading was a handy resource.

Arthur checked his sword and looked over his person out of habit, preferring to be prepared for whatever he might face in the forest. He was glad that he'd hopped his way into his newest and sturdiest boots that day; if all went according to plan, he would need them. Excalibur shone from his sheath as he lifted it slightly; Merlin loved Excalibur. He claimed that it was because Excalibur never seemed to require cleaning or polishing, but there had been a deeper glint in his eye that Arthur had never been able to identify, pre-imprisonment, but what Arthur now knew was pride.

How had he let Merlin go when there were still so many questions that needed to be asked? Perhaps he should have allowed Merlin two days to leave.

Arthur put Excalibur back into the sheath, into which it slid so smoothly and so cleanly that Arthur could not help but feel the quiver of awe that always flickered in the back of his mind whenever he handled the almost supernatural blade. Oh, there were so many questions…

Arthur shook his head and began pacing around the stall again, all but bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for the stable boy to return with what Arthur had ordered. He was buzzing with adrenaline; the sense of purpose that was washing over him was so wonderfully overwhelming that he just had to move and had to do something and had to start.

After all, he finally, finally knew what he had to do.

He was going after Merlin.

Of course he was. What else was there to do?

But Arthur had to wonder which of the two of them had been the one to make that choice, the decision to allow a final meeting of the isolation that had so defined the trust and depth of their bond over the years.

And he had to wonder just how long ago that choice had been made.

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Coming toward the end now! This chapter would have been up earlier, but my school's wifi has been down for the past few days. It's less obscenely long than usual, but the next chapter should compensate for that. :)

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Thank you for reviews, as always!