The day started out crisp and fine, ideal for a morning patrol with some of the newer knights who needed the practice, but Arthur, conducting a last-minute check on his horse's saddle straps, felt disinclined to enjoy the weather. He found himself speaking uncharacteristically curtly to the men gathered round as he delivered the details of the day's outing. The stallion, perhaps responding to his mood, began sidestepping in a fractious manner, and Arthur paused for a moment to pat the animal's neck.

"So we are headed for Greenswood, my lord?" Leon circled by.

"Not at first. On the way back." Sweeping his gaze around the assembled men, Arthur realized one was missing. "Where the devil is du Lac?" He'd given tacit acceptance to Lancelot's joining such patrols; the fellow was a good swordsman and they were short of those for the time being.

Leon looked blank for a moment and then said, "Ah, I thought you knew. He's acting as escort for Guinevere who is journeying to Ealdor...they left this morning—"

"How would I know that when you didn't tell me." Arthur stared at the stallion's neck which was level with his eyes and then, after a moment of supreme effort, turned his gaze towards Leon, who sat up a little straighter in the saddle.

"I am sorry, my lord. I didn't realize—"

Arthur let his expression say the rest. You didn't realize it was your job to keep me informed of things I can't possibly be around to see? That I wanted you to pay attention to the whereabouts of Lancelot and Guinevere? Separately of course, it had never occurred to him they would go anywhere together. Not without asking him first.

Leon looked appropriately chastened. It was enough of a rebuke for the moment. Arthur swung up into the stirrups and gestured with his head, knowing the men were watching.

It was not the time to fly off in a rage, though his chest burned. Escort for Guinevere. When did she mean to return—she had better!—and why had she not asked him? (Particularly if the destination of Ealdor meant a connection to Merlin and Morgana, which he had to assume it did.)

Rationally, of course, there was nothing wrong with her choice of Lancelot—except he's not me—who ought to be more than capable of keeping her safe, even if he wasn't nobility—She should have asked ME.

Well, he would find out for himself. Whatever was going on, he meant to be in the middle of it. He'd catch up with them, Guinevere would have no choice but to speak to him. He would take over the position of guardian and Lancelot could...tag along as he pleased or go back to Camelot or be damned, Arthur didn't really care.

Although, if it had to be determined right now, he was leaning towards the damned part.

Signaling for Leon, who had been riding at a respectful distance instead of alongside as he usually did, Arthur briskly communicated the change in plans. Leon was to complete the patrol and bring the men back to Camelot, whereas he, Arthur, intended to be gone for an indeterminate amount of time to locations varied and unspecified.

"What if your father should inquire?"

"Tell him you thought he knew," Arthur said, with a touch of ironic savagery, as he wheeled the stallion around and left the group.

Despite what Alagar had told Morgana upon their initial meeting, the druid encampment was a considerable way from the village; at least an hour on foot. She rather liked the distance, however; it increased her sense of freedom, and the journey through the woods gave her the peace and solitude she craved.

It was true that thus far she had felt safe enough at the camp, but she'd also noticed that not all of its members approved of her presence. As long as Alagar was at her side no one approached her, but Morgana had perceived plenty of censorious looks thrown her way, and overheard occasional mutters of "king's ward". So usually they sat in one of the tents to discuss arcane matters and spell-lore. Alagar was wise, if often cryptic, and concluded each of their meetings with a paternal blessing that she had almost come to look forward to. And, unless Morgana brought it up, he never referred to her previous life at Camelot, for which she was thankful.

On this day Morgana had chosen to ride her horse to the camp, but took a rather meandering path because an odd sensation of unease had settled on her, not strong enough to make her turn around and go back. The horse seemed sensitive, too, and occasionally tugged sideways and paused as if confused, though the way was well-known to it by now.

Falling leaves scattered across the path, as horse and rider wended their way down into the gully which was bordered by immense rocks. The familiar smell of smoke-fires was curiously absent, and Morgana slowed the horse as the sense of suspicion took deeper root in her stomach. The community was gone, cleared away—yet scraps of fabric from the tents, well-worn tracks through the grass and blackened fire pits remained. She reined in the horse and just sat for a few moments, listening for any sounds, though there was nothing but the typical whisper of trees in the distance.

"They're gone."

Descending from nearly above, from the rocky cliff, was the owner of the voice. She recognized him as Galen, one of the druids she'd seen but never spoken to. He'd appeared so suddenly, as if from hiding, that she hardly had time to react, while the falling pebbles from his quick descent startled the horse. Galen caught hold of the bridle with casual speed. Morgana realized, looking down at him with a twinge of nervousness unsettling her stomach still further, that he was one of those who had not been well-favoured towards her presence in the camp.

"How is that possible? I was here not a day ago," she said, trying to sound confident but not arrogant.

"Much can happen in a day." Galen gazed at her unsmiling. He was a tall man, probably a head taller than Merlin—who, Morgana thought irrelevantly, was not short. The tight grip he kept on the horse unnerved her.

"Alagar would not leave without...without any message for me."

"He wasn't given a choice."

As he said this, Morgana saw two other men converging upon her. "What do you mean?" she said, trying to focus on Galen and hoping her fear didn't show. He had very cold eyes, up close; narrowed and a color reminiscent of new steel.

"I mean your king has a way of convincing spell-casters to move quickly."

The other men drew up, one close on her other side, the other hanging back.

"He is not my king." Morgana knew the protest would be futile, even as she uttered it.

"Get off the horse," Galen said by way of reply.

She re-assessed them quickly in turn. None seemed heavily armed in the way of brigands, but as magic users, they did not need to be.

What do I have? Her own novice powers, which, untried, she had little faith in. The obligatory dagger in her boot, which, unless they were complete fools they would find and remove before any length of time. She could kill one, perhaps two. She could fairly break Galen's neck with her boot from this angle, though without a follow-up that wouldn't do her much good and would not dispose the remaining two kindly towards her. But complying with his order to dismount did not seem a sensible alternative either.

She shook her head.

Galen exchanged glances with the other two, then grabbed her arm and hauled her bodily out of the saddle. The horse bolted forwards and Morgana was barely quick enough to manage getting her feet away in time to avoid being dragged away with it. Galen let go of her so that she tumbled to the ground, landing hard on her elbow. She bit back a cry.

Merlin. If you can hear me...if you can find me, come now.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain radiating through her arm, trying to concentrate on the message, though she still didn't know if she was delivering it properly. Or at all. Just because he'd said it worked. Once before.

Let it work again.

Please.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, though she knew. There was so much for which Uther had to be held accountable. She should have done it, before she was banished. She should have run him through with a dull sword, herself.

Yet she still didn't understand, for druids were men of peace for the most part. Perhaps they were imposters. Perhaps they meant to hold her for a ransom that would never be delivered. Perhaps...

"You must pay," Galen said conversationally, confirming her thoughts.

"I have no money," she said, just to be obstreperous.

"Not that kind of pay."

She had a moment to mull this over before he kicked her in the shoulder and her arm went into spasms of pain, and there was nothing else to think about but how much it hurt.

Merlin ladled soup into a bowl and put it in front of Hunith, who was sitting at the table. They'd been at the market for most of the morning, and she looked tired. He set the larger portion in front of her but she waved it away. "You aren't eating enough."

"I'm fine." Yet, to please her, he took it back, though he didn't have much interest in food. The comments Morgana had made about his expectations of her activities in Ealdor still rankled, and she was still spending much of her time with the druids. It wasn't that in itself that bothered him; it was that she wouldn't talk to either of them at all now, and he felt her slipping away from him.

"When is your friend coming?"

"Soon, I hope."

He had sent for Gwen for two reasons; first, he missed her friendship and calm counsel, and second, he harbored a tiny desire that she could in some way help Morgana, directly or indirectly, to form a sense of community again. He was aware the two women hadn't parted on the best of terms, but perhaps Morgana could be brought to see that their history, their background together was too important to reject completely, even in spite of the banishment. Maybe, eventually, Morgana would even consider Arthur in that light. They had, after all, grown up as brother and sister. Surely that was a connection too significant to be severed. Merlin, himself without siblings, had a rather nostalgic longing for all four of them to be on good terms, even if current circumstances rendered that unlikely (if not downright impossible, his cynical side argued).

He hadn't adequately explained all this to his mother and he was fairly sure she didn't really understand what the point of Gwen coming was. Yet Hunith hadn't objected, though the cottage remained small and their food prospects were never abundant.

Abruptly there was a sense of pressure in his head, as if the fingertips of an unseen hand clawed against the contours of his skull from within. Morgana was calling him.

And it was nothing like before. Then, it had been a curious, misanthropic touch. Now, it was a pain-wracked plea for assistance—

—help me.

He stood up from the table so quickly the soup bowls spilled, barely registering his mother's stare.

"I have to go," he muttered, moving around the room, grabbing things he needed without thinking about them. Stuffing everything into a pack. Running out, finding the remaining horse and swinging up. Digging his heels into the animal's sides. Going where he didn't know, but following the call that lingered like a repeating echo in his mind, Morgana's pain marking a clear trail for him to seek out.