The Dust of Hope

by fourleggedfish

The prophecy is in motion. It is an undertaking the likes of which Arthur did not expect. (Book 2 of 3, follows The Impersonated Self)

6. Chapter 6

The gravel pathway crunched beneath Arthur's boots as he walked through the desolate, craggy landscape. He looked down at the grey pebbles scattered along the ground, and then to his left at the grey cliff face stretching high up into a slate, overcast sky. The clouds churned above him, roiling like the tumultuous sea. When Arthur looked down again, he saw the crest of the trail before him, and when he stepped to the summit, the Cauldron of Arianrhod stretched below, her mirrored waters still and serene.

"You dragged me away."

Arthur looked to his right, to where Merlin stood facing away from him, out past the edge of the trail and into the chasm beyond the side of the mountain. "Merlin?"

"Into the water. Do you remember it?"

A screeching filled the air and Arthur turned to see the twisted, crippled white dragon burrowing into the black sands below, along the edge of the sacred lake. The strange, monochrome light cast its bent limbs and bony wings into shades of silver and grey. Arthur shook his head and looked at Merlin again, at the back of his head, at his dusty old servant's trousers and his tattered woven tunic, washed out and pale as fireplace ash. "Yes, I remember it." He swallowed hard. "You were screaming at me to let you go."

Merlin kept staring away, out into the open air, his hair stirring in the breeze. "There were black things crawling up my arms."

Arthur sucked in a sharp breath and glanced aside at the dragon. It remained far away near the lake, chirping happily as it cleaned bright red stains from its claws. Arthur averted his gaze and found it captured instead by the bright red knot of a neckerchief at the base of Merlin's skull. Those marked the only spots of color in a grey landscape. He swallowed hard. "I remember." Stark and terrible in his memory, he recalled the threaded wheals like tar covering the skin of Merlin's forearms – a mass of tangled black strings, screaming with voices of their own... Some kind of mandrake residue, Arthur learned later. Merlin still had scars from them, shiny little crackles only visible in certain lights. Just imperfections of his skin, as anyone might have after living long enough.

"They were trying to get inside."

A gust of wind sucked the air from Arthur's lungs. He had to fight to draw breath enough in the maelstrom to ask, as he had once before, "Inside where?"

Finally, Merlin moved, but only to turn his face to one side so that Arthur could just barely see the jut of his nose in profile. "They were trying to get inside."

Arthur sidestepped in an attempt to see his face better, but his angle relative to Merlin didn't change. "So you said."

"You dragged me into the water."

Arthur reached out and grabbed the edge of Merlin's shoulder, a hard knob of bone under beneath his hand, sharp and cold. He pulled, and –

"Something's wrong with me."

---

Arthur gasped awake and immediately froze at the face hovering right above his own, illuminated at the edge of the nimbus of a single candle held aloft. "Merlin? What the hell are you doing?"

His face a blank canvas, Merlin watched him for a moment, unblinking and then grinned like a loon. "Do you remember it?"

The inadvertent echo sent Arthur shoving his way from his bedclothes and over to the other side of his bed so that he could stand. Once on his feet, shivering, Arthur strode toward the wash basin, his steps and angry slap of bare soles on cold stone.

"You were dreaming," Merlin called after him.

"Obviously. Idiot."

"Mumbling and all. I wasn't sure if I should wake you." Merlin's footsteps shadowed him right up to the privacy screen, and then stopped on the other side. "What was it about?"

"I don't remember," Arthur lied.

"You were pretty agitated," Merlin pressed.

Arthur scowled at the water basin, glared into the mirror just above it, and then cracked the thin layer of ice that had formed overnight on the surface of his clean water. "Probably comes from you hovering over me like a demented hawk. How long have you been here?"

Merlin shrugged and held his candle to a few wicks placed in candelabras around the room as he wandered toward the hearth. "A candlemark? The last nightwatch bell rang before I got here, so I called for your breakfast."

"So the rest of the time you've been in here, you were just staring at me sleeping? I suppose for you, that's normal. I'd forgotten how you used to creep around my bed at night." Arthur dunked his face into the bowl, blew air through his nose, and then surfaced only to jump back and knock his temple against the oil lamp that hung above his dressing nook.

Right bloody beside him, Merlin quirked an eyebrow, face cloth still helpfully extended. "It was my job to creep around your bed. If I didn't, you'd throw things at me."

Arthur rolled his eyes and groaned as he grabbed the cloth and a bar of soap, and went about scrubbing up a good lather in the basin. He swiped the soapy mess up both of his arms, and scrubbed at his fingernail beds as he demanded, "Will you ever stop harping on the throwing things?"

"No," Merlin chirped. He reached up to stop the oil lamp from swinging back and forth and then retreated. Over his shoulder, he called, "Because you still do it."

Arthur chucked the soap at him and missed.

Without acknowledging the soap other than to pick it up and toss it back over the privacy screen where it smacked Arthur in the back of the head, Merlin continued, "Gods forbid anything interrupt your beauty sleep. I mean, you really, really needed it."

"Ow!" Arthur rubbed his head and kicked the soap underneath the washstand, then barked back, "Excuse me; I am plenty good looking. Just because you don't notice – "

"Oh, I notice," Merlin interjected. He popped his upper body around the edge of the screen again and gave Arthur a critical once-over. "So long as I'm not looking at your face." He held out yet another cloth.

Arthur flared his nostrils and snatched at the cloth to dry his face. "Shut up, Merlin."

"Eh." Merlin sniffed in that manner that Arthur normally associated with Dragoon, and then went back to finish lighting the fire.

The past two months had been odd, but Arthur didn't feel that things were quite so precarious as they had been on that strange and disturbing night in front of the hearth fire. The odd lapses and maybe-Sight didn't recur after that night, not that Arthur noticed, and though Merlin occasionally paused off to one side of conversations, or in quiet hallways to shut his eyes hard and mumble to recollect himself, it didn't happen often enough to be any more alarming than any of his other quirks were. He didn't talk anymore about what Myrddin remembered, either, though Arthur saw it in his face sometimes that someone else's thought might have crossed his mind. It was disconcerting, but Arthur didn't know what he was supposed to do about it, other than pretend to politely ignore it.

True to Arthur's orders, Merlin showed up twice a day to dine with him. The meals were awkward at first, and forced, but gradually, just as the land thawed into a halfhearted spring, so did Merlin's demeanor. Arthur thought it helped that the shared meals were a new thing between them. Merlin regularly stole food off of Arthur's plate, and they dined at camp together sitting on logs or the hard ground, but the formality of proper meal sharing was something for which they had no template, and no expectation of normalcy. It allowed them to find some new balance with each other – king and prince, friends, brothers of a sort… Arthur wondered, though, if it would ever again be easy between them. The tension remained, mostly hidden now, but Arthur did recognize that something in Merlin rebelled at their equal stations, and it seemed unlikely to fade the way that Guinevere's own hesitance once had.

Arthur flung the used face cloth aside, heedless of where it landed, and rifled through the robes hanging over the top of his changing screen until he found the grey homespun dressing gown lined in creamy sheep's fleece. He untangled it from the others and just held it for a moment, the rich lining in contrast to the plain grey outer fabric – little more than a peasant weave, softer than grain sackcloth though nearly the same appearance. Arthur fingered it gently before smiling, and put it on.

"Is that the one Hunith made for you?"

Arthur glanced up and frowned at Merlin's back where he knelt, arranging kindling. "Yes. It's warmer than all the others." He did up the buttons that ran from sternum to navel as he added, "Merlin, you're a sorcerer. You hardly need kindling to make the wood catch."

"I like doing it the normal way sometimes," Merlin replied with a flattened edge to his tone. "It's soothing."

Even though Merlin couldn't see him with his back turned, Arthur nodded because he knew that already; he only used the topic in the hope of judging Merlin's mood. He had called his mother by name, which he normally didn't unless he was having a confusing day. It troubled Arthur, but only because he kept waiting for things to feel normal again, and they never would – not after what Arthur had done to legalize magic, and the unintended consequences that came from it. He had a hard time adjusting to that, though.

It didn't help that Merlin wasn't himself – not anymore, not the way he once was, staid and cheerful and unwavering – but Arthur was starting to understand that he likely never would be. And that was alright; Arthur couldn't expect the past two years to leave him unscathed. And though this Merlin was quieter, maybe darker at times – given to long, pensive meanderings in the evening silence, and more easily startled than Arthur thought necessary – he was still, indelibly, Merlin. There was no escaping that. He still insulted Arthur as if it were his right, gave him unending flack for every little misstep with none of the (paltry) restraint he'd shown as a servant, and bullied Arthur into self-reflection and better conduct if Arthur were too stuff-arsed to see reason. If that now came with a side serving of Merlin falling asleep at night in Arthur's chairs without apology, exhausted from his physician's duties, and covertly tidying Arthur's room before breakfast as if it soothed something frantic in him, then who was Arthur to complain? It was less lonely, having Merlin hovering around in his space every day again. The sterility of the royal household gave way to his questionable housekeeping once again, and Arthur found himself chagrined to realize that he had missed the clutter. He did worry about the lacking smiles and the false cheer, put on like masks sometimes even though Arthur could already tell that he didn't feel any of what his face wore. It wasn't all that much worse than Arthur's own affects, though; he wasn't a carefree boy anymore with his own invincibility shining in his showmanship, and he couldn't possibly expect Merlin to just fail to mature too. The weight seemed less on both of them, though. Like men letting the stone they carried fall from their backs so that they could straighten, hesitant, unaware that they had forgotten what it was like to walk without an extra burden.

Since Merlin didn't give anything else away by his actions, Arthur smoothed down the front of his robe and meandered over to find his desk rearranged and the royal papers rifled, courtesy of Merlin's early morning snooping. Apparently, he had done more than just stand beside Arthur's bed like a gargoyle since entering the royal chambers. Arthur picked up a few of his reports – supplies and armaments – and asked Merlin, "Did you see anything interesting while you were picking through my private correspondence?"

"It's hardly private if it was just sitting there. You should learn to lock your dispatch box if you don't want me going through it."

Under his breath, Arthur muttered, "It was locked. Bloody sorcerer."

As if he hadn't heard that, Merlin poked at his carefully arranged logs and then snagged the flint from the little shelf beside the mantle. "We had a prosperous year; you could probably temporarily increase the sea trade levy without anyone suffering, and use it to supplement the cost of the army."

Arthur blinked; he'd expected more deflections, or another smartass retort about his reports, not an actual answer. Off guard now, he asked the first thing that popped into his head without bothering to think about it first. "The army is already well provisioned; why do you think it needs more?"

The sound Merlin made resembled the gurgling of an irritated natural spring, and he scraped the flint more vigorously. "You broke every treaty Camelot has by legalizing magic, and you ask me why I think supplementing the army is a good idea?"

Arthur hummed and twitched his shoulder in an absent shrug. "It's just more something Leon would say."

"Because Leon isn't a bloody optimist like you are."

"Optimist? How am I an optimist?" Arthur shook that off and checked the hall door to be sure it was unlocked so that the servants could get in with breakfast. When he checked on Merlin's progress at the hearth, there were still a lot of sparks but no fire. Arthur just rolled his eyes and left him to it.

A weak daylight glowed low in the sky past the battlements visible from Arthur's windows – the threat of approaching dawn. He followed a single shaft of sunlight with his eyes, across the room until it fractured through the branches of the dead apple tree rooted in his table. Any sane king would have removed the thing, or had it chopped up for kindling in the royal hearth, dead as it now was, anchored to nothing but sterile furniture and stone. Arthur didn't want to part with it, though; it represented something important to him, even if he couldn't articulate exactly what that was. He had trimmed it a bit, and George had tried to make it look neat, but it was still a skeletal specter of a thing reaching up to the rafters. There were bits and bobs hanging from many of the branches now, courtesy of Merlin: bunches of herbs tied with string, or shiny stones winking in the light, but mostly scraps of fabric that he had knotted throughout the canopy in the joints of twigs where leaves once grew. It was curious, and Arthur wondered if he meant for it to be a clootie tree of some kind, or if this were just another strange and senseless decorative habit he'd adopted. The herb bundles smelled nice, at least. Perhaps it was meant to improve air quality.

"I'd need more than a few bunches of herbs to cover up the musty old smell of you."

Arthur kept his breathing steady by force and glanced over his shoulder. It was on the tip of his tongue – again – to point out that he hadn't said anything, but as with all of the sporadic instances that came before, Arthur kept his silence on the matter. He did wonder about it, though, because it seemed to occur with a regular frequency, and only with Arthur. No one else gave any indication that Merlin occasionally plucked their own silent words from the air around them.

A pitiable fire now flickered precariously atop the andirons, and on the other side of the room, Merlin stooped to pick up various of Arthur's soiled clothes and toss them into the basket for George to take later. "Seriously," Merlin griped. "It's like a badger's den in here." A few articles earned a sniff and a dubious look before their relegation to either the basket or a hanger near the draft of the closed window to air them out. "I think some of these are becoming sentient." Merlin pulled a face at one of Arthur's sparing undershirts and picked it up gingerly between thumb and forefinger.

Arthur's face turned reproving. "Hard exertion is good for a man. Keeps him hale. You should try it one day before even your buttocks atrophies."

Merlin straightened and angled his head in Arthur's direction. "Keeping a close eye on my buttocks, are you?"

With a dramatic eyeroll, Arthur walked away from him and picked up his already-fingered correspondence. The flirting wasn't new, but Arthur didn't know how to take it anymore. They certainly hadn't acted on it since that night on the hearth rug, and Arthur had a sinking feeling that it had something to do with the current negotiations with Nemeth. He demonstrated his maturity by ignoring the whole spate of issues surrounding that, and changed the subject. "Alator hasn't tried to contact you directly, has he?"

Merlin kicked the laundry basket over to the hall door before wiping his hands on his robes and coming back to see what Arthur was doing at his desk. "No, he hasn't. Still no official response?"

Arthur shook his head. "It seems odd, doesn't it? He was so eager to meet and negotiate before the snows melted, and then he just disappears after we send our invitation? It's been two months; he should have replied by now."

"He may have moved camp before we sent the bird back." Merlin tapped at the open scroll of tax figures again, absently scanning over the page as he spoke. "The snow was pretty bad. If they had to find shelter, their raven may not have found them, or the storm could have injured it. You know how it goes with birds."

"I would think they'd be able to guide a familiar to wherever they make camp," Arthur countered. He picked up his bundle of correspondence from Nemeth and scowled at it. "Isn't that how familiars work?"

"If it was a familiar." Merlin canted his head up and shrugged with his eyebrows. "And if his motives were genuine in the first place. Your knights were right; asking you to journey into the Darkling Wood to meet him was kind of a recipe for ambush."

Arthur grunted and tossed his papers back into disarray. He ignored the inkwell knocking over, as well as Merlin automatically waving a hand to fix it before it ruined anything.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Knowing full well that Merlin didn't refer to Alator or ravens, Arthur snapped, "No." He had no desire to ruin his appetite discussing the negotiations with Nemeth's ambassadors, and the likely path of talks scheduled for the next day. He was tempted to write a letter to Mithian directly and just demand to know what she wanted of him without the artifice of diplomacy, but he had no idea if their prior associations justified such familiarity. Merlin was right about breaking treaties, and the danger of being in Camelot's position just then. Arthur respected Mithian's cool head, but she had something to prove now, and Arthur didn't want to push her so hard that she felt she had to publicly push back to demonstrate her strength as a new queen.

When Arthur turned back around, he noticed Merlin watching him yet again, but this time, there was a gentleness in Merlin's countenance that had been missing for some time. The ends of Arthur's mouth curled upwards without thought, and he could feel himself mirroring the sentiment on Merlin's face, even if he wasn't certain as to the exact shape of the feeling at the root of it. Philia, ludus, pragma… Arthur stepped closer, considered him for a moment, and then booped him on the nose.

Merlin twitched backwards and automatically covered the lower half of his face as he eyed Arthur with suspicion for any further assaults on his person.

Arthur grinned, lopsided in that way that he knew made him look gormless, but he didn't care. A knocking at the door interrupted Arthur's soft laughter, and he called out permission to enter as he moved toward his dining table. The servants took care not to hinder him as they arranged too much food on his table, interspersed around magical tree roots in the dim shade of ribbon-adorned branches.

Before Arthur could do anything to sate his hunger, Merlin appeared at his elbow to survey the plates and bowls of food. He poked at a few slices of pork, rifled the cold cubed venison with his fingers, and then picked up a clay pot of bread pudding just as the serving boy reached to take it back. Before Arthur could comment on it, Merlin's eyes shot over to the boy's face and fixed there with the kind of focus that sharp shooters demonstrated from behind the bolt of a crossbow.

Arthur followed his gaze to the serving boy – young man, really – and didn't recognize him from the household staff. There were plenty of boys helping in the kitchen who Arthur had never met, and likely never would, but they weren't supposed to have access to the royal apartments. Casually, Arthur greeted, "Hello. I don't think I've met you before."

The young man paled so quickly that Arthur knew something was amiss. "Sire. I'm sorry, sire. The-the pudding didn't look hot enough. I was going to take it back to the kitchen."

"Bread pudding isn't supposed to be piping hot." Arthur sidestepped, and it felt distinctly odd to allow Merlin to act as shield in a situation like this. "Who are you?"

Merlin stepped up just as Arthur expected he would – as if this weren't the reverse of their usual roles in a dangerous situation. Rather than addressing the young man, Merlin looked at the serving girl who had come with him. "You can explain to us," Merlin told her, "or Arthur can call for the guards and you can answer to them down in the dungeons, the same as he will." He gestured at the young man with his injured arm, unbound and mostly healed now, but he kept his hand up afterwards, his palm a vertical slice in the air with his fingers oddly crooked. He still held the pudding crock in his other hand.

The serving girl's eyes welled with tears. "They said to bring him."

"Who did?" Arthur demanded. "You know that my apartments are restricted to certain staff only."

"I know," she cried. "I'm sorry, sire. I didn't mean to."

"You didn't mean to?" Arthur echoed, incredulous. "How is that an explanation?"

Merlin twitched his head, and then cocked it as if he were listening to something that only he could hear. His eyes lost focus.

Arthur reached for the knife that he kept strapped to his calf even when he slept.

"You're a druid," Merlin murmured. He tore himself visibly back from whatever otherworldly thing he'd heard, and fixed on the young man again. "What did you put in here?" He hefted the pot in the crook of his elbow.

The young man swallowed, but for some reason, he actually answered. "Hellebore, Master Emrys."

"Hellebore." Merlin tipped the tureen toward himself and frowned at it. "Why try to take it back out again? Getting past Cook isn't easy. Did you get cold feet?"

Arthur gripped his knife but kept it out of sight behind Merlin's back. "Answer him."

"I – " The young man stared hard at Merlin.

Merlin flinched again and then shouted, "Speak out loud!"

Arthur forced himself to breathe steadily through the sharp burst of fear in his chest, lest he give his nerves away. He glanced at the serving girl, who had crumpled herself against the wall near the door, sobbing violently but in silence, and dismissed her as a threat. Instead, Arthur faced the young man again over Merlin's shoulder. "He asked you a question."

To his credit, the young druid seemed startled by Merlin's anger, and though he didn't cower, it looked like a near thing. "I didn't think Emrys would be here too."

Arthur swallowed. "I'm the target, then? Not him?"

The young man looked to Merlin as if for help, but Merlin bared his teeth around a sneer rather than offer assistance. A shallow breath chased out the young man's next words. "Yes, sire. We would never harm our master."

Arthur's mouth formed a soundless echo over the epithet. Master. Plenty of folks in Camelot chose to address Merlin as Master Merlin rather than as My Lord Merlin, but none of them meant master as anything other than a term of respect for his expertise as royal physician. In contrast, this druid used the word like a title, the way slaves might. It rankled more that Merlin didn't seem to notice, than that the boy did it in the first place.

Merlin glared at the young would-be assassin, disgusted. "Do you have any idea what I would have done to you if you'd succeeded?"

Somehow, this must not have occurred to the young man, because he appeared shocked at the idea that his actions might not be welcome.

Arthur gripped Merlin's outstretched arm, which had started trembling at the strain on his barely-healed shoulder, and pressed it down. Then he looked at the strange young druid again. "What exactly did you think you'd accomplish by poisoning me?"

The young man shook his head. "We…it's just…we were saving him?"

"Saving who?" Arthur demanded. When the young man's eyes shifted to Merlin in an automatic tell, Arthur looked there instead. "What, him?"

Merlin appeared incredulous. "Why would you think I need saving?"

"Your note." The young man backed up a step as if he were realizing some magnitude of mistake that Arthur couldn't comprehend, and then fumbled at his sleeve. Arthur raised his knife at the same time that Merlin put his hand up again, but all the man did was pull a miniscule roll of parchment out to show them. "The raven brought it back. With your charm on it. I'm to pass it back to you if I can, to – to show you we're allies. So you know we've come."

"What charm?" Arthur demanded.

Beside him, Merlin rolled his head up with his eyes and groaned, "Olive loaf."

Arthur cut his eyes to Merlin. "You said it was charmed for truth."

"I told you I might have screwed it up."

"Screwed it up? Merlin, you nearly got me killed! What if you hadn't been here?"

Merlin blinked once, an exaggerated and overdramatic thing, and then exclaimed, "It wouldn't be a problem if you weren't such a stubborn ass about me testing your food!"

Arthur growled and dropped his knife to his side again. "I can't believe you." He turned to the petrified serving girl next, and then realized, "You said they."

Merlin threw Arthur a dirty look. "You're scaring her." He plunked the poisoned pudding down on Arthur's favorite lounge chair.

"I'm scaring the would-be murderess?" Arthur watched Merlin stalk over to collect the girl from the floor and try to calm her down. "Oh my god. Is the whole druid congregation in my kitchens right now?"

The young druid worried the charmed parchment in his hands. "Um. Not all of them."

Merlin scrubbed a hand over his face and then peered intently into the middle distance as if that might render this situation sensible.

Arthur looked at the girl as she wiped her face with a dish cloth and asked, "Did you all go along with this?"

Immediately, she started crying again. It was answer enough.

"Why would you do that?" Arthur demanded in disbelief. "Have I not been good to you?"

The girl sniveled as a prelude, and then lost her composure again. "I don't know," she wailed.

"How on earth can you not know why you chose to participate in a plot to assassinate me?"

She kept gulping in sobs, visibly at a loss, and then just blurted out, "We all really like Master Merlin."

Arthur tipped his head to the side and scoffed. "Oh, for pity's sake."

Merlin gave him a contemplative look. "Cook must be more pissed off at you than George realized."

"That dinner was months ago! How long can she hold that grudge?" Arthur knew exactly how long Cook could hold that grudge, because she was known for it: forever. With an exasperated groan, Arthur wandered away from the table to put some distance between himself and this ridiculous conspiracy. The girl's crying intensified in the interim, and Arthur cast a hand out in supplication to the air. "How do these things happen? Am I supposed to arrest my entire kitchen staff now?"

With an unusual sense of diplomacy, Merlin replied, "I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding. Or magic. I believe her when she says she doesn't know why she brought him up here." Merlin tilted his head at the young druid standing petrified to one side. "Or why she went along with this."

Arthur scowled into a random corner of the room and then looked around for his sword. When it didn't immediately present itself, he swore rather more viciously than he might have in some other situation, and demanded, "Where the hell is my sword?"

"Where it always is," Merlin told him. "In your sword chest."

Arthur glared at him. "I don't have a sword chest."

Merlin rolled his eyes, shoved his palm toward the foot of Arthur's bed, and threw open the chest there with magic. "See? Sword chest."

Arthur looked down at the chest beside him without moving otherwise, then glared at Merlin again. "That's a blanket chest."

"It's your sword chest."

"Why are you storing swords in my blanket chest?"

"You've always had swords in there."

"It's a blanket chest! If my swords are in there, then where are my blankets?"

Merlin comically widened his eyes and snapped, "In the actual blanket chest, you knob."

Arthur glared at him from across the room, blinked, and then snorted. He cleared his throat, tried not to laugh, failed, and managed to at least not bray like an idiot as he turned away to smother it all in a hand. When he faced the room again, Merlin was trying not to smile at him, his expression sheepish. That set Arthur off again though, and he heard Merlin follow suit a moment later, all helpless giggles and forgotten ease.

The young druid infiltrator shuffled in place, eyeing them both nervously. "This isn't funny."

Merlin snickered. "It is, a little."

Arthur wiped as much mirth from his face as he could, physically, using both hands. Then he snatched his sword from the blanket chest, pulled it halfway out of the scabbard to be sure that it actually was Excalibur, and belted it on. He paused as Merlin came over to pick up a lesser sword. "What are you doing?"

Merlin straightened up with one of Arthur's old training swords in his hands. "If we're going down to the kitchens, I want one too."

"Well, don't take that one." Arthur plucked it from his hands and switched it with a more reliable blade.

"Should we call some guards?" Merlin asked. He slid his sword from its scabbard, and dropped the belt and leathers back into the chest.

Arthur pointed at his sword. "Aren't you going to wear it?"

"No, I'm going to carry it." Merlin twiddled the sword at Arthur.

"I think guards might make this worse," Arthur finally answered, smacking Merlin's sword out of his face. "Can you handle this on your own?" He bounced his eyebrows around in what he hoped was a signal to say something intimidating for the benefit of their poisoner.

Merlin replied with an easy smile. "If they're not friendly, I'll just turn them inside out."

Arthur blinked, taken aback.

So did Merlin. "Too much?"

"Bit messy," Arthur replied.

They both turned at the same time to look at the imposter serving boy. At least it worked; the poor young man looked as if he might regurgitate something. Over by the door, the girl was crying more hysterically than before.

Arthur turned Merlin away by the shoulder and leaned close to whisper, "Has he been telling all of this to whoever's in the kitchens? That head voice thing?"

Merlin nodded. "They're not only in the kitchens, but yes."

"Can you tell how they're taking it?"

"There's a lot of panicking and wanting to flee. Alator is either with them, or close. He's telling everyone to cooperate."

"I'm really not happy that my whole kitchen staff thought this was appropriate."

Merlin cut his eyes aside, and then back. "Magic is persuasive. I doubt it's entirely their fault."

Arthur fumed silently for a moment. "You may have had the right idea about warding the perimeter walls." He cut Merlin off in mid inhalation. "Don't tell me you told me so."

All of Merlin's breath leaked back out, unspent. "Spoil sport."

"Shut up." They both turned back around and Arthur cleared his throat. "Alright. Both of you, walk ahead of us. We're going to the kitchens to settle this."

Merlin glanced at him. "Maybe you should stay here. Just to be safe. I really can handle them on my own."

"That's hardly what I'm worried about." Arthur jiggled his sword at the druid man to get him moving out the door. "Someone has to keep you in check. You know how over-the-top you can get with my safety."

"It's not over-the-top," Merlin snarked back. "It's perfectly proportionate to the threat at hand."

"You have a very skewed sense of proportion." Arthur offered a gentler hand to the maid, who had finally dried most of her face, and guided her out in front of them. "Mind your sword, Merlin, before you stab one of us on accident."

Merlin flipped the point of his sword down toward the floor. "I do know how to use a sword."

"You know a little."

Arthur followed his somewhat confused and entirely terrified prisoners down the hall and around the corner while Merlin grumbled behind him about the proper use of swords as if he had something to prove. It was mostly a litany of rules for apprentice squires so that they didn't slice their own ears off by accident. Arthur rolled his eyes as they filed down the staircase and wondered that he'd ever missed Merlin's chatter.

By the time they reached the ground floor without encountering any of the household guards, Arthur had to cut Merlin off and demand of the young druid, "Where are my guards? The rest of the staff?"

Before the druid could answer, Arthur caught sight of a man near the entrance to the kitchens, hands out in a gesture of non-violence. It was Merlin, though, who startled him; he nearly tripped Arthur in his haste to get in front of him, and then he blocked the corridor, and Arthur, with his body.

Arthur leaned to peer around Merlin's shoulder as their attempted poisoners backed into the wall, out of the way. He sighed at the man standing in the kitchen doorway, noting his pointedly empty hands. "Are you Alator? I really hoped we'd meet under more congenial circumstances."

The man – Alator after all – nodded. In the heavily accented cadence of the far north, he replied, "There has been a terrible misunderstanding."

Arthur cast an irritated look at the curved shell of Merlin's ear, and then asked Alator, "Where is my staff? My household guards?"

"They are unharmed," Alator declared.

An older woman stepped out beside him and smiled. She seemed to radiate reassurance, which Arthur found suspicious, but she was very unassuming. Non-threatening. "They simply found other pressing things to do, very suddenly, away from here."

Merlin angled himself in her direction, and stepped back, forcing Arthur to do the same. His outstretched hand dropped a few inches from where he held it to ward them off. "I know you," Merlin told her.

The older woman smiled again, kindly and so safe-seeming that it must have been some kind of magic that made Arthur want to see her bundled up near a fire in the corner of every room where he discussed sensitive information. She clasped her hands and said, "It is an honor to meet you, Emrys. But I assure you, this is the first time I have ever laid eyes on you."

"Finna." Merlin lingered over the consonants. "Your name is Finna."

The older woman's equanimity faltered, and she looked quickly to Alator before replying, "Yes, master." Then she gave the young would-be poisoner a searching look.

"I haven't said anything," the young man insisted. He cast Merlin a fearful glance, though.

Arthur grasped Merlin by the bicep of the arm that held the downturned sword. For his ears only, Arthur asked, "What is it?"

Merlin canted his head in Arthur's direction, so that Arthur could see the corner of one eye even as it remained fixed on their unexpected guests. "She's worked some kind of charm. Women's magic. I think it's just for calm, though. Alator is…intense, but he seemed honorable when I met him before." Merlin shrugged himself from Arthur's grasp and took a few steps closer to Alator and Finna. The young man scrambled ahead of him and darted out of sight into the kitchen, while the actual serving girl hugged the wall and tried to get behind Arthur. Merlin glanced at her and then nodded to Arthur, so he let her. She was probably as much a victim as any of the other staff who had apparently been led to desert.

Alator straightened, clearly trying to defuse the situation. "I swear, Merlin. Everything I said to you before is still true. I swore myself to you, to help you build the world you spoke of. Where we can be free." His mouth opened as if to continue what was obviously a rehearsed greeting of some kind, inappropriate as it may be under the circumstances. Abruptly, however, he cut off his forthcoming words. A muted, wary expression stole over his face.

Merlin cocked his head the way a lizard might, and then looked to Finna instead. The tip of his sword dragged along the stone floor, and his entire affect sent a chill through Arthur's marrow. He recognized this particular Merlin as the same one who had stalked Arthur's supper table once while Guinevere smiled, scooped out and hollow, and teased Merlin about a lie of a girl who didn't exist. Over the past months, Arthur had told himself that referring to this side of Merlin as some kind of other – as The Secret Sorcerer that Arthur didn't know – was uncharitable. He reevaluated that now. A static flare rippled through the corridor, and Arthur could taste burnt storms on the air as magic seemed to crackle in the space between emptiness, a chaotic potential held in check.

Arthur took a step forward and gripped the hilt of his sword in readiness. "Merlin."

Merlin paused and then looked to his right, away from their guests to where a stack of vegetable baskets leaned against the wall near the kitchen door jamb. The choice of direction seemed incidental; Arthur already knew that there was something revealing about the periphery of Merlin's field of vision. He used it often, tracing edges with his eyes, though he never actually said anything about it.

Turning back abruptly, Merlin loomed over Finna rather rudely and ordered, "Break it or I'll break you."

Finna shook her head, a gesture of placation rather than refusal. Words tripped from her tongue as quickly as she could form them. "Great One, please forgive us. We only wanted to ensure time to explain. Before anyone took any rash actions."

"Rash?" Merlin mimicked, voice cold and featureless. "You tried to poison my king."

Arthur fought to slow the beating of his heart, remembering similar words spoken in that same tone in an autumn-heavy hollow in the woods just moments before Merlin prompted the earth to swallow a man. "Merlin, don't. I want to talk to them."

"Merlin." Alator pulled Finna out of Merlin's shadow, moved as if to molify, and then froze at something he must have seen in Merlin's face. He inhaled with his whole torso, and then breathed, "I will explain. I swear it. We would never seek to harm you."

"It is harming my king that should concern you."

Arthur approached cautiously and kept Merlin between him and the sorcerers even though he was relatively certain that Merlin was the larger threat here. "Alator, I'm sure that whatever magic you've worked was meant to allow time for cooler heads to prevail, but it's doing the opposite. Can you break this charm? I'll hear you out if you do, and Merlin will let you if you proceed in good faith. You have my word on that."

Alator looked at Finna and an understanding passed unspoken between them before Finna exhaled with a deliberate though obscure gesture of her hand. Arthur only noticed the heavy, cloying feel of the air when it dissipated. He took a relieved breath, unfettered by the strange pressure of magic, and met no resistance as he finally grabbed Merlin by the sword arm to haul him back. Merlin stumbled and dropped his sword before he managed to steady himself again, then blinked at Arthur a few times as if orienting himself.

"Alright?" Arthur asked.

Merlin nodded, fumbled a syllable over his tongue, and then tipped his head as if draining water from his ear. He wandered around to stand at Arthur's back, facing away.

Arthur left him to it and sighed as he regarded Alator. "I am willing to grant that this was all a terrible error in judgement and start fresh, so long as none of my people were harmed in this operation."

"We harmed no one," Finna insisted, protected by the arm that Alator continued to hold out as a shield. "They will all resume their normal behavior as if nothing happened. Our master Emrys was our only concern."

Alator made a hushing sound, his face wary and his posture more uncertain than before. His eyes kept flickering to Merlin as if watching a viper to see if it will strike. "We serve Emrys, King Arthur. Whatever cause he calls us to follow, we will answer, as we answered today, when we thought him in danger. You both have my deepest apology."

Arthur nodded and made a point of sheathing his sword. "I accept. In your place, I would have likely done the same." He glanced back at Merlin, who returned the look with an odd one of his own. "Merlin?"

"What?" Merlin offered a minute shake of his head.

Arthur sighed and turned back to Alator. "He accepts too."

"Oh," Merlin chirped, except he sounded awfully winded. "Yes. That."

Arthur frowned back at him, and then at their somewhat unwanted guests. "I don't suppose there are any other servants left at all in the royal house?"

Finna smiled kindly at him; it instilled a sense of ease even without the spell to back it up. "No, sire."

Arthur nodded and gestured for the serving girl to come forward. She appeared to be in shock now, but there was a hard competence to her now that the magic was gone. "Go and tell Sir Leon that I need him immediately. If you can't find him, Sir Gwaine is in the barracks – get him instead. Quickly."

As if glad to have a task to focus on, the girl acknowledged the order and hurried off with her skirts held up to save herself from tripping. Arthur watched her for a moment, but his attention shifted as Merlin latched onto his arm.

"Forgive me," Finna said. "Is Emrys well?"

Arthur felt his stomach sink, but put on a bland face; he didn't know what else he was supposed to do. "I'm really very sorry for the inconvenience, but I'll have to ask you both to wait in the kitchens for a moment. We'll prepare rooms for you as soon as some of the staff return."

Alator and Finna exchanged alarmed looks as Merlin listed against the wall, breathing hard. "We can help," Finna offered.

"That's very kind," Arthur replied. "But I must insist. You can help yourself to any food or drink you like while you wait." He patted his pockets, but he already knew that he wasn't carrying any of the plant oil that he suspected Merlin needed. "There's nothing to worry about," he added. It wasn't comfortable, putting his back to two sorcerers he didn't know or trust entirely – who had just tried to murder him, no less – but he hustled Merlin away from them anyhow.

"He didn't eat the pudding, did he?" Finna asked. Her footsteps dogged them down the corridor. "Master Emrys – "

Something in Arthur snapped. He pulled his sword and swung it back in a tight arc to warn her off. His arm a straight line from nose to sword tip, tense as he stared into Finna's startled face, Arthur hissed, "Don't come any closer." The metal rang in that peculiar manner of fine steel, but Arthur noticed the hint of magic in the tone this time, somehow, and wondered what it did, exactly. He had never thought to ask about Excalibur's magical properties before.

Merlin sucked in a sharp breath and slid down the wall. Arthur lost his grip on him as he landed hard on his knees.

"Back away," Arthur commanded lowly, his empty hand still stretched toward Merlin. "Both of you."

Alator held his hands out, but he refused to retreat. "We will not abandon him."

"This does not concern you." Arthur could have cried in relief when he heard Gwaine shouting from the stairwell. "Here," Arthur called back without looking away from Alator or Finna.

Gwaine rounded into view at the bottom of the staircase, his sword out, and immediately raised it as he took in the scene. "Eira said something was wrong here. The guards were all gone."

It was news to Arthur that Eira was even still in the city, much less in contact with Gwaine again, but that could all wait. To Alator, Arthur said, "I will ask you one more time to go to the kitchen and wait there."

Gwaine crouched down and braced his hand on Merlin's heaving chest. Merlin sort of climbed up Gwaine's arm until he could get his fists anchored in Gwaine's unlaced collar. He tried to say something but the words wouldn't form correctly. He puffed out a few breaths of air and tried again, but still nothing. His head sagged against Gwaine's chest as if he couldn't hold it up anymore.

Arthur stood helpless where he was, breathing heavily as he would before a race, or in a battle where they'd already traded blows. They weren't going to move, he realized. And they had magic – he couldn't make them go if they refused. Finally, Arthur growled in frustration and dropped to the floor with his back to two possibly hostile sorcerers. The clang of his sword hitting the stones was deafening, but he ignored it in favor of prying Merlin's fingers from Gwaine's tunic so that he could pull him into his chest and support the bad shoulder against his own. "Hold them off as best you can," Arthur told Gwaine. "Take my sword. They have magic; it might protect you."

Gwaine nodded and picked up Arthur's sword along with his own, then placed himself at Arthur's back close enough that he nearly bracketed Arthur between his knees. Merlin curled his fingers into Arthur's sleeve, neck arched back, and seemed to be trying not to succumb. He trembled in a series of violent waves against Arthur's chest, but the deep, shuddering breaths that he took were deliberate. An uneven, pitchy whine escaped Merlin's tight throat just before whatever will he had summoned broke. Arthur curled with him in an effort to stop him wrenching his shoulder or smacking his head on the floor.

Behind them, Gwaine warned, "Stay where you are."

The convulsions seemed more violent than usual, but that might have been because Merlin was still on his knees and it was awkward like this with his legs trapped beneath him. Arthur tried not to constrict him too much and tucked his face into the crook of Merlin's neck to avoid getting head-butted and breaking his nose against Merlin's skull as he shook.

"Let us help our master!"

Arthur hissed in discomfort as two rows of fingernails sank into his arm, sharp even through the thick wool of his sleeves. Merlin's ribcage juddered hard under Arthur's forearm as even his air fell victim to the seizing muscles of his torso.

"Don't!" Gwaine yelled.

A scuffle broke out behind them and Arthur shoved himself forward to shield Merlin against the wall, tight up against the corner where it met the floor. Every flex of Merlin's limbs fought the movement and Arthur jammed his forehead against the wall to make a pocket there where his body could block any blows from behind. Merlin twisted in his grasp and sounded like he might be choking, but however alarming the sound of it, Arthur stayed as he was. He braced his shoulder against stone so that he could shift his knees wider, tuck Merlin closer, and lessen the exposed parts of Merlin's body, his ears tuned to the racket as a proper fight ensued. He cupped the crown of Merlin's head and tried not to let him strike it against the wall that helped shelter him.

Hands grabbed at Arthur's forearm but he grit his teeth and maintained his grip on the shaking body he was protecting until an unholy commotion erupted at the end of the hallway. It felt as if something sucked all of the air from the corridor, and then a burst of magic flared into a pool of silence all around him. Someone else ripped the invading hands from Arthur's arm.

Arthur lifted his head long enough to recognize Geraint, dressed in worn work clothes and standing with his palms out in a protective gesture. A blur of red capes followed a clattering of feet as either knights or guards swarmed past them. It took Arthur an age to register the utter stillness of the man furled up in his arms like a pill bug, and Arthur loosened his grip to the sighs and snicks of swords being drawn around him.

"Merlin?" Arthur shook the limp body, and watched Merlin's head dangle on his neck like a rag doll. He wasn't breathing. "Merlin!" Arthur heaved him over and rolled him onto his back on the floor but before he could do anything else, someone grabbed him again and dragged him off.

Arthur lashed out and only recognized the howling as his own when it shredded his throat raw. It was too like that day – too like smelling the copper spilt from Merlin's body, smeared all over Arthur and the ground and soaked into their clothes, thick and sticky – a ragdoll of a man in his arms, limbs tossed about like hat racks, no breath to fog a vambrace, no humid puffs of air to occlude the shine of Arthur's armor – armor that Merlin polished and put on him.

A ragged heartbeat roared in Arthur's ears, deafening as a rockslide, and he nearly missed the moment when one of his knights forced Merlin onto his side. Arthur stamped the foot of whoever was holding him back, thrashed, and lurched forward as that man jerked in pain. He could feel the impact against his knees as he hit the ground and imagined it would bruise something pretty, but he didn't care just then. He scrambled forward as his knight lifted Merlin around the midsection, braced his clasped hands into the soft hollow below Merlin's ribcage, and heaved his doubled fists in and up with a sharp snap of his arms.

The air went tight in Arthur's throat as someone grabbed at him again, but Leon's voice made it through the haze of panic in his head that time. Arthur went stiff but didn't fight his hold. On the floor a few feet away, Merlin flopped over the knight's arms as he compressed his abdomen again, and then a third time before Merlin coughed up what looked like chunks of masticated nuts and fruit suspended in bile. He heaved a few more times before his breathing steadied, albeit still ragged.

The arms restraining him loosened and Arthur dropped down to take Merlin's weight as his knight relinquished him. Arthur dragged Merlin upright and braced him against his chest. The complete lack of tension in Merlin's limbs pulled him into a slump with his head propped against Arthur's collarbone. Arthur touched Merlin's ribs first, then the tangled mess of hair that sat disordered all over his head. Only after assuring himself that Merlin seemed alright did Arthur shift his focus to the knight on the ground with him, knees covered in vomit, still supporting some of Merlin's weight so that Arthur didn't drop him to the floor. "Meliot."

Meliot nodded, reserved and cautious. "Sire."

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment in gratitude and relief, clutching Merlin to his ribs as he might his own heart. He reached blindly for Meliot's arm and squeezed far too firmly for comfort. His breath fled to mingle with the stench of sick hovering in the close air and Arthur actually thought that he might add to the mess. The burn of nausea passed and Arthur opened his eyes, his breathing labored, to look at Meliot. "Thank you." It came out too full of air to be heard reliably, so Arthur repeated, more firmly, "Thank you." Then he let go of Meliot's arm and finally took stock of the mess of people around him. Knights and cook staff, mostly, but also a handful of commonfolk who surely lived in the lower town.

Geraint stood nearby, hands curled toward the ground now, but he wore an unmistakable mantle of readiness; the air smelled like spent lightening and char all around him. It took a moment for Arthur to recognize the people arrayed behind him, dim in his memory, as a few of the magic folk he had met in Geraint's home a month ago – the ones doubtful of Byrdde, or seemingly embarrassed by her attitude. They all looked rather murderous now, but contained as they glared at Alator.

Arthur reached up and tugged Geraint's sleeve. "It's alright. Stand down."

Geraint twitched and curled his hands into fists as the risen-hair crackle finally faded from the hallway. He sagged on his feet and stepped back as if he needed to regain his balance. Several other commonfolk followed suit a moment later, and then the knights and guards – some in armor and uniform, and some in little more than nightclothes – relaxed slightly as well. The whole corridor seemed to sigh in relief at the reduction of tension.

Gwaine stomped over with a cloth pressed against his nostrils, looking harried but otherwise unharmed. "I like this kind of diplomacy. Really gets the blood pumping." He snuffed into his rag, examined the excretion, and then grinned at Arthur with bloody teeth. He sobered a moment later and gestured to Merlin. "Give him here."

The last thing Arthur wanted to do was let go of Merlin just then, but Gwaine was right; he needed to be the king, not Merlin's oversolicitous liege with boundary issues. He reluctantly untangled himself, and settled Merlin's deadweight against Gwaine before rocking back on his heels and using the wall to push himself upright. Somehow, Leon had ended up with Arthur's sword, and he passed it back with a nod. Once Arthur returned Excalibur to its sheath at his hip, he exhaled a stale breath and looked up to survey the damage.

Thankfully, no one appeared seriously injured. Other than Gwaine's bloody nose, Arthur guessed that Geraint and his group of sorcerers put a stop to the fighting before it could get any further out of hand. Alator was on his knees though with a sword snicked up under his chin, and a few kitchen maids were holding Finna off with pots and skewers. The fake serving boy cowered against a wall behind another muscled, tattooed man dressed in robes similar to Alator's, both of them ringed by men of Camelot. No one moved, though the unnamed muscled man appeared to be on the brink of something.

"Stand down," Arthur croaked, holding his hands out in a calming gesture. "All of you. Please. We don't need more fighting." He snapped at his own guards and jerked his palm toward the ground to reinforce the command. "Swords down. Now."

Blades lowered, but cautiously as Arthur's people properly backed down. The kitchen maids took longer, and appeared more on edge than any of the men, but they did step away and gather themselves at the edge of the fray.

Arthur made a point of holding his hand out to Alator to help him back to his feet, and from the look on Alator's face, he understood the necessary symbolism. He allowed Arthur to hoist him up, and nodded a guarded thanks for it after, his eyes roving over the possible threat of Arthur's men and Geraint's sorcerers as he stepped backwards to assist Finna back to her feet as well.

"I, um." Arthur flopped his hand over near his waist, searching for some properly regal words, and came up empty. He changed tacks and went for simple honesty instead. "Alator, look. This obviously didn't go to either of our plans. I can have rooms made ready for you while we clean up down here. It might be a good idea for all of us to regroup, and…" He grasped at the air for the right words, and settled on, "And sort out our thoughts."

Alator glanced at Finna, and then pointedly drew Arthur's attention to Merlin by the simple expedience of his own gaze resting there. "I would be assured of Merlin's condition first."

Careful to keep his voice low, since he didn't want to air Merlin's private issues to all and sundry, Arthur returned, "Merlin's condition is a private thing. Please. He wouldn't want others interfering."

Before Alator could finish drawing breath to argue, Finna rested a hand on his arm. Her grip and the look she gave him seemed to convey more than just warning to stay calm. Once Alator subsided, his resentment shrouded, Finna said, "Very well, King Arthur. We will not interfere. For now."

The words didn't actually sound as ominous as they might have; Arthur could hear the concern in them, and the dissatisfaction, but little true malice. "Thank you," Arthur replied. He tapped his fingers in the air and ordered the servant who responded to take their visitors to guest quarters. A discrete gesture behind their backs sent two of the guards after them, just in case.

Once the druids were gone, Arthur puffed out his cheeks and blew a lungful of air toward the ceiling. The kitchen maids started to clean up the mess of toppled baskets and broken crockery that littered the corridor around the door to the kitchens, and Arthur stepped out of the way of their brooms. Meliot had retreated at some point, and was nowhere to be seen. Geraint had taken his place on the floor at Merlin's side, his expression obscure as he watched Gwaine try to use his bloody nose hanky to wipe away the vomit that had dribbled down one cheek and stuck in Merlin's beard.

Arthur took a knee next to them and touched two fingers to the palm of Merlin's limp hand where it lay curled on the floor near his hip. The steady rise and fall of Merlin's chest reassured him, but he was pale, and with no tension of consciousness pulling lines into his face, his pallor seemed more like wax than that of a living man. Arthur bowed his head to allow himself one last moment to feel the panic of realizing that Merlin wasn't breathing, and then shoved it all down into that box in his mind where Samhain lived. "Alright," he breathed, raising his chin, his affect firmly crafted into the one he wore in public. "Let's get him back to my chambers. Then we can deal with the rest of this."

---

George burst into Arthur's chambers just as a few servants finished settling Merlin into Arthur's bed. Alder followed him, scowling darkly as his eyes trailed his son across the room.

Rushing up to Arthur, George blurted, "Sire, a thousand apologies. I – "

"Calm, George." Arthur nodded at the bed and shooed him toward it. "He's alright. I've sent for Hubert. Where were you?"

It was Alder who snapped, "He was polishing the banquet utensils, sire. The guards had to drag him out." Under his breath, he added, "Shameful."

Arthur raised a brow at Alder while George spastically fussed at smoothing the lines of the coverlet into poker-straight creases that ran perfectly parallel to the edge of the mattress. In an effort to lessen the reddening of George's face, Arthur offered, "I'm sure he couldn't help it any more than the rest of the staff. Magic can be powerful."

Respectfully, Alder bowed to Arthur, but he said, "Our king and prince were attacked, and my son refused to leave off shining a wine pitcher. His neglect of his duties is unacceptable."

"Enough. Thank you, Alder." Arthur grimaced at the open room. "Has the rest of the staff been accounted for?"

"Not yet, sire." Alder drew himself straighter. "I will go and check their progress, if you will, sire."

Arthur waved him off toward the door. "Please do."

Once Alder had gone, George paused in his arrangement of bedding and curtains to fervently aver, "I am deeply sorry, sire. I don't know what came over me. I understand if you must dismiss me for this."

Arthur shrugged off the apology. "It was an enchantment, George. You did exactly what it made you do. There's no blame except on the casters."

George glanced up and inclined his head in acceptance, but he seemed unconvinced.

In an effort to be kind, Arthur pointed out, "Your father has always been harsh with the staff; it's what makes him effective as my Steward. But I'm sure that being his son, his expectations of you are even higher, however unfair that may be."

"I – " George sputtered a bit and dropped his gaze to tug his clothing straighter; a manservant was supposed to be neat, after all. Tidy in every way, to reflect well on his lord.

Arthur's face softened as he watched the poor man try to shake off a shame that no one except an overbearing father could possibly think he'd earned. It was a feeling Arthur knew well. The unreasonable expectations, the insistence on perfection, the idea that every single little thing the son did reflected disproportionately on the father. "George."

George looked up, his fingers clamped in the hem of his jacket.

Arthur smiled at him, gentle with a comprehension long overdue. "You cannot live in your father's shadow. You are an excellent manservant. Everyone knows it – even Merlin says you're the best in Camelot. So take it from me: this lapse was unavoidable. Let it go."

George merely stared at him for a beat, and then he cleared his throat and went back to fussing at the coverlet. The manic edge was gone, though; he wasn't frantic about the need to make things tidy. Without looking at Arthur, George answered, "Yes, sire." And then, not quite hoarse but close, he added, "Thank you, sire."

A warmth bloomed in Arthur's chest, and he smiled before turning back to where Leon waited patiently nearby.

"Sire." Leon ducked close. "Are you certain you didn't eat any of the poisoned food?"

"Neither of us had a chance," Arthur replied with a nod toward Merlin. "You know how he is."

"Yes, sire." Leon glanced back at the bed where Merlin shivered, unconscious beneath the coverlet that George seemed intent on pulling taut as tanning leather. Leon lowered his voice further. "Only, this looks like poison."

Arthur shook his head. "I don't see how it could be, unless he ate something before he came up. Rye poisoning, maybe, from old bread? He's got a pitiful stash of food in one of his cupboards; it could have gone off." Arthur rubbed his nose and then recalled, "He ate nuts or fruit at some point – it's what he choked on when it came back up."

"And you yourself ate nothing this morning, sire?"

"No." Arthur frowned at him.

"Is there any of it left?" Leon asked. "The suspect food."

"On the floor outside the kitchens," Arthur quipped darkly. He grimaced and added, "Assuming that it hasn't been cleaned up yet."

Leon nodded and started for the door.

"Where are you going?" Arthur demanded. "Leon, I wasn't serious."

Leon paused. "Then there is some left elsewhere, sire?"

"I don't know," Arthur replied, incredulous. "You'd have to check the infirmary." He paused, and then had to ask, "You aren't actually going to collect vomit from the hallway."

"Yes, I am, sire." Leon gave him a hasty smile and then disappeared out the door.

Arthur shook his head and turned around to meet George's troubled gaze. "What, you too?"

"He is cold to the touch, sire" George offered. "And sweating. Is this normal for his condition?"

Arthur's features slackened as he looked at Merlin shivering so hard his teeth chattered a few times. "No. No, it's not normal."

"Where are the sorcerers, sire?" George asked.

"In guest quarters." Arthur moved to the bedside and reached out to cup Merlin's cheek. He was indeed cold and clammy, and he unconsciously pressed against Arthur's hand like a dog seeking the warmth of a kind touch even as he shuddered. "They're under guard."

George drew himself up straighter, hesitated, and then announced, "I will go hurry Master Hubert along."

Arthur nodded without looking away from Merlin. He could feel the irregular tripping of Merlin's heartbeat pulsing through the artery in his neck. "Merlin. Can you hear me?" Arthur lightly smacked his cheek. "Merlin. I need you to wake up." When that produced no response, Arthur scrubbed a hand through his hair and examined the room around them. It seemed less a haven, suddenly, and more a field filled with hidden pits. Arthur stared across the room at Gwaine, and then pivoted to grab his discarded sword again.

Gwaine straightened as Arthur approached. "Sire?"

"You stay with Merlin," Arthur ordered. "No one comes in here but George or Hubert until I get back. And don't drink or eat anything you find in here, or allow anyone else to do so."

Arthur was already in the corridor when Gwaine called out after him, "Yes, sire," in a questioning tone.

A small collection of servants and commonfolk stood gathered at the end of the corridor leading out of the royal apartments. Arthur strode up to them rather too aggressively, to judge by the way they all backed quickly against the wall in anticipation of letting him pass. Arthur scanned faces until he found Geraint. "I need you to come with me."

Geraint bowed, but Arthur was already heading off down the stairs. As he rushed down after Arthur, Geraint asked, "How may I assist, sire?"

"I'm going to speak with the druids, and Merlin would box my ears if I did it alone, after what just happened." Arthur glanced back to ensure that Geraint hadn't fallen behind. "Thank you, by the way. For your help. You may have prevented a much worse outcome. How did you know to come?"

"The magic was thick," Geraint replied. "And it did not feel of Master Merlin at all. It concerned us to sense such a thing so near to the royal house."

Arthur nodded as if that made sense. It probably did, to a sorcerer – Geraint seemed transparent about what he said – it just wasn't all that clear to Arthur, and he wasn't going to admit that. Apropos of nothing, he remarked instead, "I haven't seen you at council yet. Are there responsibilities which keep you away? Is our meeting time inconvenient?"

"I – I apologize, sire." Geraint's quick footsteps matched Arthur's with ease. "It is a difficult time of year."

"Winter. Yes, it is. I tend to forget." Arthur sighed, irate at himself rather than at Geraint. After all, he had observed the poverty and squalor of the street where Geraint lived with his family. Surviving the unusual cold with equanimity was a luxury that peasants didn't have. "What do you do for a living, anyway? I never asked."

Geraint didn't answer immediately, as if he either didn't want to admit his occupation, or didn't have one to give. "Odd jobs, sire. Whatever may be required. Sometimes that is clearing land for a farmer, or assisting in repair of the roads. Other times, I run errands for the garrisons, or tend their belongings."

Arthur glanced back at him. "Why didn't you just tell me that attending council would mean a lost day's wages? I'm not entirely thick; I know you can't afford to miss out on a job in your position."

"It is not your concern, sire." Geraint kept his gaze respectfully lowered as they walked. "I do not want you to think that I say something in hope of gain."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I asked you to perform a service for me, not a favor." He extracted a few coins from his pocket, all that he had on his person just then, and held them out to his walking companion. "Take this as compensation for attending the next council session, and I will ensure that you are provided a proper wage for future time spent." When Geraint failed to take the coins, Arthur drifted to a stop so that he could turn and face him. "It isn't bribery or undue favor," he tried to stress. "I made a demand of your time, and you have a right to compensation if you cannot afford to give it the way a noble would."

Geraint shook his head and folded his hands behind his back, finally meeting Arthur's eyes. "I cannot take that, sire."

"Why not?" Arthur demanded. "I don't offer to demean you."

"Because your request of me included my goodwill toward Master Merlin." Geraint glanced longingly down at the coins, and then back again. "I do not want any misconception as to what the payment is actually for."

Arthur closed his fingers over the coins as he let his hand fall back to his side. He looked down at his fist, though, before depositing the coins back into his pocket. "Alright. I can only respect you for that answer. Is there something that you feel you can accept to make it easier to attend?"

Geraint grimaced and lowered his gaze again. With obvious reluctance, his voice quiet so as not to carry, he replied, "Anything you offer could be seen in the wrong light. It is not that I want to shun your wealth, or that I wish to insult you by failing to attend your council. God knows we are desperate for coin. But it is not that easy for me."

"I think I see," Arthur said, though he wasn't certain that he did. Surely payment was fair, under the circumstances? Geraint seemed to have an odd nobility about him, though, that a peasant of his poor means should not have pride enough to aspire for. It was much like the nobility that Merlin himself displayed, and that Arthur hadn't been able to understand until he finally concluded that he was noble. Had to be. "Geraint, may I ask where your family is from? Who they are?"

"We – we are from Camelot, sire." Geraint appeared more uncomfortable than he should, however, and shifty about it. "My father was a shepherd for your father's herds. Erbin, he was called."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, but he could sense that this was not the time for confrontation. He took a step back and asked rather than demanded, "Why aren't you also a shepherd? Why are you scraping out odd jobs in one of the worst parts of the lower town to feed your family?"

Geraint swallowed, and though he shook his head as if to avoid the question, Arthur recognized the manner in which he did it. Evasive, and though Geraint could not be called a timid man, the question frightened him on an instinctive level. He shook his head as if he didn't know he were already professing denials.

As gently as he could, Arthur asked, "Did he have magic, like you?"

"Not like me," Geraint breathed, the words barely intelligible. "But yes. He had a talent with animals. To speak to them, control them… They were kin, in the ways of the old religion."

Arthur nodded and kept his face neutral by force. "Did my father execute him?"

"No." Geraint took a long, steadying breath, and when he lifted his head, he cast his eyes aside where the weak light of the corridor caught the sheen lining his eyes. "He knew it was coming, though. He didn't want us – my sisters and I – to see him die like that. He…" His voice washed out like a tide pool as the waters recede, and then swelled back briefly to finish. "He handled it himself."

Arthur's throat constricted, and he had to turn away to swallow. Still facing the opposite direction, he said, "Now I see where you came by your noble nature."

The silence stretched a single beat too long to go unnoticed, and then Geraint tried to reassure him with, "He would have rejoiced to see you now."

It did not reassure, and Arthur figured that Geraint knew as much.

"We all knew of the prophecies," Geraint continued, though audibly hesitant. "He believed that we would live it. There was never any doubt in him that the golden age was meant for us."

Arthur swallowed the urge to snap unkindly, because Geraint didn't deserve it for his faith, and Arthur was, perhaps, complicit in reinforcing that mindset, since he did choose to pursue exactly what the prophecies apparently said he would. Arthur blinked his eyes wider at the floor in an effort to clear his thoughts by the distraction of a larger field of vision. If he dwelt on the irony of calling it choice to pursue a destiny prophesied for him before his own birth, his very sense of self-determination would collapse like an ouroboros.

In an effort to be diplomatic, if not sympathetic toward Geraint's rationalization of his father's suicide, Arthur conceded, "I hope for a golden age as well." He angled toward Geraint again, but only just. "I will think further on the matter of my council. If need be, you and I can arrange to meet at a separate time to discuss matters that pertain to magic folk in the lower town. I do still want your input."

Geraint bowed and nodded. "Thank you, sire. That would be agreeable to me."

"Good." Arthur shook himself from what threatened to become a pensive, dour mood, and motioned Geraint to follow him again as he resumed walking. "Do you and Merlin get on at all? I know he's generally friendly to everyone, but he's not actually all that open."

"I would not call him friendly," Geraint confessed. When Arthur quirked an eyebrow over his shoulder, Geraint tried to backtrack. "Polite – he is polite, and proper with all of us, but he is distant. It is not what I expected, given his reputation, but neither was what he did to the perimeter wall. Many others have said the same thing – people that know him well – his regular patients, and the girls who housed his grandmother – even servants from your staff who worked with him before. They all say that he is colder than he used to be. Since Samhain, they hesitate to approach him."

Arthur grunted and frowned. "Could they just be intimidated by his rank? I mean, I know he's still Merlin, but there is a certain formality when addressing a prince. It would have to be different, wouldn't it?"

"He refuses to be called a prince," Geraint pointed out. "In fact, he shouted at one of your knights at the Rising Sun who dared remind him of his title."

"Yes," Arthur mused, though this was the first he'd heard of shouting at a knight, and he wondered if this were the incident with Gwaine that no one would talk about. "There is that." He said nothing more on the subject as they had arrived at guest quarters. He turned to Geraint and lowered his voice as far as possible. "Alator is a Catha. I don't know what that means, exactly, other than that he's warrior of some kind. Finna is difficult to pin down, but seems on a level with him. All I need you to do is make sure they don't use their magic on me in any way. If necessary, remove me from the room to get me away from any influence or enchantment they may try to impose. No heroics. Can you do that?"

Geraint drew himself up straight and nodded. "Yes, sire."

Arthur had little doubt that Geraint could hold his own if necessary, given his intervention near the kitchens, but Arthur did not want start some kind of war of misunderstanding if Alator's normal manner of conversation included magic of some kind. To avoid that, the boundaries of conduct had to be clear. "Only retaliate if there is no other option. I would prefer retreat to violence."

"I understand, sire." Geraint's gaze flickered to the guest chamber door and then back.

"Stay behind me," Arthur added before he crossed the last bit of corridor and nodded at the guards to open the door for him.

As soon as Arthur crossed the threshold, Alator and Finna both turned to face him. The other muscled man stood near the window overlooking the courtyard. Now that he had removed his hood and cloak, Arthur could see his shaved head, and that he bore tattoos similar to Alator's on his neck and arms. His posture spoke of a bodyguard, so Arthur regarded him as such. The fake serving boy clambered to his feet as well, but hung back near the fireplace as if he sincerely wished he could cast a spell for invisibility.

When Geraint stepped in at Arthur's back, Alator and the unnamed bodyguard both studied him with what Arthur considered rude focus. Geraint merely narrowed his eyes back at them. Both of Arthur's palace guards entered as well and stood at attention to either side of the door, faces bland as if the pretense of deafness mattered. After a lifetime spent surrounded by such men, Arthur still wasn't sure if it did, but he remembered the well-meant betrayal of the guard who overheard talk of magic before Samhain, and nearly got Merlin killed for the indiscretion. The point being that feigned deafness was only that: feigned.

Arthur looked at the guards for a moment before motioning them to leave the room. They exchanged a worried glance as they did so, but gave no other indication of how they felt at the order. One of them slipped Geraint a knife, though, which Arthur found interesting.

Once the door closed again, leaving them alone, Arthur faced Alator. "I'll be plain. The pudding this morning – was that the only attempt you have made on my life?"

Alator stood still as stone on the other side of the room, unreadable, and eventually replied, "Yes, King Arthur."

"Did you poison or corrupt anything else in this castle? Any other food, herb, or ablution which someone may come across on accident?" He paused, and merely out of an abundance of caution, added, "Any bread, or food stored in the infirmary cupboards?"

With gradually narrowing eyes, Alator answered, "No, King Arthur."

"Soap? Washing powder – anything at all?"

"You do not trust my word?"

Arthur scoffed low in the back of his throat. "Merlin told me how he met you." A half truth at best; Arthur knew of Alator's involvement in Gaius's disappearance and rescue many years ago, but only vaguely. Though Arthur personally believed that Alator must have played some part in the torture, Merlin remained reluctant about the details. Normally, Arthur wouldn't expect Merlin to be forgiving of anyone who participated in harming Gaius, but the truth was that he didn't know.

Still, the bluff seemed to work because Alator glanced aside and informed him, "I have atoned for my mistakes."

That sounded somewhat ominous, but genuine. Arthur nodded. "I am inclined to trust Merlin's judgement of people's character, and in spite of previous acts, he seemed to think you harmless."

A burst of air flared Alator's nostrils; from the expression on his face, it surprised even him.

"Yes," Arthur acknowledged with a wry quirk of his lips. "That's the last word I would use for a warrior sorcerer, but Merlin has a unique view." He canted his head the other way and then deliberately turned his back as he crossed the room to the fireplace. The fake serving boy scurried out of the way, and from the sound of it, straight over to the exact opposite end of the room from Arthur. With his eyes trained carefully on the fire, and his attention on his periphery, Arthur said, "Thank you for your attempt to help him, even though it risked a dangerous misunderstanding. He is resting comfortably now."

Shuffling betrayed movement behind him, but no one actually approached him. Eventually, Alator cleared his throat. When he spoke, his brogue came out thicker, as if he paid more attention to the thoughts behind his words, than to the actual saying of them. "You shielded him from us with your body."

"Yes." Arthur nodded and scraped a bit of dirt out from under his fingernail. "I don't have any defense against your magic; it was all I could do."

"We could easily have killed you," Alator replied. "To get to him."

Arthur tossed a sardonic look over his shoulder. "I know."

It was Finna who seemed to realize the salient point of that statement. "You have love for Emrys."

"For Merlin," Arthur corrected. "And he's earned it of me. I owe him my life many times over. At some point, that debt has to come due. I won't shirk it when it does."

The firm line of Finna's mouth softened. It rendered her earlier magical veneers obvious, as however much she had seemed good and harmless and innocently maternal before, she actually was those things now. "I understand, sire. And I see now that you could never truly be a threat to him."

Alator pressed his mouth into a thin line and looked away.

Arthur drew a lengthy breath. "I understand how you could think otherwise. The Pendragon name comes with a certain reputation."

Alator moved along the edge of the room, until Arthur could just see him at the edge of his vision. "Men can change," Alator offered, though he sounded reluctant. "I once allied myself gladly with Morgana of the Blessed Isle, last of her kind. It is an action I now regret." After a short pause, Alator continued, but his tone shifted to reflect the infatuation of his first letter to Arthur – fervid with, perhaps, a hint of madness to shine a light behind it. "Many years ago, Merlin gave me hope for a better time – a time of prophecy and magic – but we could not believe that a Pendragon could truly bring this to pass. When we received Merlin's note, we assumed that you must be the danger he faced after all. That is my only justification for what I have done."

With a dissatisfied glare at the dark hearth in front of him, Arthur acknowledged, "The charmed letter we sent back. Can you explain that to me?"

"It spoke of distress," Alator replied. "And I have never known such a spell to ring false."

With a tired sigh, Arthur dropped his hands to his waist to and turned around to face them again. "Distress. That's all it was?"

Alator glanced at Finna for her confirmation, and then answered, "Yes, King Arthur. Distress and a sense of fear. It was faint, but clear. There are no words or pictures in such a spell; it is felt only, and is meant to reflect the sender's innermost state. We do not believe we mistook it."

"No, I don't believe you did either." Arthur stepped closer and took a seat before gesturing them both to sit in the chairs arranged nearby. "That night was fraught, and Merlin was ill. I assume it transferred when he did the spell."

Finna sat as invited, and glanced up at Alator when he remained on his feet behind her. They exchanged some kind of communication; eerily enough, their faces shifted and ticked with expression the same as if they were speaking aloud, though their mouths didn't move. Finna frowned as she faced Arthur again, and took over the conversation. "Ill? Perhaps. Though I have not heard of such a thing changing the message of the spell. Such magic contains no nuance; it is meant to reflect simple truth."

Personally, Arthur thought that was exactly what it had done, considering the strange visions and the fit, and the confessions he had pried from Merlin later that same night about Myrddin and the distress it caused him. What they described from the note fit the whole thing perfectly, and Merlin had warned Arthur that he might have conveyed the wrong impression with the spell. Arthur said none of that, however. "Did it never occur to you that moving straight to regicide might be an overreaction?"

Again, Finna and Alator communed briefly in silence, and then Alator replied, "No. My life is immaterial compared to Merlin's. I gladly risk death in his defense. His enemy is my enemy."

Finna winced and patted Alator's hand to shut him up. "Sire, we stand by our allegiance, but we also regret this miscommunication. I hope that you see why we assumed what we did."

Arthur nodded because he did understand, all too well. "I am aware of my father's conduct during the purge. How he lured sorcerers with promise of peace, and then either used or killed them. I also do not hide from my own misconduct. This is a fact and a dishonor that I must live with now."

"I…sire." Finna breathed the words faintly, as if both surprised to hear him say it, and uncertain whether or not to agree with his summation of the manner in which past actions colored Arthur's efforts now.

"It is no secret," Arthur snapped. "I know the history I am up against. And if I ever needed a reminder, I can look at Merlin himself, and the fear with which he still regards me at times. I am already more than disgusted enough with myself for all of us. You may speak plainly of the trust I helped break."

Finna blinked, regarded her fingers twisted up tight in her lap, and then moved forward with what must have been rehearsed words. They didn't quite fit the course of the present conversation, but even Arthur didn't know how else to address what he said amicably, other than to hurry past it for now. "Sire, our most fervent hope is to see ourselves free and at peace with Camelot, as the prophecies and our master Emrys foretold. As much as we pledge ourselves against our master's enemies, so too do we support his friends. You have shown yourself to be his defender. We cannot doubt you any longer."

Arthur nodded and then stared at Alator, who gave away little by the displeased line of his mouth. "I want to believe that," Arthur replied to Finna's brief speech, though he directed his words at Alator and the hostility that rekindled there, muted as it was.

Again, Finna touched her hand to Alator's as she addressed Arthur. "There is much difficulty between our peoples, sire. Even before the purge, there was discord and strife which will not heal in a day. The old religion and the new god are incompatible. But we will try. We believe in your purpose, and that you will find a way through this, for the good of all. You have been foretold, and now that Emrys stands beside you, we know that the time of the Once and Future King is at hand. We want to be part of your destiny."

Arthur made a curt sound in the back of his throat and shifted in his chair, discomfited by the fanatical undercurrent of Finna's manner. There was no obvious madness in her face or voice when she spoke, but the gleam in her eyes unsettled Arthur all the same; it reminded him vaguely of Morgana, and he wondered if that zeal, though directed elsewhere, were cut from the same cloth as hers. "I do not want animosity between us," Arthur assured her. "I want peace. This land deserves it. But I am not naïve enough to believe that everyone else wants what I do. I regret to say that your actions – both now and in the past – " Arthur glanced pointedly at Alator. " – give me pause."

Finna nodded, her fingers squeezing the back of Alator's hand as if to quell him. This seemed to be an odd dynamic, as until this audience, Arthur had thought Alator in charge and Finna subservient. Clearly, that was not the case. Or else they realized that Arthur responded more favorably to the pleas of a woman, and were manipulating him by switching roles. Paranoid, perhaps, but Arthur couldn't discount it; she did put him more at ease.

"Perhaps," Finna offered, her tone more cautious than conciliatory, "in the interests of working toward peace, you would allow us to return to our people, and meet us on neutral ground for parlay as we originally intended. And also, to allay the fears of others, you might allow us to satisfy ourselves as to Emrys' safety and wellbeing. We do not believe that you are a threat to him, but there was distress. We would know the cause of that before we go." She hesitated, and then added carefully, "In the corridor today, you were worried but not surprised when Emrys fell. And you spoke of illness earlier. This, especially, concerns us."

Arthur rubbed his thumb back and forth over the seam of his lips, and then straightened. "You are not my prisoners; you may leave whenever you like. As to Merlin's own person, it is his choice whether or not to satisfy your curiosity. I can only assure you that the matter is not ignored. If you would like to spend a day and a night here as my guests, then once Merlin is suitably recovered, you may request an audience from him. Would this suit you?"

Alator opened his mouth and drew what looked like an indignant breath.

Finna cut him off by standing and lowering herself into a decisive curtsy. "That will suit, sire. We are happy to accept your offer of hospitality." She pointedly did not ask about Merlin's illness again, though her face betrayed a hint of lingering distrust. Having seen what she did in the kitchen corridor, and not knowing what Arthur knew of the cause, her suspicions were likely justified.

Arthur stood as well and raised an eyebrow at Alator, who made less of an effort to hide his displeasure with the lack of explanations. "Excellent," Arthur declared. "I'll arrange for someone to see to your needs." He glanced at the silent muscled man standing guard nearby, and then at the fake serving boy. "Perhaps you would all dine with me tonight, as my personal guests."

All four of them exchanged odd looks that time, and again, Arthur could see every tick of expression flow over their faces as he would expect of anyone else holding a hurried conversation, except that they made no sound. Alator eventually bowed his head, though the tilt of his mouth remained dubious. "We would be honored, but only if Merlin also attends."

Arthur smiled and wondered what sort of awkward meal he had just volunteered himself to endure. "That is up to him, but I imagine he'll agree." Mostly because the moment he learned of Arthur's dinner intentions, his overprotective tendencies would erupt. There was no way in the five kingdoms that Merlin would ever allow Arthur to dine alone with a party of previously murderous druids.

When no one said anything else out loud, Arthur nodded and cleared his throat. He tried to think of something more to say – profound parting words, or a statement of commitment to a common cause – but having all four of them just sort of watch him like statues made his skin crawl. They were obviously done silent-talking, and while Arthur might normally object to being made to feel superfluous in a room, he had no idea what caused this sudden shift in mood.

"Right, then," Arthur said. He smiled without opening his mouth, tight and thin, and added, "Good morning," before he just sort of twitched himself into a graceless exit.

Once out in the corridor, Arthur breathed a sigh of relief and wiped a hand down the side of his face.

The door of the guest quarters clicked shut and Geraint handed his borrowed knife back to the palace guard before stepping up beside Arthur. "That went well, sire."

"Did it?" Arthur scrubbed some more at his chin and then began walking back the way they'd come.

Geraint's footsteps followed, softer and with a longer stride. "They didn't use any magic while we were there, sire."

And that was the sole criteria by which went well should be judged? Arthur acknowledged that with a noncommittal grunt. "They don't trust me; I can feel it."

"They reserve judgement until they can speak with Master Merlin, but they seem more upset by your discretion, than worried that you may be lying."

Arthur glanced over his shoulder at Geraint's hesitant features. "You caught that much from what they didn't say out loud?"

"They weren't vague about it." Geraint watched his feet mostly as he followed Arthur through the corridor. "Most druids, loose or ordered, consider Emrys to be their sovereign of sorts. I don't think they'll relax until he can reassure them himself that he's not in any danger." As an afterthought, he added, "Sire."

Arthur nodded and faced forward again, though his steps slowed briefly. "That was my impression too. I suppose I can't blame them; the Pendragon name doesn't convey trust to them, as they said."

Geraint countered, "I believe it is less a matter of trust, and more that Emrys' name means more to them than yours."

At some point, Arthur was going to need someone to explain this Emrys business to him properly. Merlin stammered around it whenever Arthur asked for more detail, and other than the repeated vague statements of prophecy about the Once and Future King and bringing magic back to the land, and all of that born of magic rubbish, the only perspective Arthur had on what Emrys meant came from Byrdde. Her ideas were troubling, and perhaps not entirely without merit, but they didn't explain the practical point of an Emrys. The why and how of the thing. Perhaps the druid perspective would be closer to the truth. They claimed Merlin as kin, after all; their regard had to be kinder, and hopefully, more reasonable.

Or not, given their jump straight from peace overture to regicide over Merlin's olive loaf. Arthur sighed. "You're probably right." With a wry tilt, he added, "Alator's first letter was practically worshipful of him."

"If he's Catha, then he practically would be." Geraint hesitated, and then ploughed on in spite of his obvious reservations to speak. "This illness. Someone of Master Merlin's power and ability should not be susceptible to such weakness of the body."

Arthur slowed and then stopped altogether so that he could face Geraint. "I am starting to grow fond of you, but if you call him weak again, we will have a problem."

Geraint rushed to assure him, "That is not what I mean. Such an illness should not befall one like him, unexpected and unprovoked."

"If you're concerned that he suffered some attack by magic that we missed, I doubt that's the case." Arthur considered the doubt on Geraint's face, and decided to add, "It was neither unexpected nor unprovoked."

"I see." Geraint angled his head so that he regarded Arthur partially from the periphery of his vision. "You are certain? I don't doubt you, sire," he added, hastening the words out as he likely noticed Arthur's countenance darkening. "I only worry."

"I am certain," Arthur told him firmly. "And you will treat this information with discretion. Merlin's privacy is to be considered inviolable."

"Yes, sire." Geraint bowed, tight and quick like a muscle twitch. "Thank you, sire."

Arthur stared at him a while longer for good measure, and then nodded as he turned away to resume walking.

By the time they made it back to Arthur's chambers, Hubert had obviously been and gone already. George was scrubbing at various pieces of furniture with manic focus, and didn't look up as Arthur entered. The whole place reeked of lemongrass from his cleaning solutions. Over near the fire, Merlin sat in one of Arthur's fur-covered chairs, alternately rubbing at his forehead and taking sips of what appeared to be a hot infusion. Headache remedy, Arthur guessed, since Merlin seemed to take them regularly nowadays. Arthur frowned, and wondered if he should be concerned after all. As far as he was aware, these recurring headaches were a new thing for Merlin. Then again, having fits was a relatively new thing, and perhaps the two went hand in hand. He watched Merlin scrunch his face up for a moment, take another sip from his gently steaming mug, and then scratch at his arm through the thick, embroidered sleeves of the robes he had taken to wearing of late. Arthur knew that most of them were retailored from Gaius's wardrobe, and wondered if this new clothing style preference were expedience or something else.

Gwaine stopped pacing nearby when he noticed Arthur walk in. "All clear?"

"Yes." Arthur glanced over his shoulder to nod his dismissal to Geraint, and then shut the doors on everyone still nervously loitering in the corridor. After a second thought, Arthur drew the bolt as well before checking the other doors that led out of his private rooms. Gwaine followed him with his eyes, and when he quirked a questioning eyebrow, Arthur merely hooked his bicep and guided him to a quiet corner away from the fire, where they could speak without Merlin overhearing them.

Gwaine peered past Arthur's shoulder toward the fireplace, and then asked Arthur, "Everything good with the druids?"

"For now." Arthur propped his hands on his waist, tapped his foot a few times while he plucked his thumbnails against his sword belt, and then asked, "What did you and Merlin fight about?"

That was obviously not what Gwaine expected him to ask. He drew back a few inches, glanced around the way he typically did as he entered rough taverns while on patrol, and then asked, "Why?"

"I don't know. Funny feeling?"

"Merlin gets those; not you."

"Yes, well, I have one. Will you just humor me?"

Gwaine let out an aggravated sigh and shook his head at nothing in particular. "It was stupid, alright? He was drunk, said some things he normally wouldn't. We got into it."

"What did he say, exactly?"

"Look, it was crazy talk," Gwaine hissed. "He was off his gourd. Got mean when I tried to get him home. I shouldn't have taken it personally."

Arthur nodded, but not really at Gwaine. "The thing is, Merlin's not a mean drunk. He's a stupid one. Gets giggly, falls all over himself, might cry a bit, and then he passes out."

"Yeah." Gwaine frowned and fixed his eyes over Arthur's shoulder to where Merlin presumably still sat, sipping his headache remedy. "Yeah, that's…true." He shifted his gaze back to Arthur and then looked him over once from head to foot as if he could divine Arthur's point the same way he might predict his actions in a fight. "What are you saying?"

That more than one person had pointed out Merlin's odd personality shift? Or made comments about things that didn't add up to them? "I don't know." Arthur shook his head with a sigh and finally relaxed his posture. He himself had noticed all of that too, but he wasn't on the outside of Merlin's life the way that everyone else was, and he recognized the causes. Paranoia wasn't going to help any of them. "I don't know, Gwaine. Those – " He flapped an arm vaguely at the wall, in the general direction of guest quarters a fair distance and two floors away. "Their suspicions are contagious." Arthur angled back toward Gwaine. "No poison then? Merlin looks fine – what did Hubert say?"

Gwaine shrugged. "Just a normal reaction. Like a fever, or something. But yeah, he's fine now. Slow with his words, a bit."

"Fever?" Arthur echoed. "He didn't have a fever; he was cold."

Gwaine shrugged, but he still eyed Arthur here and there for signs of the odd concern of a moment earlier. "You sure nothing else is going on?"

Arthur shut his eyes and sort of wiggled a hand around. "I'm just on edge now. Assassination attempt first thing in the morning… I'm not even dressed!" He pulled at his wooly robe and only then realized that he'd gone and had a nominally official audience with Alator and Finna while wearing his night clothes. "And I haven't eaten; I'm starving."

"Ah." Gwaine grinned and held up a finger as he stepped around Arthur. "I can help you there."

Arthur spun to keep Gwaine in his sights, and surveyed the back of Merlin's bent head as well. Merlin wobbled a bit as he ducked toward his drink, and though he didn't choke on it, he did cough a bit as he swallowed. Just a sharp bark of strained air, like his throat muscles were a beat late in doing their job.

Gwaine stepped back into Arthur's space and held up a plate. "Tada!" He tipped it and peered at the bits of food that rolled around as a result. The half-bitten-off pieces of food. Every single piece. Three sausage halves, two-third of a honeyed bun, an apple with teeth marks lining the huge chuck missing from one side, half of a pickled egg with most of the yolk gone, and a collection of squished tomato halves. When Arthur raised dubious eyebrows, Gwaine's teeth flashed, his whole face screaming how pleased he was with himself. "I tested it all myself. Needed to make sure Merls wouldn't."

"I can see that," Arthur replied. He only picked up half a sausage to be nice, because Gwaine really was just a puppy sometimes, and he looked ridiculously proud of his masticated meal offering. Arthur gestured with the sausage and chirped, "Thanks," before stuffing it into his mouth and hoping that it took the edge off of his hunger long enough to find something that hadn't been slobbered on by anyone other than his preferred meal sharer.

Arthur tapped Merlin's shoulder as he passed his chair, then sank down across from him. This was a configuration that they had both grown accustomed to over the past month, though usually, it followed a small supper and led to one of them falling asleep while the other prattled on about nothing.

Merlin glanced up as Arthur sat and gave him a tired smile. "Arthur."

Since he said Arthur's name as if identifying him, Arthur replied, "Yes I am. You're alright?" He heard the sharpness in his voice, though he hadn't meant to sound like that.

"Mm-hm." Merlin kept on smiling, content somehow, like a fluffy cat in a sunny corner of a hay loft, and went back to sipping his hot drink. He made an inquisitive sound a moment later, burbly around his mouthful of liquid, and poked around one of his pockets before holding something out to Arthur.

Arthur narrowed his eyes as he took the tiny vial of oil, thin and small like a charcoal drawing nib. "You had this on you the whole time?"

Merlin nodded and let his eyes slide shut as he resumed taking measured sips of his drink.

Louder than he intended, Arthur demanded, "Why the hell didn't you take it?" He backed down immediately, though, because he knew why. "No. Ignore that. I know." The confusion right before, fumbling and sort of unaware of himself… When those fits came on, Merlin wasn't in any state to know to take it himself. "I'm sorry, Merlin. I'll make doubly sure I always have one of these with me." Even in his nightclothes, from now on.

Merlin rubbed at a few drops of tea clinging to the bristles of hair around his mouth. From the way his fingers didn't quite do what they should, Arthur guessed that he was still in that foggy place right after waking back up. He didn't even entirely register what Arthur said to him, other than to blink in Arthur's direction in some sort of vague recognition that words were spoken.

A long sigh escaped Arthur's chest, and he looked down at the innocuous little vial held carefully between two fingers. His hand looked fat in contrast to the winking glass and the delicate little cork stopper jammed into the rim. Arthur turned the vial over a few times, rolling it between his fingers like a quill, and then lifted his eyes to Gwaine. "Alator and Finna will be dining with me tonight. Are you free to attend as well?"

Gwaine didn't hesitate at all. "Wouldn't miss it."

Arthur accepted that with a nod. "They want to satisfy themselves that Merlin is safe, and then they will leave to rejoin the rest of their party, or camp, or whatever they call it."

Merlin looked up at the mention of his name, shook his head a few times as if he were dislodging something, and then asked, "You – you shielded me?"

Arthur blinked at him, surprised at the sudden clarity of his speech. "Yes. In the hallway."

A tiny smile blossomed on Merlin's face, spreading up to crinkle in the corner of his eyes. "Thanks."

"Well." Arthur shrugged.

"It worked." Merlin slanted his eyes aside again, and down slightly. "They trust you now. They just think you're an idiot."

"They…"

Mostly to himself, Merlin mumbled, "You are an idiot. S'alright though. You're a good idiot. They'll learn."

Arthur opened his mouth and inhaled silently to recollect himself. "I didn't shield you as a ploy so that they would trust me." He waited a beat, and then asked what he'd meant to lead with, "Are you listening to them right now?"

"Mm-hm." Merlin slumped and raised his drink again with both hands, ducking his head to meet it with his lips. He slurped a bit, eyelids heavy and misleadingly languid. "We have an advantage; they don't know I can hear them when they're not actually doing the talking head thing at me." He made a puppet motion near his ear and then had to grab back at the cup when he realized he couldn't hold it steady with one hand yet. "Oops."

George slid silently into view for a moment, blotted at Merlin's lap with a rag, and then moved right on out of the way again. He could have had rollers on his feet, he glided in and back out so smoothly.

Gwaine cleared his throat and hooked a stool with his foot. "When you say listening right now…" He dragged the stool over like he was making a point of placing himself into the conversation as an equal participant. "What does that mean, exactly, eh?"

It was on the tip of Arthur's tongue to tell Gwaine to mind his own business, except that at this point, this probably was his business. Merlin seemed to think the same thing in the same order. He blinked away whatever non-physical irritant was interfering with his ability to focus, and fixed his eyes on Gwaine as well.

A nervous laugh escaped Gwaine's mouth amidst an uncertain, flickering series of half-smiles. "Don't everyone explain at once, now." His features didn't display any of the good-natured kidding that his voice tried to convey. "Seriously."

Arthur kept his face neutral. "I used to think you were a buffoon. But you keep secrets well. His – " Arthur tipped his head toward Merlin. " – and your own. Makes me think this is all an act. Drunk tomcat Gwaine. You're reckless, and once, I would have said you have a death wish. But you're not a buffoon."

Nothing obvious about Gwaine changed in that moment, not even his posture. His smile, though…that was different, for all that it held the same shape as before. "I protected him when you wouldn't." Gwaine didn't indicate Merlin in any way, but his meaning was obvious, and though he didn't snarl any of his words, the quiver to his lip betrayed it as a near thing. "I was his friend. Better than you ever were."

Merlin lifted his head from absent contemplation of things that weren't floating in his drink as he stared unblinking into it, and narrowed his eyes at Gwaine as if trying to focus better on his face. "Are you having a pissing contest?"

Ignoring Merlin, Arthur replied, carefully, "I know you were."

"I want to know the truth," Gwaine growled, raising his voice, his words bitten around the edges. "I've earned it. All of it. Now. Or I walk."

Merlin snorted and asked, as if he didn't notice the tension, "Walk where?"

For a bare instant, Gwaine's nostrils flared as a prelude to losing a temper that rarely showed itself. He seemed to realize that Merlin was an idiot at the moment, though, and rolled his eyes instead. The stiffness bled from his limbs, folded awkwardly on his appropriated stool. "To the tavern, Merls." He sighed as he said it, though, and dug his fingers in around his eye sockets afterwards.

"Mm." Merlin propped his drink on his knee – it had to be nearly gone by now – and used his free hand to scratch at his wrist. His eyes tracked blindly across the bare space between their chairs.

Arthur frowned. "Does your arm itch?"

"Hm?" Merlin snapped his gaze up, looked down at what his fingernails were doing, and then clamped his hand into a fist. He straightened with his recalcitrant hand safely held in his lap, and then seemed to suddenly realize where he was, and what he was doing.

"Does your arm itch?" Arthur pressed, still half-worried about all the talk of poison. He could see where Merlin had scratched red lines into his skin, and wondered how long he'd been digging at it before Arthur noticed.

"No?" Merlin looked down again and seemed puzzled at the marks he had left on himself. "My ribs hurt, though."

Arthur made an assenting sound. "You choked earlier; I'm not surprised."

"Did I?" Merlin ticked his fingers at the angry lines drawn on his arm, and then tugged up his sleeve to see how far they went.

Arthur's eyes widened as he launched himself from his chair. "Merlin!"

"Oh," Merlin breathed. "I didn't – "

"George, we need some help." Arthur smacked Merlin's hand out of the way and shoved his sleeve up the rest of the way to reveal the puffy, scored marks gouged into Merlin's arm like welts. They covered his skin from wrist to elbow. Arthur pressed his lips together hard, and shifted to do the same to Merlin's other arm, exposing similar self-inflicted injuries there. "God…"

George appeared over Merlin's shoulder, and then shot Arthur a guarded look before telling Merlin, "The nettle, my lord."

"What?" Merlin asked. He allowed Arthur to hold both of his wrists extended forward to display the welts on his arms, but he dropped the cup from what looked like nerveless fingers. Thankfully, it was empty by then, and bounced once on the fur rug before rolling to a stop against Arthur's boot.

"Nettle," George repeated. He bustled away and disappeared behind Arthur's privacy screen. The clink of the washing bowl followed, and then a slosh of water. George walked back into view carrying Arthur's wash basin carefully in his hands. "You were working with it this morning, my lord. Do you recall?"

"I – I need camphor," Merlin replied, seemingly unrelated. "And yarrow. The paste."

"Yes, my lord." George lowered himself to one knee beside Merlin and nodded to Arthur to lift his arms out of the way. "I will put this on your lap, and you can soak your arms while I gather your supplies. Do you recall this morning?"

"Nettle," Merlin mumbled. He watched the bowl as George placed it on his thighs, and then resisted briefly before allowing Arthur to submerge his forearms in the cold water. "Is this clean?"

Arthur made a frustrated sound before George could reply, and snapped, "Yes, Merlin. What is this about nettle?"

"I didn't have any," Merlin responded. He watched his arms through the water, fingers sticking up in the cool air. "Had to…grow some. It's not in season."

Grow some. With magic, Arthur assumed. From seed, in a dark infirmary at the end of winter. But that wasn't really the point. "That doesn't explain how you got it all over yourself. You're the royal physician, Merlin. What kind of physician doesn't know how to handle poisonous plants without getting it all over himself?"

"Not actually poisonous," Gwaine interjected. "It's got little needles – you know, stinging – "

"It doesn't matter how!" Arthur shouted. "He should know better! How can I trust a physician who can't handle his own remedies?!"

It was out before Arthur thought of how it might sound. In his defense, he really didn't mean it that way; he was parroting what others might say – what he knew they would say – in an effort to show Arthur's poor judgment with royal appointments. And yes – yes, he had control of his council, and support from his nobles and knights for what he had done with the laws and magic, but it was a sad fact that plenty of the old guard found Merlin inadequate, and his elevation to prince and heir inappropriate, due to little more than favoritism and the unacceptable weakness of a king who liked to raise commoners to situations where they didn't belong, and no – Arthur didn't want to hear about it or deal with it because the protests were beneath him, and Merlin was royal, but the whispers were there all the same. All around him. All around Merlin, and no one needed any hint of incompetence getting out where Merlin was concerned, especially not Merlin himself. Not if Arthur expected them to even consider accepting Merlin properly, as more than just a curiosity or Arthur's favorite.

"Dammit," Arthur breathed, mostly under his breath as he spun away to avoid the hurt he just knew would be on Merlin's face.

Before Arthur could apologize for his ill-considered words, Merlin bit out, "I was careful."

Arthur rolled his eyes and just couldn't stop himself retorting, "Clearly, not careful enough."

Gwaine snapped, "Hey! Let him be."

"I was," Merlin countered.

As if his name were an expletive, Arthur groaned, "Merlin…"

"I was careful," Merlin repeated, harsher this time. "I was careful. I was careful – I was careful, I was careful! – "

Arthur turned back, nearly gaping at the sudden escalation of that mantra, like a furious chant. "Merlin – "

"I WAS CAREFUL!" Merlin shouted, voice shredding at the edges of the words.

Gwaine grabbed the bowl as Merlin's exhortation shook his whole body and threatened to spill everything from his lap. "Woah there, Merls."

Arthur strode back over and caught at the fists that Merlin had made, sticking up out of the water now sloshing around in the basin. His hands were hard as stone in Arthur's grip, he clenched them so hard. Once more, Merlin ground out, sharp and sheered like shale stone, "I was careful." Then he rocked a bit and grunted as he bowed forward over his lap, breathing hard like the air hurt his chest. His fingers loosened and then broke into open palms, shellfish splitting into mirrored cups when pried apart, resting on top of Arthur's hands.

When Arthur looked up, it was at Gwaine's alarmed face, and then over to George where he stood back against the wall with a rag clutched to his chest like a shield. Merlin breathed audibly, slumped over the wash basin where his forearms soaked, red-welted and angry.

Arthur shook himself and pushed at Merlin's chest to get him sitting straighter. "What the hell was that?"

Merlin shook his head and dragged one dripping arm out of the basin and out of Arthur's grip so that he could clutch a handful of fabric over his chest. His next breath wheezed on the inhale.

Arthur dropped his head into his free hand, then immediately lifted it again. "Breathe, Merlin." He tried to sound encouraging, but the only thing his voice conveyed was impatience. He took a deep breath himself and tried again. "Breathe. In and out, steady, with me. Watch my chest and match me, Merlin."

"No." Merlin shoved him off and then lurched to his feet. He fell back almost immediately when his legs apparently wouldn't hold him, and then pushed up again. "Get off of me!" That time, he managed to stalk over to the door leading to the corridor, but all he did was lean one hand and what looked like most of his weight against it while he repeatedly clenched his other hand in a staccato rhythm at his chest, and struggled visibly to slow his breathing.

While keeping an eye on Merlin, Arthur motioned for George's attention and ordered, "Go find the medicines for his arms."

"I'll go myself," Merlin huffed, voice thready.

"You're not going anywhere," Arthur countered, "until you can do it without looking like you're going to fall over. George, go."

George nodded and retreated to the other room, where servant's doors and narrow back passages would offer an exit that didn't include trying to slip past Merlin at the door he blocked.

Before Arthur could spout off and start another argument, Gwaine sighed and crossed the room slowly. "Merlin, old friend. Just sit down. Please."

Merlin's shoulders twitched away from where they hovered around his ears, and he untucked his face from the crook of the arm that he had braced against the door. He looked small as he raised searching eyes to Gwaine – hunched into an illusion that his slightness reflected something inconsequential about him, and just tired. Rudderless. Adrift in the sea on a log tethered, perhaps, to Arthur. Or maybe to nothing at all. Faint with lost breath, Merlin told him, "Thought I wasn't your friend anymore."

"I made a mistake," Gwaine told him, face grave. He kept his hands to himself, but his posture alone screamed of brotherly arms and sharing the warmth of a fire on the road, and the simple humility of a heartfelt apology. "I should know better, eh? What the ale can make you say. Doesn't mean you meant any of it."

Merlin shook his head and looked down. His back rose with the first deep breath he'd taken since screaming in Arthur's face a moment ago. "I don't even know what I said. I don't remember."

"Then I'm twice the fool, aren't I." Gwaine chuckled and pat him between the shoulder blades. "That'll teach me to listen to you." He managed to steer Merlin away from the door and back to the chair near the fireplace without protest.

Arthur watched them both, and the shifting mood between them as Gwaine prodded Merlin back into his chair and then stepped away again. At Gwaine's hand signal, the same kind that the knights used on patrol, Arthur followed him past the privacy screens and into the next room, frowning the whole way.

Once they were out of Merlin's sight, and a quick survey of the room confirmed George's absence as well, Gwaine invaded Arthur's space to whisper, "Something's wrong with him."

Arthur pursed his lips with a sigh, and glanced at the wall separating him from the hearth where Merlin sat. "Look, I know – "

"No," Gwaine hissed. "You're not listening to me. What you said before – it's not nothing. Something is wrong with him."

"I am listening," Arthur snapped back, words a sharp sound like steam forced through a kettle pipe to keep them quiet. "And I know, but I can't break his confidence. Not even to you. I'm sorry, Gwaine."

Gwaine bit the insides of his cheeks and glared at him for a bit. "Are you handling it?"

"We both are," Arthur growled back, "and I will forgive your tone since you're upset."

Something shifted in Gwaine's face, his features hardening. He got up in Arthur's face to tell him, "I don't need your forgiveness, princess. I'll talk to you however I like where he's concerned."

Arthur's nostrils flared. "Step back, Sir Gwaine."

Without moving, Gwaine replied, "I warned you once before not to make me choose between you."

"No one is making you choose," Arthur snarled back.

Gwaine blinked a few times, regrouped, and stepped back. "Good. Just…getting that off my chest."

Arthur scoffed at him, but forced himself not to escalate again. There was no point; Gwaine had about as much respect for authority as Merlin did, and he didn't care if he insulted Arthur or not. The difference was that Merlin had the kind of loyalty that didn't think, or consider the alternative; it was ingrained in him. Gwaine, on the other hand, chose to be loyal the way that Arthur chose to put on a mail shirt in the morning: it was optional, and he could change his mind about wearing it any time he felt like it. Gwaine wasn't tied to Arthur or to Camelot the way that other knights were, or that Merlin was. He could leave without caring about his honor – strip his rank from his shoulder and tell Arthur to fuck himself with it because his fealty was an intentional, measured thing – something earned, not given. It made Gwaine brash and mouthy, and it could give others the wrong idea about the disrespect he appeared to show his king. But it also made him brutally honest. Arthur thought that perhaps he hadn't appreciated the importance of that in the past, when most people around him censored themselves and held back opinions for fear of crossing a line between their ranks.

"He's not himself," Gwaine pressed, but he was no longer trying to step on Arthur's feet and bash their chests together like animals until one of them ceded ground. "I've got a funny feeling too. Merlin's not like this."

"One of my knights tried to assassinate him." Succeeded, technically, though Arthur didn't say that. "I don't think we can expect him to be himself anymore."

"Is that what this is?" Gwaine asked. "Some kind of battle fatigue?"

"Yes, I think so." Arthur sighed and wandered at an angle toward Gwaine without facing him. He kicked at the leg of a table and admitted, "It's been happening for a while. The – the breathing thing." He thumped his chest to demonstrate. "Look, we both know what it can be like to come down after a long siege. Merlin doesn't. I don't think he realizes how his life was basically that all along, but his body knows."

Gwaine grunted an acknowledgement and avoided looking at Arthur.

"It's getting better. I swear it is, Gwaine."

"I hear you, princess." Gwaine sighed and finally faced him. "I fucked up, you know? Took it personal. When we fought… What he said, the part about that day…" He didn't need to specify; they both knew which day had earned that epithet. "What I did."

Arthur exhaled long and hard. "He doesn't blame you for the wound."

"I made it worse," Gwaine asserted. "Lost my temper, didn't think – like always, yeah? I just wanted – I wanted to break Meliot's face, and Merlin paid for it. My friends are always the ones that pay for it. I shouldn't wonder I don't have many left."

"Don't get maudlin," Arthur warned him, but he meant it kindly. "That wound was fatal before you stepped in. It wouldn't have made much difference."

Gwaine nodded, but he savaged his bottom lip between his teeth at the same time. "I was drunk. On Samhain. So bloody drunk I couldn't even see straight. I didn't want to think about Eira. She didn't like me when I drank, and I just…wanted to defy her. It was stupid."

"I know," Arthur told him gently. "Gwaine, it's done. You lectured me on guilt once. Take your own advice, and let it go. Merlin wants his friend back."

Gwaine snorted at him, but affably. "Thought you'd be glad to be rid of me. Have him all to yourself."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Are we actually talking about this?"

"I know you'd never say it," Gwaine replied. "But come on. We both know there's competition. You tolerate me, and I'm good as a knight, but not that good. We wouldn't be friendly if it weren't for Merlin."

Arthur looked down at his thumbs where he'd hooked them in the sword belt he wore askew over his fluffy robe. "I don't think that's true. You've been there for me, Gwaine. Just for me, independent of him. And maybe I am intimidated by the way you are with each other, but that doesn't take away the rest." He looked up. "You're a brother, Gwaine. Not just my knight – you've proven that. And I'm tired of hiding friendship behind my rank; they don't keep that way."

For a moment, Gwaine merely watched Arthur. "I meant what I said. I want to know what's going on. All of it."

Arthur slanted his gaze aside, toward the next room where Merlin should still be sitting near the hearth. "It's not my place."

"I know," Gwaine acknowledged. "Tell me anyway. Because if you don't, I can't help him."

Without meaning to, Arthur whispered a tiny, unwanted fear of his own. "There might not be any helping him." He dropped his gaze immediately after, and crossed his arms in the hope that Gwaine would take the hint and ignore what he'd said if Arthur just pretended hard enough that he hadn't. "I won't go behind his back. I'll tell you, but in front of him."

Gwaine nodded in Arthur's periphery. "Good enough."

---

~TBC~