One hand on a plant, the other on his herb basket, Merlin froze.

Somewhere in the forest, a child was crying.

Oh, shoot.

Merlin couldn't remember the last time he'd heard someone crying, let alone a child. They were usually yelling or cursing, not bawling.

The sound set his teeth on edge.

Although he was tempted to hightail it out of there and head back to the safety of his cozy cabin deeper in the woods, he hesitated.

The sobbing had died down slightly since he had been crouching there.

It could be a trap. It wouldn't be the first time.

(Just the first time with a child.)

If it were, he could always send them packing, he reasoned, even though he might have to vacate the area for a while. It was a better option than leaving a child to fend for him or herself.

Grimacing, he straightened, dropped the plant he had pulled into the basket, and made in the direction he thought the cries came from.

The child heard Merlin before Merlin could lay eyes on it whenever a twig snapped underneath his foot.

"Who's there?"

The words were plastered with false bravery.

"I'm armed. I'm warning you!"

The warning was accompanied by a snotty sniff.

Before he could get run through, Merlin pushed the rest of the way through the tree branches into sight.

It was a blonde boy.

Maybe seven, eight, or nine - after being alive for so long, Merlin sometimes forgot how they were supposed to look at certain ages. He was dressed a smidgen too finely to be a commoner, and he was carrying a small sword, which was raised and pointed at Merlin's chest.

Ha. As thought that would do anything.

"Hello," Merlin said, putting on his best smile.

At least, what he hoped was his best smile. He hadn't been around other people in…a while.

"Who are you?" the boy demanded. "Another one of them?"

To show he meant no harm, Merlin held up his hands. "Who?"

"Cenred's men." The boy sniffed.

"No, I'm not. I'm Merlin. I live here in the forest. Now who are you?"

Despite his fear, the boy straightened and tilted his head proudly. "Prince Arthur."

Merlin raised his eyebrows.

A prince. How lovely.

And stupid for taking Merlin at his word and trusting a stranger, but that was another issue.

"Prince Arthur Pendragon," Arthur corrected himself hotly when Merlin apparently didn't have the appropriate reaction.

Pendragon.

Mentally, Merlin swore.

Just his luck to have the whole blasted forest to himself and run into the child of Uther Pendragon who'd probably been breathing in anti-magic and Purge propaganda since the day he was born.

Nope. Merlin wasn't going to do it.

"Well, where is his royal highness so we can get your royal highness back to him?"

That, apparently, was the wrong question because Arthur started crying again in a most unprincely fashion.

Dumb, Merlin stood there.

What was he supposed to do? If he were Uther's son, he wouldn't want to return, either, but-

"He's-" Arthur blubbered, using his free hand to wipe his eyes. "He's dead. Cenred's men killed him."

This time, Merlin swore aloud.

…

The woods started crawling with soldiers.

Since Merlin couldn't think of a better solution, he did the only thing he could.

…

Arthur stared at Merlin's cabin, his nose and forehead wrinkled in distaste. "This is a shack."

"This is my home, you brat, and it's where you'll be sleeping unless you fancy the woods."

"You can't call me a brat. I'm the prince."

"Prat, then." Merlin pushed the door open.

After hesitating, Arthur followed him inside, his eyes wide as he took in the living conditions.

Merlin didn't own much. It wasn't any use getting attached to something you would have to leave behind the next time you went on the run, anyway.

"This is where you live?"

Setting his basket down on the only table, Merlin ignored the question. "Spare blankets are under the bed. You can sleep by the fire where it's warm."

The fire, he was happy to see, had not died in his absence. He wouldn't have to figure out how to relight it without revealing his magic.

"The floor? You're not going to give me the bed?"

His father had been killed, and Arthur Pendragon was concerned about cushioning for his royal backside.

Uther Pendragon's son, indeed.

Could Merlin do the nice thing and give up his bed?

Yes.

Was he going to after all the misery his father had put Merlin through?

Merlin took a small degree of satisfaction in the shock that crossed Arthur's face when he turned around, crossed his arms, and said,

"No."

…

In the middle of the night, Merlin woke to the sound of crying.

When he rolled over, propping himself up, the crying stopped.

…

The next time Merlin woke up in the morning, Arthur was snoring like a wild boar.

(Despite his grumbling, it seemed he'd survived the night on the wood floor, and Merlin felt a tingle of guilt.)

Merlin nudged him with his foot.

The snoring deepened.

Since Merlin wasn't totally heartless, he stepped over the prince to poke at the fire. The embers were glowing, but the cabin was a bit cold, so he added a couple of logs.

After checking to make sure his guest was asleep, Merlin uttered a word.

In the hearth, a fire sprung to life.

Behind him, Arthur gasped. "You can do magic!"

Merlin winced.

Blast it.

He should have been more careful.

When she was alive, his mother had always warned him that he was going to get his head stuck in a briar patch.

He was now beginning to understand what she meant.

"You're a sorcerer!"

Merlin didn't know whether to laugh or flinch at Arthur's uncanny impersonation of Uther.

"Yes." He didn't turn around. "And what you're thinking won't work."

"You can't tell what I'm thinking...Can you?"

"You were going to run me through with that toothpick of an excuse of a sword. Well, it won't work."

"I've seen others like you executed the same way."

"I'm not them." Although some days he wished…

"My father says sorcerers are evil and should be purged from the earth."

Too hot from leaning so close to the fire, Merlin stood. "Well, your father was a greater prat than you are."

Arthur really was Uther's son, Merlin realized. Born and bred in Camelot's castle with palace paradigms and prejudices.

He only knew what his father told him.

That magic was evil. That it killed people. That those emotionless beings who used it deserved to be burned.

Not that magic could be used for good, too. That it saved people.

That those who went to the pyre died with fear on their faces and tear tracks on their cheeks.

Despite the warmth in the fire, he shuddered, closing his eyes.

"Are…are you going to kill me, too?"

Like those men who killed my father?

He was just a child taught to fear.

They were all just children.

So many…

"No." He turned to face Arthur. "Cenred's men should be gone by now. I'm going to take you back to Camelot where you belong."

And then he would be rid of royalty for a good long while and could sit and think about Uther Pendragon's death and everything it meant.

Eyes wide, Arthur stared at him. "You're not going to kill me."

"Try not to sound so surprised."

None of this was Arthur's fault, he reminded himself. Arthur had been raised in ignorance, and if Merlin were in his shoes, he would probably think the same thing.

That didn't mean his blood didn't boil slightly.

Arthur really did know nothing.

The prince frowned. "You really aren't going to kill me?"

"If you're that desperate to die-"

"No!" Arthur stubbornly crossed his arms. "I was just making sure."

"Hmm." Merlin crossed over to the wooden barrels he kept on one side of the room and began rummaging through them.

Like a lost puppy, Arthur followed him. "What are you doing?"

"Getting food. Unless you want to go back home on an empty stomach."

Far be it for the prince to return home and tell everybody how the evil sorcerer kidnapped him and tried to starve him to death.

"No."

"Good." Merlin pulled out a few apples. He didn't know how much children Arthur's age ate, but it would take too long to make bread or something else.

When he turned around to offer an apple to Arthur, the prince had a strange look in his eye. Sad and almost steely, but naive all the same.

"What? Is there something wrong with apples, sire?"

"I'm not going back," Arthur declared. "I'm going to stay here with you."

Merlin stared at him.

He stared back.

Merlin started laughing.

Arthur clenched his fists. "It's not funny!"

Was he even hearing himself? "You…want to stay with…with me?"

Oh, this was hilarious.

If he had a grave, Uther Pendragon would be rolling in it.

"Yes!"

"Aren't you the prince? Your father…isn't your mother worried about you? Aren't you supposed to be…crowned king or something?" Merlin didn't know how it worked, and bringing up Uther felt a little insensitive considering Arthur's loss and his own personal beef with the man.

Then again, Arthur was asking to live with the number-one public enemy.

"My mother's dead. They won't crown me king until I'm of age. Until then, they'll make my uncle regent."

Merlin raised his eyebrows. "Won't he be worried about you, then?" He set the apples down on the table.

"I don't like him. He is a creep."

While Merlin hadn't laid eyes on this uncle, he could believe that.

But for the love of green grass, he couldn't figure out why on earth the prince of Camelot wanted to stay with him. Weren't they enemies? Wasn't he a murderer? Wasn't Arthur the son of a murderer?

It was a terrible idea.

Merlin had tried living around others. They died. While he wasn't planning on getting attached to Uther Pendragon's spawn, it would only lead to problems and misery if he caved now.

"No."

"Why not?" Arthur crossed his arms. "You have enough room."

Merlin started ticking off fingers. "First, off, your uncle discovers you're still alive and sends men to retrieve you and kill me-"

"I told you my uncle is a creep! He wants the throne for himself."

"-second off, I have magic-"

"You said you weren't going to kill me."

"-and third off, this is a shack in the middle of the woods, not a comfy palace where you're waited on hand and foot all day long. You'd be expected to do things."

"So I can stay!"

"No!"

"But you just said-"

"I was just saying-"

"-yes!"

"No!" Merlin pinched the bridge of his nose.

Twenty-four hours ago, everything was fine. Now, he was arguing with a child who was the son of one of the men he hated most and who wanted to live with him, for magic's sake. When had it come to this?

"My uncle wants the throne," Arthur stressed. "Now that my father is dead, he'll try to kill me, too, and I've decided that I'd rather take my chances with you."

I'd rather take my chances with you.

He'd rather take his chances with Merlin.

Oh, goodness, why was he ever considering this?

He lived alone for reasons. He could write an entire book filled with names and incidents that firmly nailed a sign that read I want to be left alone above the metaphorical doorframe of his heart.

"Please." Arthur sniffed, then scowled at the floor.

His father had just died, Merlin reminded himself, and he was only a child.

Even though he echoed Uther's words, Arthur was not the same person as his father any more than Merlin was.

Merlin could deal with one child, right?

If he said yes (and that was a very large if), he supposed he could always take the prat back to where he belonged…

How hard could it be?