A/N: So I said, I might do some of stories I hinted at, that happen during the ten in-between years. As I had time and attention and inclination… So here's one!

"Dusty"

Camelot was very different from what she'd expected. Very different.

'Course she knew a city would be different from living on her own in the woods. 'Course she did. More people meant more noise, didn't it? Like three flocks of starlings wheeling and cackling and calling, not high in the sky above her, but down here and all around – behind and beside and from second-story windows above.

Voices. Animal noises. Crashes and thumps, boots and wooden wheels over cobblestones, rumbling under her bare soles and she stood still, clutching the strap of her cloth bag over her shoulder.

Alone in a crowd.

Suddenly she wished she'd stayed at the cabin. She could catch rabbits and squirrels, she could find and grow roots and vegetables, she could dry enough in the rafters to eat through the winter, pick up enough sticks for her fire so she wouldn't freeze…

And turn out just like her da. Living the life she always despised.

"Look out!"

The shout was close and urgent and she cringed, expecting – the unexpected.

And looked up to see a glistening sheet of water sliding motionless in midair just beside her. Reaching, dripping-

"Move to your left, girl," ordered the stout woman handling the wet-empty bucket in her doorway; good thing she didn't seem that upset. "I'm sorry, I didn't think you were going to stop mid-step!"

"I'm sorry," she tried. "I didn't know I was going to do that, either…" She shifted sideways, and felt shock of an entirely different sort as the woman's eyes sparked gold and the impossibly-floating water splashed down to the cobblestones, uninterrupted.

Well, didn't they say the law was different, now. Didn't they say magic was allowed.

"You new to Camelot?" the woman asked curiously, swinging the bucket.

She swallowed, strangling the cord of her bag with both hands. "You can tell?"

The woman's cheeks bunched her eyes into a squint as she smiled. "You look a little lost. And a lot not used to magic?"

"It was…" she started, overwhelmed. "It was…" All her life, being told she was strange and different, being told she was the reason they had to live like they did, the reason it was just her by herself with her da…

"Yeah, but not anymore." The woman nodded, the faded blue scarf she wore on her head wobbling slightly, and half-turned as if to re-enter her house before pausing. "Are you lost, girl? You looking for someone, or someplace?"

She licked her lips, wondering if she dared repeat either of the two names her memory refused to let go of. "Guinevere?"

The woman went still, eyes wide. "Her Majesty?"

"What?" she said stupidly, when the woman didn't elaborate on her strange exclamation.

"Her Majesty. Queen Guinevere? I don't know of no other."

Bloody hells. Definitely not. "No," she managed. "No, I guess – maybe I made a mistake-"

"She might take you," the woman offered, faintly apologetic for her reaction. "She's not a regular royal, y'know, she-"

"Never mind," she said hastily, trying to persuade her aching feet to move. 'Course this was a mistake, she never should've come here.

"You could go on up to the citadel anyway and ask," the woman suggested, gesturing up the street. "They ain't too proud to let folks in and listen to what questions and concerns we have."

She didn't look, knowing already what she'd see. White stone towers and pennants like the best of story-tales and all of it an illusion. Not for her, at any rate.

"Her Majesty's probably got time on her hands this week, she might welcome a distraction," the woman went on, swinging the bucket again. A child squalled suddenly from the home's interior, but she glanced unconcernedly inside and didn't shift from the doorstep at whatever she'd seen. "His Majesty, bless his heart, rode out with his knights three days ago, and we've seen hide nor hair of them since. Folks have been saying, maybe it's to do with his witch sister, why he hasn't returned…" The woman leaned closer to lower her voice on the last suggestion.

She found herself shuffling forward to hear the woman better, in spite of herself. The king had a sister? Who was a witch?

"But magic is-" she started.

The woman shook her head. "Not for her, that was the Lady. She's gone dark as dark can be. I could tell you stories-"

She quit listening, alerting to a shift in the sound and feel of the crowd around her – attention diverted altogether, carts and carriers hurrying to the sides of the streets to leave the lane clear down the middle. Excitement coloring tones and the noise of the whole increasing almost unbearably.

This was a mistake. How did she think she could live here? It was all so loud, she wanted to cringe in a ball and stuff her fingers in her ears and rock herself into oblivion.

"Oh, it's him!" the woman exclaimed. Ducking back into her doorway, she hollered out, "Do you wanna see the king!"

Four children – five, one was being carried by another – dashed out around the woman's skirts, cheering and noisy.

Reactively she turned, seeking escape and finding more excited people – they love the king? Thought he was… hard. Like his father. Or not? She pressed her back to the front wall of the woman's house, hugging her bag so the strap dug into her shoulder.

"Oh, what happened?" the woman exclaimed, in sudden and genuine dismay.

Instinct warned her to keep moving, to avoid the procession coming down the center of the street. The corner of her eye caught the reflection of chainmail – horse hooves clopping – knights. Not the most considerate of folks – of men – 'specially when they were on a mission.

But the reactions of the others around her – what she could hear and what she couldn't – were the same. Shock, distress, worry. Murmuring constantly, though no one called out.

She shifted, and dared a glance-

The leader rode plain-clothed, no armor, in a weary slouch. Stained and rumpled, his garment ill-fitting and the hood of it only partially obscured dark blond hair… on only half of his head. Shaved… or burned?

A brief gust of wind dipped down into the lane, and he flinched like he was sensitive to it, turning so her view of the interior of the hood was greater – pale skin, a few small scars livid pink around his eye and down his cheek. A recent injury, but well-healed.

"Majesty?" the stout woman moaned aloud, hands clasping at heart and throat – and she wasn't the only one in the crowd so moved.

Expecting attention drawn, she cringed back, scraping her shoulder-blade along the wall a few more inches. All over people were murmuring to their neighbors, like wind rising to a storm. What happened – how did it happen – is he all right – he's back, he must be – but what happened…

It looked like a weeks-old injury to her… save for the hair. And the grime. And the cringing before the touch of the breeze.

"We are all well," said the straight-backed knight just behind the leader. He didn't smile, but he looked calm. "No need for worry…"

Didn't seem to her like many were going to listen and obey that…

They trudged on – chainmail looked like chainmail to her, but where their clothing was visible, it was smudged as if with soot. Faces and hands cleaned, maybe, but no time or energy for more. The biggest one, bare-armed, carried streaks on his skin from inattentive washing-up, and evidently none of his companions had thought to point it out.

Only one other was not wearing the chainmail – a black-haired man who was grimy and disheveled like the others, but dismounted like the other three were, to plod wearily. Filthy blue sleeves rolled untidily toward his elbows, and another dark garment, maybe a jacket, tucked absently between his hip and a bandaged wrist where his hand was shoved in his pocket.

He seemed familiar. As if… she'd known him as a young child. Or maybe as if she'd once met his father.

Something made him stop dead in his tracks between one step and the next, and her heart tripped like she'd done something and now would be punished for it. And then he lifted his head to scan the double handful of people in front of and around her – clearly looking for someone.

"Merlin, what happened?" the stout woman said directly to him. "His Majesty-"

His eyes – a clear, deep blue – winced at her words, though his gaze kept searching. "He'll be fine, I promise."

Murmur-murmur of the people listening and trying to accept, responding more readily than to the knight's advice not to worry. Who was this, then, who traveled with the king and people on the street knew his name, and he dressed like-

Then his eyes caught hers, and pain and exhaustion burned away in a flash when they lit – but not with the gold of magic. Breath caught in her throat and all her muscles froze with the impossibility of escape.

"Oh, hello," he said, as if he found her familiar too, and recognized the connection she'd forgotten. "You've just arrived in Camelot, then?"

Was he expecting her? She tried to shuffle sideways, but was hemmed in.

"Merlin," said one of the knights, a fellow with wild dark hair and a scruffy beard, alert to his pause.

He looked away, toward the head of the procession – which had passed from her sight behind a tall craftsman still gaping at the men and horses – and made a gesture as if she should be his excuse for stopping.

Go away. I'm not-

"He's found another one, I guess," the knight said, speaking clearly so his words would reach the leader.

She hated them, suddenly. And wished she'd never left the forest.

"I can't wait for you." That voice was quiet, and almost too rough to be understood – hoarse with pain or broken from shouting, and it hurt her to hear. "I shouldn't make her wait…"

"Yeah, go on without me. I'll just be a minute." The black-haired, plainly-dressed man nodded, giving a gesture of acknowledgement.

"Want me to wait?" the knight asked, the offer made wholly in earnest.

The servant? shook his head without looking at his companion, who gave her a single searching glance before continuing on with the others.

"Merlin, what happened?"

He ignored the stout woman's question, looking past her, and she couldn't bear to meet his eyes – though the mumblings of the crowd had changed tenor, and refused to be blocked entirely. Thought he was supposed to protect – well then what's the point of it if he can't-

She tried to slip away, but the tall craftsman went the wrong way, and the stout woman squeezed her arm and smiled – "If I'd known who you were, I'd have helped you-" and disappeared through the doorway. She was left like a rabbit in a snare, when he looked at her and smiled.

"I'm Merlin," he said simply. "Welcome to Camelot – have you got a place to stay? Would you like to learn-"

"No," she blurted. "Thanks, but-" She shoved at the air as if she could physically force him to move along. "I don't want your help."

Puzzlement and disappointment lurked in the shadows of his face, maybe because he was too tired to hide his feelings. "Really? Why not?"

"I'll be fine on my own," she said curtly. Adjusting her bag, she plunged past him, back out into the street's resuming traffic.

He dropped the reins of his horse exactly as if he had no fear of the animal being stolen, and followed her. "You are new in Camelot, though? And you haven't found a place to stay?"

She tripped on a loose cobblestone, and he reached for her elbow, but she shrugged him off. "I thought I did."

"But – what does that mean?"

"It means you can leave me alone and not worry about what happens to me," she snapped. Maybe she could circle around and find the stout woman again and ask for directions to someone who'd be willing to pay for honest work.

"I can't. Could you please stop, for a minute? I live the other direction, and I-"

She realized he was nearly limping, and maybe trembling, a bit, and felt guilty. And cross.

"I probably need to sit down," he finished candidly. "We could-"

She drew back minutely, scowling. There was no we to speak of, between them.

He sighed a surprisingly deep breath, and something in her chest wanted to feel sorry for him again. "My friend was hurt, yesterday."

Yesterday? With that level of healing obvious? And – with all the knights in their company, he felt responsible for-

"I tried to help him as much as I could, but it doesn't feel like enough, and if you don't let me help you, I think that I…" He trailed off, quiet and desperate and… lonely.

That was a strange word to come to mind, wasn't it?

"I need something to be easy. Right now."

She shuffled back half a step. "It would be easier if you just leave me alone."

Maybe it would have been easier to punch him in the stomach. He looked ill at her refusal, a bit lost and broken – not my fault, she told herself. But he didn't sneer or roll his eyes or turn away. Even a little bit. He wasn't going to turn away, was he? Wasn't going to leave her alone.

She shivered – how long had it been since she'd been sure someone wouldn't abandon her? – and glared.

"I think it could… I think I… just. Please, let me help you?"

She shifted the string of her pack. It wasn't heavy, being not very full since she didn't have much in this world. "I don't want charity," she told him. "There's lots of things I can do to earn my keep."

Something about that made him smile – and it wasn't the sly, knowing smile she'd half-expected, when she didn't say specifically, cooking and cleaning ways of earning her keep.

"I'm certain of it," he said. "What… shall we call you, then?"

We, again. Well, she had no intention of mixing with knights and kings and queens.

"My mother named me Dostiana," she said belligerently, expecting him to laugh. It was a pretentious name for someone like her. "Only I don't like it."

"We could call you…" he ventured, watching for her reaction. "Doesty?"

She hated it the sound of it, but she smirked, indicating the state of her person. "Dusty is more like it."

That illuminating glow lit in his eyes again, and when he smiled, it made her want to stay in his company a while longer. Maybe make him smile again.

"I wasn't going to say so… but do you mean it? We could call you that, and you wouldn't mind?"

"I'd answer," she hedged. He blinked a frown, and she added, "Rather that than my full name, anyway." Or the other that her father had used. Or, hey you.

"Okay," he said, in the manner of someone setting down a burden at the end of a long journey. "Okay. Did you come to Camelot to learn medicine – or magic?"

That word still zipped shock and fear into her heart like an arrow. "Neither," she retorted, desperately trying to bluff her way past the terrified reaction. "I came for a job."

This time his smile started small, but spread very wide, very fast. "So did I, when I came here. That's years ago, now… Why don't you come with me, I'll show you where I went and introduce you to the man who took me in."

The king? She took another half-step back.

"The court physician," he told her. "Gaius? He's a very wise and very patient man – though you have to get to know him to realize that. The patience, I mean, not the wisdom."

Gaius. Another name her memory kept tucked away and hidden like the one coin she'd ever had in her life. She shrugged under the weight of her pack. "All right. I guess."

"I can carry your things for you?" he offered.

Instinct had her swinging away from the outstretched hand. "You really don't look like you can."

Still he didn't get angry at her rudeness, or turn away – but the sudden grin surprised her. "I'm stronger than I look…"

But instead of insisting, he simply began to lead her back up the road – and his horse had only wandered a few steps, if at all. There was a curly-haired child crouched in the dust toying with the reins, rather unnecessarily – he or she grinned up at them hopefully, grubby hand outstretched.

"Thanks," her companion – Merlin, was it? – said wryly. When he bent to meet the expectant palm, however, he had three walnuts to pass to the child.

She could have sworn his hands were empty.

The child bounced up and darted away, and Merlin noticed her attention. "Ah," he said. His ears were red, and he pulled the reins through his fingers, beginning to head up the street again. "I should probably tell you – I'm a sorcerer. Well, a warlock really, but nobody knows that term so it can be confusing, and a bore to have to explain…"

Meant magic from birth, didn't it? But that was a myth, wasn't it? Impossible.

Maybe he was trying to impress her. Because of course he couldn't know that she could… do things.

"Okay," she said blandly. He shot her a look, but said nothing further.

And he was worn out. She thought she was tired and sore-footed, walking all day and then Camelot, but his steps were slow and labored, and as she kept his pace at his side, she identified a smell about him like woodsmoke.

Dressed as a laborer, or servant. Boasting of birth-magic and riding with the king. Yesterday – she believed that part, by how grubby the knights were-

"It's been too dry," he said inexplicably, breathing harder than she was from their toil up the street to the citadel gates.

Gaius lived in the citadel? Well… Her feet followed him, ignoring her reluctance. She'd wait to see what conditions there might be, and keep retreat an open possibility.

"We rode out – just for a day or two. There'd been reports – he wanted to see for himself how bad things were." Merlin gave her another glance; the hair above his ears was shiny-damp with sweat. "Arthur's like that."

Her eyebrows stretched. Arthur? Just – Arthur?

"They didn't know how it started, but it caught in the trees. The fire. And I do know spells for rain, it just… it isn't instantaneous, you see. And the people were trying to save their homes – fields already harvested, but…" He shook his head.

Questions occurred, of course they did, but it wasn't her business. And at any rate, right there were high walls of white stone, and a great iron grate, lifted to allow passage – armed guards invisible in their helmets like so many breathing, watchful statues. No one said one word to her. Or Merlin. He moved through – past – into like the citadel was his home, and handed his reins off to a boy who was both younger and taller than she was.

"This way," Merlin said, beginning to labor up the great wide stairs behind the mounted statue, twice as big as life. "It looks enormous, and enormously complicated, but it isn't. You'll get used to it. I think you'll even like it, soon."

If you say so. Her knuckles were white around the string of her sack, and she wished now that she could run home to that little shack in the woods – or to any one of the other hovels they'd ever lived in, none built by her da's own hands.

Maybe she could build her own? She glanced back to see that the iron gate was still open – it was.

"Gaius is the physician," she said. "And he needs… someone to cook? to clean?"

"Well, we've written to Alice," he said, an answer that was really no answer for her at all. "But we haven't heard back yet. And my mother said maybe next year. And Arthur makes noises about me needing someone to help…"

She frowned at him – help with what? - and he shrugged self-consciously.

"In any case, it's a good place to start, as assistant to the court physician," he said, pausing to catch his breath at the bottom of a tall stair, curving to follow the outer wall of one of the towers. "I should know."

"How do you know he'll take me?" she demanded. "I'm sure he must have dozens willing to do for him, and…" learn – "and so on."

"He… can be particular," Merlin allowed, bracing every step with one hand on the wall and lifting his feet like each was weighted like a boulder. "Nothing you can't handle. For now, at least."

She supposed she could handle for now.

They came to a bit of a landing – not the top of the stair – and he stopped again to catch his breath. Sweat trickled down the side of his jaw, and he was pale to his lips. Without thinking, she positioned herself in the way of him falling back down the stairs if he passed out, but he didn't seem to notice.

And the door on the landing was about halfway open; she could see part of the room – a man seated upon something that lifted him nearly twice as high as an ordinary chair, and a woman with a cascade of black curls fussing at his side. She was dressed in rich purple silk; he in dingy linen…

"Guinevere," he said, the raspy voice sounding stern. "I am not putting your lotions on my face-"

"But Arthur-"

"I believe you that they're good for your skin, love, that's not…"

The woman moved, and Dusty could see that it was the same man from the procession.

The king. And the queen.

He looked awful without the hood. Merlin moved for the door, and she followed reluctantly, grimacing to herself at the better sight of pink scarring on forehead and cheek, the weird absence of eyebrow and lashes. And maybe the king was normally a handsome man, but…

"You could do worse, Arthur," said an old man with white hair over his stooped shoulders, turning from a table at hand with an earthenware bowl and some sort of stirring instrument.

The king made a face of boyish disgust.

"I am both astonished and relieved to know you haven't lost any range of vision in that eye, but you will need to keep that new skin soft and supple as it finishes healing," the old man continued, raising one brow at the injured king like he was scolding a naughty child in the street. "Or the scar may stretch."

"Think how much worse-" Merlin said lightly, crossing the threshold – but she was close enough to notice how he had to swallow in the middle of his intended jibe – "you'd look. Then."

"Oh, Merlin." The woman – Queen Guinevere – handed her little glass pot to the king seated on the table, rounding the old physician to unhesitatingly wrap Merlin in a full embrace.

Bloody hells, who was this man?

"I'm sorry," he whispered, hands nervous at her shoulders like he thought he didn't deserve the affection she showed. "Gwen, I'm-"

"Stop it," the woman said shortly, pulling back. "Merlin, you – you saved his life. And you're shaking – you're white as a sheet. Sit down." She pushed him sideways a few feet til he collapsed rather heavily onto a cot.

Both king and physician watched Guinevere dip a cup full of water from a bucket – knowing exactly where each was – and hand it to Merlin, dropping into a balanced crouch at his knee in spite of the silks.

Her mouth was dry. She hoped they didn't notice her. It was like the stout woman in town, keeping an eye on her children even as she spoke to strangers and watched the street for processions. It was family, like she barely remembered, and hadn't realized she missed, and if they noticed her-

"Takes a good bit out of him," the king remarked casually, one hand lifting of its own accord to brush fingertips lightly over pink skin healing new on his face.

"Hm. And that was yesterday…" the old man said. "Very well done, Merlin, though you've clearly exhausted yourself doing it. Perhaps next time you should exercise a little restraint-"

"Not a chance," Merlin said, his voice sounding lower as if he felt his heart in his throat-

As it was in his eyes, looking at the king.

To think, a king that people loved. A king that was such a good king, his subjects loved him. And this one, who had magic.

A Pendragon?

"You should have seen him before I started the magic," Merlin concluded.

Guinevere made a small noise of pain, claiming the one of Merlin's hands that didn't hold the water-cup, and lifting it to her cheek. "I don't even want to imagine. Don't think it escaped my notice, Arthur – that's not your shirt you're wearing. Which means you thought I wouldn't like the state of your own."

"Mm," the king agreed, watching them with something like a smirk. "No… Gwen?"

"Hush," she ordered, unembarrassed at the tears shining in her eyes, or the way she was behaving towards a man who was not her husband. "You'll get yours later."

Merlin smiled wearily, gently reclaiming his hand, and as the queen rose to her height – not any taller than Dusty herself – they noticed her.

"Oh, hello," Guinevere said, meeting her eyes and giving a little smile that felt genuinely – astonishingly – friendly. "I'm sorry, don't mind us – you are…"

"I'm-" Her throat clicked shut. Nobody. Don't belong here, but bloody hells I'd rather stay than be turned out.

"Merlin's newest," the king said, as if he were no more than a messenger-boy himself. "How d'you do? You'll be staying, then? You'll be a good distraction for him."

Which spurted wariness back through her veins at possible implications-

"I brought her to help Gaius," Merlin said, groaning a little as he spread himself on the cot, implications totally lost on him. "She needs a job."

"Indeed?" said the old man, raising his brow to her.

"Of course," Guinevere said. "Yes, that's perfect. Even if it's temporary – do stay." She meant it; she looked like she wanted to reach over and grab Dusty's hand. Without even looking to see how dirty it was, first.

And the king, the king of bloody Camelot, slouched and grimy, swung his boots from a seat on the table, a half-grin on his face. Would he still smile if she confessed? If she said, I can do things, I can hear people? Maybe. If Merlin was magic, and he was their friend.

And the inexplicable self-professed warlock, relaxing with his eyes closed on a narrow canvas cot in the physician's chamber as if he had no intention of going anywhere else for the rest of the night. No fine chamber, no big soft bed waiting for him…

And the court physician, eyeing her and humphing to himself – but accepting her and the proposition of her work in one single moment of no one asking for her to prove qualifications, turning back to his patient.

Feels like family, here. Feels like I could build my own home.

A bit defiantly, Dusty decided, til someone told her otherwise - that's just what she'd bloody well do.