Chapter 2: Camelot

It was a three-day march back to Camelot, but the company made it in two and a half. The cadets grumbled the first day, but were too exhausted after that to waste the effort on speech. The three lieutenants, on horseback, didn't seem to notice the quickened pace, or if they did, they didn't protest in front of the cadets.

"Since our company rescued Agent Lancelot," Lance-Corporal Daegal reported apologetically to Merlin's squad when they'd made camp for the night. "I guess the captain wants a parade of triumph when we reach Camelot, and–"

"He's eager for the crowd to be cheering him," the pickpocket interrupted disgustedly. "Bet your horse he'll be clean and all his brass shined, riding at the head of the column with the agent, and we'll be dusty and tired-out like we fought a great war."

The blond cadet grunted and spoke up sarcastically, "You don't think they'll stop at a stream or a river to let us wash up first?"

"It could be worse," Daegal offered. "We could be detailed to stay in Sage Springs like Second Company."

No one answered him. Merlin left the others at their tiny roadside campfire, to roll himself in his blanket. He faced the darkness away from the sixty-or-so fires and began to count, to picture the shape of each number in his mind. That helped to crowd out any other thoughts before weariness overcame him.

Before he got to twenty, though, he heard boots on the packed dirt road and the agent's voice hailed his squad. He didn't turn over or open his eyes. Rustle of cloth, as if Lancelot had crouched near him, somewhere close but still behind him.

"You asleep?" the agent asked softly. Merlin didn't answer. "I finally placed where I'd heard your name before," Lancelot continued. "About six months ago, from a friend of mine in the agency. Named Arthur?"

Merlin drew in a breath and swore with his exhalation. What terrible luck.

Lancelot chuckled. "It's been a busy couple of months," he continued in a musing tone. "There's quite a report to make when we reach the capital. Uther will have to appoint a judge for Sage Springs; it'll be a month or so before your other company returns."

"Go away," Merlin said tiredly.

"Good to hear the military hasn't made an officer and a gentleman out of you," Lancelot said, amusement in his voice. Merlin felt a finger touch his shoulder in the darkness; his eyes flew open and he tensed, but made no movement as the agent poked briefly at the tears in his sleeve removing the lance-corporal's patch had made. "Though not for lack of trying, I see."

Merlin counted three more numbers, then flopped to his back with a sigh. "What do you want?" he demanded up at the older man's shadow.

Instead of answering, the agent gestured to the inch-long scab at Merlin's hairline. "You okay?" he asked. "How'd that happen?"

Merlin snorted, looking past the compassion he heard, to the stars. "Girl with a lamp," he said in disgust. "Didn't even break the lamp. I'm fine." Except for the splitting headache, he was fine. Except for his aching feet and sore legs, he was fine.

"I noticed you weren't allowed off your feet today," Lancelot continued. He shifted so the firelight reflected from his dark eyes as he studied Merlin. "They had you standing to attention every break we took, standing to eat your meals." He paused, but Merlin didn't respond. "Was that a punishment for yesterday?"
Merlin felt a grimace twist his lips. The agent had come to offer sympathy because he felt guilty over Merlin's circumstances.

"That's the military for you," he said.

Lancelot nodded, grinning also. "Never mind that you almost single-handedly captured your target and freed me." Merlin closed his eyes and rolled away, back to the darkness. "Anyway," he heard the agent say, with humor still in his tone, "in spite of the fact that your hostage negotiation tactics need a lot of work, I wanted to thank you for – for not getting me killed."

"Better luck next time," Merlin answered without opening his eyes.

Lancelot chuckled, not taking offense. Merlin heard him rise, speak again to his squad members at the fire, then walk away, back to the tent he shared with the senior officers.

Merlin began to count again, forcing the images of each successive number over the memories of Sage Springs.

The rage and frustration of the captured, denied whatever revenge they'd decided would make them equal with their enemies, regardless of the fact that neither side had felt equal or fair for almost three generations. The hate that was repeated by the tiniest lisping child against it's parents' neighbors. The complete lack of authority to judge whether the various vengeances were justified or merited. And the denial of the one authority, the agent sent to help them find their way to settlement and peace.

He reached one hundred and kept counting.

No need to worry about nightmares anymore; though he still dreamed of his family, he dreamed of them living, not dead. There was, however, still too much time and opportunity for thought, and the inevitable overwhelming emptiness, as though he'd been hollowed like a gourd. There was no desire for anything; were it not for the strict regulation of daily activities imposed by the corps, he felt he might sit and stare as days passed and he simply faded away. Or else his feet, once started, might continue on like a child's wind-up toy, over hill and down vale, til he tipped over somewhere and ceased to exist.

Two hundred.

Recognizing the emptiness tempted contemplation of the lack of hate and revenge he'd spent the last three years deliberately filling himself with. That brought thoughts of the murderer, an emotionless picture of a lifeless body swaying in an icy night breeze.

At two hundred fifty-one Merlin's memory betrayed him with the words of the last letter he'd received from Emmett's Creek before marching north from Camelot, words written neatly and evenly, spelling impeccable. Sincerely, Gaius, was the closing, but Merlin knew the physician had dictated to Freya by the handwriting. Had it been awkward for her to write, Percival and Shasta miss you, and Freya as well. We all hope that a freight driver will soon bring us your reply to our letters… Not many letters were written in the cadet barracks. None of them had anyone to write to; if they'd had someone, they wouldn't have been placed in Uther's service.

Merlin forced his mind back to two hundred fifty-two. Dear Gaius, he'd written. Keeping pretty busy these days. Sorry to hear you're still looking for a reeve. Tell Gwen congratulations. Say hello to Alice for me, and Elyan, and tell Shasta the barracks kitchen doesn't hold a candle to hers. Tell Percival I'll be in for a drink as soon as I'm out of uniform. Tell Freya… And he'd crumpled the paper for the waste bin.

Two hundred fifty-three, then. And numbers, and numbers. Don't think of words, of letters. And don't think of faces.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya woke with no expectation that the day would be any different from the previous six days.

She woke early, as she always did, but this morning she anticipated the rumble and bustle outside her window, even in this quiet residential district of the capital, and she wasn't disconcerted by the big-city noise. She lay in the generously-sized bed, watching the dimness in the room fade to the glow of morning and knew she'd have to rise soon. Gwen might say the word guest all she liked, but Freya knew her friend, knew Gwen wasn't feeling that well this week, and whatever hand she could give with the housework would be appreciated.

She felt a pang of homesickness, entering Gwen's kitchen and beginning to help with the few preparations, not even needing to ask questions, after working for years with Gwen in Percival's tavern. Would she ever wake without thinking of her friends in the tavern in Emmett's Creek? Would she see them again someday? Would she grow to call her new home home, as naturally as Percival's Place came to mind?

But it was nice to put on a new dress, nice to listen to conversations all around her in anonymity. Nice to receive the smiles and politeness of strangers on every hand, who didn't know her past, and didn't care.

Gwen gave her a quick wan smile of greeting and acknowledgement. "Good morning."

"Still not feeling well?" Freya asked.

"I think it's the season," Gwen answered. "I always feel a bit off in the spring."

And the city, Freya guessed. Though Gwen loved her new house and the excitement of the capital – loved her new husband too, with an openness that was a bit embarrassing for Freya to witness – Agent Arthur so vulnerable with his affection and pleasure shining in his eyes.

"If you asked him, I'm sure Gaius would–"

"No, I'll be all right," Gwen shrugged off the suggestion with a quick smile. "The biscuits are done, come sit down."

"Where is Gaius this morning?" Freya asked, taking the seat next to her friend in the neat kitchen.

"He went out early, but he said he'd be back for the noon meal."

Freya hid her wince. It had been generous of Arthur and Gwen to invite them to stay, when they arrived in Camelot, when the two had not been married a full season, yet. She and Gwen had enjoyed a renewal of their friendship, and Arthur rather liked Gaius' company, but… they had not expected to stay this long. And still longer, it seemed.

Gaius was busy all day, busy searching out the medicines he needed to replenish his stores, busy at the library with medical journals, or in conversation with fellow physicians, busy consulting and assisting at the big hospital in the north quarter of the city. Gwen appreciated her help, but Freya knew, when she wasn't feeling well, she didn't want to entertain even helpful company.

So she'd gone with Gaius, the last two days, returning in the evening exhausted from walking and waiting. The library had been interesting, though not enough to tempt her away from Gwen's house on her own.

The cadet barracks had been disappointing.

And every day that passed with more waiting she sensed Gaius' growing impatience to return to Emmett's Creek, his own practice and his own wife. She'd sensed a wish from Gwen – and more strongly from Arthur – to reclaim their home from the presence of company and be the two of them together, though neither would ever say it. Twice Freya had almost suggested that she and Gaius simply return to the Creek.

"And Arthur?" she asked. To the agent's face she used his title, but Gwen had made such a face over it, when it was just the two of them, she made an effort to use only the man's given name with his wife.

Wife. Goodness.

"They're working on some issue that's come up in some city out east." Gwen waved her hand in unconcerned ignorance. "Something to do with taxes, or tolls, or whatever. Arthur thinks he may be sent to deal with the problem."

Oh. Freya swallowed the last of her biscuit with honey. And here they were, intruding on what might be the couple's last few days of privacy without even the courtesy of a thorough explanation. "How long does he think he'll be gone?"

Gwen rolled her dark eyes, picking her biscuit apart on her plate. "A few days, a few months… they never know for sure."

How long – they never know for sure. Freya thought about the past, and the future. The people she knew and the people she would soon meet, the people she was trying to avoid meeting, heading east as well… maybe. She was nervous about the changes Shasta and Gaius had helped her decide to make – though Gwen had made the same changes, and seemed to be happy with them.

Leave the Creek, and make a new home…

She was nervous about the acceptance of her new family, in the absence of a reply to her letter. She was nervous, if she was honest with herself, about seeing Merlin again.

They'd written him every month, and waited in vain for a reply. Her worst fears had been laid to rest by the commander's clerk, who shuffled his records and informed them that Merlin's name was definitely still on the list, but his unit was assigned away from the city for a time. An undetermined time.

So they waited, and Gaius grew impatient, and Freya grew more nervous.

Gwen didn't feel like rising to do any housework, so they sat by the little table in the kitchen, drinking tea and picking over their biscuits, for a couple of hours, in casual conversation. Mostly about Camelot – and Arthur – though Gwen was sensitive to the fact that Freya was sensitive about the whole topic of marriage.

Both of them were surprised to hear hurried footsteps on the outside stairs, and Freya started to her feet. Gaius said noon, and it still lacked an hour for that, by the little clock on the mantel. Regardless, it was the old physician that burst into the sitting room, grinning like a boy, hat shoved back and eyes twinkling.

"Get your hats, ladies," he said breezily. "Have you ever seen a parade?"

Freya ducked back into the guest bedroom long enough to snatch the plain straw hat she wore over her traveling cap, hearing Gwen excuse herself from joining them. "Are you sure?" she asked her friend, taking a few extra seconds to clear the dishes from the table for her hostess.

"I think I'll lay down for a bit," Gwen said, giving her a nod meant to be confident. "You go, and have fun."

Freya followed Gaius out into the city at a quick pace. One thing she'd been surprised to learn about big cities was the constant battle to keep things clean – or maybe it was that folk tended to notice and care more. She would have guessed a little town like Emmett's Creek to be dustier, on the whole, but after only a few days in the capital, she'd gone back to wearing a traveling cap every day as a matter of course to keep the dust out of her hair, as every woman did. The linen kerchief held to mouth and nose helped to filter the dust, as well as the smells. It had never seemed to bother Gaius before, and didn't this day, either.

As they passed from street to street, making their way to the north gate, as far as she could tell, she noticed more and more of the city's residents heading the same direction with a comprehensive air of excitement, even to the point of closing shops or carrying children well able to walk, to hurry them along. Gaius reached back and took hold of her hand to guide her through the thickening press of bodies.

"A messenger came to Uther's courtyard this morning," he threw over his shoulder by way of explanation. "One of the cadet units is marching in today from Sage Springs, up north. They've recovered their missing agent, it seems." Arthur hadn't been able to learn much about Merlin's unit, but he had gotten information on location and mission objectives.

Gaius led her through a crowd that drew ever tighter, closer to the curb of the street just two blocks from the north gate – she could see the top of the guard towers from where they stood. Gaius managed to wedge the two of them in the second row of spectators leaning eagerly out to glimpse the troops rumored to be returning soon.

"We'll have to go to the barracks, or the agents' headquarters this afternoon for news. Maybe the rest of the units won't be far behind this one, if Merlin doesn't return today."

"Gaius." Freya pulled on his hand to get his attention. "I know we've been away from the Creek longer than we expected–" Gaius made a negligent sound, but she squeezed his hand again and added, "Thank you." He patted her hand without answering, just smiled and turned his gaze down the street.

A rustle of whispers flowed through the crowd, followed by scattered cries of, "They're coming! There they are!"

It was hard not to catch the air of anticipation and excitement. Freya saw people across the street waving hats or kerchiefs before she actually saw any of the soldiers, but the clatter of the officers' horses' hooves and the stomp-shuffle of one hundred marching shoes quickly grew audible above the cheering.

There were two men riding at the head of the column, an egg-shaped middle-aged man on a pure white gelding with shiny buttons on his coat and an ostentatious feather in his hat, waving condescendingly to folks on either side, smiling like a cat in cream. The other was dressed like a country farmer, longish hair showing below his wide-brimmed hat, slouched in the saddle as if tired or hurting or both, doing his best to ignore, or rather tolerate, the noise of the crowd.

"That's probably the agent," Gaius said to Freya beside him, even as she was wondering about the man's lack of uniform.

The riding officers passed quickly, and Freya's attention turned to the marching cadets. She drew breath in swiftly.

"But – they're so young!" she said, mostly to herself.

Gaius heard and half-turned at her comment. "The cadets serving as an alternative to prison are a minority. Most are orphan boys between fifteen and eighteen."

Freya watched the rows march past, stomp-shuffle. Each wore a wheat-colored knit cap, long trousers and hunting shirt beneath jackets with rows of shiny brass buttons. Their uniforms were dusty, shin-guards muddy, some even torn, more than a few blood-stained. Their bodies bent forward under the weight of a square brown pack hung by two shoulder-straps, and exhaustion – stomp-shuffle. Clubs swung from their belts by a leather strap through a hole drilled in the grip, banged against marching thighs and knees.

"Not many casualties," Gaius commented. Freya looked at him; his eyes flicked over the rows in a calculating way, maybe he was counting the troops. "Unless they've reorganized their units to hide the losses," he added.

Freya's attention was caught by one boy, marching in the middle of a unit, surrounded by fellow cadets. He was indistinguishable from the others except for a smear of dried blood across his forehead, down his temple, and a limp noticeable in spite of the marching pace; he looked pale and gaunt, like most of the others.

"Gaius!" she said. "Is that him?"
"Where?"

The cadet in question was passing, was past.

"Him," she said, pointing.

Gaius watched the cadets, his eyes darting from one to the next, never catching on one in familiarity. He shook his head, lips pressing together. "Not that I could see," he answered her. "But it's not impossible it was him. We'll go to the cadet barracks this afternoon. I'm sure they'll be happy for a volunteer physician to help examine and treat field-dressed wounds."

They watched the rest of the unit march past without saying more, and without cheering as most of the other spectators did. Freya was a little disconcerted; she would have thought herself well able to pick him out, even in uniform among others in uniform. But they all looked so young – not yet eighteen, Gaius had said. She wondered if Merlin felt lonely, or isolated, surrounded by boys so much younger than himself. She wondered if his life had been easy, or hard, these last six months.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The second day of marching back to Camelot was the worst.

It was pride and sheer stubbornness that kept Merlin on his feet and at attention while the rest of the cadets and the officers took their rest, lounging on the long spring grass, standing in line at the hastily-erected cook's tent. He could feel himself swaying at times, when his vision would go white and blurry around the edges. But there was never a moment when he wasn't being watched by dozens of eyes – cadet, officer, and agent. It wasn't that he cared what they thought, or that he feared another punishment if he didn't abide by the strictures of this one. It wasn't that he cared about following orders, and bolstering Nathlan's command by obedience was nowhere near a concern.

If Nathlan thought he'd finally break him, wear him down, cause him to collapse or refuse orders where everyone would think it was because he couldn't take any more, the captain had another think coming.

No one had remarked on it, likely because no one knew, but Merlin's eighteenth birthday had come and gone. He was free – technically speaking, the emancipation ceremony was a formality rather than a legality – to walk away, instead of pushing himself to remain upright and at attention, to keep marching in step without faltering.

So why did he do it?

If he did it as a free choice, then it wasn't a punishment, really, and Nathlan could put that in his pipe and smoke it. This form of punishment was just as asinine as his other orders throughout the campaign.

The night was a blur of oblivion. Merlin barely remembered eating anything before falling, almost literally, into a dead sleep, but made up for that lack, taking an extra biscuit from the tray by the cook's elbow as he limped through the breakfast line.

As distracted as he was by the fatigue in his muscles and the pounding in his head, he'd been watching the countryside and guessed they'd arrive in Camelot just before midday, and be back in their barracks for a noon meal. Likely the officers would retire to their quarters, leaving the cadets to clean themselves, their clothing, and equipment, on their own that afternoon.

"Take my shoes, sir," Lance-Corporal Daegal said. He was finished with the cold ham and biscuits that served as their breakfast, while Merlin was still wolfing his extra helping down.

Merlin ignored him.

"Shoes are cheap-made, for sure," the pickpocket remarked, studying the worn soles of his own footwear. "Bad luck yours seem to be the worst of this lot."

The lance-corporal began to unlace his left shoe. Merlin paid no attention, licked his fingers free of crumbs, and pushed himself to his feet, strapping pack and club back into place. He filled his lungs, clenched his teeth, and stood to attention.

"You could change shoes, sir," the blond cadet offered. "Put the left one on your right foot, the right on your left. Might help ease the soreness some, if you won't take any of our shoes."

Merlin didn't move, didn't give any sign that he'd heard. It was true the shoes made for the cadets were straight-last, and could be used for either foot, but it made no sense to him to switch shoes. The sole of the shoe on his left foot had shifted during their weeks in Sage Springs, as the leather had seen lots of hard use and soaking from early-morning dews and crossed streams. One of the nails in the sole had slowly been exposed to Merlin's foot. The lack of rest and the constant pressure of his weight for the entirety of the past two days had lamed him considerably, to the point where he couldn't hide it any more.

But if he switched the bad shoe to his good foot, he risked lameness in that foot as well. And why would he hand it to one of the others, for them to endure their last morning on the road?

He heard one of the other cadets mutter, "Stubborn cuss, ain't he?" to his companion in a tone of near admiration. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the agent pass them on horseback, tip his hat in Merlin's direction.

It was a warm morning, even for late spring, but Merlin noticed little beyond the back of the cadet's head in front of him. He had a mental picture of himself falling, collapsing, tripping the cadet who marched behind him, who'd trip the boy behind him, and so on to the end of the column. Likely the blame for that would fall on him, too.

Or maybe they'd just trample him into the dust and leave him behind.

Above the heads bobbing in step, matching knit caps making differentiation from the back improbable, Merlin caught glimpses of the gate-towers of Camelot. Over the faint buzz constant in his ears since they'd begun marching that morning, he thought he caught snatches of something like cheering, and wondered if it was something the others could hear, too.

As they entered Camelot and he saw folk lining the street four and five deep, he thought sardonically to himself that Nathlan had probably sent runners to spread the news of their return, so he could make a grand entry. Many were leaning out of upper-floor windows, waving scarves, kerchiefs, and all were cheering and hallooing, even the children.

It was the closest Merlin came to walking away from the whole thing since they had been ordered north. He kept his eyes forward and gritted the dust in his teeth, counting his limping, shuffle-stomp footsteps. How many til they reached the barracks? Would he be able to keep upright til then? Blood pounded in his head in time to the pounding steps.

And then he began hallucinating. It was the only explanation he could think of.

Merlin caught a glimpse of a girl in a dark blue or black dress, neat straw hat set atop a hair-covering white cap, not far back in the crowd though not in the front row, her face in profile as she spoke to her companion. For one second he was convinced it was Freya – then he mentally shrugged and told himself it wouldn't be that strange for an unknown Camelot girl to remind him of – but her companion was clearly Gaius the physician of Emmett's Creek.

He was hallucinating.

Merlin turned his eyes to the back of the head of the cadet in front of him, and concentrated on staying upright and conscious. Stomp-shuffle, limp, march. The cheering grew deafening to him in his near-stupor, no words readily distinguishable. The cadet next to him spoke to him, but he didn't understand the words, and didn't look aside to ask him to repeat. Soon the barracks, where he could surrender to oblivion.

It was restorative, welcoming, even if his bunk was narrow and the mattress thin.

If the same warm lassitude that the oblivion of exhaustion brought could be found in alcohol, Merlin believed he might be halfway tempted to slip into more or less permanent drunkenness.

As it was, his sleep was interrupted too soon by one of the runners, the orphans too young to go on missions employed sometimes for messengers between lessons and training.

"Merlin!" he heard from somewhere beyond the fog. "Anybody know where the one called Merlin's at?"

Low murmur followed as several other cadets gave direction to point him out.

Shrill young voice, entirely too close. "You Merlin?"

His eyes opened on the second attempt, and focused in spite of his reluctance on the trouser-legs and bare feet of the boy next to his bunk. He shifted, letting his arm flop over the edge of the bunk, swing once, and fastened his fingers around a handful of the boy's shirtfront. He yanked him close, forcing him to bend slightly. Wide brown eyes and round cheek came into his view.

"Keep. Your. Voice. Down," Merlin told him, emphasizing each word.

The boy ducked his head in a quick nod. "You're Merlin?" he whispered.

"What's the message?" he said tiredly, releasing the boy to use his hand to rub his eyes, his face. His fingers brushed the still-healing split at his hairline, and he winced involuntarily. The boy moved back as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk, ducking his head to avoid cracking it on the one above him.

"They been getting the reports in from the junior officers, and updating records since you all came in this morning," the boy told him. "They got three of you all turned eighteen while you were gone. They're gonna do the ceremonies this afternoon."

"When?" Merlin had bypassed the laundry and the sick room in favor of collapsing on his bunk. His pack lay untouched where he'd slung it against the wall. He noticed that Lance-Corporal Daegal and the blond cadet from his squad had come closer to listen.

"Less than half an hour," the boy said. Merlin raised his head to scowl at the news and the boy, backing away further and bumping into the next bunk, said, half-defiantly and half-apologetically, "You're the last one I could find."

"You want my shoes now?" Daegal offered, grinning. "Mine have been cleaned, at least."

"I've got an extra clean shirt you can borrow," the blond cadet offered.

Merlin rose and pushed his way through the gathered cadets, stalked down the aisle between the rows of bunks. Shouts went ahead of him, and before he left the room it seemed everyone knew he was leaving the corps. Catcalls and congratulations, abuse and encouragement alike met him at the doorway; he gritted his teeth at the seventh hearty back-slap, stepped over the third attempt to trip him, and made his way down the stairs to the first floor.

He detoured to a side-courtyard off the training square where a pair of pumps served a long narrow trough used for washing. He wasn't alone at the trough – no one was ever alone at the barracks – but no one paid him much attention as he scrubbed his hands to the elbow and splashed water over head and face. Drying himself on a dingy communal towel, he limped back into the brick barracks and down the long hallway to the clerk's office and chamber.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

After a quick stop for a cold lunch at a small but neat tavern, Gaius and Freya arrived at the cadet barracks to volunteer services for the returning troops. As no volunteer was ever turned away, they then spent several hours in a small side room where wounds were treated and illnesses diagnosed.

A dispensary and an infirmary were accessible through doors on either side. The regular physician, a thin wiry man whose dark hair was cut as short as the cadets' and whose black eyes carried dark bags beneath them, was glad to see them. He oriented Gaius and Freya to locations of supplies in clipped sentences while the young girl in white cap and apron who was his assistant silently went about her own work.

They washed and bandaged, mostly, smearing cream on deep bruises and open blisters. Not many cuts needed stitching, anymore, though they did inspect one or two minor 'surgeries' that had been performed by junior officers or fellow cadets in the field.

The first cadet Gaius tended, Freya at his side to supply clean water, sponges and bandages, was a fifteen-year-old who looked eleven at most, with wide blue eyes, an easy grin, and a wrist he thought might be broken. Gaius took the boy's hand and gently turned it this way and that, fingering the bones in the swollen, discolored wrist as he did.

"Well, my boy, probably just a sprain," he decided. Binding it firmly and giving him simple instructions for care during healing, Gaius added casually, "Say, we're here to see a friend of ours, a cadet. Maybe you know Merlin?"

"Merlin?" the boy snorted, his blue eyes crinkling in amusement as he unrolled his shirtsleeve over the bandage. "Who doesn't? Fought with half the boys in here his first week. Used to be my lance-corporal."

"Used to be?" Gaius said, glancing at Freya.

She didn't meet his eyes, tried to keep her face calm and serene. How many casualties had they suffered on their assignment in the north? Simply because his name had been on the rolls when they arrived in Camelot, didn't mean…

"Yeah, til he told off the cap'n for some order he didn't wanna follow." The cadet snickered and exchanged glances with the boy the dark wiry physician was examining. "The officers, they don't like hearing truth from a junior, do they?"

Gaius shook his head. "Sounds like our Merlin," he said ruefully. "Do you know where he is?"

"Was he injured?" Freya put in softly, reaching to help the boy button his cuff to cover for her concern.

The blue-eyed boy shrugged. "I ain't seen him since we got back, ma'am," he said. "He might be in this line, though. They were punishing him for something or other again, and never let him rest except for nighttime, the whole march back. I saw him limping, too, though it might've been the shoes. They're not made to last forever." The other cadet snorted as he put his shirt back on.

Freya's eyes met Gaius', and he smiled encouragingly. At least we know he's here, his look seemed to say. And if he also looked eager and pleased because he was anxious to return to his patients in the Creek, who could blame him?

From her place in the sickroom, Freya couldn't see more than three boys down the line, but found herself glancing up expectantly every time a new cadet entered the room. Then there came the moment when the line shifted forward and no one else stepped into view.

"You know a cadet named Merlin?" Gaius asked their current patient, a blocky boy with a belligerent set to his jaw. Freya thought the old physician must have been keeping an eye out for Merlin, too.

The boy unwrapped a filthy, crusted kerchief from his hand. "We ain't friends," he grunted, opening his fist to reveal a slash across his palm, deep and fiery red.

Gaius hissed in sympathy and reached for the cleansing solution from Freya's tray to disinfect the wound. "Do you know where he is?"

"Heard they're getting rid of him today, lucky bastard." His casual use of the word made Freya's ears burn, without even seeming to notice his profanity in the presence of females. The other little nurse's ears were red below her cap, too, Freya saw. "He'll be down to the clerk's office, then, sooner or later."

A/N: I suppose I should mention, since people got excited about Lancelot's inclusion – this is just a bit of a cameo for him, in part 2; he'll be back in part 3 with a bigger role to play…