Merlin hoovered in the center of the big room. The walls were made of a dark grey stone, with a few deeply-colored tapestries draped here and there. The floor was slate, and though a rug had been cast over it to relieve the chill, Merlin couldn't help but compare the compartment to the cave he'd called a home for the past eight years – it was dark (though, admittedly, that may have been more due to the lateness of the hour than to its natural ambiance) and it felt terribly cold.

Perhaps this should have been comforting, since it bore such a resemblance to a place he'd known very well, but it was not. It felt wrong – maybe because this was Camelot, and Merlin had only ever known the life of a servant here. Or maybe because Gaius's chambers, even on the coldest night when hope seemed the furthest away, had never felt empty like this monstrous room.

Merlin shifted his weight, and he thought he could hear the movement. A shiver seized him, and he seriously considered running back to Gaius and crying out his complaint of this foreign room and all of its hollowness. But that would be rude, wouldn't it? Gwen had done Merlin a great kindness when she gifted him the chamber, which, to be fair was a very luxurious one near to her own. The sorcerer knew he should be grateful, and moreover he knew he must be an adult about this change and accept it. Crying was for little boys.

With some reserve, Merlin crossed the room to the large bed which sat in the center of the back wall. His steps echoed, or he thought they did, and it suddenly occurred to him that this is what it felt to be royal – there was such a magnificent loneliness to it. Merlin's heart broke a little for Gwen, who he knew had to bear this burden and bear it alone. And she, not born into a world of large, lonely chambers, must share in Merlin's discomfort.

He sat on the bed, bouncing up and down on it a bit. The sheets were made of silk – Merlin recognized them as a repurposed set that had once belonged to his prince. This struck something in the sorcerer, and he lay down without thinking, feeling the cool smoothness against his skin. How many times had he pulled that silk cover over a bed? Washed it? Folded it? But he'd never, ever slept beneath something so luxurious. The bed was larger than any he'd ever known – indeed in his childhood in Ealdor he'd slept on a mat on the floor – and the mattress was stuffed with feathers instead of coarse hay.

Merlin kicked off his boots, letting them fall to the floor unceremoniously. Without undressing any further, he curled beneath the silk cover and closed his eyes, feeling a bizarre comfort that was not directly attached to the luxury of it all. He drifted to sleep rather unexpectedly. The last muddled, groggy thought that passed through his mind – one which even would have surprised him had he not been so far removed from himself – was that this must be just how Arthur felt every night.

OIOIOIOIOIO

In the forest, right beyond the boarder of Camelot, four figures stalked into a circle beneath the moonlight. Their capes, varying shades of greens and blacks, made them into mere ghosts in the quiet of the night. As a light mist began to fall, the four figures exchanged glances – sharing in one, damning thought: where was their fifth?

OIOIOIOIOIO

"How did you sleep last night?" Gwen asked.

Merlin blinked a few times, sleep still set in his eyes.

"Good, I hope?"

"Yes," Merlin said, rousing himself. "I've never slept so well in my whole life, actually. Thank you, Gwen."

"It's a pleasure, Merlin. You deserve it."

"Well," he looked about him, suddenly feeling the need to cast his gaze anywhere but his friend's eye, "I wouldn't say that."

Gwen let out a little sigh, but spared Merlin any further argument. He knew, of course, exactly what she would say, and she knew how he'd respond. There was really no need for the talk at all, for each could let it play out in their own head with startling accuracy. At length they each smiled at one another, until Gwen saw fit to move away.

Merlin watched her go with some trepidation, realizing in slow steps that he had no idea what he was meant to do with himself for the day. The equinox was tomorrow, and all other things already being prepared his plan was set on hold – what then for the hours that passed in between? Before Merlin had always been kept busy by…

"Gwen," Merlin called.

She turned, recognizing the strained urgency in his voice. Her eyebrows knit and he lips parted just the slightest as she peered back at him from the end of the corridor. "What is it, Merlin?"

The sorcerer suddenly felt silly and regretted his impulse. "I…" he looked about him searching for something clever to say. When no playful words or charming lie came to him, he figured he might as well be out with the truth. "What shall I do today?" The words came out staccato. "Is there anything you need done?"

"Oh," Gwen muttered. It was a small sound, and from it Merlin discerned that the Queen didn't quite have an answer.

"I could…polish something?"

Gwen's face contorted further. "Merlin, you hate polishing."

The sorcerer stretched his toes, raising himself up on the balls of his feet and then falling back to his heels. Gwen recognized the motion as something George sometimes did in moments of impatience, and her heart melted for Merlin. She strode back over to him and then settled into deep thought.

"You could…go for a shave?" Gwen suggested.

"Is the beard really that bad?" Merlin grumbled.

"Do you…like…the beard?" Merlin tilted his head with the cadence of a confused puppy, and Gwen gave the best smile she could muster. "I know," she said at last, "You could help George with his studies."

"His studies?" Merlin said, dumbfounded.

"Yes. His numbers, his histories…"

"Oh." Merlin straightened himself up. "Yes, I could do that, couldn't I?"

Gwen touched Merlin's hand reassuringly, and then she was off to her Queenly duties.

OIOIOIOIOIO

The smell of tanned leather and ink filled the large hall where the Camelot library was housed. George tore through shelf after shelf, shouting like a banshee every now and again, causing the book keeper – who had been old even when Merlin was young – to jump up from his desk and wave his hands about like he was having some sort of fit.

Merlin cast the ancient man an apologetic smile, and the book keeper squinted and leaned towards him. The man had never been fond of Merlin, and though the long, dark beard mostly hid Merlin's face, he had a suspicion that the book keeper was catching on as to who he was. Without waiting for a full realization, Merlin briskly went after George, who was at present making battle with a wooden carving of a beast.

"George," Merlin said. The boy continued to swing an invisible sword at the carving, making the appropriate battle noises as he slashed and parried.

"George." Merlin said again, calling up his most authoritative voice. The boy paused, then made one finally, apparently mortal blow at the wooden beast and declared he'd vanquished it before he turned his full attention to his new teacher. "What have you been learning recently?"

The boy twitched his nose and looked out into the empty space between shelves, as if looking for something that wasn't there. "I don't know," he finally determined.

"You don't know?"

George shook his head decisively.

"Okay," Merlin said, searching for some resolve. "I guess I can work with that."

In the interval that followed, George begun pulling massive, ornate books off the shelf, looking at the covers and replacing them. Merlin watched this for a moment, trying to establish some pattern as to what books the boy was choosing, but could determine no logical cause to his madness. He let out a sigh. Then: "Alright, George, what do you want to learn?"

The boy hefted his most recent selection back onto the shelf and then paused. "I want to learn magic!" he said.

Merlin sucked in a haggard breath of air and felt his mouth fall open a bit. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but that certainly was the furthest thing from it.

"I don't know how your mum would feel about that," Merlin said at last.

"Why? Magic is amazing!"

"Right," Merlin said, feeling a little proud, "It is. But, it's dangerous too, and a very big responsibility. Many people have used magic for the wrong reasons, George, which is why it was outlawed for such a long time."

"Yeah," George said, kicking at the air, "I know granddad outlawed magic, but he was wrong, wasn't he?"

"Well…" Merlin stuttered. He had his own opinions about Uther and magic, but there was the old, familiar fear to which Merlin still clung – who was he, a simple servant, to tell a prince the story of his past, especially when there were so many reasons to be biased? The sorcerer looked around the room, as if the answer to all of his dilemmas could be found among the dust or old pages. At last he said, "George, how is your history?"

The boy smiled. "I know Camelot's first King was Bruta, who united all the five kingdoms in peace and…" he paused, his eyes wandering upward as he waited for the rest of the story to surface in his young, distracted mind. "…and when Bruta was on his death bed, he ordered his servants to take him out into the forest and he took his very own sword and with the last of his life cast it into a rock, where it stayed for years and years and years until my da – the rightful king – pulled it back out again."

The little boy's soft brown eyes sparkled with pride. Merlin's lips parted, but he felt his breath caught in the back of his throat. He shut his mouth, looked at the ground, and then with a knowing smile said, "That's right. Very good."