Life continues apace.

It doesn't seem that it should, and yet it does. Arthur feels as though it should have halted, held its breath, remained still for the enormity of what had happened, and yet when they return to Camelot, his duties are still waiting for him, everything continuing on as if his world hasn't been tipped out of kilter.

Merlin, for his part, doesn't mention it again and goes about his duties with a diligence that's more suited to George than him. Arthur watches him sometimes, musing on the fact that Merlin has the ability to summon a whirlwind, yet he sits and polishes Arthur's armour by hand and washes the floors on his hands and knees. He doesn't chatter on like he usually does, either, and he does, for once, keep a civil tongue.

It's maddening.

He doesn't know precisely when or how it happened, but he's come to…perhaps not enjoy, but at the very least welcome the constant noise and general impertinence that Merlin brought with him. He's never met anyone with that kind of nerve before, and it's somewhat of a relief to know there is at least one person in this castle who won't mince words and talk circles around unbecoming subjects.

"Merlin," he says, a week into their strange stalemate, when his manservant is setting out his clothes for the banquet tonight.

"Sire?"

He looks up from the crop reports Father delivered to him—it's been a good year, they'll have an excellent harvest for once—and laces his fingers together beneath his chin. "I've never had even the slightest impression you minded my temper. Do me a kindness, and don't start now."

Merlin's mouth twitches slightly. "Yes, sire."

The guest they're currently entertaining is actually from Nemeth, Rodor's kingdom. He's a minor lord, truly, but his lands are directly upon the border of Camelot, and the mountain pass that straddles the two kingdoms, their main trade route. Therefore, it is in their best interest to keep the man well-pleased.

Arthur is tasked with occupying the man's daughter, Regeane. She's a few years his junior, near six-and-ten, and he finds her exhausting to say the least. She's obviously well used to having people catering to her on account of her father's importance, a haughty, demanding little upstart. When he mentions as such, Merlin gets a grand laugh out of it, though he can't understand why. He also doesn't understand why it's his duty to occupy her and not Morgana's or honestly anyone else's. It's not as though he has anything even remotely in common with the diminutive harpy, and Father would never even entertain the idea of a marriage with the daughter of a minor lord when King Rodor has a perfectly unwed daughter of his own.

Still, at the feast, he does his best to make conversation with Regeane, though he finds the pitch of her voice grating. She turns her pert little nose up at almost everything served, and she makes a sour face at the young singer who performs for them, though Arthur quite enjoys the song.

Over the strange days of stalemate, he's forgotten, however, not to attempt to drink whenever Merlin is standing near to him and makes the mistake of doing so. Merlin chooses that moment to lean closer and murmur lowly about Regeane's father—a corpulent and rather self-possessed man with a tendency to prattle on endlessly about the inanest of things—speculating about the nature of his relations with his wife and the likely paternity of his children. Arthur promptly gets wine in his nose laughing and goes into a sneezing fit for it, earning him no small number of bemused glances.

He does manage to learn, however, that the young Lady Regeane does enjoy hawking. Arthur isn't much keen on falconry, given that the birds never like him, eternally biting at his hands, so he does a bit of groveling to convince Morgana to accompany him on a hunting party the next day. They make a picture of merry pageantry, the ladies in their fine light gowns, lordlings in their bright summer colours; flasks and waterskins are passed back and forth, laughter and wagers exchanged. Patient cadgers carry the birds of prey, and beaters and bird-dogs forge ahead to flush quarry. Given they are in the midst of the fence months, they are not hunting deer, only birds and small game. So Arthur is, in a single word, bored.

Merlin is made to walk alongside Llamrei; he would've ridden the Hellion, but Arthur had ordered him not to, the prat. Servants aren't supposed to have their own horses, Merlin, he'd said. He carries the prince's crossbow in one arm, quarterstaff slung over his shoulder, and he glances up at the prince. "You look as though you'd rather be counting up grain stock," he remarks in a low voice so the rest of the party couldn't hear.

"I would," Arthur agrees unhesitating, proof of how miserable he is; he hates doing sums.

"You don't like Lady Regeane?"

"Mm. It's not that I don't like her, exactly, it's just…" He pauses and hums a little. "No, that's about the sum of it. I don't like her."

Merlin snickers, flicking his gaze up to the front of the party where Regeane rides alongside Morgana, curly chestnut and glossy black hair shining in the sunlight. He can't see their faces, but he can tell from the set of Morgana's shoulders and back that she's not enjoying the other girl's company, either.

He reaches down and ruffles Allegra's ears, loping alongside him. She's is the only coursing hound of the lot, not exactly suited to their purpose, but Merlin's loathe to leave her behind. No sooner than he thinks of it, one of the beaters flushes a hare, sending it bursting from the long grass in great, powerful bounds propelled by the strong hind legs. Without a second's hesitation, Arthur calls, "Allegra, hunt!" After so many hunting trips with the prince, the wolfhound has learnt to respond to his voice as easily as Merlin's, and she lunges forward into the chase.

It sows utter chaos on the field.

The hare doubles and zigzags in a blind panic, streaking between the nobles and attendants with Allegra in close pursuit, a grey-furred streak, and by some stroke of luck, a covey of partridge flushes from the underbrush at the same moment. Horses shy and jostle their riders with no few exclamations of alarm. Hawks batter the air with their wings, straining at their jesses and uttering sharp cries. Everyone seems to be shouting at once: gentry, attendants, guardsmen.

Arthur laughs, a deep, full-throated laugh that Merlin's not heard from him since the boar incident nearly four years past now, laughs until he's bent double in his saddle for it, shoulders shaking. Merlin can't help but laugh as well, realising that he had done it on purpose, delighting in this small act of mischievousness. "Good girl, Allegra," the prince gasps out when the hound comes loping back to them, the hare dangling limp from her jaws. "Good girl!"

Ahead of them, Regeane gives a disdainful sniff and turns away with hauteur.

When Lord Self-Important and the oh-so-delightful Regeane finally depart, Merlin says his thanks to Maiden, Mother, and Crone alike. She truly is an awful little thing, and Arthur is wretched in her presence, as is…well, everyone. Even the unfailingly noble Lancelot had been hard-pressed to remain courteous. And yet, he's almost sorry to see her go as well, for her presence had given him and Arthur a small measure of common ground back, and it departs along with her.

Merlin carefully runs a whetstone along the edges of Arthur's sword, thinking on it. In a part of his heart, he wishes that Arthur had never come to Ealdor with him, that he'd never told the prince of his magic and had kept the secret of it. But he had, and it could not be undone. Now the knowledge of his magic lies between them, deep as a chasm, and he does not know how to bridge it.

He wonders how long they can carry on this way before something gives beneath the pressure.

Merlin comes within a hairsbreadth of gashing his hand open on the sword when the chamber door slams open and Arthur comes striding in. "Pack your things, Merlin!" the prince declares.

His stomach knots up, and he sets aside the whetstone. "Where am I going?"

"Silverpine."

"Sire…"

Arthur turns to look at him and scowls when he sees Merlin unmoved from his seat, clapping his hands briskly. "Come on, Merlin, get up, we need to leave as soon as possible!" he orders, snatching a tunic out of the wardrobe and throwing it at him.

"We?" he repeats dumbly.

The blond gives him a flat, unimpressed look. "Yes, Merlin, we. We are going to Silverpine, so collect your things and tell Leon to have our horses prepared. I had to get Father well in his cups before he gave me permission to leave, so we need to go before he sobers enough to recant," he says, striding over to take the forgotten sword from Merlin's hands and pull him up to his feet, propelling him forward with hands on his shoulders. "Hurry up, will you?"

Baffled, he does as he's told. Why Arthur would suddenly decide to make a trip to Silverpine is beyond him, or why he would take only Merlin and Leon with him. A part of him dreads to think that they're about to be quietly released from service to the crown and bid not to return, but he doesn't think Arthur would be quite so exuberant if that were so.

"What do you suppose all this is about?" Leon asks, stifling a yawn as he helps ready the horses.

"No idea. He seems…excited, though, so perhaps something good."

"Here's hoping, then."

Their…unusual departure from Camelot means they arrive in Silverpine just after moonrise the next night, much to the sleepy bemusement of the Lady Evaine; Sir Lionel wasn't there, away with the senior members of his guard to handle rumours of slavers on the border. Still, they are welcomed in gladly and shown to chambers so they might achieve at least some sleep.

The next morning, Arthur wakes on his own, early enough for it to still be cool and quiet, the household only just beginning to stir. When he glances out his window, he's surprised to see Evaine outside in the garden; dressing quickly, he makes his way out to her, walking quietly past the other rooms.

"Good morning, Lady Evaine," he greets, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, which the garden is located directly behind.

"Ah, good morning, my lord. Forgive me," she remarks, brushing her hands off on the already dirtied apron she wears over her gown before walking over to him. "I had to tend to my subjects. Behold my kingdom, your highness," Evaine declares, making a grand, sweeping gesture towards the garden. "I am mistress and absolute monarch of all I survey here, peerless queen of the earth, arbiter above all, ultimate judge of who lives and who dies." All this, she intones in an exaggeratedly solemn voice, but when he glances at her, the stern expression cracks into a broad smile, the same one that her son inherited. She brushes her hands off again, though it does little good. "Did you need to speak to me, my lord?"

Something in her tone is quietly understanding, and he arches an eyebrow at her. "Do you know what I mean to speak of?"

She gives a soft, amused sound. "Leon writes to me often. I know a great many things."

Arthur sighs and looks out at the garden, shaking his head slightly. "Then I envy you, my lady, for I feel as though I know nothing at all," he admits in a low voice.

"Mm. Is that why you've come here so suddenly, then? To relearn in a new light?"

"I hope to." People are most comfortable on their own ground than another's. He would sooner be outnumbered by an enemy within Camelot's borders than have the greater numbers outside them. The damage done between himself, Leon, and Merlin can be repaired, or at least so he hopes, but it will be easier healed here, surrounded by their own. If it leaves him vulnerable, then so be it. "I just…I don't know how to."

Evaine is quiet a moment, leaning over to pluck an unsightly leaf from one of the plants, rolling it between two fingers. He can smell the heady fragrance of it. Basil. "How old are you, my lord?"

"I—one-and-twenty," he answers, taken aback by the question.

"Then there you have the answer," she announces. When he stares at her in blank puzzlement, she smiles again. "You're young. Go be young. Have fun as young men do. It is the Prince who makes them nervous, so try instead to be Arthur for a time. That is who they trust, who they have faith in. Remind them of it, and only know…" She opens her hand and shakes her head, contemplating the dirtied lines on her palm. "Only know."

"Know what?"

"Yourself, my lord. It's a very good place to start."

Arthur stares out at the garden for a time, silent as he turns her words over in his head. To hear it put as such…it sounds so simple, yet he's almost certain it's not. "You have a lovely garden, my lady," he says at last, unable to think of aught else to say.

"Thank you. I have never been able to embroider, I've never gone hunting, and I have a mild fear of horses as well, no matter how illogical it might seem. However, I have always enjoyed this task, no matter that some might look down on it, and I am lucky to have a husband who does not mind if I sometimes come to bed with dirt beneath my nails." She looks at him sideways, a smile playing about her lips once more. "Would you like to help me collect some for supper? Hilde will be making pork roast, and I know what herbs she needs. This is the best time of day for them, after the dew's dried and before they lose their savour to the sun."

"On one condition," he replies, and she arches her eyebrows. "If I do, will you call me Arthur?"

Evaine chuckles and reaches into the deep pocket of her apron, taking out a pair of shears; she presses them into his hand. "Here. Rosemary, basil, thyme, and sage. We'll need a sufficiency of them to stuff the roast."

"How much is a sufficiency?" he asks.

"A sufficient amount, of course." She gives him a perfectly mild look, then chuckles. "Go on. Think on what I've said and meet the rest of my friends, for by learning them and their uses, one can turn even a peasant's fare into a delight fit to charm princes and kings alike. Don't be afraid to cut anything, either, for nothing noxious grows in my garden."

He wanders out into the garden, looking about with no small bit of wonder. Each type of herb is contained in carefully separated sections, the plants all standing at attention beneath the gentle morning sun. He could see from the occasional bare patch of soil between the herb plants that no weed should dare raise its head in here. Holding the shears in hand, he goes to the task of collecting the herbs she'd listed; he has never seen the plants themselves whole and intact, but he knows enough of their taste and scent to recognise them anyways.

When he returns to the kitchens, the sun has climbed a fair measure, and Evaine is up to her elbows in bread dough, forming it into loaves alongside an older woman he can only assume is Hilde, the cook. He sets the herbs out on a clear bit of table space. Once she'd finished with the dough, Evaine steps over to examine his selections. "Basil. Regular as well as cinnamon and clove. You noticed the difference?"

"I did. Forgive me if I cut too much, I don't want it to go to waste."

"No, of course not. The cinnamon and clove will do well for baked apples we'll have for dessert tonight. Have you ever had baked apples stuffed with sweet bread?" she asks, and he shakes his head. Evaine chuckles. "You'll never forget it, then. Now let's see what else. Clary sage, hm. Interesting choice. Long-stemmed thyme. Ah, a touch of rue. A hint of bitterness to take the sweetness out of a wine sauce. Well done. We'll see if any of it goes amiss at supper tonight."

Arthur's instantly alarmed. "You're going to trust my choices?"

"Of course. How else does one learn?" She chuckles at the look on his face and pats his arm. "Have no fear, I shan't let you poison us. I have it from here, and I shan't make you my scullion. Why don't you go find the boys? Like as not, they'll be in the east courtyard this time of morning. It's where the guardsmen like to spar."

"Thank you, my lady." He leaves the kitchen, makes his way towards the east courtyard, and sure enough, as he draws closer, he can hear the familiar sounds of sparring—the clatter of staves, the ring of swords, the swearing and shouting of men. The east courtyard, a broad stretch of open grass, has been made into a kind of small training ring. Just as Evaine said, Merlin and Leon are standing off to one side, watching two of the guardsmen spar with oak staves, pointing out their different forms.

"Seven hells, what a woman!" Arthur exclaims aloud, staring at another of the observers. "Nobody told me you grow giantesses here as well as pine trees."

The woman in question is unusually tall, standing of even height with Leon, and she's built like an ox as well, broad and well-muscled. Hearing Arthur's words, she straightens up and turns to face him with a laugh. "Well met, highness. My name is Mhera. I'm the lieutenant of the Silverpine guard." At the look of shock on his face, she props her hands on her hips. "What's the matter, my lord? Not used to seeing a woman doing something other than gossiping and embroidering?"

"Sir Lionel allows women in his guard?" Arthur asks, stepping closer. He has to tilt his chin up slightly to meet her eye.

"Aye. Anyone who can wield a sword and throw a spear is welcome to join. Lord de Galis is wiser than some. Do I frighten you, highness?"

He smiles, a sharp baring of teeth. "Not at all."

Mhera chuckles as she gazes down at him. "Are you certain of that? I find most men are afraid of a woman who can fight better than they can. And you…you're prettier than both my sisters. Perhaps you should wear the gown and I the mail."

"Do you give challenge?"

She shrugs her broad shoulders. "If you aren't afraid to lose to me, of course."

The Prince of Camelot might have been. Arthur wasn't. "Not at all."

Mhera grins broadly, tossing her mane of red hair. "Very well, then. A challenge it is. A wrestling bout. Two falls out of three, victor claims a prize from the other. Do you accept?" She extends one hand.

Arthur grasps her arm, squeezing tight; it makes him grin all the more when she tightens her own grip in return. "I do."

Quickly, the other guardsmen begin to make space in the courtyard, moving aside the training weapons until there's a decent amount of open space. They all gather around the edges of the courtyard, gleefully trading jests and bets amongst one another. Merlin climbs up to sit on top of stacked cider barrels repurposed for targets to have the best view.

"Do you think Arthur will win?" Leon muses, climbing up to sit beside him, though from the smile he sports, he has little faith in his prince.

"Maybe one bout. Not all three," Merlin replies happily. If it had been a match of swordsmanship, then Arthur would've won, but not wrestling. Mhera had taken Leon in wrestling bouts when they were younger, and he'd never bested her, neither had any of the other guards or young men who thought to test her.

"Simple rules," Mhera says. "Pinned to a count of three or yielding ends the bout. Two falls out of three wins it. Stand ready?"

"Ready."

No sooner than the word leaves his mouth, Mhera charges him, shoulder forward, tackling Arthur to the ground. He hadn't expected her to be so brash, and the impact coupled with her full weight knocks the wind from him. The moment of shock gives Mhera the chance to straddle his chest, pinning his arms with her legs and bracing a forearm across his throat. Merlin almost pities the prince, watching him struggle under her, but finds that his mirth far outweighs any sympathy. They all chant the count aloud; the moment they call three, she releases him and backs off. Arthur rolls to his feet, rubbing at his throat. "One for me," she chuckles.

The second bout goes more slowly. She isn't fool enough to try the same charge twice, and if he had underestimated her before, he surely didn't now. The two circle each other for a span of heartbeats, and then they're both in motion, grappling at each other roughly, seeking purchase, trying to force the other off-balance. Abruptly, Arthur gives ground, backing up a broad pace, and Mhera staggers from the sudden lack of resistance. He takes the advantage to get behind her and hook an arm around her neck. Mhera tries to pry his arm away, throwing her weight back against him; he holds fast, squeezing tighter. She drops her hand and pats his thigh. Arthur releases her, getting to his feet. "One to me," he says breathlessly.

The third bout is almost as swift as the first. Having better measure of each other, neither play any games nor try to test each other again. Mhera tackles Arthur down rough, but ready for it this time, he doesn't give her the chance to pin him. The two roll across the ground, grappling roughly for the upper hand as the onlookers cheer and shout encouragements. For a brief second, it almost seems as though Arthur has her pinned, but then she twists, breaking his grip. Mhera rolls over him hard and manages to get her legs around Arthur's upper body, pinning one of his arms and trapping the other above his head. The muscles in her thighs tighten as she squeezes hard, compressing the air from his lungs. Arthur's face turns a few interesting colours, and he does some fruitless struggling before finally giving in, patting her leg. Mhera laughs as she releases him, pushing him away and rolling to her feet. "Well, my lord, that's my two out of three falls."

"Indeed," Arthur wheezes, rubbing his chest. She extends an arm to him, and he grasps her hand, letting her pull him up. "Very well done. What would you have as a prize from me, then?" he asks with surprising good grace. If Merlin didn't know any better, he'd even say the prince was quietly delighted.

"Hm." Mhera cocks her head, thinking on it for a moment. Then, she steps forward and catches him by the shoulders, ducking down to kiss him full on the mouth. "There! A prize for you as well as me, my lord!" she exclaims, eliciting a round of laughter from the observers.

"Enjoying yourself, sire?" Merlin asks as the prince walks over to them.

"Surprisingly yes," Arthur laughs and makes the attempt at dusting his clothes off, though his attire is well beyond help by now, smeared with grass and dirt. Grinning, he turns and looks at the brothers. "Well then, what shall we do?"

Arthur can count on the fingers of one hand how many times in his life he has given himself leave to well and truly have fun. He's always been painfully aware of his responsibilities to Camelot, since he was old enough to comprehend the meaning of the word. The summer he had first come to Silverpine had been done a-purpose, meant to begin building connections to his future knights. This, however, is different. This is him needing to be able to breathe, just a little, relieve this weighted sensation that's been laying over him since Ealdor.

As if knowing it, Leon and Merlin give no quarter, and the three of them run roughshod over the countryside. There's no harm found in it, merely an excess of high-spirited exuberance. And why not? Evaine has the right of it. He's one-and-twenty, a young man. Is he always to be a prince, never himself? He finds his relief in Silverpine, and he also finds a surprising streak of wildness in Leon, the most dignified of his knights. In Merlin it's scarce a surprise, but to see it unleashed is another thing.

They go exploring caverns, scaling crags, and swimming in the lakes. Silverpine might not be the largest of holdings, but it seems to expand inward unto itself, running deep rather than wide. There are cave systems that have never been charted and stretches of forest and mountain that have never been explored. Within the boundaries of Silverpine, they seek to outwit the border guard; outside it, they devise ways to outwit their own men-at-arms, running off on their own. It's hardly as if they are in danger here, where scarce anyone recognises him, and he delights in the freedom of it. Saddling their horses, they ride out to the very borders of Silverpine and go stealing into the neighbouring lord's orchards, making off with saddlebags full of stolen summer apples and a small cask from one of the distilleries. Not cider, Leon announces gleefully when they breach it, but something called applejack. Arthur's never had it before, but he finds it wonderful.

And also quite strong.

They drink themselves sodden and sleep where they fall, which happens to be in the Lady Evaine's garden. None of them quite recall arriving there. Sir Lionel wakes them the next morning with a bucket of water drawn from the well and employs the assistance of Mhera to drag them out to the courtyard and dunk them in the fountain, fed by snowmelt from the mountains, clean and icy-cold, until declared passing sober.

Apparently, staging small raids upon neighbouring estates is a common pastime in Brechfa. It's largely done by young men like themselves, and the thefts are usually a few sheep or goats, or small casks of cider and perry, small things that give no cause for blood-feud. Arthur finds it splendid fun and wishes that more nobles would share in the practice instead of bringing every petty dispute to the crown.

A storm moves in, dousing them in rain for three days unending, swelling the lakes and rivers and curbing their adventures, but only slightly. Sir Lionel, he discovers, prides himself not only on his skill with weaponry but on ingenuity as well, and Evaine is firmly of the belief that a sharp mind outweighs a sharp sword. Arthur is far too old to sit through lessons and sums again, but they had different kinds of studies here.

His favourite is the blindfold game. They would begin at the library, don blindfolds, and wander through the manor house for an hour, making what observations they can without use of their sight. Merlin and Leon have him at disadvantage, given they grew up in the manor and have long since memorized its layout, but he finds it enjoyable either way. The first time they play, he feels somewhat foolish wandering about with hands outstretched, but the first time he tries not to, he bloodies his nose by walking face-first into a wall. He wonders if they might find a way to play it in the castle, too. He knows his way around the castle with ease, but he's never attempted it blindfolded.

By the time they're due to leave again, Arthur is genuinely grieved to go, but he also feels more at ease than he has in months, settled more securely in himself. The part of him that had ached since Ealdor no longer pains him so. The hurdle he had built in his mind is nowhere near as high or vast as he'd imagined it to be, and the terrible uncertainty ceases to plague him. Magic might not sit well with him yet…but he doesn't see how someone who gets laughing drunk off a thimbleful of applejack and braids crowns of pine needles and flowers for small children can possibly be evil.

"Where's that brother of yours gone off to?" he asks the day before they intend to leave.

"Ah, he'll be in the wood, sire." Leon turns and points in the direction of the treeline. "Just go straight on from here, you'll come to a clearing with a yew tree. He always goes there before leaving."

Arthur heads out in the direction Leon had pointed.

The pine forests give the estate its name, growing tall and close. There's little undergrowth, as not much sun can penetrate the heavy canopy of dense needles, and the air is thick with the scent of resin. He can see the clearing Leon had spoken of, and sure enough, there is a great white yew tree growing in the middle of it. There are several paces of open space around it on all sides, as if the rest of the forest is giving it a respectful berth. "Merlin?" he calls, walking up to the tree, not seeing his manservant anywhere about.

Something semi-hard and damp thumps off the top of his head. "Ow!" he yelps, taking a step back. He tilts his head up, peering into the branches, and swears aloud when he sees Merlin perched high up in the branches, grinning hugely. "You're not funny," he says, looking down at what'd hit him: an apple core.

"According to you, sire," Merlin counters, swinging his feet in empty air. "Would you like to come up?"

"Uhm…" Arthur eyes up the branches doubtfully.

Merlin gives him an unimpressed look. "You can't tell me you've never climbed a tree before."

"I have!" Only twice, and not since he was a child, but he has, damn it. Galled, he steps around to one of the lower branches and starts climbing. This certainly isn't any of the well-maintained, trimmed trees in the castle gardens, but the thick, gnarled branches are capable of supporting his full weight at least, creaking only slightly when he steps on them. He makes the mistake, however, of looking down. "This is as high as I'm going," he declares, straddling a thick branch and putting his back against the trunk, grasping the limbs tightly. There's higher walltops in Camelot, certainly, but walltops are not so easily fallen off of, and there certainly isn't a dense tangle of sharp wooden branches underneath them ready to impale the unlucky faller.

Chortling, Merlin drops down to sit on a branch almost level with him. "Apple?" he offers, holding one out. "It's one of the ones we stole."

"Sure." He takes a bite, juice running down his chin, and leans his head back against the bark, looking out at the forest through the yew branches. "What are you doing out here?" he wonders.

"I was giving tribute. Smell the brandy?"

Arthur had smelled perry brandy, but he had assumed that the fool was out here getting drunk again. "Tribute. To whom?"

"The Old Ones."

"Old Ones," he repeats, taking another bite of the apple.

Merlin offers a hint of a smile, running his hand along the bark. "Yes, Arthur. I'm a creature of the Old Religion," he reminds gently; it's the first time they've directly spoken of the subject of magic their return from Ealdor. It doesn't hurt as much as Arthur thought it might. "I give tribute to them, as their power is my power. They showed me how to make your sword, you know."

He hadn't known. "Truly? How did you do it, then?"

Abruptly, Merlin seems to grow somewhat cagey, shifting his weight on his perch. "It's a…complicated process. Magic of such power is very intricate."

He doesn't quite meet Arthur's eye when he says it, which immediately makes him suspicious. He narrows his gaze at the younger man. "Simplify it for me. What did you do?"

Merlin hesitates again, but Arthur flicks a piece of bark at him, silently demanding an answer. "The wraith was a creature of death. A weapon powerful enough to defeat it needed to be imbued with the force of life," he begins, rolling an apple between his palms. "And that kind of power requires…sacrifice to achieve."

The word sends a chill down his spine, and in the back of his mind, he hears an echo of his father's voice speaking of magic's corrupting force, nightmare tales of maidens and children slaughtered in exchange for power. "Sacrifice. What manner of sacrifice?"

As though somehow knowing what Arthur is thinking, Merlin scowls at him. "Not anything like what you are thinking of. A sacrifice of life, not death. In simplest terms, blood. A great deal of blood, as it is one of the cornerstones of life. I had to make an offering of blood, and I quenched the blade in it. That's what gives it its power."

Arthur thinks on the strange ripples in the steel and the reddish cast of the metal. "Whose blood did you use for it?" he asks; Merlin's gaze slides away from his again. "Merlin. Tell me," he orders sharply. He couldn't imagine Merlin ever asking Leon to do such a thing, even if it wouldn't kill him. In fact, he can't imagine Merlin asking anyone to do such a thing. He stares at the younger man. "Did you…Merlin, did you let your own blood?" he asks in horror, then notices that his manservant is rubbing at his left arm, and he snatches at Merlin's wrist, yanking the arm towards him and shoving up his sleeve. Running up the inside of Merlin's forearm is a pink scar, almost perfectly straight. A clean cut, narrow too, made by something small. Like a throwing knife. "Gods' mercy, what the hell were you thinking?"

Merlin yanks his arm back with a scowl. "I wasn't about to ask someone else!" he snaps, straightening out his sleeve. "Besides, the blood of a sorcerer carries power of its own."

"So you bled yourself like a stuck pig?" Arthur demands. "Are you entirely mad? You could have very well killed yourself!"

"My mother and my uncle are physicians employed by the King. I know how to cut into the body without causing permanent damage. Besides, the spell wouldn't have worked if I died, now would it?"

"That is hardly the point," Arthur grumbles, shifting his weight on the branch. "Just…don't do it again, alright?"

"I have no intention to, believe me. Arthur." He turns his gaze up to the younger man. "I couldn't tell you before, but the sword holds a magic of its own. In the wrong hands, it has the power to do great evil. I forged it for you and you alone. Don't let anyone else wield it. Please."

"Could you not simply destroy it, if you created it?"

"No. What is made cannot be unmade. But I'll conjure it into the deepest pit of the ocean before I see it used wrongly. Will you give me your word that you'll keep it safe?" Merlin asks.

Arthur recalls the way the wraith had screeched when he ran it through, the smoke and the smell of the grave. "My word," he agrees. "I'll not let another wield it."

"Thank you. Did you need something?"

"Huh?"

Merlin gestures around them. "You came out here looking for me, and you usually only ever bother looking for me when you need me to be your dogsbody."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "No, I was coming to tell you that we're leaving tomorrow and to make ready," he replies.

"Oh, that I knew. I have my things packed."

"Mine aren't."

"Ah."

Chuckling, he tosses the apple core at the other man's face. "Come on, then. Let's go inside."

Merlin jumps down from the tree with ease, landing neatly on his feet as a cat might. Arthur doesn't quite manage it so gracefully, swearing as twigs catch at his clothes and hair, and he doesn't so much as drop down as he does fall. But he manages, to a great deal of snickering. "Shut up, Merlin," he grumbles, shoving against his shoulder. As they walk back towards the manor house, Arthur glances out towards the glimmering lake. "Remember the last time we were here, you and I?"

"I do."

He chuckles. "What was it you called me? A…'mewling little princeling.'"

Merlin glances at him sideways. "And do you remember what you called me?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"You're…apologising? For something you said to me near ten years past?" The young man snorts. "Well, at least now I know that you are actually capable of speaking the words without your tongue shriveling and your teeth falling out, so I'll accept it."

"Good. And I forgive you as well."

"For what, exactly?"

Arthur turns back his sleeve and holds up his left arm. It's faded over the years, of course, but when he tilts his arm, a jagged double-crescent mark is visible on his inner arm, easier seen in the sunlight.

"Maiden have mercy." Merlin puts a hand over his face, the tips of his ears turning bright red. "I didn't bite you that hard!"

"Oh, yes, you did! It itched, too. I was certain you'd given me some horrible disease, you know! I was afraid Gaius would have to bleed me with leeches or something else wretched."

"Shut up, you ass, I did not have a disease, and I never have!"

"So you say!"