Tap-tap-tap.

Merlin wakes slowly, confused as to why he's awake in the middle of the night, a splash of moonlight on the floor of his chambers; a shadow flutters across it. He sits upright as the tapping sound that had woken him starts again. Swinging his legs out of the bed, he crosses to the window and conjures a small blue flame in his palm.

There's a raven perched on his windowsill outside, tapping its beak against the glass. The soft glow gleams off a spot of colour, and he unlatches the window, pulling it open. With a rustling of feathers, the raven hops onto the inner sill, cocking its sleek black head at him. Looped around one of its legs is a slim braid of brightly-coloured threads with tiny polished beads fastened to the ends in place of bells—Druid work. It's fastened to a piece of folded parchment as well.

Merlin carefully loosens the knotted thread and pulls the parchment free, unfolding it and bringing his light closer to read it. It's written in ogham, confirming his suspicion that it is from the Druids. As he reads over the message, he finds himself smiling. "Stay close, my friend, I'll be back," he says to the raven, which ruffles its feathers and squawks at him.

Quickly, he scrabbles into his clothes; once dressed, he hurries as quietly as is possible out of the townhouse, making his way towards the castle.

It's almost painfully easy for him to get around the guards and up towards Morgana's chambers. He's not sure if he's merely been in the castle so long that he's grown familiar with their movements or if it truly is just that damned easy to do. Either way, he manages to get all the way to the chambers of the King's ward without being seen or stopped by a single person.

It's Guinevere who opens the door when he knocks, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with one hand. "Merlin? What are you doing here, is something wrong?" she mumbles, taking a step back to let him in.

"Wrong? Not at all. Something wonderful, actually," Merlin replies happily. "I'm here to talk to Morgana, will you wake her for me?"

"I'm awake. Byrne." The candles all flicker to life, casting a soft illumination into the chamber as Morgana rises from her bed, pulling a silken robe over her nightgown. "What is it, Merlin?"

He holds out the small note with a smile. "It's a message from the Druids. They're asking you to visit them. There's an ollamh who wants to teach you how to master your visions."

She takes the parchment from him and studies it a moment; he's been teaching her ogham. "An ollamh?" Morgana repeats, fumbling over the word.

"It's a title given to a teacher of magics, someone of great knowledge," he explains. "Supposedly all of the great ollamhs were killed in the Purge, when Uther first began hunting the Druids and destroyed the Isle of the Blessed. I didn't even know there were any left alive. She can teach you to walk through your visions on your own, control them, helped you make sense of the images you see."

"Truly?" she asks softly, eyes widening in amazement and budding hope. "They can teach me?"

"Yes. I can't because I am no seer, but the ollamh can." He reaches out to take her hands in his. "This is an opportunity afforded to few. We'd be fools not to take it."

Gwen interjects gently, "But how can we possibly leave to visit the Druids without the King knowing it?"

Morgana says a few words which a highborn lady has no business knowing. Merlin snorts despite himself. Guinevere does have a point, and it is a very real hurdle to overcome. The King prefers to keep his ward close to him, and on those few occasions when she does leave Camelot, she is always sent with an escort of trusted knights who would certainly tell their sovereign if they led her into a Druid camp. If she left without telling him, however, then no doubt he would believe her abducted by some malignant sorcerers and deploy the entire royal army to find her.

"I'm certain we can find a way between ourselves," Merlin reassures, then pauses and smiles a little at Morgana. "We could always ask Arthur."

She makes an exasperated sound, dropping her head into her hands. Though the prince is aware of their magic, Morgana isn't always eager to tell him about it, and despite having become incrementally more comfortable with magic, Arthur doesn't always want to hear about it. Merlin expects its more to do with some stubborn, lingering bit of loyalty to his father than actual unwillingness.

"Arthur knows more about escaping the King's notice than most," he chuckles. Rubbing a hand over his face, he sighs and pushes himself out of his chair. "Well, I am going back to bed before anyone realises I'm here, and if we can't come up with something feasible, we'll tell Arthur."

Morgana scoffs, waving a hand. "Oh, nonsense, you're not going anywhere. Once is luck enough, you're certain to be caught. Stay here and wait for the guard shift, and you can tell me more about this ollamh." When he opens his mouth to protest, she holds up a hand to halt him. "I know very well that my virtue is not in any danger from you, Merlin, so kindly hush and sit down."

He doesn't know all that much about ollamhs apart from what he's read in his books and the few words he's coaxed out of Gaius, but he tells her all he can. They are Druids of the highest rank, equal to a king. In the years before the purge, it used to be that an ollamh had a seat upon the king's council, in Camelot and many other kingdoms as well. Similar to High Priests and Priestesses, they provided guidance in many matters and educated younger generations, which is exactly what they were offering to Morgana.

"You're still my ollamh, Merlin," she says with a smile, grasping his arm.

Merlin shakes his head a little and scratches the side of his neck. "No, no. They have to study for years and years to gain their ranks, and I'm not much of a teacher, am I?"

Morgana doesn't release his arm, squeezing his wrist gently. "Nonsense. You came to me when I had no one, and you threw me a rope when I thought I would drown. So no matter what happens, Merlin, even if this ollamh teaches me everything there is to know about my visions, you are and always will be my best teacher." She laughs softly at the deep flush that's spilling up the sides of his neck into his face and ears; reaching over, she ruffles his hair as she's seen Leon do, and he makes a weak noise of protest, brushing aside her hands.

The three of them continue to speak quietly amongst themselves as they try to conjure a way to leave Camelot without gaining the King's suspicion. Morgana suggests she might pretend to visit Tintagel as the duchy is hers in everything but name, but Gwen reminds her that Tintagel's gentry often visited Camelot and would give away the lie. Any other place she might go, Uther would surely send a honour guard of knights to protect her. "I wish I had been more of a rebellious child," she grumbles, chin propped on her fist. "Arthur runs off on his own all the time, and nobody says a word of it. If I tried to do the same, Uther will have half the army out searching for me within a day."

"Oh, please don't start running off," Gwen implores. "I've seen what poor Merlin has to withstand chasing after Arthur all the time."

Morgana snorts. "Yes, well, I have an advantage over Arthur in that people do not immediately wish to kill me upon first meeting me."

"True."

Their continued plotting comes up with very little results, and soon they're all putting out the most outlandish ideas simply to make one another laugh, having to stifle the noise in their sleeves and hands lest a passing guard or servant hear them. By the time the window begins to brighten with dawn's early light, they have very little to show for their efforts. "I suppose we'll have to ask Arthur, then," Morgana sighs, admitting defeat.

"I can put the question to Leon as well, and Gwen can ask Lancelot. They're cleverer than they like to pretend," Merlin suggests as he stands and stretches. He brushes some of the creases out of his clothes, glad that he'd thought to dress before running up here. He can go directly to Arthur's chambers and not have to try and run back to the townhouse. Once Morgana runs her comb through his hair a few times, he's declared free to leave.

Guinevere stands at the door to the chambers, peering out into the corridor. "Ready?" She glances out the door, then waves a hand to him; Merlin quickly darts out and takes several wide paces down the corridor, putting himself a fair distance from Morgana's chambers. Once he slows to a more sedate pace, Guinevere walks over to join him, perfectly idle, as they go down the stairs towards the kitchens. If anyone saw them, they would seem like just another pair of servants fetching breakfast for their master and mistress. "I'll tell Lancelot what's happening when I see him," Guinevere says in a low voice.

"And I will ask Arthur...after he's had his breakfast," Merlin adds, taking the tray in hand, leaving the kitchen to the sound of her laughter.

Surprisingly enough, Arthur is awake when Merlin edges into the prince's chambers, though just barely. He's still in the bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with the heel of one hand. His hair is an utter disaster as always, standing straight out in some places. Not for the first time, Merlin wonders how the hell he sleeps to make his hair look like that in the morning. "Good morning, sire! Up you get, lazy daisy!"

Arthur drops his hand and glares. "Merlin. What have I said about you being chipper this early?"

"Not to be." He sets the tray on the prince's desk and walks over to yank back the covers. It's still warm enough for Arthur to sleep without his nightshirt, and Merlin profoundly wishes for the weather to hurry up and get colder, quickly turning away and opening the wardrobe. "There's something we need to discuss," he says as he pulls out a clean shirt.

"Still don't get it, do you, Merlin? I decide when we need to talk," Arthur replies, sounding marginally more awake as he eats.

"Not in this." Merlin ignores the 'it's too early for your insolence' glare that Arthur gives him and sits on the edge of the prince's desk, snatching a slice of cheese before the tray is slid out of reach.

Once he explains the message from the Druids and the invitation for Morgana to go and learn with the ollamh, Arthur frowns in puzzlement. "What do you expect me to do about it?"

Merlin shrugs. "You've gone off on your own plenty of times."

The blond snorts a little as he finishes off the last of his breakfast. "It's different for me, Merlin. I can take care of myself. Not that Morgana can't, but Father doesn't see it that way. However, if what you say is true, then it is best for Morgana to go to this teacher." He pushes back from his desk and goes to change, and Merlin watches him patiently, knowing the prince thinks best when moving around. Retaking his seat, Arthur rolls his left shoulder slowly, making a face as he works the stiffness out. "What about the Lady Evaine?"

Of all the things he'd expected Arthur to say, that is definitely not one of them. "What about her?" Merlin wonders.

"She never comes to court in Camelot, and she obviously has no issue with concealing magic from others. Are there any other ladies in the household? Does she visit other women?" Arthur wonders; when Merlin shakes his head, he nods. "Then perhaps we could say that she...desires the company of another lady, and as it's been many years since she's last seen Morgana, she's invited the King's ward and her maidservant to visit her at Silverpine for a time."

It's so utterly simple, and yet utterly perfect. Merlin half-feels an idiot for not having thought of it himself. "That...could work," he agrees with a disbelieving laugh. "There's a band of Druids that hold a summer camp in the Forest of Brechfa, right on our borders. Wouldn't the King order an escort, though?"

"Not if I accompany you," Arthur replies, a slight note of uncertainty creeping into his voice. "Usually there'd be an escort of four or five, but I could convince Father to allow just myself, Leon, and Lancelot. He wouldn't want to suggest that the prince and his First Knight couldn't protect his ward, and he wouldn't want to risk offering insult by implying Sir Lionel's men aren't capable, either."

Merlin grins, bouncing a little on his toes. "That's excellent, Arthur, excellent!" he exclaims gleefully. "I can let Gwen and Morgana know, and you can tell Leon and Lancelot when you go to training. I'll send a message back to the Druids. To Brechfa!" Without waiting for any form of response, he takes the empty breakfast tray and all but skips his way out of the chambers, humming to himself.

Arthur stares after him, shaking his head. And then despite himself, he laughs. "Very well. To Brechfa."

The fresh smell of pine indicates they are getting close to the Forest of Brechfa, though for all Arthur knows, they've been riding in circles. Merlin rides to the fore of their little party, having left the trail to Silverpine some time ago and following no discernable path.

"How does he know which direction to go?" Gwen muses aloud as they ride between the trees, following the Hellion.

It's something Arthur has been wondering as well, if perhaps Merlin's able to follow their magic the way birds know how to fly southward in winter.

Lancelot clears his throat, and when they look to him, he turns a pointed glance upwards. Arthur tilts his head back. For a moment, he doesn't see anything of importance at all, but then a flicker of red draws his eye. A knot of red yarn, stretched between the fork of a branch. Curious, he leans back in his saddle, peering behind them, and sure enough, a short way back, another strand of yarn, half-hidden in the dark green of the pine needles. He looks forward, raking his gaze back and forth. There. Red yarn, just a few more paces ahead. Bright enough to be seen by those who knew to look for it, but not so ostentatious as to attract unwanted attention. Simplistic, perhaps, but clever. He couldn't remember ever once looking up at the trees when on patrol before.

"Nearly there now!" Merlin calls gleefully. "One of their elders is coming to greet us."

"Hold a moment, Merlin," Arthur calls; after the others draw rein, he unclasps his cloak and shoves it down into a saddlebag. "You two as well," he says to Lancelot and Leon. He hates having to do it, hates that anyone living in their own kingdom can see Camelot's colours as a thing to be feared, but he knows it's the wisest thing to do. They are here to help Morgana, not to cause a panic.

Riding onwards, they come to a small clearing at the foot of a small, steep hill. There's a man standing there awaiting them, and Arthur knows this must be the Druid elder to welcome them. He looks to be near the King's age, perhaps a few years older by the grey of his hair, dressed in subtly patterned forest colours. There is something very calm, peaceable in his bearing, a quiet dignity which reminds Arthur somewhat of Gaius.

"Iseldir," Merlin says, surprisingly warm as he dismounts. He walks over to the grey-haired Druid and clasps his arm with the familiarity of friends. "It is good to see you again."

"You said we would, did you not?" the man replies with a welcoming smile of his own. He turns to look at the rest of them, folding his hands in the wide sleeves of his robe. "Be welcome, my lady, my lords. And welcome again to you, Sir Lancelot."

Before Arthur can ask how it is Lancelot knows them, something small crashes into his middle, staggering him back a step with a startled huff. "You came, you came, you came," a piping voice exclaims, muffled against his tunic, and the slender arms around his waist tighten happily.

Peering down at a head of dark hair, he finally draws the connection and lets out a surprised laugh. "Hello again, little one."

The Druid boy gives his waist another tight squeeze, then releases him and runs to Guinevere and Morgana, embracing them similarly. He stands between the two women, grasping their hands in his own.

"Mordred has been anticipating your arrival with some enthusiasm," Iseldir explains indulgently. "It was his idea to send a raven with a message for you."

The boy beams. "I'm going to learn with you, too, with Necthana," he adds, looking up at Morgana. "She can teach us how to understand our dreams and even see someone else's and—"

Chuckling, Iseldir holds up a hand to temper the boy's excitement. "Peace, Mordred. You will have enough time to speak to the Lady Morgana in the days to come. Why not return to camp? We'll join you soon. We have some matters to discuss here."

Mordred heaves the deeply put-upon sigh of a child who knows an excuse to be rid of him when he hears one. Releasing Morgana and Gwen, he instead returns to Arthur's side. "Would you like to come see my ravens?" he asks, plucking at Arthur's sleeve. "I've been learning augury, Aglain says I've a natural talent for it. I'm training them."

He glances over at Iseldir. The Druid is already speaking to Merlin and Morgana, and Lancelot is leading the packhorse bearing Morgana's belongings towards the camp with Guinevere, no doubt to say their own private farewells. He's not used to being unneeded, but this is their court, not his own. Arthur also has no idea what augury is, but if it involves training ravens to carry messages, he can assume it's a magic to do with birds. It sounds a great deal less complicated than this matter of visions and dreams, so he nods and opens his hand for Mordred to take hold of, leading him away from the others.

On the other side of the hill, there's a group of some thirty people in the midst of a temporary camp, mostly adults, with a handful of other children. A few give him cautious looks, but Mordred seems to put them at least somewhat ease. The boy tows him over to a slender young pine; there's a half-dozen glossy black ravens perched on the slim branches. Each one bears a colourful jess made of braided cord, but none are bound to their perches. He's not surprised to see there are no cages.

"Here. You can give them some," Mordred says, untying a pouch from his belt and pouring out a small measure of corn kernels into his palm. "I'm getting them used to other people. They'll talk to you, too, if you say hello."

Arthur extends a hand for the boy to trickle the corn into his palm, and he holds it up to the nearest of the ravens, feeling only slightly foolish. "Hello."

It hops closer to him and picks at the corn without catching his fingers. "Hello! Hello!" the bird squawks back, fluttering its wings.

"That's Magus. He talks the most," Mordred tells him matter-of-factly. "The big one up there, that's Calypso. See how he has a crack in his beak? It looks like he's smiling, doesn't it? He's not very nice, though. He pecks."

Arthur smiles as the ravens shuffle around on the branches, squawking and rustling their wings. "They're lovely birds, Mordred."

"I'm glad you came to visit and let Morgana come learn with us. I heard the elders talking, and a lot of them didn't think you would, but I did. They think you're like the King," he adds with a small scowl, brow furrowing, but then he looks up at Arthur with a reassuring little smile. "Don't worry, I told them you're not, I know you aren't."

There is such faith in the boy's voice, a complete and abiding trust; Arthur feels hideously unworthy of it. He rests a hand on one narrow shoulder. "I try not to be," he murmurs. "So, this…Necthana you mentioned. You said she will be teaching you and Morgana?"

"She's an ollamh," Mordred replies with a nod.

Another term he's unfamiliar with, but the note of reverence in the boy's voice tells him it must be someone important. He hopes whoever she is, she will be able to help Morgana with her visions and magic. Arthur pauses and chuckles a little; of all the things he never would have imagined himself thinking…. "I should go back to the others. We can't stay very long, though I wish we could," he says gently, surprised to find it true. "Thank you for showing me your ravens, Mordred. I hope we'll see each other again soon."

Mordred turns and winds arms around Arthur's waist, hugging him once more. "I know we will."

Back on the other side of the hill where they'd left the others, another Druid has joined Iseldir, a elderly woman. She's scarcely taller than Mordred, though she holds herself stern and upright, her hair coarse and grey as a mare's tail, caught in a long braid. In one hand she carries a short staff made from an oak branch. This must be the ollamh, Necthana.

"Bow," Mordred hisses, tugging his sleeve.

He nearly says that princes do not bow, but he sees the pleading look on Merlin's face, the quiet promise of absolute vengeance on Morgana's. Coming to stand before the small woman, he gives a courtier's bow, one he would usually accord another royal.

The corners of her mouth curl the slightest bit, and though it is hard to read expression in the deep lines of her face, he thinks she is amused by him. "Well met, Prince Arthur," she says, gazing at him unblinking. Her eyes are so dark he cannot discern between pupil and iris, polished black stones, and he can see himself reflected in her gaze. "Look at you. All betwixt and between. You have done a very wise thing, bringing Lady Morgana to us."

"It is not the first time Prince Arthur has done us kindness," Iseldir says in an idle tone, placing a hand on Mordred's shoulder; the boy grins smugly.

Arthur straightens up and takes a step back from the diminutive woman. He's not entirely sure what it is she sees in him, but he finds her glittering black gaze unnerving. "We cannot stay, I regret to say, though I wish you the best of fortune." He turns to Morgana. He had planned to simply wish her well and to tell her to send a message when she was ready to return, but it all flies neatly out of his head when she embraces him. For a moment, he forgets what to do with his arms, returning the hug belatedly. He can count on the fingers of one hand how many times she's hugged him like this since they were children.

"Thank you, Arthur," she says warmly. She loosens her grip but catches his face in her hands and plants a kiss on his cheek before letting him go entirely, laughing at his scowl.

Arthur grumbles in half-hearted irritation as he scrubs at the smear of carmine he knows to be on his cheek. Every damned time. "Ask Mordred to send one of his ravens when you are ready to return, and we will come escort you home," he mutters with feigned ill-grace. He gives a small departing bow to the Druids, then returns to Llamrei and mounts up, ready to be off.

Merlin takes a large, oddly-contoured bundle from the Hellion's saddle and gives it over to Iseldir, holding the other man's gaze a moment. He doesn't say a word, but Iseldir's brows lift in surprise. Arthur is suddenly reminded of the rumours he once heard that sorcerers could speak to each other in their minds. The Druid gives a low bow when Merlin steps away, much to his obvious discomfort.

With that, they leave the Druid camp. Arthur glances behind him as they ride back the way they came, Merlin once more leading them through the trees, and finds himself smiling when he sees Mordred leading Morgana in the direction of the camp by the hand, almost hopping with exuberance. The faint sounds of laughter follow them through the forest. They regain the trail quicker than they had left it, and back on the path, Arthur has the idle thought if perhaps he should start keeping count of all the times he's committed treason. He doesn't think he'll be able to keep up for very long. The thought alone should have horrified him, and yet now he finds it only passing humorous. Gods have mercy on him, he's becoming a heretic.

"Well done, Arthur," Merlin says, bringing the Hellion alongside Llamrei and drawing him from his musing.

"Was it?"

"It was. Thank you for this. Truly."

Arthur hums, hoping it doesn't show on his face how much the simple bit of praise means to him, and he quietly despairs of the fact that the opinion of his manservant means more to him than near anyone else's. "What was that you left with Iseldir?" he asks for distraction.

Merlin gives him a small half-smile. "Oh, things."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur swats at him with the end of the reins. "Will you ever run out of secrets, Merlin?"

"Nah, you'd get bored."

"Of a certainty." Glancing back at the other knights, Arthur takes note of Lancelot's quietly forlorn expression, no doubt missing Guinevere already, and he whistles sharply for their attention. "Well, then, seeing as how we've lost our more delicate companions, why not a race? Last one back to Camelot buys the first round at the Cockerel." Turning forward once more, he reaches over and shoves Merlin's shoulder hard, pushing him halfway out of the saddle, then claps heels to Llamrei's flanks. She takes off into a gallop, full-tilt down the empty road, and Arthur laughs gleefully as the others give chase after him, Merlin cursing him all the while.