Merlin comes to waking all at once, sitting upright and immediately regretting it as the world lurches around him. He leans to one side and retches onto the leafy ground, tasting bile in the back of his mouth. As the dizziness fades, he reaches up to touch the back of his head where a sharp, throbbing pain is focused, wincing as he touches a raw spot, hair sticky with blood. There's a stinging pain in his thigh as well, and as he stares at his leg in puzzlement, the memories crash back onto him in a rush.

The weather had turned cold earlier than usual this year, a brisk chill moving in as summer faded into autumn, but today had been pleasantly mild, one last gasp of warmth before the cold came in for good. Arthur had suggested one last good hunt before they all became occupied with the harvest and the preparations for winter. They had started off in a larger party with several other knights and nobles, but as was wont, they split up into smaller groups and spread out in search of game. Leon, Merlin, Arthur, and Lancelot had ended up on their own, venturing far off from the others. They'd stopped to rest the horses, and Arthur had followed Merlin down to the river, idly complaining about harvest time being one of the worst times of year for raiders and bandits. As if summoned by his words, an arrow had come hissing out of the undergrowth from the opposite bank, striking Merlin square in the thigh, a thankfully pathetic shot. He'd scarce had time to shout before at least a half-dozen men had come charging down the bank for them. He had been drawing his magic to him when a terrific blow caught him from behind, sending him collapsing into darkness.

"Merlin? Merlin, can you hear me?" Lancelot asks, summoning him back to the present. From the tone of his voice, it's not the first time he's said Merlin's name trying to gain his attention. The other knight is crouched on his heels beside him, one hand on his shoulder. His other arm is bound up in a makeshift sling made from his cloak, held close to his chest, and just a few paces away, there is Leon, but...

"Arthur, where's Arthur?" Merlin demands, struggling to his feet despite Lancelot's attempt to keep him seated. Standing makes him dizzy all over again, but he manages it, ignoring the bright spots around the edges of his vision. "I said, where is he?"

"They took him." Leon holds up both hands as the younger man rounds on him, hands in fists and a shimmer of gold dancing through his eyes. "Hold, Merlin!" he warns. "He's all right. We can still get him back."

Merlin narrows his eyes. "All right? How can he possibly be all right if he's been captured?"

"Because of this," Lancelot interjects, calmly stepping between the brothers. He holds up a slightly crumpled scroll of parchment, handing it to Merlin. "It's a ransom note, addressed for Uther. We caught a rider bearing for Camelot just before you woke. Arthur's been taken by a man named Hengist, he leads a band of outlaws."

"But—"

"If Arthur has been taken for ransom, then he's going to be all right, because you can't very well trade a dead hostage," Lancelot insists, overriding Merlin's protest. "And I've heard of this Hengist before. He's not an idiot, and he will know that if Arthur is killed, then Uther will stop at nothing to avenge him."

Shoving a hand back through his hair, Merlin paces away from the pair of them. The pain in his leg and head is already fading as his magic works subconsciously to heal it, driven by the sickening knot of worry and fear in the pit of his belly. He unrolls the parchment and reads over the crudely scrawled words. Lancelot's right. It is indeed a ransom note for the king, demanding a payment of gold to be delivered to the Vale of Denaria in exchange for the safe return of Prince Arthur. There's a slight weight rolled up in the bottom of the parchment: a gold pin wrought in the shape of a sun, a tiny piece of sunstone in the centre. Merlin closes his hand around it, feeling the points of the rays digging into his palm.

Turning on heel, he marches back over to the other two. "The rider, where is he?" he demands; Lancelot points to an unconscious man propped up against a tree, lashed firmly to it with a length of rope, also looped around his ankles. He'd been so still, Merlin hadn't even noticed him before. Snatching up his quarterstaff and one of the waterskins, he walks over to the man, pulls out the cork, and pours water over his head until he comes awake with a startled, sputtering gasp. "Where is Hengist?" Merlin demands, not bothering with niceties.

The outlaw squints up at him, dripping water and looking rather like a half-drowned rat. He's probably not even six-and-ten, Merlin realises, a small spark of pity lighting in his chest. The boy spits out a few choice words, and that spark gutters out. Twisting his quarterstaff sharply, he smacks the boy atop the head with it. Not enough to do him real harm, but enough to set his ears ringing for certain. "Hengist! The Prince! Where?"

The boy shakes his head a few times, blinking dazedly, then mumbles something indistinct. Merlin bends at the waist to hear him. "What was that?"

"He'll kill me," the boy mumbles out.

"I'll do worse to you than that. Look at me." Merlin waits until the boy's gaze lifts to his, his magic surging up against his skin. The ropes tighten around the boy's wrists and ankles, biting deep into his skin, and he knows from the terrified whimper that his eyes have gone gold. "Speak, or I will lay a curse on you." He points the end of the quarterstaff at the boy's chest, then moves it lower until it's level with his belt. He doesn't actually know how to make a curse, at least not in practice, but nobody knows that but him.

"There's ruins! An old castle," the boy gabbles out, his face turning the colour of old porridge. "Past the Vale of Denaria. Hengist made it his stronghold."

"Good lad. How many men?"

"I dunno, I swear. A lot, though. A whole lot." He swallows hard, eyes wide and fearful. "Was…was that really the Prince they caught?"

Merlin stares at him. "Are you saying you didn't know if it was him or not?"

A rapid head shake. "Hengist has never seen him, just heard about him, said we oughta come look in the Darkling Wood." The boy squirms in his bonds. "You're not gonna curse me, are you? I told you all I know, I swear. Hengist don't tell me anything, I'm just a runner, that's all, I promise, I swear, I—"

"Swefe," Merlin says with a flick of the wrist, and the boy sags in his bonds, chin dropping to his chest. Straightening up, he turns to look at Lancelot and Leon. "Well, then. What do we do?"

Leon heaves a deep sigh and waves them both over. Kneeling on the ground, he sweeps aside a bit of leaf mat to expose a patch of soil. Taking up a twig, he scratches a rough map into the soft soil. "I know the ruined castle the boy spoke of. There's only one to be found beyond the Vale of Denaria that's suited to be any kind of stronghold, maybe a half-day's ride from the vale," he explains, gesturing with the twig. "However, if Hengist does have enough men, then it cannot be easily taken by force."

"Should we take the note to the King, then?" Lancelot suggests; the brothers shake their heads in unison.

"Uther will not pay the ransom. He's far too proud, and he would sooner send soldiers than gold. It'd be a slaughter, and Hengist will certainly kill Arthur the moment fortune turns against him." Leon snaps the twig in his hands, scowling.

Lancelot sighs, resting his chin on one knee as he stares at the map. "What do you suggest, then? It's not as though we can walk in there and kindly ask for him back."

Having sat quietly whilst they spoke, Merlin suddenly lifts his head, eyes widening. "What if we could?" he murmurs. Leaping to his feet, he whistles for the Hellion and quickly mounts up. "I have to go back to Camelot. I know someone who can help us. The two of you wait here for me in case Hengist sends another rider, and I'll be back in a few hours." Without waiting for an answer, he turns the Hellion about and puts heels to her flanks, sending her into a gallop.

Lancelot and Leon both stare after him with mouths agape, wondering what in the gods' name just happened.

Arthur paces the length of his cramped little cell for what feels like the thousandth time, rubbing at the lingering bruises on his wrists from the iron manacles. His dagger has been taken from him, along with anything even remotely close to a weapon, even his belt and his silver bracelet. Beneath his frustration, he's almost flattered that they think him so dangerous. He's actually grateful that he didn't have his sword on him; none of these brutes can get it. The sword holds a magic of its own. In the wrong hands, it has the power to do great evil. He doesn't even want to imagine what kind of evil a man like Hengist would be capable of doing with it.

Not for the first time, he wonders why Father's not sent some kind of response to Hengist. A dread little corner of his heart whispers Father won't come for him at all, but he's done his best to bury it deep. It's been days. Arthur knows the man's patience won't hold out for very much longer. He's more curious as to why he's not seen hide or hair of Merlin yet, as the fool boy has made it quite clear that he would sooner walk barefoot across broken glass than let Arthur handle anything even remotely dangerous on his own. He wonders if Merlin has magic great enough to defeat so many men. Arthur's not sure how many Hengist has under his command, but from the noise he can hear filtering through the small grate at the top of his cell, there's a fair number.

Liquid splashes down into the cell from the window, and Arthur jerks back from it in disgust, wrinkling his nose at the smell of sour wine, glaring upwards. The narrow window is set high in the wall, but as the cell is set a level below, the window itself sits floor-level to the great hall above. He'd thought to climb through it when he was first locked in, but even if it were not barred, the opening is far too small for even a child to fit through, never mind a grown man.

Suddenly he hears a great uproar of noise from the hall, and then Hengist's resonating voice rises above the clamour, "Look here! At long last, our awaited guest has arrived, the King's messenger boy!"

Arthur inhales sharply, suddenly wishing he hadn't been so damned insistent on being treated a prisoner rather than a guest. However, if he gets on the cot and stands on his very toes, he can just peer through the narrow grate into the hall; by a rare stroke of luck, he has a clear view of the envoy. The man can't be more than ten years Arthur's elder, perhaps five-and-thirty, wearing finery suited to a middling noble. His hair is twisted in a knot at the nape of his neck, an ivory hairpin thrust through it. Arthur's never seen him before in his life. No member of court, that's certain, but who else would his father send as an envoy?

"And which one of Uther's lapdogs are you?" Hengist asks cheerfully, no doubt in good spirits now that his demands are clearly about to be met.

"My name is Dara," the man replies. "And I am no King's lackey."

All at once, the temperature of the hall seems to drop, and Arthur's heart seizes tightly in his chest, the faint stir of hope vanishing. He grips the edge of the stone window hard, trying to pull himself up to see better.

Hengist leans forward in his seat, glaring at him. "What did you say?"

"I said I serve no King, but I am here for your prisoner."

With a sharp jerk of his arm, Hengist draws a knife from his belt and slams it point-first into the tabletop. The blade is old and ill-cared for, pitted with rust, but the edges of it are honed fine, glittering deadly keen. "I suggest you start talking sense before I have your tongue out here and now," he snarls.

Dara merely lifts his eyebrows, unperturbed; definitely not a courtier, Arthur decides. "Very well. Will you hear my terms?"

"I have already set terms, and Uther had best meet them if he wants to see his little princeling again."

"I am quite certain King Uther would be glad to meet your terms, my lord. If you actually held the Prince hostage."

The entire hall goes silent. Hengist stills. "What?"

His legs are starting to ache from standing on his toes like this, and he shifts his weight impatiently, trying to listen.

Still wholly calm, as if he is not in very real danger of being fed to a wilddeoren, Dara continues. "I am the proprietor of an establishment in Camelot called the Pavilion, and the man you hold hostage is not the Prince. He is an employee who I would like to have returned. I'm certain you and your men have been patrons of mine at one point or another, and if not mine then another's. Our profession is…quite widespread, after all."

Arthur nearly falls off the cot. Surely he's not heard that correctly. Surely he did not just hear the proprietor of a brothel claim him to be a courtesan. Surely not.

Hengist leans forward in his seat, gripping the knife hilt so tightly his knuckles turn white. "You lie. We didn't snatch him off his knees in some back alley. He was out in the Darkling Wood, with two nobles and a servant besides. How do you explain that, if he is not the Prince?"

"Hm. Why ever would a courtesan be out alone in the wood with two men and a servant?" Dara cocks his head in a parody of thoughtfulness. "No, you are right, I simply couldn't fathom." He gives Hengist the sort of look one would usually give a particularly slow-witted fool or an ignorant child. "No ransom has been forthcoming, has it? Nor any other response to your demands?" He spreads his hands before him. "Why do you think that is? Because Uther is laughing at you, my martial friend, safe in his shining white castle with his son at his side. Why would he give you so much as single copper for one of my workers?"

Hengist stares at the other man for long moment, eyes narrowed. "And how do I know you aren't lying?" he asks at last.

"I believe you know I am not."

The hall is utterly silent for a span of heartbeats as the two men hold each other's gazes, a silent contest of wills. Finally, Hengist says in a deeply suspicious tone, "Describe him, then, if he is one of yours."

Dara sounds supremely bored with the entire conversation, yet he sighs and obliges. "About so tall—" He sketches a gesture in the air right at Arthur's height. "Shoulders like an ox, hair the colour of honey, and a mouth made for sin. And an abominable temper as well. I will accede he does bear passing resemblance to the Prince. Matter of fact, it makes him a favourite amongst my patrons, but if he is a royal, then I am the Fisher King."

Hengist's unhandsome face flushes several interesting colours, his enormous fists clenching hard. "If what you say is true, then why should I not just kill him now? And you with him, for that matter?" he demands.

The other man's cool demeanor doesn't waver a degree. "Dead men tell no tales, and dead courtesans earn no gold. I have a patron in Camelot who is…passing fond of him and asks for no other. He's given to me a rather handsome sum to deliver to you in exchange for his safe return. Not as much as you planned to extort from the King, certainly, but enough to make it worth your while. Killing him or myself will get you nothing. You're a passably intelligent man, Hengist. Some gold is better than no gold, is it not?"

"I could kill you anyways. This ransom of yours can't be all that far, now, can it?"

Dara gives him a languid smile. "You could try if you wish, but I assure you, one does not ascend to where I am now by being a fool. I can take him and leave, and you will have your ransom, or you can kill us both and have nothing but two corpses. It is up to you."

Again there is nothing but silence in the hall. Not a single chair squeaks, no leathers creak. Finally, Hengist leans back in his chair, shoving the knife back into the sheath on his belt. "Take your whore, then. One of my men is going to accompany you, make sure you pay what you owe. You try to cross me, and I'll feed you to the beasts in these caverns one piece at a time," he warns, the weight of his tone making it abundantly clear exactly which piece of them he would start with.

Arthur lets out a breath he hadn't realised he held.

One of the men, the one with keys to the dungeon, stands up and escorts Dara out of the hall. Hastily, Arthur climbs down and instead sits on the cot, listening to the faint murmuring coming from the hall above him. Over the sound, however, he can hear footsteps, two sets, coming down the corridor towards his cell, the blessed sound of jangling keys. The door swings open.

Dara's impressively calm façade doesn't give away the slightest flicker of emotion upon seeing him, except perhaps a sort of exasperation. "It would seem sending you on assignation outside the city walls is a mistake not to be repeated," he observes dryly; Arthur ducks his head and does his best to appear contrite. Dara claps his hands together once, like a lord summoning his attendant, then turns and walks away. Knowing a cue when he sees one, Arthur leaps to his feet and makes to follow.

The gaoler catches hold of his arm when he tries to pass, however, drawing to a sharp halt. "Perhaps we oughta hold onto this one a little while longer. He's prettier than half the whores in Mercia."

Arthur gives brief thought to breaking the man's arm, but before he can even draw away, Dara is at his side. Quick as a flash, he snatches the pin from his hair and puts it beneath the gaoler's chin. The ivory is ornately carved at one end, made into the likeness of flowers, but the other end is sharpened to a point lethal as any dagger. "Patrons pay me for our services. I do not pay them," he says coolly.

The gaoler drops his hand.

"Wise choice." Dara turns and walks away once more, sliding the pin neatly back into his hair, which somehow hadn't fallen down when he removed it.

Stepping out into open air after near four days in a rank cell is a near staggering experience. Arthur draws in a deep breath that doesn't carry the smell of sour wine, cheap ale, or unwashed bodies. The breeze is cold, but he's glad of even that. There's a man waiting at the gates, at least a head taller than him, the haft of a great battle axe shoved through his belt. "Our escort to the ransom, I imagine?" Dara says idly, as though greeting a passing guard; the massive man jerks his chin. "And I'm certain you have orders to dispatch us in a most gruesome and efficient manner should we attempt subterfuge? Splendid. Shall we go? I hate to leave my business unattended overlong."

Any doubt Arthur has as to who would ever be mad enough to concoct this mummer's gambit evaporate when they leave through the gates of Hengist's fortress. Tethered to the remnants of what had once been a wagon is that damned spotted horse, the infamously ill-tempered Hellion. Merlin. Of course. Of course. Arthur didn't know a single other person with the nerve to cast him as some…woman of the night. The moment they are back in Camelot, he is going to lock that little wretch in the stocks for a month.

"Do you have a horse, or shall we walk?" Dara asks of the man as he unties the reins. When he gets nothing but a glower in return, he nods. "Then walk we shall. However, I would suggest you fetch one of those pack mules, unless you intend to carry it all back yourself."

When the man turns away, Arthur casts a glance towards the Hellion, glancing over her saddle; Merlin keeps a spare dagger in his kit, always has. A hand touches the small of his back, just the slightest pressure. He looks to Dara. The other man is still watching the mercenary, but the impassive calm of his expression is message enough. He stays where he is.

The mercenary returns leading a rather pitiful-looking mule, and the three of them start down the trail on foot. Arthur keeps glancing at the woods to either side of the path, wondering where Merlin is, where Leon and Lancelot are. Surely they must be close, they wouldn't leave this to chance. Still, they walk on and on, and he sees neither hide or hair of them.

Abruptly, Dara stops, and the mercenary narrows his small eyes, one hand coming to rest on the haft of his axe. "Easy, dear fellow. We've arrived." He hands the Hellion's reins to Arthur—gripping his hand hard and tight in silent warning—then walks over to a cluster of thick shrubbery on the wayside. Shoving back a tangle of woody limbs, he leans down, grabs hold of something, and seems to pull back a section of the ground. No, not ground. A blanket, now of indeterminate colour, laid over a quickly-dug pit and covered over with leaf litter and topsoil so as to be invisible. Arthur's impressed despite himself. No fool, indeed. In the shallow pit lay four bulging sacks.

The mercenary strides over, crouching beside the hole. Arthur can't see past his broad back, but he knows the man must certainly be opening the sacks, seeing if they were truly full of coin and not grain. When he straightens again, Dara gives him a perfectly cordial smile. "And thus, our business is concluded," he declares. With that, he turns and walks back onto the trail. Taking the reins from Arthur, he puts one foot in the stirrup and pulls himself astride; the Hellion snorts and stamps, tossing her particoloured mane impatiently. He nudges her forward, slow enough that Arthur can keep up on foot so long as he doesn't drag his feet. The mercenary lets them go without a word of protest, hauling the sacks over to the mule.

Once they've ridden a fair distance down the trail, surely far enough to be out of earshot, Dara pulls the Hellion to a stop and laughs aloud, shoulders slumping. "And that is how one does it," he chortles. He jumps down from the saddle and turns to Arthur with a smile. "I'm glad to see you unharmed, your highness."

"Merlin sent you?" Arthur demands.

"Indeed. He's rather clever, isn't he?"

"Oh, he's certainly something, namely a fool, and as soon as I get my hands on him, he'll be a dead fool."

Dara raises his eyebrows but doesn't comment.

"And you, you're actually paying them?" he demands, pointing back in the direction of the fortress. "Are you out of your mind?"

Dara offers him a small, dry smile. "Of course not. There is a glamour cast on those sacks, your highness. A temporary illusion. When Hengist and his men open them, they will indeed see a great deal of wealth. For about two days. After that, the illusion will fade, and they will see that they have been paid with nothing more than stones from yon riverbank. By which time we will all be safe within the walls of Camelot, well beyond their reach. Come along. The others are waiting for us just ahead."

Arthur stares after him a moment, blinking at the casual mention of magic, then follows. Sure enough, Merlin and both of his knights are waiting around a sharp curve in the trail, their horses tied up, along with an unfamiliar grey palfrey that must be Dara's. The moment he and Dara come into view, Merlin lets out a victorious whoop, leaping to his feet. "I told you it would work, did I not?" he crows.

"If any of you breathe a word of this to anyone, I swear, I'll have all three of you in the dungeons for a month," Arthur snarls as he marches over, shoving aside the still-laughing young man to untie Llamrei.

"Oh, hell," Lancelot grumbles.

Arthur's grateful at least one person takes him seriously, but it dissipates when he sees Lancelot toss a silver coin apiece to Merlin and Leon. Unbelievable.

He manages to hold his tongue as they ride past the Vale of Denaria and all while they make camp at the foot of the mountains. They could have saved a day by going through the caverns, but after having seen several men eaten by wilddeoren, he has absolutely no desire to try the venture. Once it has gone fully dark, however, and the others are all asleep, Arthur can't keep silent. Striding around the fire, he gives Merlin's side not-so-gentle nudges with one boot until he wakes. When drowsy eyes finally focus up at him, he props his fists on his hips, glaring down at his fool manservant. "You do just leave them strewn about, don't you?" he demands.

"Huh?"

"People who know entirely too much about you."

Merlin smiles a little. He sits up, gathering his blanket around his shoulders, and gestures to the empty space beside him; still glowering, Arthur sits down. "If you are talking about Dara, then I didn't tell him anything," he reassures in a low voice. "I've never done magic in his presence, either. He simply…knows. I don't know how. Perhaps he has gifts of his own, I couldn't say. But he is a friend, and he has never done anything to make me believe that he means harm. In fact, he does a great deal of good for the crown."

Arthur stares at him. "How on earth could the proprietor of a brothel do any good for the crown?" he asks.

The young man smiles, that sly little smile that doesn't show teeth or dimples, which Arthur has come to recognise as a mark of deviousness. "Because a number of his people can boast of positions in the royal household," he replies. Arthur nearly leaps to his feet in disbelief, but Merlin's hand seizes his arm, holding him still. "Calm. They mean no harm. They turn their attentions on Uther's many visitors. Dignitaries from other kingdoms and such. You would be surprised how a man's tongue will wag when sotted, sated, and sleepy. As I understand it, Dara has been privy to at least three plots to sow discord in times of peace, and given that none have come to fruition, I would say that he's been quite successful in halting them."

Arthur's mouth opens and closes, foundering for words. He can scarce believe what he's hearing, and yet the calm, matter-of-fact way Merlin says it gives no evidence of a lie or jest. He glances across the fire at the sleeping man, scowling, and resolves to question him tomorrow. "How do you know him so well, then?" he asks instead. He can't imagine Merlin ever visiting a bordello; the thought alone twists something unpleasant in his gut.

"Not the way you're thinking," the younger man replies with a smile. "He owns the Cockerel as well as the Pavilion. We're friends, nothing more. You could thank him, by the way. He's only out here because I asked, and he took a great risk going on his own," Merlin adds with a pointed look. He nudges Arthur with an elbow. "Get some rest. I'll take watch. We'll be back to Camelot tomorrow, and since I came up with the plan to have you rescued, you can come up with a convincing lie for the King."

The next morning, as they break camp, Arthur walks over to Dara as the other man is saddling his horse. His hair is unbound, falling in loose waves just past his shoulders, the colour of hammered bronze. "Forgive me if I was ungracious yesterday," he begins, somewhat awkward, not quite certain how exactly to conduct himself. It's not as though he often spends time in such company; however, though he'd never admit it in so many words, Merlin is right. He'd acted the ass. "I was…not in the best temper, and…" Dara smells nice, he notices absently. Like orchids, something earthy and sweet. Mentally shaking himself, he says in a passably steady voice, "You saved my life and managed it without a drop of blood spilled. I'm in your debt."

"That's a pleasant place to have you," Dara replies, rolling out the words deliberately, eyes sliding up and down the length of him, and to his utter chagrin, Arthur feels himself flush to the roots of his hair. "It's no matter, your highness. I imagine that Merlin has told you about the work I do, aside from the obvious, of course. I made an offer of such to the King once. My assistance, not my services," he adds at the look of quiet horror on Arthur's face. "He refused, of course, because what worthwhile aid could a mere courtesan offer a sovereign?" His deep gaze slides over Arthur once more, but more in the way one might measure up a potential opponent. "One hopes that his heir will learn from his mistakes."

"Why?" Arthur wonders, regaining his voice at last, though it comes out rougher than he intends.

"Camelot is my home as much as it is yours. Do you think I do not care for it simply because of what I do?" Reaching in the pocket of his coat, he takes out his hairpin, holding it up. The top of it is ornately carved, a cluster of tiny anemones, artfully tinted with colour to imitate the flowers. "Your father did exactly what near everyone else does. He sees only the surface of things—" A deft twist of the fingers, and the hairpin is reversed in his grip, showing the deadly-sharp point. "—without bothering to look beneath. But I believe you know a great deal about how deceiving appearances can be." Placing the pin between his teeth, he gathers up his hair with both hands, neatly pulling it back and somehow tying it in a knot around itself so it stays in place, then jabs the pin through as he had yesterday. Just like that, it seems mere adornment, not a weapon.

"More every day," Arthur murmurs under his breath, wondering how he manages it so tidily and if his hair is as soft as it looks. "I…I'd be glad of your aid."

Dara smiles once more, but this time there is something genuine in it. "Good to know." He reaches into a pouch at his belt and withdraws something small, pressing it into Arthur's palm. It's an ivory token, no bigger than a gold coin; etched in subtle relief on each side is an anemone flower. "Show this to any of my people, and they'll bring you directly to me, in case you ever need my assistance. Or anything else," he adds slyly.

Another flush of prickling heat washes through him, and Arthur can do little more than stammer nonsense, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He manages something passably close to a 'thank you' and hurries back to Llamrei, stumbling over empty air. He manages to miss the stirrup at first attempt, and he's glad to have the wind in their faces when they head out, able to blame his flush on the cold.

Father isn't at all pleased with their extended absence, though Arthur manages to make a convincing story of pursuing a white hart and forgetting to send a message in their haste to keep its trail. It works, at least in part. Father orders him to take an extra shift on patrol, but suggests they might go hunting for it together another time.

He does put Merlin in the stocks, too. But only for a day. Just on principle.

"Enjoy yourself?" Arthur queries brightly when Merlin comes into his chambers.

The young man gives him a sour look, his hair still curling with damp, a faint smell of vegetables and soap lingering about him. "Immensely, sire," he retorts.

"Good. Since I've had an extra round of patrol this week, my chainmail will need to be cleaned again. My boots, too."

Merlin makes a rude gesture recognised the world over, muttering under his breath about exactly what Arthur could do with his chainmail and boots. He gathers up the offending items, throwing them all in a sturdy basket along with his laundry, but stops when he turns towards the door. "Oh, here. I nearly forgot." Setting down the basket, he crosses the chambers, dips one hand in a pocket, then reaches up to tug at Arthur's collar, the tip of his tongue between his teeth. His knuckles brush the underside of Arthur's jaw, rough and warm. "There. Hengist sent it with the ransom note," he says with a grin. "I meant to give it to you earlier, but it must have slipped my mind when I was being pelted with cabbage."

Arthur touches his collar, confused, then understands when his fingers brush the familiar shape of the sunstone pin, still warm from Merlin's body. Hengist had taken it from him with his bracelet and dagger, neither of which he'd recovered; he'd quietly despaired of losing it. "Thank you."

"Lose it again, and I'm keeping it," Merlin threatens, the curl of his lips belying his words.

Arthur swats at him, and the young man ducks it with a laugh, darting away. He exhales a slow breath as Merlin leaves his chambers, having to lean back against the edge of the table. First Dara, now Merlin... At this rate, they'll kill him faster than any outlaw.