"I am never letting Arthur send me on long patrol again," Lancelot grumbles. "I leave for scarce more than a sennight, and I return to find that not only did a Witchfinder come to Camelot, he attempted to frame you for sorcery, accused your mother, threatened the Lady Morgana, and then fell from a window after being attacked by that dog of hers. I seem to miss all the excitement."

"Be grateful you did. It was a wretched time. The man had everyone in a fever of paranoia," Merlin replies flatly, poking halfheartedly at the bowl of stewed cabbage before him. He's not eaten more than a bite of it, and he'll have to apologise to Aislinn lest he hurt her feelings.

Lancelot scoffs and takes a long pull from the tankard of ale before him. "Oh, that's good. It's heartening to be home. I never want to spend that many days in the saddle again. Sore as anything." He sighs deeply and stretches his legs out before him. A sly little smile pulls as his lips. "Guinevere doesn't mind helping me with that, at least."

Still fiddling with his spoon, Merlin makes a vague noise.

"Alright." He takes another drink and sets the tankard down, folding his arms on the tabletop. "What is it? Something's amiss with you, I know it is."

Merlin shrugs. "Doesn't matter. There's naught to be done about it."

"Merlin. Merlin. Don't try to play this game with me, please. I know you too well for it. I know your brooding and your secrecy, so—"

"I do not brood."

"—you might as well tell me now or I will sit here and guess at it until I either get it right or I wear you down. Will believes you've become enamored of someone and are mooning over them. He also believes it's the Lady Morgana, but I know you and her too well to believe that. But it does seem fitting. So…love, is it?"

He sighs. "Would you believe me if I said you would rather not know?"

"Perhaps, but part of being a friend is helping to shoulder each other's burdens, even if only by lending a sympathetic ear." Lancelot reaches over and tugs at a curl of his hair, but then his expression sobers, dark eyes solemn. "Come now, feather, I can tell by looking at you that you've not been sleeping." He gestures to the bowl of cabbage. "You're not eating. I've seen men on their way to the gallows with more gaiety to them. Gwen and Will are worried for you, as is your brother. I've not seen the Lady Morgana yet, but I'm certain she is, too. So…will you tell me who it is you're pining after so miserably, or will you leave us to fret in the dark?"

Merlin toys with the change lying on the table, a sense of guilt wriggling its way through the knots of hurt and yearning and sorrow that've coiled up inside him like twining serpents.

He's done his very best not to think of what had happened between him and Arthur the night of the Witchfinder's death, though with very little success. He'd been cross and tense about all that'd happened, unable to dissemble when Arthur had grabbed him, an unexpected surge of desire roaring up inside him amidst all the other conflicting emotions. And Arthur, standing so near, had seen it. He'd seen, and he'd sent Merlin away. And he'd gone to the Pavilion. The memory of Arthur staggering into his chambers, rumpled and bleary-eyed, smelling of sex and wine, is painful to linger on, and the sight of red nail-marks and scratches down Arthur's back…. Merlin tastes bile in his mouth to think on it overlong.

He doesn't want to tell Lancelot. He doesn't want to tell anyone, really, more content to wallow in his own quiet misery. Except it's apparently not as quiet as he had believed, if the others are so concerned about him. "Lancelot, if I tell you, will you do me the courtesy of at least trying not to laugh at me?" he asks. One of the silver coins is an old one, probably dating back to the early years of Uther's reign, worn and softened by time.

"Of course."

He balances the coin on edge and sends it spinning with a flick of his fingers. "Arthur."

Lancelot's jaw drops. He stares, eyes wide, blinking rapidly; his mouth opens and closes a few times without speaking. The coin spins, slows, falls onto its side. He clears his throat, then takes another long drink of his ale. "You know," he says as he sets the tankard down again, "somehow, that is not nearly as funny as I thought it was going to be."

"My thanks for that," Merlin says wryly.

"Arthur," Lancelot repeats uncertainly, as if not entirely sure they're speaking of the same person. "Prince Arthur? Arthur Pendragon?"

"Yes, that one."

He runs a hand back through his hair, sweeping it back from his face. "I…I don't…. How? And why?"

Merlin drops his head to the table with a thump. "I don't know why, Lancelot!" he groans miserably. "Swear to me you won't tell anyone else about this, please. Not Guinevere, definitely not Leon," he insists, and once Lancelot nods, he takes a deep breath, reaches over and grabs the knight's tankard, taking several hasty gulps. He's found that it definitely helps to be at least somewhat drunk whenever he has to look at this…unfortunate situation directly. He'd have asked for wine, but he imagines Lancelot would appreciate the story in complete and intelligible sentences.

Giving the ale a moment to sink in, he spills out the entire pathetic story without going into great detail, head resting on his folded arms. It does make him feel slightly better. He can admit that Lancelot is right in what he'd said about friends sharing in burdens. He can't tell Leon—Maiden's mercy, no—Guinevere is too near a sister, Morgana might put a snake in Arthur's sheets, and Will…Will is no friend of Arthur's. They can be cordial enough in each other's presence, but they're not friends. He'd sooner let the rest of the knights use him as a target in an archery session before bringing this to Mother or Gaius.

Lancelot gives him a dubious look, raking a hand back through his hair again, a nervous gesture on his part. "I'm not laughing, Merlin, but…you understand it's hard to fathom?" he says, and Merlin nods. He wouldn't have believed it, either. "So…what are you going to do?"

Merlin clutches at his hair. "I don't know. I don't know," he groans. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, eyes closed tight against the unexpected prickle of tears. Damn it, this is exactly why he doesn't drink.

What can he do? It hurts to be near Arthur now, to look at him and know. And yet how can he leave? His family is here, his life. It might not be home—home doesn't carry the imminent threat of execution—but he can't just abandon everything simply because he's been spurned. He still has to protect Arthur, the damn prat; he's not sure he could abide knowing that the noble idiot got himself killed because Merlin abandoned him. It hurts, though.

"Actually…I may just have an idea," Merlin says slowly, raising his head. "Sir Lionel hasn't been well. He took with fever over the winter, and Evaine says he's not fully recovered."

"And?"

"And there's always been a problem with slavers in Brechfa. Recently, they've been returning. Reports of snatched children and such." He sits up a little straighter. "It needs to be addressed, but Lionel's not a young man anymore. Ill as he's been, he cannot go riding hell-for-leather after slavers through the mountains."

Lancelot raises his brows. "So you want to…what? Return to Silverpine?"

"Not permanently, just for a short time. Long enough to handle the matter of the slavers and let Sir Lionel convalesce."

"And you think Arthur will allow this?"

Merlin's jaw tightens, and he has to swallow a few times before speaking. "He will. He can't send his First Knight away for that long, and bastard or not, I'm still a son of Silverpine. We're family. I have an obligation and a duty to them. He'll understand that, if nothing else."

Lancelot is quiet for a moment, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. It makes sense; it makes a great deal of sense. And Merlin is right—if nothing else, Arthur will understand duty to one's family and taking care of one's own. There's no better way to take one's mind off an ill-fated infatuation than to spend days outdoors in the saddle in the cold and rain chasing down packs of rogues. "You're right," he says at last, nodding. "It'd do you well. It's just…you're certain you want to do this?"

Merlin shakes his head. "I don't want to, but I have to. Or I'll break myself to pieces on this," he replies hoarsely.

"Very well. But I'm coming with you."

He jerks his head up, staring at the man. "What? No, you're not. Lancelot, you've just gotten back to Camelot. Guinevere—"

"Guinevere knows you far better than you'd imagine, Merlin, and she understands far more than most give her credit for. She'll understand this," Lancelot reassures, cutting him off. He claps Merlin on the shoulder and presses the tankard into his hands. "To Brechfa!"

Merlin stares at the ale for a moment, then sighs and summons a smile that's near to genuine, hoisting the tankard. "To Brechfa!"

For the second time in less than a fortnight, Arthur finds himself darkening the Pavilion's doorstep. Just as before, there's two people attending the door, dressed in modest dove-grey livery, entirely unadorned but for a small pin on the left breast, a red anemone. They're not the same two that'd attended last time, at least he doesn't believe so, and he wonders, not for the first time, how many people Dara actually has working for him. He draws the ivory token from his pocket and shows it to one of them. "Will you take me to him? There's a private matter I wish to discuss with him," he says quietly.

"Of course, my lord. Just a moment," the woman says. "Tris will take your cloak and jacket if you please."

As she retreats further into the Pavilion, Arthur gratefully hands over his garments to the other attendant. The cloak he'd worn to pass unnoticed, and the jacket for the brisk wind that'd come up today, but it's far warmer indoors, and he's more comfortable without. The woman returns only a moment later, gesturing for him to follow her up a staircase and down a corridor, pointing him towards a closed door at the far end. "Master Dara's expecting you."

He's not entirely certain what he expected a bordello proprietor's study to look like, but it certainly isn't this. Dara's study reminds Arthur rather a lot of Merlin's library. It's polished and clean and well-arranged; there's a vase full of brilliant flowers set on a stand, the windows open to admit the light breeze. The man in question is seated at the desk, sorting through a stack of pages and writing in a thick ledger. The ivory pin is absent today, his hair in some kind of complicated braid tied through with scarlet cord. "My lord," he says cordially without looking up from his writing. "A bit early for it, I suppose, but I'm afraid I must insist that you—"

"No, no, that's not why I'm here," Arthur says hastily, feeling a flush creep up the sides of his neck.

Dara arches an eyebrow, uncannily similar to Gaius, both a query and a rebuke.

He plucks at the edge of his sleeve. "I'm in need of counsel. Honest counsel," he says at last.

"Oh? What a pleasant change." Closing the book and sliding aside the letters, Dara gestures to one of the chairs before his desk. Arthur sits. "So, might it be fair to assume that your excursion here was taken amiss?" he asks, interlacing his fingers beneath his chin, elbows on the desktop.

"That's one way of saying it," Arthur sighs, grateful the man had the courtesy not to say 'I told you so,' even though he had full right to.

"And you come to me for advice?"

Arthur fiddles with the loose thread on his sleeve again. "I don't know who else to speak to," he admits; after a moment's scrutiny, Dara gestures with one hand. Sinking back in the chair, he explains all that'd happened after his…excursion, how everything has been thrown out of kilter now. It makes his banked guilt flare up anew, and yet the words still come.

"And now our dear Merlin intends to return to Brechfa for a time," Dara remarks once he finally quiets; when Arthur stares at him in surprise, he smiles wryly. "I am not called the Whoremaster of Spies without reason. There's very little going on in the citadel I am not privy to, and suffice to say the matter of you and your manservant is…of some interest."

He's not sure if he ought to be flattered or offended. At the very least, he ought to be disturbed by the apparent lack of privacy, but he's also more used to that than most. "He came to me yesterday, asking for leave to return to Silverpine," Arthur admits, swallowing hard. "I…I don't want him to go, but I cannot conceive of a reason to deny him, not truly, and yet…" He huffs out a breath, running a hand back through his hair. "A thrice-tangled knot is what it is."

Dara gazes at him for a long moment, and Arthur forces himself to be still and not to squirm beneath the other man's contemplation, drawing on his years of experience with Father. "Very well. Would you care to sit out in the gardens, my lord?" he asks. "I prefer to when the weather turns fair, and I find it helps me think."

"If you please."

"Mm." Collecting a small packet of letters, a wax tablet, and a stylus, Dara pushes back from his desk and rises to his feet, sweeping out the door and back down the stairs; Arthur follows him. There's a set of glass doors that open into a spacious walled garden. It isn't like the Lady Evaine's garden at Silverpine, or the one at the townhouse, full of herbs and vegetables, militantly tended; this is a leisure garden, made for being admired and strolled through, not for cutting herbs and scraping out weeds bare-handed.

There's a bench set beneath a slender tree, still greening, and Dara sits at one end, gesturing for Arthur to sit beside him. "A thrice-tangled knot, you say. Well, allow me to make this very simple, my lord. What is it you want?"

Arthur wonders for a moment if he'd be able to conjure a convincing lie or at least a half-truth, but then he remembers Dara's inexplicable and somewhat terrifying way of seeing through people. He decides it's not worth the wasted effort. "Merlin," he says plainly.

Dara nods as if he'd expected no less. "Merlin, who intends to leave the city. You want him to stay, be your bedwarmer?" he prompts.

"I wouldn't force him to do anything," Arthur declares firmly, glaring at the man. There are some courtiers who have no issue with bringing unwilling servants to bed, but he isn't one of them. He finds it abhorrent.

"I never said you would," Dara replies, mild as anything. "But it is what you want, isn't it?"

He sighs deeply. "Yes. But that's just it. If there are any two people in Camelot who cannot have a casual dalliance, it is he and I." The matter of Merlin being a man isn't so great a hurdle—if anything, it'd be more easily accepted, as there will be no bastards to muddy the line of succession. Neither is him being a commoner—even unacknowledged, he's still the son of a nobleman and knight, at least as far as the court is concerned. No, the issue lay in sorcery. If anyone were to discover him as a sorcerer, if Father ever finds out his heir has been seduced by magic…. He shudders to think on it. It could very well spark another Purge.

Dara arches an eyebrow. "And what makes you think there is aught casual about it?"

"I don't know!" Arthur snaps back, then takes a breath, trying to rein in his temper. "I don't know. I…" He twists his ring on his finger, rubbing his thumb across the metal band. "Ever since I was old enough to know my own name, I have known that I am my father's heir. Camelot's future. I've grown up learning and understanding the responsibility that entails. And in all my years, I've scarce done a single thing that isn't in keeping with those duties. Even when I disliked it, even if I chafed at it, I obeyed, because it wasn't about me, not entirely. Not one misspoken word, not one misdeed."

"Very proper."

"Precisely. And yet, in the time I have known Merlin, I have committed more acts of treason against the crown than the most infamous of criminals. And I know very well that Merlin is the one person that I absolutely should not want, that he is the one person that my father would deny me if he knew the whole truth of it." He swallows hard. "What if that is all it is? Some…long-stifled act of rebellion, desiring that which I know I shouldn't?"

Dara's quiet for a long moment, contemplating. "Tis a hard question, my lord. Is it better to be content with one's lot than to desire things one is told one is not fit to receive?" he poses at last, then hums. "It's a question that a great many before you have wrestled with. I have no more answers to it than they. As for the matter of Merlin…. You could always order him to remain in Camelot. He is your manservant; he'd have to obey you. One doesn't simply leave the royal employ, after all."

Arthur nods, staring down at the grass between his boots. Such a thought had crossed his mind, more than once. He could force the issue if he wanted, make it a royal command. But doing so would undoubtedly earn him Merlin's enmity, and that would surely be far worse. He's already miserable, seeing the veiled hurt in Merlin's gaze whenever he thinks Arthur isn't looking; he doesn't know what he'd do if that hurt turned into bitterness, loathing.

Dara tilts his head back, staring up at the budding leaves above them, casting green-tinted shadows across his face. "But therein lies another trap. You want him to stay because he wants to stay, not because you ordered him," he declares as if reading the very thoughts off the inside of his skull, and Arthur nods again, throat tightening. "Logical. So…do you wish to hear my counsel this time?"

"Dara…"

"Very well. Let him go. You said it yourself, you cannot say with any certainty that this is anything more than the lure of the forbidden. If it is such, then removing the temptation for a while will settle the matter, for as long as it lies within your reach, you'll long for it. This way, if he returns to you, it will be of his own will. And if he does, and your passions have cooled, then you'll know for certain it was only a passing fever."

"And if it isn't?" Arthur demands.

He spreads his hands before him. "That, my lord, will be an entirely different matter. But my suggestion stands. Let him go."

There's far more to it than that. Merlin might very well return without any kind of desire for Arthur whilst Arthur still yearned for him, or perhaps the inverse. They might find there was nothing more to it than the temptation of something improper. Or they might not. He's not certain which is worst. But all the same, Dara's advice applies; no matter how it falls out, he can't force Merlin to stay, not without breaking them both further. He groans and hangs his head, raking a hand back through his hair. "Thank you, Dara," he says quietly. It might not be what he wants to hear, but it's sound counsel, honest and direct, which is what he'd asked for.

"You're welcome, my lord." Dara taps the packet of letters he'd brought out with him, resting in his lap. "I intend to sit out here for a time and read these. One of the attendants will show you out if you'd prefer not to stay."

Arthur sighs, tilting his head back to look at the blossoming limbs above him. The small glimpses of blue sky visible between the tender new leaves reminds him of the quickbeam tree in the garden, a night of frigid vigil. "I'd enjoy staying, but I have my own matters to attend to." He's been so absorbed in his own misery, he's been neglecting some of his duties.

"Until next time, then, my lord."

"Call me Arthur," he says as he departs the garden, drawing the glass doors shut behind him. There's a corridor which leads directly to the front of the house, and he waits near the doors as an ostler fetches Llamrei for him.

As he stands waiting, a gentle voice says from behind him, "Your coat, sire."

Arthur turns to look at the owner of the voice and chokes. The attendant holding his jacket for him is the young man, the one with curling black hair and deep blue eyes, tall and slender. He's dressed in the same uniform of the other Pavilion attendants. "I…hello." Belatedly, he turns and extends his arms, letting the attendant help him into his jacket.

"Hello again, sire." There's an undercurrent of humour in his voice; Arthur wishes he could remember his name.

As he does up the ties in front, Arthur takes the chance to study him closer. In the sober light of day, he doesn't bear too great a resemblance to Merlin aside from those few surface details, everything about him far softer, gentler, not quite as sharp and callused. Still, he's painfully aware of his own knowledge of what lies beneath the modest grey livery, feeling himself flush. "I…ahem, I want to…apologise if I was at all…." He sketches a vague gesture in the air. "I was…quite drunk and…"

"Kind," the young man replies, a smile pulling at his mouth. "You were very kind, albeit quite sad, which is more than I can say for most of my patrons. And far more than I expected from a prince." He smooths down the front of Arthur's jacket.

"Oh." Arthur clears his throat. "That's a relief to hear, I suppose. Thank you, ah…. I'm sorry, I don't remember—"

"I didn't tell you. I had the feeling you needed me to be someone else." The young man smiles a little, looking far wiser than his years; that does remind him of Merlin, achingly so. "Talorcan. You can call me Tal, sire."

"Tal. Thank you," Arthur says quietly.

He glances down the corridor to the glass doors which lead out to the gardens where Dara still sits beneath the blossoming trees, reading his letters. "Master Dara is very wise. I hope he's been able to help you. You ought to be happy," he says, then tilts his head slightly, the smile fading into something more solemn. "I don't believe you're happy very often, are you, sire?"

Arthur wonders if Dara makes his employees pass some sort of philosophy test before he allows them to work for him. But then again, he supposes one doesn't become the Whoremaster of Spies by employing fools. He lets out a breath. "I try to be. It's not always easy to do."

"True enough." Tal gives him a small, sly smile. "Will you be happy to remember me?"

Despite everything, it makes him laugh. The night he'd come to the Pavilion, he'd done so in a fit of self-loathing, aching with longing and frightened by the depth of his own desire. The guilt of all he's wrought from it still stings. And yet…. "Yes, I will," he replies truthfully.

"Good." Tal hesitates slightly, shifting his weight, then leans forward and kisses him, quick and chaste. Arthur blinks in surprise, taken aback by the surprisingly tender gesture. "I'm not meant to do that when I'm attending," he murmurs with a smile, taking a step back. He hands Arthur his cloak. "Go and try to be happy, sire."

"I will."

Merlin leaves for Silverpine, Lancelot with him.

Arthur lets him.

It hurts. It hurts a great deal, and yet, he tries to be happy.

He attends court, seeing to petitions and such that end up before him, grievances of noble houses and other matters of state that have fallen under his purview since becoming crown prince. He does have his own estates which he is responsible for, two actually: Bryn, which lies in Denaria, and Eastwaith, in Ascetir. They had belonged to his mother's family and had for generations. His mother had owned Eastwaith, and his uncle Tristan had owned Bryn; both had ended up deeded to him when they died. The third du Bois estate, their family seat, is Snowgate, in the Northern Plains; it lay under the ownership of his uncle Agravaine. For the most part, he leaves his estates in the able hands of their seneschals, but he does visit them from time to time.

There're letters from his seneschals—minor grievances between vassals, arranged marriages seeking his approval, details of the estate's functions—letters from other nobles seeking audiences or planning to visit Camelot, and letters from his uncle and cousin. Uncle Agravaine rarely ever appears in court, preferring to remain at Snowgate; after what happened to his siblings, Arthur can hardly blame him for not wanting to be around Father. His cousin will be one-and-ten this year, and she's quite adamant about fostering in Camelot at least for the summer despite her father's refusal, entreating Arthur to try and sway him as well.

He trains the new crop of young nobles and lordlings that aspire to be knights and observes the squires, making note of which ones have proper ambition. He goes hunting with his friends at court—he doesn't have a great many of them anymore—and entertains the noblewomen which his father presents to him, even though it makes him feel ill at times. No proper arrangements are made, but he does as is expected of him, playing the game of courtship to the hilt.

He tries not to think about Merlin at all. There are days when it's easy to do, and there are days when he can feel his absence like a missing limb and loathes George with everything in him. Still, he tries to let go of it, let it sink below the surface and to the very bottom of the stream like some vast bulwark, dividing the current. Hidden, unseen, and forgotten. Betimes it works; others, it doesn't.

Strangely enough, he's made a friend in Dara. It's easy to see how he and Merlin can be friends, for they both have the same subtle, keen wit and betimes astonishing opinions of things. Small wonder Father had turned the man away. With enough wine in him, he can be devastatingly funny as well, and has tales of former patrons that can make even the most brazen blush. He keeps a private room in the Cockerel for those few he names friends to drink in peace, and there's a fair number of nights when Arthur goes there to share in his company. Dara doesn't dice, but he's excellent at chess and Twelve Man Morris. Leon accompanies him most of the time, though once or twice, Morgana's slipped out of the castle to join them, always with Guinevere in tow.

It's fun. It isn't always easy, but it's manageable. He's…happy. He wonders if the same can be said for Merlin.

"Do you recall how I said I'll never let Arthur send me on long patrol again? Well, I'm amending that statement. I am never going on any kind of hunting trip with you again," Lancelot grinds out, having to close his eyes against the dizzying, swaying, upside-down view of the forest around him. "Can you get us down without breaking our necks? If I die out here, Guinevere will certainly kill me."

"I'm working on it," Merlin grunts.

He groans a little, having to swallow hard as bile rises in his throat. It is never wise to hang upside down from one's ankles shortly after breakfast. "Sometime this morning, if you please."

"Would you kindly shut up?"

"I will when you kindly get me down."

"Unbinde þé téage," Merlin murmurs.

The snare around his ankles releases, the ropes slithering apart. Lancelot lets out a strangled yelp as he drops, managing to somehow strike his chin, chest, and hip simultaneously on the ground when he lands, the air punched out of his lungs. "Damn it, Merlin!" he wheezes, rolling onto his side and trying to catch his breath.

"You wanted me to get you down." Merlin slides a knife into his palm, swinging his arms to give himself momentum, then somehow manages to curl himself upwards and slashes through the rope. He swears loudly as he drops hard beside the knight, wheezing and coughing. "Ow."

"Your fault." Lancelot reaches over and swats his arm, then sits up, rubbing his chest. "Why are we still doing this? We already caught half of those men, and the children who were taken have been found and sent home. I don't think they'll be returning anytime soon."

"I know." Merlin coughs as he sits upright, leaning forward to slash the ropes around his ankles, kicking his feet free. "But there's not just children. One of the older boys, Ren, he told me there were others. Men and women. They were taken ahead."

Lancelot sighs and clambers to his feet, shaking the ache out of his limbs. "Fine, fine. How far?" he sighs.

Merlin gets up and walks into the brush alongside the trail, finding where the snares were tied. "Not that far. These are quick-release knots, and they've not been here long. Still dry," he replies, holding up the ropes. "They know we're after them." He whistles sharply for their horses, both of whom come loping over obediently.

"They have a wagon," Lancelot points out as he pulls himself astride. He gestures to the tracks left on the rain-soft soil of the trail, which they'd been inspecting before their unfortunate encounter with the snares. "That must be how they're moving the rest of their prisoners."

Merlin nods. "That's good for us, then. If they keep going this way, they'll be going into lowland, and as much as its rained, like as not they'll get mired. We'll catch them up."

They ride up the trail at a sharp canter. Lancelot doesn't question their direction. He knows full well that Merlin knows this land far better than him, and more than that, the young man is in his element here, in the wild places of the earth. It's rare that Merlin is ever outside the walls of Camelot without Arthur or the company of others, and the change is notable, a fierce sort of wildness to him. This little quest has done him well, taken the shadow of hurt out of his gaze.

Abruptly, Merlin draws rein, and Lancelot slows beside him. "Hear that?" he murmurs. "Just ahead, over the rise?"

He listens. For a moment, all he hears is the blowing of the horses and the twittering of birdsong overhead, but then he hears it—voices. Several voices, quite irate. "…had come before the rain, we wouldn't have gotten stuck!" one strident voice says above the others. Lancelot grins.

At Merlin's gesture for quiet, they both dismount and lead the horses off the trail, tethering them to a low-hanging branch and arm themselves before creeping up the rise. The voices grow louder the further up they go, and Lancelot knows they must be directly on the other side. Near the top, they both get down and crawl the last bit up to the crest of the hill. The ground is cold and damp, the smell of slow-rotting leaf litter rising up around them, but it's no worse than what they've been experiencing the past month and a half, chasing the slavers out of Silverpine and halfway across the province. Lancelot's almost used to it now.

Sure enough, on the other side of the rise, there's a large wheeled cage with at least ten people in it, a mix of men and women. The wheels are sunk deep into the muddy ground, too deep for the mules drawing it to pull free. There's only a handful of men present—a headcount puts their numbers at seven—arguing over it. At least two deemed it wiser to take their captives out of the wagon and then push it free, and the others insisted it was folly to do so. One was quiet and tending to the mules.

"What do you want to do?" Lancelot murmurs in an undertone.

"Wait a moment. If they let their captives out, we'll take them by surprise then."

After a heated debate, the slavers come to a compromise. Aiming their crossbows through the bars of the cage, they order one of the prisoners out of the cage to help push the wagon free.

"Maiden's mercy, look at the size of that one," Merlin whispers, staring at the man who steps out of the cage. He's at least head and shoulders taller than the others and built like an oak tree. "He's as tall as Mhera."

"Who?"

"You'll meet her later," he murmurs absently. "I'll take the one with the crossbow first. You go for the one with the keys, and see if you can't get a weapon to the big one. Ready?"

"Let's have done with this."

Seven against two isn't exactly ideal odds. But then, not many have fought against someone like Merlin. The two holding the crossbows are felled first by his throwing knives, another laid low by a terrible blow upside the head from the metal end of the quarterstaff. Lancelot engages the two with swords; they're decent enough, but not a match for a knight. The slaver unfortunate enough to hold the keys is laid out flat by a single, smashing blow from their gargantuan captive, and the last of them makes perhaps the first wise decision of his life and flees.

"Ah, let him go," Merlin says, scarce breathing hard as he retrieves his knives. "If nothing else, he'll warn others not to venture here."

"Good. Then we shan't have to do this again," Lancelot remarks, wiping his sword clean.

"Who are you?" the big man asks, looking between them carefully. He's taken up one of the fallen slaver's swords, though he holds it down at his side, unthreatening.

"I'm Merlin of Silverpine, and this is my companion, Lancelot. We've been tasked with driving the slavers out of Brechfa," he replies with a smile, slinging his quarterstaff over a shoulder and extending a friendly hand.

Lancelot stifles a chuckle as the big man blinks in surprise, taken aback by Merlin's open camaraderie, but then he grasps the proffered hand tightly. His hand's large enough to encircle Merlin's forearm completely.

It's short work from there to unlock the cage and free the others. Aside from some lumps and bruises, none are badly injured, which is rather logical. Damaged goods don't sell for much. They gather up the slavers' provisions, loading it onto the mules, and begin the walk back to the nearest town, leaving the cage mired where it is. Merlin and Lancelot both walk with them, allowing the youngest of the captives, a pair of girls scarce more than six-and-ten, to ride their horses instead.

"So, my towering friend, where are you from?" Merlin asks as they walk, leading the Hellion by the reins. For once, the spotted menace is near calm, despite her unfamiliar rider.

"Teine," the big man replies in a soft voice.

Lancelot twists Flick's reins tighter around his hand. Teine was one of Camelot's villages, right upon the very border of Essetir; it'd been destroyed by raiders last autumn, likely by Cenred's men, though it'd never been proven and the blame had been lain on raiders after the village's harvest. He'd been one of the soldiers departed to send aid, though it'd done little good. Teine had been razed to the ground.

Merlin's lashes flicker. He knew it, too. "I've heard of Teine, it's less than a day's walk from Ealdor. I was born there. We're all but family," he remarks with an air of joviality that would convince any who didn't know him well.

It works, though; the big man's mouth curls up. "Indeed," he agrees, humoured.

"Well, then, near-cousin, will you tell us your name or shall we guess? I have to warn you, we have an overabundance of imagination between us," Merlin warns with mock severity, gesturing between himself and Lancelot.

The man laughs at that, shaking his head. "Percival. My name's Percival."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Percival. Where are you bound?"

"Nowhere, really."

Merlin smiles, this time with genuine humour, and he claps a hand to Percival's back. "Well, if you would care to accompany us back to Silverpine, I know someone who would be delighted to meet you."

"Good morning, sire!"

Arthur sits up at the sound of a wonderfully familiar voice, rubbing a hand over his eyes to ensure he's not seeing things. "Merlin. You're…you're back," he says dumbly.

"I am. And I suggest you have your breakfast before you attempt any further thought, sire," Merlin snorts as he uncovers the breakfast tray. He walks over to the bed, grabs the edge of the blankets, and flings them down to the end of the bed. "Come along now, lazy daisy, on your feet. One of Bayard's pet lords is arriving from Mercia today, and I'm certain the King will want to parade you before the man."

Tentatively, Arthur rises from bed and walks over to the table. He's aware of his heart beating faster, but no more. Perhaps Dara is right after all, and what he'd felt was only a desire for the forbidden, a summer fever of rebellion. He's not certain if he should be disappointed or grateful for that. "Was your excursion…eventful?" he prompts as he starts in on his breakfast, watching as Merlin shuffles about the chambers, grumbling to himself as he finds very little to clean. George is dreadfully efficient.

"Oh, yes. I don't believe there'll be much issue of slavers in Brechfa again," Merlin replies with small smirk. "Made a friend. I think you'd like him."

Arthur snorts as he licks sausage grease from his fingertips. He could lock Merlin in the dungeons for a week, and the young man would've made friends of the rats in his cell by the end of it. He looks up from the tray to see Merlin watching him; the raw hurt is gone from his eyes, replaced by something like their old camaraderie. Swallowing hard, he decides to test it. "Well? What are you standing there gawking at me for? My armour needs polishing, and my riding cloak has a tear in it which I expect to be fixed before my next patrol," he orders.

Merlin rolls his eyes and gives a sweeping, dramatic bow. "Of course, your majesty," he drawls out, and a knot loosens in Arthur's chest. As he walks past the table, he pauses slightly, and the darting of his eyes is the only warning Arthur has before the little wretch makes a grab for the last honey-soaked oatcake on the tray.

Luckily, Arthur's faster. Not by much, but still enough to snatch the oatcake and hold it well out of Merlin's reach, leaning back in his chair as the younger man stretches over the table trying for it. "Damn it, Merlin, I already know you steal from my dinner tray, isn't that enough? Does your brother not feed you?" he snaps.

"Just keeping you fighting fit, sire!"

"I am not fat!" Switching tactics, he snatches at Merlin with his free hand and snags hold of the silly red neckerchief he always wears. It's tied loosely, however, and Merlin ducks his head, letting it slip off him like a too-large snare and scrambling back from the table with a laugh. "Out with you! Out! Armour, cloak, now!"

Still laughing, Merlin grabs the basket of laundry and darts out.

Sitting back in his chair, Arthur drops the crumbling oatcake back on the tray and licks the honey off his fingertips. In his other hand, he still has hold of Merlin's neckerchief, the red cloth frayed around the edges and creased at the ends where he ties it, obviously older and well-loved. The fabric's still warm. His pulse quickens again, a tremulous flutter in the pit of his belly. On some mad impulse, he raises the cloth to his face, pressing his nose to it and inhaling.

Loam and musk and fermented berries, the wild places of the earth.

It hits him like a mace blow to the chest. His throat constricts, and he makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob. The dam he'd built against his heart cracks asunder, and the rushing tide of emotion crashes against him. Desire, yes, but more than that. Tenderness, affection, a terrifying longing for more, for intimacy and openness and everything else under the sun. None of it has changed, except for carving itself deeper into him, insidious and anchoring.

Arthur plays out the fabric of Merlin's neckerchief in his hands, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers. He lets out a low sigh. "Well, fuck."