Arthur scowls down at the laces of his vest as he tries for the third time to do them up right. When done up the correct way, the laces crisscross over the front of his tunic in a tidy little pattern that actually looks quite striking, depending on what colour he's wearing. He wonders how the hell it is that he's capable of besting each one of his knights in single combat yet he cannot do up the laces of his damned vest the right way. "Merlin, are you certain this is wise?" he asks as he yanks at the knot he's somehow made, scowling.

"It is," Merlin insists. Placing the saddlebags on the table, he walks over to Arthur and untangles the snarled laces, setting them right with the ease of repetition; Arthur scowls a little more at the unfairness of it. "Everyone has noticed that you and Leon have been treading softly around one another. They all know you've quarreled over something, and I'm to understand that a few are even placing bets as to the cause." He chuckles when he sees the prince's eyes narrow, almost able to hear Arthur scheduling extra patrol shifts for the responsible parties. Smile fading, he adds in a softer voice, "I know you've been worrying about Bellegere and your uncle. It'll do you good to come away from it, even for a day."

Their regular letters from Bellegere had come late last month, and she'd sent only a single letter, addressed to both of them. Only a few lines, written in a trembling hand: Lady Thea du Bois had drowned herself in the river near Snowgate, having taken a private stroll without her maidservant and burdening herself with stones to ensure she sank. The prince had tried and failed to convince the King to let him go visit his cousin and uncle, causing a lingering animosity between them.

Arthur raises his brows critically. "And you want us to go to a tavern. What's wrong with the Cockerel or the Rising Sun?"

"Everyone knows who we are in the city." Merlin smirks, flicking the end of one lace playfully. "This way, if you two get more ale in you than sense and come to blows, nobody will throw me in the stocks for knocking your thick heads together. It'll be fun."

"Fun," he repeats under his breath. "Alright. Come on, then."

Out in the courtyard, Leon is waiting beside their horses, murmuring to his palfrey. An ostler is holding Llamrei and the Hellion's reins, eyeing up the spotted menace warily, mindful of his hands near her mouth. More than one careless stablehand has gone to Gaius to have hands bandaged and fingers stitched after dealing with her. Merlin sends the boy off and manages the saddlebags by himself, mounting up; she snorts impatiently, stamping her hooves and dancing eagerly under him, ready to be off. The moment the other two are on their horses, he puts heels to her flanks, hearing the other two shout indignantly after him.

The idea is that they are out on a small hunt, just the three of them, which isn't uncommon. Many people know that the prince and his First Knight have been friends since their squiring, and of course they would bring along the servant half-sibling. The truth of it is, Merlin's managed to convince them to take a jaunt outside of Camelot to try and resettle themselves, just as they had when they visited Silverpine after Ealdor. It's easier to do in a place where all eyes are not upon them at all hours, wondering, the constraints of expectations and propriety always weighing on them. It's precisely why Merlin is able to handle Arthur's bouts of temper where all other servants buckle; he knows Arthur only vents his temper on Merlin because he cannot shout at who he's truly angry at without raising diplomatic hell.

There's a fair number of small villages near the city, near enough for them to ride out to without taking half the day, yet still far enough for nobody to recognise them on sight. In their current attire, hardy yet not luxurious, they look no different than any other commoner in search of a drink. When they enter the modest tavern, nobody gives them a second glance, save for an appreciative barmaid.

Merlin gestures to an empty table. "I'll fetch us a round. You two stay and play nicely," he orders, brandishing a finger between the pair. Arthur's mouth twitches, and Leon's eyes roll skyward. When he returns to the table, the two are quietly trying to ignore one another without making it obvious they're doing so. Merlin huffs in exasperation. Maiden have mercy. Maybe he should knock their skulls together; they might actually see sense then.

"You're not drinking, Arthur?" Merlin asks, sliding one full mug over to him.

The prince shrugs, tracing a finger along the handle of his mug. "You've spoiled me, I'm afraid. Wine and perry brandy. Or perhaps applejack," he adds with a smile. "Though I suppose it's a good thing that they don't serve that here. I doubt I'd end up in someplace as friendly as Lady Evaine's garden, nor would I be woken by someone as kind as Sir Lionel."

Leon snorts into his mug.

"You've no place to laugh," Arthur reminds, aiming a half-hearted kick at him under the table. "I seem to recall you being dragged out to the fountain to be dunked right alongside me."

"Yes, I know. Still, I think it'd be worth it to see you sing a few verses for your people. A royal show they'd never forget."

"I did not sing," Arthur protests.

Merlin grins, a bloom of warmth unfurling in the pit of his belly. "Oh, yes, you did. Not very well, I might add, but there's a certain inebriated charm to it. Of course, I've never heard it sober, so that might just be the applejack speaking. I'd certainly like to hear it again."

Arthur gapes at the brothers with utmost betrayal, shaking his head in disbelief. "Traitors," he mutters, then pauses a moment, frowning. "What did I even—?"

The door of the tavern slams open. The other patrons around them suddenly go quiet, and Merlin sees Leon's face change, shoulders tensing. He turns in his seat to look at the door.

The man in the doorway is built like a bull, all thick muscle and sinew, in boiled leather with a wicked knife thrust through the belt at his waist. "You're overdue for payment," he says, snatching the barmaid by the back of her kirtle, catching some of her hair in his fist as well; Arthur shifts beside him, tension seeping into his frame.

The young woman tries not to whimper, her head forced back. "I-I don't have it. We've not had patrons as we used to." Her voice is strung high and brittle with fear.

"I'll not ask again!" He gives her a rough shake, making her yelp in pain.

"Oh, hell," Merlin whispers under his breath. He slides his mug away mournfully and slides a knife into his palm, wishing he hadn't left his quarterstaff lashed to the Hellion's saddle outside. Exchanging a glance with Leon and Arthur, they both nod in silent agreement. He turns more fully in his seat, lining up the throw, and hurls the knife across the tavern. The blade hisses through the air between two patrons and slams into the wall scarce an inch away from the brigand's nose.

Near every head in the tavern swivels to face them as Arthur stands up. "Take your hands off her and leave. Now," he orders.

"And if I don't?" He twists his fist a little harder around the young woman's hair, making her whimper.

Leon rises to his feet as well. "I know you aren't the most intelligent of men, but I presume you can count high enough to recognise that you are outnumbered," he replies; Merlin stands, sliding another knife out into his palm, hidden against his leg.

The man releases the girl's hair, puts two fingers in his mouth, and whistles piercingly loud. There's a stir of movement outside, and then no less than a dozen more men enter the tavern, the other patrons having taken their leave when they could.

"You had to say something, didn't you?" Merlin grumbles.

A surprisingly cheerful voice issues from the vicinity of his left. "Well, this certainly is an interesting situation, isn't it?" says another patron, rising to his feet as a smile spreads across his face.

"You should leave," Merlin suggests.

"Mm, probably so." He drains the rest of his mug, smacks his lips, then cocks back and hurls the empty tankard with unerring accuracy, smashing into the nearest brigand's face.

It's like throwing a lit taper into a dish of lamp oil. The tavern erupts into chaos, cursing and shouting, raining blows left and right. Arthur and Leon end up back-to-back, and Merlin finds himself beside the other man, who's taken up a chair and is smashing aside the brutes as though he's swatting flies. "What do they call you, then?" he asks between blows, as though they are a pair of farmhands splitting wood.

"Merlin."

"Gwaine. Duck!" he exclaims; Merlin immediately ducks, and Gwaine snatches a full jug off the bar, smashing it over the head of another attacker, spraying them both in wine. "Ah, what a waste, eh?"

"Arthur!" Leon's shout draws them both. The mercenaries have separated the two, and the leader has a knife in hand, advancing on Arthur. Before Merlin can even begin to reach for his magic, Gwaine makes a leap up onto the table and throws himself at the leader, sending them both crashing over onto the floor in a tangle of thrashing and swearing. Taking up the chair that Gwaine had abandoned, Merlin lays out the last two mercenaries, joining Leon and Arthur as they haul the two men apart.

The leader of the mercenaries lying senseless, a massive bruise on his brow, and Gwaine lurches to his feet, grinning. "And that's how one does it," he declares, then falls backwards, his head striking a bench with a loud thump. However, the greater concern is the knife that is embedded in his upper thigh.

The next several minutes is a flurry of activity. He hears Arthur and Leon apologising to the owner of the tavern and promising to reimburse her for what they'd broken and the lost wares, the other patrons helping to drag the unconscious mercenaries outside. Merlin doesn't give it much attention, kneeling down beside the unconscious form of Gwaine. Though it's not advisable, he draws out the knife and quickly presses his neckerchief over the wound, using his belt to hold it in place.

"How is he?" Arthur asks, touching his shoulder.

"Not well."

"Well, we'll take him back to Camelot with us, have him looked after."

Once their debt is settled, Arthur and Leon manhandle Gwaine up onto the saddle of his horse and lash him in place, and Merlin leads the gelding alongside the Hellion, the reins tied to her saddle to keep them close. As they're riding away from the tavern, Leon remarks in a long-suffering voice, "You truly just can't restrain yourself, can you, Arthur?" There's a lilt of humour in his voice despite his exasperated expression, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

Arthur laughs, that deep, full-throated laugh few people ever hear. "Bold words coming from an aider and abettor of magic," he replies.

"Prat."

"Hey!"

Amusing as their bickering is to hear once again, Gwaine, still unconscious, is looking frightfully pale. "Hold," Merlin calls, looking at their new companion. He draws reins on the Hellion and dismounts, going to examine the man. Arthur and Leon turn back to return to his side. "We need to stop a moment. He's losing a lot of blood." The bandage he's bound around the man's thigh is already sodden. "If he keeps bleeding like this, he shan't make it back to Camelot."

Arthur takes a moment to survey their surroundings. The road's empty as far as can be seen in both directions, out of sight of the tavern and any other buildings, and there's no sound to suggest there's anyone in the surrounding forest either. "Go on, then."

With quick, deft fingers, Merlin undoes the bandage. The dagger had gone deep, Arthur can see from here, and there is an alarming amount of blood pulsing out. The blade must've nicked something important. Merlin cups his hand over the wound, blood running through his fingers. "Þurhhæle dolgbenn," he murmurs; his eyes spark gold beneath his lashes. When he withdraws his hand, the blood flow's near stopped, and the injury is smaller than it had been, the edges healing up. "Leon, look in my kit, needle and thread. Arthur, help me get him down."

Obediently, he moves to start plucking at the knots lashing the man to his saddle. "You keep a needle and thread with you?" Arthur queries, raising his brows as Leon rummages through the Hellion's saddlebag.

The corner of Merlin's mouth lifts. "Ever since the boar."

The knowledge makes him smile, thinking about Merlin going about with a lady's embroidery kit tucked into his saddlebags. "Well, we might as well take a reprieve here, rest the horses. No point in putting in stitches just to tear them riding."

They move off the road proper and to a small clearing only a few paces away. From the well-trampled ground and uniform size of the clearing, it's likely that a great many travelers have taken respite there. Merlin stacks the saddlebags against the roots of a tree, covering it with a spare saddle blanket, and they move Gwaine to lay against them. Leon brings the horses over to a deadfall and loops the reins around the exposed roots, and Arthur sets up a small fire, knowing that Merlin will likely ask for hot water to clean the wound with.

With the horses secured, Leon takes a seat with his back to the deadfall, leaning his back against the moss-carpeted trunk. "Will he live, then?"

Bent over his task, Merlin only grunts. He likely hadn't even heard the question.

Amused, Arthur sits down on a reasonably clear bit of ground and takes out a slim book from his own kit, rifling through the pages until he found where he'd left off; he has faith in Merlin's ability to treat this…Gwaine. He's curious as to what kind of man would simply leap into a brawl uninvited and make great sport of it the entire time as well. When the man wakes, perhaps he'll have the chance to find out.

Merlin hums appreciatively as he uses a measure of heated water to rinse the blood from his fingers and the needle, tucking it back into the small kit beside him. "What are you reading?" He drops down to sit beside Arthur in his curious gangly yet graceful way, rewinding the extra silk thread onto a small spool.

"Hm? Oh, this." Arthur closes the book and rubs his thumb over the cover; there's a spot where the leather's worn smooth and shiny from the repetitive motion, though he hadn't made it himself. "I found it in the other chamber. It's Aleyne's journal. He wrote poetry about Sephare."

The young man grins. "Did he? Let me see," he says, reaching for the journal.

Arthur snatches it back, holding it out of reach. "Oh, I don't think so. You aren't allowed to read this," he says, grinning. "Royal privileges, you see. Strictly one prince to another."

"Oh, you arse. Fine." Merlin leans back, hooking his elbows around his knees. "Poetry, then? Is it at all decent?" he asks, and Arthur nods. A mischievous glint comes into his eye, and he remarks in an exaggeratedly casual voice, "Hm. Lucky Sephare, then. Shame I'm not quite as fortunate."

Arthur scoffs in disbelief, staring at him. "I'm being outdone by a dead man. Unbelievable."

"Well, it isn't that difficult."

"Oh!" Closing the journal, he leans over and swats the younger man's hip with it. "Go, go and find something to do. See to the horses, you wretched fool," he scolds, laughing as Merlin scrambles up and out of reach before Arthur can take another swat at him. Resettling himself, he belatedly recalls the third member of their party and looks across the fire to Leon.

His First Knight is leant back against the deadfall, watching them with a curious expression on his face—exasperation, awkwardness, but also something like amusement as well. When he notices Arthur's gaze, Leon gives a little half-smile. "I begin to understand," he says.

Before Arthur can say anything, there's a groan from their intrepid rescuer, his face screwed up in discomfort as he stirs. One eye squints open, looking blearily around their small camp. His gaze ends up on the horses, where Merlin stands. A small chuckle escapes him. "I'm seeing spots."

"She's called the Hellion, and she's killed a man," Merlin warns good-humoredly, patting his mare's neck.

Gwaine laughs at that. "Sounds like a few former lovers I can name." He groans as he sits up. One hand goes to the back of his head, wincing when he touches the still-tender lump. "Who hit me?"

"A bench. Here, look at me." Merlin moves to sit beside him, grasping his chin and tilting his head to see his eyes, watching his pupils dilate.

"You have my thanks," Arthur says as Merlin continues his examination, working with the same tidy professionalism of a physician. "You saved my life in there."

"Ah, all in a day. Ow!" He jerks his head away, giving Merlin injured eyes. "I've been led to believe that healers are meant to make one feel better, not cause them more pain," he points out, though there's more flirting in his voice than discomfort. The playfully sad-eyed, pouting expression has probably melted the hearts of many a maiden; to see it turned on Merlin makes something in Arthur's stomach tighten unhappily.

Unaffected, Merlin smirks and holds up something small between his fingertips. "Sliver." He flicks it into the fire and shakes his head. "You make as much of a fuss as Arthur. I swear, I'll never understand it. You lot will hack yourselves to bits and call it entertainment and great sport, only try and stitch you back together again, and you moan without end."

"I do not."

"No, we don't."

"Exaggeration."

All three protestations are said nearly in unison. Arthur, Leon, and Gwaine exchange glances; Merlin rolls his eyes skyward. "Well, you'll live at any rate."

Gwaine sits up the rest of the way and plucks curiously at the bandage on his thigh, only to be swatted away. "You're Merlin. Which of you's Arthur, again?" he asks, looking between the other two men.

"I am. And this is Leon, Merlin's brother. We're on our way back to Camelot. You're welcome to join us," Arthur invites. Having finished his examination, Merlin moves to sit at his side once more. Not so close as to be inappropriate, of course, but near enough their elbows knock together if they both shift at the same time. The tightening in his belly loosens, tangles smoothing out into calm.

"Camelot, eh?" Gwaine hums thoughtfully, cocking his head like a curious bird. "Can any of you point the way to decent tavern there? Preferably one where patrons do not end up stabbed before last round?"

Leon and Arthur sigh in unison; Merlin grins.

"You've only been here two days. You needn't leave so soon, you know." Merlin leans one shoulder against the wall, arms folded as he watches Gwaine gather up his belongings, shoving them haphazardly into a well-worn knapsack on the bed. Sitting neatly at his feet, Allegra observes them with fascination, her plumed tail sweeping the floor in steady rhythm, red tongue lolling in a grin. "You saved Arthur's life, he shan't begrudge you staying here."

"If I'd known he was a nobleman, I wouldn't have bothered," Gwaine grumbles darkly.

"What grudge do you hold against nobles?" he asks. He's not insulted or indignant on Leon and Arthur's behalf. They can both do with a little irreverence from time to time, to remind them they're still only men. But he is curious. Most don't carry that kind of dislike with them unless it stems from a personal grievance. Not merely that, but the hypocrisy of it is intriguing to him. "You're one yourself, aren't you?" When Gwaine swivels around to fix him with a sharp glare, he holds up his hands innocently. "I've not told anyone, it's just your accent, such as it is. You speak too well to be lowborn. Not to mention you can tell the difference between wines. Most don't know anything beyond the different colours it comes in."

Gwaine sighs as he toys with his sword belt, rubbing his thumb against the shiny mark where the hilt rubbed against the leather. "My father was a knight in Caerleon's army. He died in battle, leaving my mother penniless. And when she went to the King for help, he turned her away." His voice is low, old pain braided with bitterness underlying his words.

"Did you know him?" Merlin prompts gently.

"No, I was too young. All I have are some stories my mother told me."

He taps his fingers against his other arm, contemplating a moment, then says, "It's the same with me and my father. I met him only briefly before he died. He…he'd been banished from Camelot."

"What had he done?"

Nothing but exist as nature designed him, Merlin thinks. Deep down in him, far from the light of day, a fever-hot, thorny tangle of resentment and rage tries to unfurl, but he shoves it back down. "Nothing criminal. He served the King."

Gwaine scoffs, nodding as though Merlin's proven his point. "And the King turned on him, eh? Doesn't surprise me in the least."

"Arthur isn't like that."

The other man shrugs one shoulder. "Maybe, but that doesn't make him worth dying for." He stands up and puts on his belt, reaching for his sword. He pauses when he lifts the blade, a small smile playing at his lips when he notices that it's been sharpened and polished, the scratches along the blade buffed out. "I understand you're sweet on him for some inexplicable reason, but nobility, royalty, they're all the same. They have everything in the world yet can't spare the slightest bit for those they're meant to protect."

"Is that what you think? Come here a moment." Merlin moves to the window and crooks a finger; confused, Gwaine comes to his side. He points out the window. From here, they have a view of the training field, knights sparring with one another, guardsmen running drills, squires practicing forms. Arthur is paired up with Lancelot. Their fighting styles complement well, made to work with and not against each other. It makes for an interesting bout. "Do you see that man Arthur is sparring with?"

"Another pet nobleman of his?" Gwaine asks.

"His name is Lancelot. He's a goatherd from the Northern Plains." At the disbelieving look Gwaine casts him, Merlin smiles. "No, I'm not jesting. He's a knight due to some…artistic creativeness on my part," he remarks, winking. "Arthur knows it. He believes as you do, that nobility is defined by action and deed, not rank and title. The King's opinion differs, hence the ruse."

Gwaine's eyebrows go up, an amused smirk crossing his face. "Well, I may have underestimated you, then, my sly friend," he says, clapping him on the shoulder. At Merlin's pointed look, he sighs and relents, "Yes, perhaps your pretty golden princess, too. Perhaps. Ah, either way, I'd best be taking my leave. I've never stayed in one place all that long." He grins as he resumes packing his belongings. "I've been told I wear out my welcome very quickly."

"Not with me, you haven't," Merlin counters.

"Oh? Even after the trouble I caused you?"

He shrugs, smiling. The stunt they'd pulled at the Rising Sun is a memory he'll cherish for years to come; his younger self would've been proud. "You livened the place up. Ask my brother, I enjoy being contrary simply for the sake of it and take unbecoming pleasure in dangerous situations."

Gwaine lets out a hearty guffaw at that. "Of that, clever bird, I have no doubt. Still. I'll be on my way."

Merlin puts a hand against his arm, halting him before he can sling the knapsack over one shoulder. "Just wait. It's already near evening. You shan't make the borders before nightfall, and the trails can be perilous in the dark. Wait the night and take your leave in the morning." He smiles, squeezing Gwaine's arm encouragingly. "I'll take you to the Cockerel. The proprietor's a friend of mine, and I have no doubt that Dara would find you absolutely delightful." In fact, the two squaring off—Gwaine's shameless flirting and Dara's unruffled poise—is very likely to be the greatest entertainment to be found in the city tonight.

Gwaine pauses a moment, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Dara, eh?" He sets down the knapsack. "Well…I'd hate to be rude to your friends."

Arthur doesn't know how it is that whenever things are going reasonably well for him, he always manages to somehow make an utter mess of it. He tries to play back their conversation in his head, wondering where it was he'd gone so wrong; across the chamber, Merlin snatches clothes out of the wardrobe, hurling them in Arthur's general direction without bothering to turn and look. "I didn't intend to upset you," he says at last. He truly hadn't. He had just tried to explain that if Merlin wished to run off for half a day and the entire night again, then he could at least tell Arthur beforehand. Chewing the inside of his mouth, he ventures, "Is it because of what I said about Gwaine?" Yes, perhaps he'd been…a little unkind in speaking of the man, but something about him makes Arthur's very teeth itch with irritation, especially considering Merlin has spent the better part of the past three days in his company.

Merlin pivots sharply on heel to face him. "I can have friends if I wish, Arthur, and I do not have to ask your permission to do so," he snaps.

Ah, yes, that's definitely it. "I never said that you couldn't, I just meant—"

"It doesn't matter anyways. Gwaine is leaving Camelot today. He's told me that he doesn't stay in any one place very long," Merlin points out as he walks over and adjusts the laces of Arthur's vest, jerking at the ties a little sharper than is wholly necessary.

When he starts to turn away again, Arthur catches him by the elbow and gently draws him back. "Merlin," he says. When the young man doesn't look at him right away, he gives him a small, playful jostle, tilting his head to the side to catch Merlin's gaze. "Morgana has always told me I can be unfairly possessive of things, and I'm afraid she's always known me well, betimes even better than I know myself." When Merlin doesn't withdraw from him immediately, Arthur lowers his arm to slide around his waist, resting a hand in the small of his back. "I shan't stop you from having friends. I'd never think to do so, besides the fact I don't even think such a thing is possible. Horses, dogs, unicorns, dragons, why should it be any different with urchins and drifters? It's only that Gwaine…. He's just…"

"Gwaine is that way with everyone," Merlin informs him, the corners of his mouth curling up the slightest bit. He can guess precisely what it is about the other man that pricks at Arthur's jealousy. "Me, Gwen, Aislinn, Percival, Dara, even Lancelot. It's his way to be flirtatious, just like it is your way to be a patronising, supercilious, arrogant—"

"Alright, alright," Arthur cuts him off even as the young man laughs. "So. Am I forgiven then?"

Merlin eyes him up critically, lips pressed together on a smile. "I'll think on it."

"Thank you, I suppose. Jacket? Please?"

Sliding out of his arms, Merlin turns and picks up the jacket hanging over the back of the chair, holding it up for Arthur to put on. This time, when he adjusts the lay of it and fixes the fastenings, his touch is gentle and lingering, smoothing out the creases.

"Now, I have a meeting to attend with delegates from Nemeth and Essetir after breakfast. The damned Feorrans still," Arthur says as Merlin straightens his jacket collar, affixing the sunstone pin. He arches one eyebrow at his manservant, a wryly apologetic smile playing at his lips. "So if you wish to ride out with your friend and see him off to the border, this would be the time."

Merlin smiles. "Now you're forgiven."

Once Arthur departs for the discussions with the other delegates, no doubt involving several long and tedious hours' worth of circular arguments, Merlin does indeed have the Hellion saddled and rides out of the city with Gwaine. "Where do you think you'll go?" he asks.

"Dunno. Depends on which way the wind's blowing, I suppose. I was thinking Mercia. Perhaps Essetir."

He shakes his head. "Dangerous places."

"Perhaps. But I'll get more ale for my money," Gwaine replies with a smirk, and Merlin gives him a flat look in return. "I'm only jesting. But what do you say?" He fishes a coin from the purse at his belt and holds it up, grinning broadly. "Mercia or Essetir. I'll let you call it."

Merlin shakes his head again, this time in amusement, then eyes up Gwaine with a small smile. "You can't imagine living this way forever. You could stay with us, you know. If you told Arthur you're a nobleman, you'd certainly become a knight. You two, you fought well together. Camelot could always use good men in her ranks."

Gwaine huffs a laugh. "No doubt she could. And the offer is a tempting one. But I could never serve under a man like Uther. Like as not, I'd shove him off the battlements first time he walked the walltops."

Oh, if only he knew how tempting that thought really was. It's one Merlin has admittedly considered once or twice himself. It'd only take one unfortunate stumble on a balcony or near a flight of steep stone stairs…. Merlin shakes his head and leans over in the saddle, extending a hand to him. "Fair enough, I suppose. Well, then, I hope we'll see each other again soon, my friend."

Gwaine clasps his arm firmly, grinning. "I'm certain we will. Until then." He winds the reins around his hands and puts heels to his horse, riding forward.

Merlin watches him a moment, but once the man's a few paces away, he whistles sharply. The Hellion shifts under him, snorting, and Gwaine draws rein, turning to look at him curiously. "Heads for Essetir," he calls.

Grinning broadly, Gwaine takes out the coin once more, flipping it high in a flash of silver. He catches it neatly and opens his hand. "Essetir it is!"

He waits and watches as Gwaine's retreating figure is swallowed by the forest before patting the Hellion's shoulder, turning her back towards Camelot. As he draws closer to the familiar white stone walls, a sound reaches his ears, faint and growing loud the nearer he comes.

The warning bells are ringing.

"I just…I don't understand it. Morgana's always been light on her feet. I couldn't trip her up even when I tried to," Arthur murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "She's walked that staircase countless times, since she was a girl. She used to dance on them."

Standing beside the prince's chair, Merlin remains silent. He recalls what he'd thought not even hours before, about all it'd take to end Uther's reign would be one unlucky stumble near a flight of stairs, and guilt knots up hot and sickly in his chest, irrational though it is.

On the patient cot in the physicians' chamber, Morgana looks somehow smaller, frailer, than she had before, like one of those expensive porcelain figures that'll shatter if the wind blows against her too strongly. The awful gash in her head has already been sewn up, hidden beneath the blue-black spill of her hair, but the true damage lay below, her skull cracked and broken inwards where she'd fallen. She breathes in shallow gasps, so small they're nigh impossible to see, and twice Merlin catches himself holding his own breath to hear hers, just to know she lives still.

"Can you heal her?" Arthur asks, tilting his head back to peer up at Merlin. He sounds so very lost, more a child than a prince.

"I'll try everything I can." He reaches up and touches the firm shape outline in his jacket, small book of healing spells he has tucked there. "Before I do, Arthur, I have to tell you…I don't believe she fell."

Arthur's gaze sharpens in an instant, and he seizes Merlin's wrist in an iron-strong grip. "What?"

"I don't believe she fell," he repeats firmly. "Mother told me that when she examined Morgana for any other injuries, she found none. Nothing, Arthur. Not a scrape or a bruise. If a person falls down the stairs, they are going to be injured." He lowers his voice to a murmur despite the fact they are the only ones in the chamber. "I've fallen on those stairs before, in winter, when they ice over. Magic protects the self. If she'd fallen, her magic would've arrested her descent, protected her."

"You believe someone…attacked her. Struck her over the head and left her at the stairs to make it seem as though she'd fallen," Arthur says, eyes widening with understanding. "Why would anyone do that to her?"

"I don't know yet."

"Well, think on it later. Heal her first, and perhaps she'll tell us who's responsible when she wakes. This spell you have, show it to me."

Taking the book from his jacket, Merlin opens to the page he'd marked with a length of ribbon, tapping a finger against the neat inscription. "Here. Healing the bones will be the most dangerous part, since I have to be careful of her brain, but this will stop her from bleeding inside, at least until I can find a way to heal her safely or Gaius instructs me how," he explains, knowing that Arthur can't read the Old Tongue as he can.

"It shan't harm her?"

"No, of course not. The worst thing that can happen is that it doesn't work and her condition remains the same."

It isn't like Arthur to doubt him, but when Merlin glances down, he can see the prince's frame is taut as a crossbow string, a muscle working in his jaw. His lashes are spiky and wet from the tears he's been stubbornly swiping away before they can fall. "We grew up together. All we've gone through together, Merlin, all we've lost and endured…." He shakes his head once, and a strangled sound emerges from his throat, somewhere between a sob and a whimper. "I'd give up my place on the throne to have her see another sunrise."

"I know. I know, love." He clasps his hand over Arthur's tightly-clenched fist, brushing one thumb over his white knuckles. Taking a deep breath, he turns back to Morgana, reaching out and placing a hand against her brow. "Ic—"

Lurching to his feet in the blink of an eye, Arthur claps a hand over his mouth, head turned towards the door. Abruptly, he snatches Merlin by the arm and hauls him away from Morgana's bed, up the few stairs into the small chamber Mother sleeps in, hastily shutting the door between them and the main chamber. Turning towards Merlin, he presses a finger to his lips in a gesture for silence, then sinks down to his knees, leaning forward to peer through the cracks in the door. Baffled, Merlin does the same.

Scarce muffled by the door, Merlin hears the door of the main chamber open and shut, and then the King's voice, low and hoarse with grief, "So beautiful."

Fear sinks frigid claws into his spine, and he clutches the book tightly against his chest, heart rabbiting painfully fast at how close he'd been to being caught out in the middle of an enchantment. Arthur nods understanding and repeats his signal, touching his lips with one finger, making a gesture with one hand—they'll stay here, wait him out.

Nodding, Merlin refocuses on the conversation in the main chamber, hearing Gaius's weary voice, "Sire, I wish there was something I could do."

"No, you don't understand," Uther insists, a note of sharpness creeping into his tone, the tone of a king expecting to be obeyed by his subjects. "I cannot lose her. No matter what happens, she cannot die."

"I…I will do everything I can, sire." Gaius sounds so tired, defeated.

"No, Gaius. Whatever it takes. Whatever, I don't care. You must save her."

Merlin tilts his head to the side, peering through the narrow gap between the wood planks. The King is sitting at Morgana's bedside, gently holding one of her hands between both of his own. He doesn't look terribly intimidating or fearsome now, not at all the Bloody Tyrant of Camelot, merely a man exhausted and heartsick.

"If I knew a way—"

"You're not understanding me, Gaius. Cure her. I don't care what remedy you use. In all these books there must be something…" There's a stretch of silence, heavy as an anvil. When Uther speaks next, his voice is low, furtive. "Something in the Old Religion?"

Merlin's gaze snaps sideways to Arthur, finding the prince staring back at him with similarly wide eyes, lips parted in shock. He hadn't misheard that, then. Almost as one, they turn their gaze back towards the door, straining their ears to listen on.

"Are you suggesting…?" Gaius sounds equally as stunned as his unknown audience, scarcely whispering for shock.

"Sorcery, yes."

"I-I know she's dear to you, sire, but surely you're not going to risk everything for Morgana?"

"Gaius, you don't understand," Uther repeats again, sounding strained, then heaves a sigh. There's a creak of wood, footsteps moving from one side of the chamber to the other and back again. Pacing. "There's something you should know," he says at last, hesitancy lading each word. "Something I've told no one. Morgana…" The footsteps halt. Another deep sigh. "Morgana…she is my daughter."

The entire world seems to cease for a moment, and Merlin can feel the room tilt around him. Beside him, Arthur's gone wholly still, only the pulse in the side of his neck giving away the fact he still lived. One of his hands grasps for Merlin's blindly, taking hold and squeezing so hard he thinks the bones might well crack.

In the main chamber, the King goes on, "It was while Gorlois was away. He was on campaign against Mercia in the Northern Plains. Her mother, Vivienne, grew lonely, and Ygraine was…distant from me after…" His voice trails off softly.

At the mention of his mother, Arthur twitches, his jaw tightening, fury in his eyes. Merlin reaches over to press his free hand over the prince's mouth, shaking his head quickly, keeping tight hold of his hand to prevent him from rising.

"I've said enough. The people must never know who Morgana really is, for Arthur's sake."

For Arthur's sake. Oh, the bitter irony of those three words.

"I assure you, sire, your secret is safe with me," Gaius murmurs, still sounding rattled.

There's another shuffling of footsteps, the door opening and closing, and then silence. Only then does Merlin lower his hand from Arthur's mouth, though the prince's ferocious grip doesn't lessen. Until abruptly it does, Arthur snatching his hand away and pressing both hands over his face, raking back through his hair.

"Arthur…"

"Don't!" he half-shouts, voice cracking. Arthur shudders all over, pressing a fist against his mouth and biting one knuckle. "Leave me," he whispers; Merlin opens his mouth, reaching for him, but the prince jerks away from him sharply. "I said, leave me. Go…away. Do whatever you wish, just leave me be. Please, Merlin. Just go."

The words pluck a chord of memory, something he'd said once before when his world was shaken so vigorously. "I'm here, Arthur," he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. "I'm here."

Arthur nods quickly, eyes closed.

Picking up the book, Merlin hides it within his jacket and leaves the small room. Mother's returned and is sitting at Morgana's bedside once more, and she startles when he comes down the steps. "Merlin, what—?"

"Not now, Mother, please. I…I can't," he murmurs as he walks past her.

The hallways all seem too narrow, too close, stiflingly hot despite the pleasant weather. It's been a great many years since Merlin's felt himself grow ill at being within manmade walls, yet he recognises the sensation, tightening in his chest and slowly strangling the breath from him, like being simultaneously drowned and smothered. Breaking into a run, he makes his way out into the main square, gasping in lungfuls of open air. He might still be surrounded by walls made by man's hand, but at least he can see the sky again, feel breeze against his skin.

As he takes deep breaths, bent over with hands on his knees in an attempt to steady himself, there's a great clattering of hooves, people exclaiming loudly. Merlin raises his head at the sound, catching sight of a familiar figure riding hell-for-leather into the square. "Gwaine? What in seven hells are you doing here?"

Gwaine draws rein sharply before Merlin, his horse lathering and near-spent. Not that the man looks any better, his face drawn and haggard, clothes clearly slept in. "Merlin, where's Arthur?" he demands, leaping down from the saddle and striding over. His hands grasp both Merlin's arms hard enough to bruise, fingertips digging painfully into his flesh.

"He's—" With his sister. Someone cracked her skull with a brick. "—he's with a friend of ours. She's injured. Gwaine, what—?"

"There's no time. Bring me to the damned King if you must, but tell them they have to make ready. There's an army riding for Camelot."