A knock on the door of Arthur's former chambers rouses Merlin from his pleasant half-doze, curled up on his side on the bed in Sephare and Aleyne's hidden room. He doesn't know if it's simply well-crafted acoustics or part of the magic concealing it, but if he leaves the inner door open, he can hear near everything in the main chamber, no doubt a safeguard for the clandestine lovers. Heaving a quiet sigh, he climbs off the bed, gently smoothing a hand over the blue-white shell of the dragon egg, feeling the warm thrum of life inside. They'd agreed not to hatch it until after the ban of magic was repealed and people had adjusted to the change it would bring. Still, even sitting near it makes him feel…better somehow. Easier in his own skin. Livelier.

Once the false wall settles in place, Merlin goes to answer the door. "Hello, Ione. Lost again, or were you actually coming to fetch Arthur?" he asks in good humour. He likes Bellegere's maidservant, such as she is. The girl is just as ornery as her lady mistress; no doubt she wouldn't have ever gained her post due to her pleasant demeanor. However, Bellegere had been insistent—she would have Ione as her maidservant or no one at all. Apparently, stubbornness isn't solely a Pendragon trait.

"Fetching you, m'lord. My lord," the girl corrects herself sternly. Persistent coaching from Bellegere and Guinevere has improved her speech a great deal, and she's learning to read and do sums as well.

"Better, but I'm not a lord, and my name is Merlin. Who are you fetching me for?"

"The princess."

He gestures towards the corridor. "Lead the way."

Despite having only lived in the castle a short time, Ione has learnt her way around fairly well, and she only hesitates once at an intersecting corridor. Out in the palace gardens, Morgana, Guinevere, and Bellegere are taking advantage of the fair weather. The two adult women are sitting on the bench, and Bellegere is sat on the ground, cross-legged in front of Gwen's legs as the other maidservant braids up her hair. "There, see? That's not so hard, and it keeps it all out of your face when you go riding or hawking," Guinevere says, handing Bellegere a hand mirror to observe her handiwork.

Bellegere hums thoughtfully, tilting her head to observe the pinned-up braids. "It'll suit," she says at last, though there's an undercurrent of stifled delight in her words. "Thank you, Gwen." She turns her head to give him a view. "Merlin, what do you think?"

He thinks she looks quite lovely. It's only three simple braids, but they're twisted around one another and pinned in place to give the illusion of being much more complexly woven. It makes her look more of a young woman than a girl. If he tells her so, however, she might well throw the mirror at his face. He smirks and shrugs one shoulder. "You don't look like a street urchin for the first time this week, so better."

She rolls her eyes skyward and makes a rude gesture likely learnt from Gwaine. They've become unlikely companions since the night in the tavern. When he'd sworn at her and been sworn at in return, they'd become great friends. Rising to her feet, she brushes the grass from her trousers. "With me, Ione. Gwen, will you come and show us more?" she asks, tactful in her surprisingly subtle way.

"Of course. Right this way," Guinevere agrees, ushering the girls away.

Once they're out of earshot, Merlin sits on the now-unoccupied end of the bench, smiling as he clasps his hands about his knees. "You summoned me, O gracious princess?" he asks brightly and laughs as she closes her book and swats him smartly across the shoulder with it. She takes to being teased about her newfound title about as well as Arthur takes to being called a prat, something he quite delights in. However, looking at her closer, he observes the lack of colour in her face, the bruise-coloured smudges beneath her eyes. "Tell me true, how are you feeling?"

"Ill," Morgana replies flatly and closes her eyes, reaching up to rub two fingertips against her temples. Though she's learnt well to manage her visions, she still sleeps poorly when they come upon her. "I've dreamt every night for the past four days, and though they are alike, it's never quite the same. I believe it's another crossway. There's more than one road which can be taken," she says at last, squinting at him with one eye. "And I can't…see everything. Some parts of it are…shrouded. I cannot see them clearly."

Merlin frowns. "That sounds odd. Has anything like that happened to you before?"

"No. Perhaps it'll clear soon, once a path has been chosen. Here." She extends an arm, holding out the book, which he recognises as the journal in which she records her visions and the images which appear in her dreams.

Turning to the marked pages, he studies her delicate handwriting curiously. A pack of wolves devouring a dragonet, a flaming sword, a giant breaking a golden crown, a heart being cleaved in two…. He shakes his head, closing the journal and handing it back to her. "I've not the faintest idea what any of this could mean. There's nothing else you can see? Anything that might connect them somehow?"

Still rubbing at her temples, Morgana shakes her head. "That is what is shrouded from me. There's something else there, it's just barely out of grasp." Her lips curl up with faint humour, arching an eyebrow wryly. "I find myself having utmost sympathy for the great dreamers of old who had to endure this constantly."

Merlin laughs agreement, relaxing back into the bench. Despite the seriousness of the topic, a burgeon of happiness swells in his chest until it's pressing against his lungs and raising his heart right up to the very borders of his ribs, as though it might well break free and take flight. In all his life, even in his most fanciful childhood imaginings, he never would've pictured himself sitting in the royal gardens of Camelot, discussing magic and visions with a fellow sorcerer. Even if their talk is couched in more subtle terms, if anyone bothered to listen it'd be obvious they are speaking of something outside the usual. And yet, he's not frightened, not truly.

He's startled out of his pleasant relaxation by Mordred's still-piping voice calling, "My lord!" The lad trips on his own feet as he comes hurrying into the gardens, measuring his length along a late-blooming flowerbed, much to the consternation of the gardener, but he scrambles up just as quickly, righting his clothes as he approaches their bench, short of breath. "My lord, King Arthur requires your presence in the council hall."

What is it with these children addressing him by a title he does not bear? "I am not a lord," Merlin reminds the young man, lightly cuffing him over one ear. "Call me Merlin, I've told you before." If an actual noble heard him being addressed as such, he might well end up in the stocks, if not the dungeons, though he supposes he should count it a victory that Mordred has stopped calling him Emrys and bowing for him. He wonders if Arthur is ever discomfited being shown such obeisance by others. Doubtful.

The boy gives him a hesitant, crooked smile; once he grows out of the gangly awkwardness of his Colts' Years, he'll be a favourite of the lasses. "Yes, sir."

Merlin sighs deeply. He bids an amused Morgana farewell and starts in the direction of the council hall, Mordred trailing after him. "Did our most magnanimous king actually say what he wanted?" It's not as though he actually has anything to do in the middle of the afternoon. With the strictures of magic being gradually lessened—Arthur is champing at the bit waiting for the year mark Merlin had set—he now does the majority of his daily tasks with magic, albeit in secrecy. Everything gets done sooner, and he has near an hour of leisure near midday, when Arthur holds court and debates with his council.

"No, but he wasn't happy," Mordred replies, sounding uneasy about it. Though he knows full well that Arthur is far from Uther, spending over half his life as a hunted breed has left him with a lingering nervousness in regards to kings and their tempers.

Offering a reassuring smile, he claps a hand to the lad's sharp-boned shoulder. "Ah, I'm sure he's just found a hole in his favourite coat and wants to shout at me for not mending it." Mordred smothers a laugh into his hands, grinning widely, and Merlin gives him a wink. "Go on, little one. I'll set his highness to rights," he instructs. Once the lad darts away, nearly tripping over himself again, Merlin pushes open the door of the council hall.

Instead of the full council, however, he's greeted by only a few faces: Arthur, Leon, Agravaine, Sirs Bors and Gareth, and a wiry young lad clad in forest colours. "You sent for me, sire?" he says courteously, bowing slightly as he takes in the tension in the room.

"I did. Ready my armour and sword, prepare for travel," Arthur orders, turning to face him. His voice has taken on that full, commanding timbre which means he expects to be obeyed now, with not a word of argument from anyone. Still, when his gaze catches Merlin's, he gives a barely discernible nod, silently promising to explain everything later on.

"At once, sire." Bowing once more, Merlin turns and leaves the hall just as quickly as he'd left it and knows without knowing they are approaching the fork in the road Morgana has foreseen.

In the King's chambers, he is in the midst of laying out Arthur's armour when the other man joins him, striding in. "What's happened?" Merlin asks without looking away from his task, placing a sword on the table beside the rest.

"A party of armed men have been pillaging villages on the northwest border," Arthur replies, pacing the length of his chambers like a leopard confined. As he paces, he strips off his vest and tunic, putting on his hardier travelling wear instead. "Bors has been tailing them without success and says that they've now left the borders and moved further into the kingdom, staking their claim. It cannot go unanswered. Gareth and his scout have guessed their headings. We are riding out to meet them directly."

That doesn't surprise him in the least. Arthur has always given the protection of the borders utmost importance, and he won't allow something like this to go on without answering it. Merlin knows too that Arthur has been chafing beneath the yoke of his new responsibilities, his previous freedom curtailed. This excursion solves both in one blow. "How soon?" He holds up the gambeson for Arthur to put on, sliding it neatly up his arms.

"Leon's organizing the knights now. We should be ready before evening."

Merlin twitches his fingers, the gambeson's lacings tying themselves up as he picks up the chainmail. "And will I—?"

"You are coming with, don't even try to talk your way out of it," Arthur cuts him off, giving him a stern glare once the chainmail goes on over his head, his hair standing askew. It makes him look like a rather ruffled hedgepig, and despite the solemnity, Merlin chuckles in amusement.

"Never would have thought to, you prat."

Sir Gareth's scout proves his worth when he leads them directly into the path of the armed party. By the time they catch up, it is well towards noon, which means they aren't going to catch any of the men in camp. Arthur, however, finds an opportunity to formulate a plan of action, giving his knights the chance to regroup and rest their horses as well. "This ravine here would be perfect for an ambush," he observes, gesturing downwards from where he stands on a high point with Leon and Lancelot, who's proven himself to be an able strategist. "Whoever's leading them is knowledgeable enough to evade both Bors and Gareth, so I doubt they will allow themselves to be penned in so easily."

Lancelot gives a low, thoughtful hum, drumming his fingers against his arm. "Hounds and hares," he poses; Arthur raises his brows in silent question. "It's a game we played as children. Those of us named hounds chased after the hares and tried to catch them. The same might be done here. We provoke them into a chase, lead them back into the ravine, and have an ambush lying in wait for them there, hiding along the ridge."

"Good. That's good. Which poses the question of who will be our hare." Not a position he envies, as in his experience, these chases near always end with the hare dead.

"I'll do it."

"You will not," Arthur says immediately, just as Leon turns sharply to glare at the damned fool who'd spoken.

Merlin raises his gaze from where he is sharpening Arthur's sword, sitting on an outcropping of stone not so near as to be an active part of the conversation yet close enough to hear their words. "I will, because I am the fastest runner of all of you," he insists, which is quite unfortunately true. With those long legs of his, he can run like a damned rabbit.

"These men aren't going to chase after a single commoner," Lancelot points out, much to Arthur's relief.

Unfazed, Merlin simply arches one brow in an expression most uncannily similar to Gaius. "You're questioning my ability to provoke someone? I can put on mail and a cloak. A knight on his own would make a pleasant target for them."

"Merlin…"

Rising neatly to his feet, Merlin slides the sword back into the scabbard and walks over to hand it to Arthur. "If you cannot conceive of a better option, tell Sir Gareth I will have need of his mail," he says in a low voice.

They don't conceive of a better option. Though it's Leon who poses the idea to the rest of the knights, they all agree with the plan and find it rather clever and even somewhat amusing, using a child's game to entrap an armed raiding party. Even Uncle Agravaine approves. And of course, it is Merlin who is chosen to play the part of the hare, for the only other person who might be fast enough is young Cerwin, Gareth's scout and a boy of only three-and-ten. Through it all, Arthur rubs his forehead and tries not to sigh too much.

Thus settled, Gareth lends Merlin his chainmail, as he's the only knight present who is both tall enough and slender enough to be of size with him, and despite Leon's strident protest, the manservant refuses a sword. "I'll go faster without it. The business of swords is yours," Merlin insists, smirking, and tosses his quarterstaff at Lancelot, which he catches with a wry shake of the head. "See if you can't manage to hold onto that until I return."

The others begin to set up the ambush, taking their places around the ridge above the dead-end ravine. Not wanting to be overheard, Arthur walks with Merlin to the edge of their camp, out of sight. "You'd best run fast, hare," he says in a low voice as he throws his cloak around Merlin's shoulders, fixing the clasp in front. A not-so-small part of him preens to see Merlin in Pendragon red, the dragon bold on his shoulders, bringing out the sparks of gold in his eyes. Beneath the unfamiliar prickle of worry, his mouth goes somewhat dry to see the younger man in battle dress; he understands now why the women always pause to watch when the knights ride out of the city and smile so invitingly when they return.

The corner of Merlin's mouth curls up. "Certainly faster than you, considering the difference in our waistlines," he retorts in an undertone.

"Oh! You—go. Just go." Arthur turns him around and gives him a helpful shove forward, and the young man casts him a small smile backwards before taking off, red cape flashing brightly away into the trees.

There is nothing else to it but to wait, then. He takes his place in the centre, their forces split to surround the ravine on three sides where there is cover, leaving the fourth open for the raiders to run in. Arthur draws his sword and carefully holds it low at his side, waiting. Even as he settles himself to wait, listening for any sounds of approaching men, he can't help but be uneasy, the nape of his neck itching. Rationally, he knows that Merlin has faced far worse dangers than a raiding party, that his magic will protect him better than any sword could. And yet…. He works his fingers around the hilt of his sword, flexes his legs to keep from getting stiff, willing himself to hold steady.

One should never underestimate Merlin's ability to provoke. The sun has scarce moved in the sky when harsh, shouting voices come into earshot, growing louder as they come closer—the sharp jeering and cursing of men on the hunt. Arthur grips his sword hilt tightly, clenching his jaw as he risks peering over the ridge to see Merlin sprinting into the ravine, the raiders in close pursuit. Somehow, the manservant has acquired a short-handled axe of all things, which he brandishes in warning when he comes to the end of the ravine and turns to face his pursuers.

Temptation nips sharply, but Arthur stays, waiting. Not all of the raiders are in the ravine, behind their lines.

A man saunters forward, moving with the smooth stalk of a predator who knows they've brought their prey to bay. "Trapped, are we?" he asks with a smile full of teeth.

Arthur can almost hear the smile in Merlin's voice. "That's the idea."

Now.

The battle doesn't last long. The archers send down a volley of arrows to thin their ranks, Leon brings his flank around to cut off the raiders' escape, and Arthur leaps into the pit with a rallying cry, the rest of the men falling in. Lancelot throws Merlin's quarterstaff across the fray like a spear, the young man snatching it neatly out of the air and taking up a defensive stance at Arthur's back.

"Any injuries?" Arthur says once the last of the raiders are brought sharply to heel, using a bit of cloth to wipe the blood off his blade.

Gareth's voice is laughing as he lifts up scout Cerwin by the scruff of his neck, the boy smiling dazedly, half his face a red mask. "Just a bloodied nose, sire! Caught a spear shaft, no more."

Despite their victory, Uncle Agravaine's face is solemn as he approaches Arthur, dragging along one of the raiders with him. "Your Majesty. Look what we have here." Defeated or not, the man meets Arthur's eye with clear challenge, chin raised.

Holding the sharp-eyed gaze, Arthur recognises him as the one who had taunted Merlin, the head of the party. He's older than most who pursue this manner of life, five-and-forty, perhaps less, his hair and beard streaked with steely grey; the breadth of his chest and shoulders speaks to strength despite his years. "He comes with us," Arthur decides after a moment, sliding his blade home to its scabbard. "We'll deal with the prisoners when we get back to Camelot." There's no reason to think that every band of outlaws might be working under Morgause and whatever allies she's gathering to herself, but there is no reason to dismiss the possibility entirely, either. Though he finds the business distasteful, he'll have the man put to question when they've returned to the city.

"I fear this is no ordinary prisoner, Your Highness," Uncle insists, a strange note to his voice. He reaches out and grabs at a chain around the man's neck, dragging it up and over his head.

A bronze amulet dangles from the length of chain, catching brightly in the sun, and Arthur holds out his hand for it, brow furrowing as the weight of it settles in his palm. This isn't any slavers' medallion, or some trinket to be haggled for in a marketplace. This is castle-forged, solid and lasting. "Well, well," he murmurs, swiping his thumb over the insignia imprinted deep and purposeful into the bronze. His thumbnail traces along the wolf's snarling fangs.

Merlin's voice sounds oddly strangled, issuing from behind him. "What is that?"

"This, Merlin, is the royal crest of Caerleon. Is it not…Your Highness?"

Even after the rest of the camp has gone quiet, Arthur finds himself unable to sleep, sitting awake in his tent. In the soft, flickering light of the lantern, he reads over the words Uncle Agravaine has written for him as he has half a hundred times already, turning them this way and that in his head. It just doesn't sit right with him. Somehow, they've set up a dangerous gambit, and no matter how he shifts about the pieces on this board, he only ever comes up with a stalemate. As he reads the words yet again, his free hand comes up to his mouth, and he finds himself indulging a habit that he'd thought broken years ago, biting the knuckle of his forefinger.

The tent flaps open and fall shut again. A warm body sits close yet doesn't touch him. "Lay down."

Lowering his hand, Arthur shakes his head. "Not now, Merlin."

"Will you just—?" Merlin reaches over and snatches the parchment out of his hands, casting it to the corner of the tent before Arthur can snatch it back. Hands on both shoulders, he applies firm, insistent pressure, guiding him back and down until he's lying on his back with head and shoulders in Merlin's lap. "Just relax some. You thinking is dangerous enough, I wouldn't want you to harm yourself."

Arthur swats at him. "Ass."

Chuckling, Merlin starts running his fingers through Arthur's hair, scratching nails just so against his scalp. "Now stop being a cabbagehead and talk to me."

He heaves out a sigh, shaking his head. "Merlin, I cannot come running to you for advice at every turn," he murmurs. "The kingdom is my responsibility to bear now. Mine, not yours or Leon's or Lancelot's. I have to make these decisions on my own."

That earns him a look of upside-down exasperation. "That is your uncle speaking," Merlin replies sternly, tugging at his hair in reproof. "Arthur, your father did not make decisions on his own. No, listen to me," he insists when Arthur opens his mouth to protest. "What do you think he had a council of advisors for? Just to occupy his time before lunch? They advised him. Yes, the final decision was his own, but he took their view of things into account before he made it. That's all we're trying to do, Arthur. So just…talk to me."

Exhaling slowly, Arthur tilts back against Merlin's lap, gratefully pressing his head into the young man's caressing hands. It does help ease the headache he can feel slowly building up in his skull, the tension slowly easing from his shoulders and neck. "Caerleon's father had peace with us. He was present at the treaty of the five kingdoms, but after he died, Caerleon broke it, and we've been at odds ever since," he says aloud. "He's been raiding our lands with increasing regularity, and he's gotten bolder. I cannot let that go unanswered."

Merlin tweaks his ear. "I never said you should. Go on. Tell me about his kingdom."

"I cannot say much, there's not been much communication between us since the peace ended. But I know they are a strong kingdom. Their army is near equal in number to ours," he adds with a frown. If it comes to war, both kingdoms will bleed. They'll tear one another apart.

Above him, Merlin hums softly, his fingertips rubbing slow circles against Arthur's scalp. "The territories he's been invading, are they significant at all, other than being on the borders?"

"Yes, in a way. They were signed over to Camelot as part of the peace treaty."

"So, with the peace broken, perhaps he doesn't believe you have right to it anymore, and he sees it as taking what is rightfully his," the younger man supposes.

Arthur blinks. He hadn't considered that. "That…actually makes sense. It makes little difference, though, Merlin. Those territories are part of Camelot now, and we aren't on the borders anymore. This is near the heart of the kingdom."

"What is it that Lord Agravaine suggests you do?" Merlin asks, his tone cooling slightly.

A quiet sigh slips out of him. He knows he can sometimes be a bit unobservant of things, but he's aware of the fact Merlin isn't fond of his uncle. Merlin is always impeccably polite and never gives cause for complaint, but that is proof enough of his dislike, lacking that pleasant informal warmth he shares with others. Still, the manservant has given no offence, so there is no reason to make a fuss. Arthur turns his head against Merlin's thigh, eyes closed briefly. "He suggests we force Caerleon to accept a treaty of our terms. Withdraw all his forces from Camelot, return our territories to us. Surrender Everwick."

"He won't agree to that, will he?"

"Not whilst he breathes, no."

The fingers in his hair tighten slightly. "Then is it also Agravaine's suggestion that Caerleon no longer breathes if he doesn't sign?" Merlin asks in a dark tone.

Arthur reaches up and catches hold of Merlin's arm, tugging at his sleeve until the young man meets his eye. "By coming this far into the kingdom, Caerleon challenges my strength and ability as a king. I cannot let that go unanswered, or I will be seen as weak, not only to our people but to other kingdoms as well. A weak king is a vulnerable king. My father was a strong ruler. His enemies feared and respected him in turn, and he brought peace to Camelot for a great many years. He didn't achieve that by allowing such blatant offense go unanswered," he says firmly, keeping his grip tight on the sorcerer's wrist in emphasis. It isn't a coincidence that all this has happened since he's become king. He knows that he's still young, still untested in the eyes of other rulers, and he cannot risk any of them viewing him as incapable, unable to hold his own borders. He might not have agreed with some of Father's edicts, but nobody would ever say the man was weak.

Merlin gently yet firmly twists his arm out of the other man's grip and instead lays his hand on Arthur's chest. "You've always shown mercy in battle. You've never sought to humiliate your enemy in this way. This isn't like you. This isn't who you are," he murmurs back, gently pressing against Arthur's chest, palm resting over his heart. "Your father might have been a strong ruler, but one thing he never understood is that compassion can be its own strength."

"Do you suggest I let him go, then?"

With a quiet chuckle, Merlin rolls his eyes skyward, a wry smile pulling at his mouth. "What is it with Pendragon men that you only seem to deal in extremes?" he asks of no one in particular; Arthur scowls up at him, brows knitting together. "You have choices other than executing him and releasing him, Arthur. Caerleon is married, isn't he? He has a queen?"

Still somewhat offended, Arthur nods. He remembers seeing the banns some years ago, when their kingdoms were still at peace with one another. "Yes. Anna? No, Annis," he corrects himself.

"We're near enough to the castle." Merlin shrugs, spreading his hands in front of him before resuming his petting. "Take Caerleon back to Camelot with us and send an envoy to Queen Annis. If Caerleon won't treat with us, perhaps she will."

That…doesn't sound entirely unreasonable. He's never met Queen Annis in person, but from what he's heard, she has a reputation of being just and reasonable. Surely he'll be able to speak rationally with her. And it's hardly as though she could declare war on them, not if they hold her king hostage and Caerleon was the aggressor to begin with. "It's not often you're right, Merlin," he says, and Merlin swats his chest, "but for a miracle, you may actually have a good idea." It's too late to do so now, but in the morning, he'll offer the treaty to Caerleon. No doubt the man will refuse, but at least they'll have made the attempt. When he does refuse, then Arthur will have him brought back to Camelot as a hostage and send an envoy to Annis.

Merlin hums and leans over to press a kiss to Arthur's brow.

The prisoners are made to walk back to Camelot. Caerleon is the only exception; Arthur allows the other king to ride Llamrei, surrounded by a cordon of knights to ensure he cannot escape. Ahead of Caerleon, Arthur heads up the party on the Hellion, keeping firm rein on the spotted menace. He makes quite the splendid figure, Merlin muses, bringing up the rear of the party, walking alongside Lancelot. For a prat, that is.

"You do know Flick can carry us both, yes?" Lancelot says in an undertone, glancing down at him. He's uncomfortable with Merlin walking whilst the rest of them ride, as though he is lesser than they are, no better than the prisoners. Even the little scout Cerwin has his own placid donkey.

Merlin shakes his head. "I enjoy walking. But do ask me again if we have to run," he replies, earning a snort out of the knight. "Tell me, what do you think of this?"

Lancelot gives a thoughtful hum, winding the loose ends of Flick's reins through his hand absentmindedly. It's a moment before he answers, but that is only because he is giving the question due thought. "I believe the king is wise to seek other courses before turning to further bloodshed," he replies at last, carefully measuring his words, aware that there are some unfriendly ears about. Bending slightly in the saddle, he lowers his voice to a murmur, "Did you see Caerleon's face when Arthur said he would send word to his queen?"

"He didn't seem pleased," Merlin replies, not bothering to contain his mirth.

The other man shakes his head slowly, not quite as amused. He taps the ends of the reins against his palm. "More than that. If I had to wager, I would say she doesn't know what he's been doing here. He might not have told her, or at least not the truth of it."

Surprised, Merlin stares at their captive with new curiosity. In his mind's eye, he recalls the events of this morning. When Arthur had announced his plan to entreat Annis to settle terms, Caerleon had looked quietly furious, grinding his teeth so hard it was a miracle none of them had cracked for strain. Merlin had attributed it to displeasure at being kept as a hostage, at being set aside in favour of speaking to his queen, but there'd been more to it, a flicker of somewhat else. He hadn't thought much on it before, but he does now. Guilt, perhaps?

"If that is true," Merlin says slowly, "then Arthur is soon to be the very least of his worries."

Curious glances are cast their way as Lancelot bursts out laughing.