Reminder

Part 2: Merlin

Blink.

Ten paces away-

Witch.

Ragged black robe, flyaway gray hair, face and body and magic full of rage, drawing back to throw something at him from an empty hand-

How did I – how on earth did I-

Instinctively he ducked, his magic forming an invisible shield against her attack-

Why are we fighting? How long – how did I get-

She shrieked something that sounded an awful lot like it was going to be a death curse, and that couldn't be loosed into the world – deep green leaves, brambly underbrush, craggy trunks.

With both hands, he shoved his shield at her, curving and inverting and expanding, a soup tureen clapped over a rat unwanted indoors-

She didn't stop. Maybe she didn't notice it, but her curse rebounded from his shield and had nowhere else to go, no other focus to expend itself upon, no other life force to snuff-

Smoke puffed out around the edges of the shield, and he lost his hold on it-

How did I do that? I've never – I can't – how did I-

Behind him on his left, someone came scrambling up a bank – a ravine? He whirled, confused, hands out in preparation for defense, but the lone fellow who appeared – plain dark trousers, soft hide vest over a deep blue shirt, boots gloves sword in hand – spared him not a glance.

"Where is – is that-" he gasped, clearly having exerted himself to reach that place in… the forest… "Bloody hells, Merlin, what happened?"

Merlin. His name was Merlin. That meant this young fair-haired man knew him, but…

"I don't know," he said honestly, feeling an urge to panic scratching round the edges of his control. "I… Where are we?"

"Not far from the eastern road." The man approached a perfect circle of charred grass and ground and nothing else as if he expected to have to use his weapon. He swore, softly.

Oh, damn. Because – magic. Merlin inhaled, pulse racing unsteadily like a three-legged stray expecting to be kicked any moment for daring to-

"What happened?" the man repeated, in a much different tone. "Was this you or her? She's gone, isn't she? Gone, or dead?"

Very definitely dead. "I don't know what you mean," Merlin said, fast. Just because he knew Merlin didn't mean he knew Merlin. "That was nothing to do with me."

His companion promptly forgot the circle of death and stared at Merlin instead. Astonishment, not suspicion or anything that felt dangerous – but there was still the sword in his hand.

"Ah," Merlin said. Panic. Retreat. Which direction? "Where are we, again? And – how'd we get here?"

"We rode," the man said, grimacing like he didn't get Merlin's joke. "Not on purpose – the witch took us by surprise. Haven't been many of her lately…"

What?

"What?" Merlin's mouth said.

"Witches," his companion repeated, like Merlin was an idiot.

Was he?

"I don't know why they keep coming, though – revenge on the son is better than no revenge, I suppose-"

"Why… would anyone want revenge on me? on you? on us? I'm just – I'm nobody," Merlin said, heart thumping the inside of his ribcage uncomfortably. Rat under a soup tureen. "Why are we out here? How far from Ealdor?"

"Ealdor?" his companion said, sounding now slightly annoyed. He came toward Merlin-

He couldn't help back away nearly step for step-

Sheathing his sword.

Merlin made his feet stand still.

"What did she do?" the other demanded. "She did something, didn't she? Got a shot in after she sent me flying?" He did look a bit like he'd tumbled through underbrush – dirt and bracken and maybe bruises under the grime.

"I don't know," Merlin said honestly. "Witches, really? No one else knows, do they? My mother must be-"

The blonde man stopped just shy of arm's length and stared. Hard. Merlin's gaze was drawn to the swordhilt at his hip – then down to his own clothing, which was strange to him. Soft cloth, rich subtle color – not faded or threadbare. Neckerchief edged in tiny stitches - he plucked at it wonderingly.

"Your mother?" his companion said slowly. "Ealdor… Merlin, have you lost your mind?"

"Maybe," he said whitely. "I don't know…"

"Where we are… how we got here… anything about the witch, or…" His companion took a single step closer, eyes like sharp blue steel, and Merlin flinched. "Oh, hells. Oh, Merlin."

"Yeah – sorry-" he floundered.

Despair drained something vital from his companion – temper, hope, energy… "Merlin – what's my name."

Oh, he was going to offend. He had to guess – better than admitting forgetfulness. He only had one friend, after all. One other friend. Make it good – make it noble, worthy, proud- "A…lfred?"

"Oh, you're not funny," Not-Alfred said, eyes and lips pinched as if in pain. "A memory charm? You've certainly threatened me with that often enough-"

"I have not!" Merlin said, scandalized.

"You're serious, then? You don't remember me at all? Come on, at all?"

Merlin tried very hard. His magic could move things – even insubstantial things sometimes like water or fire or air, sometimes time – but memories? No.

"I remember we were meant to harvest Old Man Simmons' field today," he said hopefully. "Yesterday?"

No – must be longer, if he'd had the time to make another friend. To meet another friend, and get to know him long enough to let slip the magic. Unless-

"Do you have magic?" he tried, as inoffensively as he could. Because if Not-Alfred had magic but Merlin wasn't supposed to know it…

Not-Alfred said a word Merlin never would have, slowly and feelingly. "What. Am I supposed to do now?"

Merlin's stomach growled, and he could see through the thick summer leaves – summer? not autumn? – that the sun was past its zenith. "Have we eaten? We could eat, couldn't we, before going home? You said we had horses?"

"Yes, but we left them a ways back. And…" Not-Alfred set his jaw. "If you're talking about home to Ealdor, you don't live there anymore."

"Nonsense." Merlin was certain – and then not. "Really?"

"Come on – it's this way." His companion gave him one last moment of hopeful scrutiny, as if wishing for Merlin to admit a bad joke, before lowering his head and beginning to march away.

Except – he'd said they were near the east road, which meant already too close to forbidden territory, and Merlin was not risking one step further. "That's toward Camelot."

"Clearly," Not-Alfred tossed over his shoulder.

"I'll wait here," Merlin volunteered. "If you don't mind."

Not-Alfred stopped and half-turned, an unhappy scowl on his face. "I do mind actually, I'm not going to bring the horses back to you just to turn around and ride home to-"

Merlin didn't even let him say it. "Oh, hell no," he said. "There's no way. There's no way! I'm not going to Camelot, and you cannot convince me I ever lived there! Who are you really, because no friend of mine would ever-"

Not-Alfred strode right back to him, making him jump and retreat again – he was very abrupt, even though Merlin could tell he wasn't being deliberately threatening.

"I know about your magic," he said. "Everyone in Camelot-"

All of Merlin's blood cascaded through his breastbone and splashed somewhere around his heels.

Not-Alfred paused, watching him. "That – genuinely frightens you."

"Wouldn't it you?" Merlin managed. "One wrong word, one slip, and they would cheerfully burn me to death."

Not-Alfred flinched. "Can't you trust me when I say that things have changed since you – since you remember?"

"I can't remember if I trust you," Merlin said slowly, though somehow he yearned simply to say yes. Didn't know if he could trust that feeling, though, did he?

"What if… what if we went to Ealdor," his companion said slowly. "If your mother said you could trust me? Then would you? If you've lost your memory because of some curse, you'll need your books, I assume, and they're all in-"

"Ealdor is what I've been saying," Merlin told him with some asperity. "Now shall I wait for you and those horses you claim we've got, or shall I set out on my own?"

Not-Alfred closed his eyes, clenching his jaw and turning his head a degree as if struggling to deny whatever words leaped to his mouth. "Bloody… hells. Yeah, all right. Can't leave you to walk to bloody Ealdor on your own. You'd be kidnapped – or worse."

"No, I wouldn't," Merlin disagreed. "It's perfectly safe."

Unless it wasn't, anymore.

Witches, after all.

And revenge?

"So what's your name?" he said, half-expecting his companion to delay further – not to tramp along at his side, increasing the pace as if impatient, and forcing Merlin to keep up with him.

"A- ah. It's – not Alfred. But you can call me that, I suppose."

"Why?" Merlin was puzzled why not – why Alfred wouldn't just tell him his name.

"That way I can tell if you're starting to remember things – if you remember my name."

Merlin was nearly certain Alfred made that up on the spot, and hid other reasons along with his identity, but didn't suppose it mattered really. And after all, it was nice to have someone to walk beside, if it was going to be a long walk.

He expected to reach a point where he regretted company and preferred solitude, and it didn't happen. Alfred was cagey about answering questions, but he seemed… subconsciously comfortable at Merlin's side.

With Merlin at his side.

Because who was leading whom? and who was traveling with whom?

He knew the way to Ealdor, though. Never had to glance at Merlin for confirmation or direction, traveling as they were without road or track, only direction.

And when the sun retreated behind the horizon, Alfred ventured, "Do you want to-"

Merlin responded without having to think about it, "No, let's just-"

Alfred nodded and strode on.

They crossed the border in the dusk and lost sight of Ealdor past the rolling edge of dark before its lights came on, little glimmers of home comfort, candlelight through unshuttered windows.

"Did I meet you here?" Merlin said, unsure if Alfred would need to share accommodations, or if he might have relations in the village.

"Camelot," Alfred said only, and though he said it lightly, Merlin felt it drop between them like a stone.

I would never. Stubbornly he said, "Why on earth would I risk going to Camelot."

"I've asked you that more than once," Alfred said.

Merlin could pick out his home, on the edge of the village and just past Will's place. "What did I say?"

"You were looking for a place to belong." Alfred's glance was a pale suggestion in the dark, and Merlin stumbled over unevenness in the ground. "You also said your mother sent you to Gaius. To train."

Train, Merlin scoffed. That was a word for a soldier – a guard.

Alfred knew which home was Merlin's, and seemed determined to reach the door before him – he didn't object, feeling an odd hesitation. There was a gap, he felt it, between the last time he'd been here, and the last time he remembered being here. And he wasn't going to be able to shrug off his mother's declarations with sarcasm... Alfred's rap was followed by movement from within, and answered by Hunith with her hair unbound, candle in a brass holder Merlin hadn't seen before.

"Oh!" she said – surprised to see them.

"Merlin is calling me Alfred," his companion said at once. "There was a curse – he's lost every memory involving me, evidently."

Because everything is about you, is it?

Hunith looked at him over Alfred's shoulder, aghast. "But you're all right otherwise?"

"Far as I know," Merlin said. He moved past Alfred to wrap his arms around her, feeling momentarily safe again.

"But-" she said, her whole body tense with worry, still.

"I'll speak to Jonathan," Alfred said. "Hopefully he'll remember on his own, but if not…"

"Yes," Hunith agreed immediately. "Oh, Merlin."

She'd sounded like that precisely twice in his life that he recalled. Once to discover that he'd let Will find out about the magic, and once after the disaster that nearly claimed Old Man Simmons' life.

"It's that bad, is it?" he said, as Alfred stalked away into the dark like he knew where he was going. "Jonathan, not Matthew? Alfred, not Will?"

Something in her expression shifted, and she looked older and tireder in the candlelight. "Years, Merlin," she said, drawing him inside and swinging the door closed behind him. "You've known him for years. The two of you are as close as friends as I've ever known anyone to be…"

"Truly?" Merlin said, surprised. Because he wasn't anything like Will, Merlin's one and only friend. Not chatty, or amusing…

"I'll find something for you to eat – and then sleep, if you've been traveling all day," his mother offered.

"Please," he agreed on a sigh.

"And maybe a good night's rest will bring your memory back," she suggested.

He didn't answer, following her to the table and lowering himself onto a bench – noticing changes. Recently repaired roof. Four chairs, not two – an extra side table, colorful quilt on the bed – half again as many utensils hung on the wall-hooks, sharp-edged instruments with shiny-sharp edges like they were supposed to have. Woodbox full, bundles aplenty hung in the rafters for dry storage.

"We don't live here," he said. "I don't live here anymore? Alfred said?"

"Camelot," she told him, smiling over her shoulder. "Only just get you started talking about Camelot…"

"But my magic?" He shook his head, incredulous.

"Things have changed." A wider smile, longer-lasting, and the contented pride in her eyes contrasted sharply with the underlying anxiety he realized more, to notice the difference. "That's to your credit and A- ah, Alfred's." She stumbled over the name. "Alfred, really? Why doesn't he just tell you his… oh."

"Oh?" Merlin challenged. So she understood why Alfred wouldn't tell his real name.

"If you've forgotten," she said deliberately, focused on unwrapping the generous half of a loaf of bread. "You'll be very nervous and secretive about the magic, again."

Chills rippled between his shoulder-blades. For good reason. You taught me that. "Alfred knows," he said calmly. "Who else? People here?"

"Yes…" Her hand on his shoulder kept him in his seat on the bench, but he shifted uncomfortably. It felt a little like betrayal, honestly, when she'd always told him- "Instead of asking all these questions about what's changed… I would tell you the truth, Merlin, you know I would, but… Wouldn't it be better for you just to remember?"

"I can't just… think a little harder," Merlin said, slightly annoyed.

She collapsed to sitting beside him, leaning forward with earnest plea. "If it was a curse – Merlin, of course you can break it."

He shrugged, trying not to feel inadequate, and reached to break off a chunk of bread. "Don't know how."

"That doesn't mean you can't," she said.

He chewed slowly and swallowed hard, suddenly disconcerted to have her try to discuss openly what she'd always forbidden, and encourage rather than suppress. "I'm tired, Mother…"

"Of course you are. Blankets in the chest, you know where…" She smiled again, with a little more difficulty, and turned away to watch the door, clearly expecting Alfred.

He pushed up and headed for the linen chest. Maybe a good night's sleep would restore him to himself.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

His feet were warm and his back was cold. Coals at the hearth, and no one at his back. And he looked up into his mother's face – He must care for you a great deal; he's here for you – as his golden-haired friend slumbered fitfully, dreaming strategy and salvation…

Merlin's friend sprawled on the bench, elbow on the table, forehead in his palm, golden hair pushed askew. Hunith leaned on his shoulder – I've seen how much he needs you, how much you need him. You're like two sides of the same coin…

"What do I do."

"Be patient, sire. You are accustomed to immediate results, to giving orders and seeing them accomplished swiftly, but this-"

"This is something I would order Merlin to fix. And if he can't-"

"He can, you know he can."

"Yes, well, he doesn't know it. And I-"

"Prefer a foe of flesh and blood - yes, m'lord, we all know that."

"At least I know now where he gets his wisdom from."

"And I'll bet you've never said that to him, have you?"

Both turned to look at him. He turned – the world turned… whirled… spun, and burned…

Merlin woke himself with a cry, struggling free of his blanket on the ground like the binding of mind and soul, and not just his limbs. Gasping, he braced himself – and discovered he was alone in the house.

Breakfast left cold for him on the table.

Past midmorning, and the sun outside was bright in his eyes when he emerged – he sneezed twice in quick succession, unbalanced on the threshold, and a spike of pain unexpectedly split his skull.

Somewhere a gate creaked in the slight breeze, and hens clucked and strutted between the huts. He squinted but saw no one close by – distant figures moved and bent and wielded implements in the fields. He stood motionless, gazing that way – but his friend would have gone to the forest.

How do I know that?

Because Alfred was not a farmer. He marched – he watched – he took charge… He wore a sword, and Merlin's mother called him sire.

But he wasn't a knight, because they wore armor and hated magic. Maybe a nobleman's son? Maybe an illegitimate – no. Maybe a foreign nobleman's son.

Merlin turned away from the sight of the industrious fields to face the forest – and startled to see Alfred come into view, bowstring and quiver-strap crossing his chest, leaning against the weight of… the carcass of a deer, dragged behind him on a sledge made of a large burlap bag, unhemmed and spread.

He didn't notice Merlin, red-faced and damp with exertion, focused on his burden – his kill – his contribution to the village stewpots. He was single-minded, stubborn – and strong to have dragged the meat from wherever he'd shot it, early morning in the forest…

So familiar. Early morning in the forest and Merlin just behind his shoulder – stealthy signals obeyed by shadowy companions, and Merlin's heart in his throat because danger and secret and can't-lose-him and can't-tell-him.

As precious as Merlin's own life.

And that was bewildering and incomprehensible because-

"Arthur Pendragon," Merlin's mouth said. Each syllable slow and heavy as rock falling from a great height. Of course Arthur alerted to that, immediate and intent, abandoning his kill.

"You remembered!" He dropped the burlap sledge and strode forward and sword at his hip.

Merlin backed instinctively, catching his heel on the threshold and stumbling past the lintel, not through the door but along the outer wall of the house.

Arthur froze, uncertainty entering his expression. "You – remembered?"

Merlin's heart was pounding terror and flee. "You're… the son of… Uther Pendragon. Prince of… Camelot."

Prince. Of Camelot. How was it possible that his mother was right about how close they were?

A fine line divided golden brows, and the chin jutted two inches to the side. "King, now."

He took two more steps, and desperation flew with Merlin's upraised palm. "Stay back!"

Arthur raised both hands in a pacific gesture, showing wariness but not fear.

That didn't make sense. He'd behaved as a friend, in spite of the magic – because of the magic? That's toward Camelot… he'd tried to convince Merlin… What did she do… Witches.

Was I… what if the witch meant to attack him, and he was behind me, and then he pretended, to get me to Camelot for execution, and he's still…

"Merlin?" Hunith said, and he nearly turned his ankle, whirling about in fresh fear, ready to shield her-

He didn't know how to shield, did he?

"What's wrong?"

Arthur answered without moving, and he sounded annoyed. "He's remembered who I am. But just who I am, apparently."

His mother looked at him.

"Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot," Merlin blurted, annoyed himself because why did the loss of his memory mean he was the one not making sense. "Why would I go there at all? Why would I-" He gestured, unable to articulate, befriend. An enemy. Someone who wants me dead…

"Do you remember me talking of Gaius?" his mother said, earnest and persuasive.

You were supposed to come on Wednesday.

It is Wednesday.

Your destiny's calling – you better find out what he wants.

His shudder rocked him to his heels.

"You couldn't stay here," she went on, tone and expression begging him to understand. "Because-"

"I didn't fit in," he finished. "But to Camelot? Really?"

She came to him slowly, carefully, and he let his hand drop. "You have protected him from the very start-"

"Why?"

She almost smiled at his incredulity. "You saw something in him."

What? What, possibly, in the son of his enemy since birth?

"You saw he could change," Hunith said softly. "Look at him, Merlin. He brought you here, and stayed to wait for you to remember."

Merlin had to obey her, but Arthur wasn't meeting his eyes. His ears were red, and his fingers toyed with the bowstring across his chest.

He was an excellent marksman.

Merlin shivered again. Then said hoarsely, "All right."

The prince's – the king's – gaze connected to his, and Arthur repeated, "All right?"

"I don't… remember anything else," Merlin said, feeling a bit light-headed to consider the potential for disaster, should this be folly. Couldn't he have fooled Hunith? He was a strategist… "But – all right. So I'm friends with… King Arthur of Camelot. Who knows about my m… mm."

He couldn't say it.

"Magic," Arthur supplied, as if it were a word in common usage for him. He stepped forward, but slowly. "I wonder if this wasn't what she intended. The witch, I mean. That you would feel you… had to defend yourself."

"Against you," Merlin said. Was it a bit ridiculous. "But I mean. I wouldn't want to hurt you."

"No?" Surprise lightened the blue of Arthur's eyes. "Even now?"

Merlin shrugged, uncomfortable to know and to be known, but… the sword was sheathed. The bow had won meat for the village.

"No one knows where I am," Arthur pushed. "You could kill me and get away with it."

"Arthur!" Hunith said, shocked.

"They'd track you," Merlin supposed.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Something crossed Arthur's face, and his hand shifted downward. "What if I drew my sword? What if I made to threaten your mother – your village?"

Merlin shifted his weight. His mother clucked her tongue with impatient exasperation, just as she'd done when it was him and Will being inappropriate with their teasing.

"I don't think you would," he said.

Rather, he'd risk his life defending – leading – training the villagers… Merlin's heart gave a great throb, and he clutched his shirtfront to keep it inside his chest.

Arthur was an arrogant show-off, and didn't pay attention to anyone else's feelings.

Arthur was noble and astoundingly shy about it – he noticed the feelings of those around him, but struggled and stumbled in comprehension and handling.

His grin was cocky and cuttingly contemptuous.

And Merlin could fire right back and still sometimes fluster him.

It was hard to breathe, and easier to let himself slide down the wall of the house to the ground, supported by Hunith. He told Arthur, "I should hate you."

The prince – the king – took four more steps and knelt beside him. "And I shouldn't be able to trust you."

It hurt.

"Merlin – don't try so hard, if it hurts," Arthur sounded worried – and far away. Merlin realized he'd squeezed his eyes shut. "We've got time – take it slow."

He could feel his mother's hands and warmth at his other side, the rough wall of his home scratching his back and he was lost. His heels dug in, pushing back, pushing into the pain because-

"It hurts not to know," he grated out.

Arthur's hands circled his wrists, pulling back against the pressure he exerted into his eye sockets. "Merlin – stop!"

Everything went black and still.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He was with Will. Some cloudy morning, taking a break from field work or having a last laugh in the quiet dusk, or… Grubby-faced and tousle-haired, Will looked at him with a wry grin. "I can't believe you've forgotten what happened to me…"

What?

Not Will any longer but a boy, round-faced and swathed in a blue-green cloak, pale eyes and vicious glee. "You've forgotten. About me."

A girl, sylph-like in purple and bare-footed, and love-hope-potential trembled on nearly-smiling lips. "Merlin… you've forgotten me."

A knight. A knight of Camelot, with curly brown hair and quiet eyes. "You've forgotten me?"

A girl dressed as a genteel servant, hair pinned up and dark eyes steady in a round-cheeked, dusky-hued face, chided, "You forgot me."

Another girl, alabaster and green fire, stormy black curls and a gleam of triumphant insanity gave the claim an unsettlingly smug tune. "You – forgot – me…"

An older man, silver-streaked wild hair and bushy beard, clad in furs and leather, a sorrowful sigh. "You forgot me."

Darkness and earthquake and fire. An immense disembodied voice demanded, "You forgot me?"

Scar and crown and throne and medallion, looming menace. "You forgot me…"

Quite an old man, blue robe, white hair to his shoulders and a single raised brow. "Merlin. You forgot him?"

His golden-haired companion, some cloudy morning taking the water-cup Merlin offered, trying to hide worry-lines with sarcasm – short incredulous laugh in the last moment before night fell and the kingdom fell, let's try one more time – grubby and noble and real. "It's all right if you don't remember me… we'll find a way to work it out…"

Merlin thrashed in his blanket on the floor, waking as if from a dream of drowning, with a great panicked inhalation followed by more of the same – and all notion of whatever he'd dreamed dripping away, lost behind him as he ascended to full consciousness.

The room was empty again, and outside everything sounded quiet like midmorning and everyone out to the fields. When he scrubbed his face with his hands Merlin felt perspiration on his scalp, and rolled to his feet. Bread and berries had been left on the table; he munched a hollow in the chunk and dumped the berry-dish into it to carry with him.

After the roast venison feast he'd evidently missed last night, he figured no one's belly was especially empty, this morning.

The air was clear, and smelled like rain, the sunlight shaded with a thin layer of high clouds. He allowed his feet to turn toward the forest without thinking of direction, and the few people he passed in the village – old Thisa with a few of Ealdor's babies playing in the dust she was trying to sweep up, Hieran who'd been too crippled for field work since Merlin could remember – met his eyes with a nod of respect, at least, if not smiles of welcome.

That was different. Respect was different than condescending allowance of inclusion for a member of the very lowest level… Was that him, then? Something he'd accomplished in the time he couldn't remember? He wished he knew, and didn't require someone to tell him, even someone he trusted and loved.

His path took him up the hill into the trees, watching his boots more than the far reaches of visibility – over the ridges, beyond the underbrush, beneath the spreading branches. He thought he was probably trying to get somewhere or find something, but if it was a place, he wouldn't know it by sight anyway… Slender nebulous forest-paths appeared and followed him before veering off, crossing beneath him, and never a note of warning slipped through the sounds of the forest life around him.

Then he rounded an outcropping of rock to find a little stream pooling in a vale, and an antlered head lifted alertly, muzzle dripping water.

But Merlin was innocuous, a wild natural thing himself – he caused no alarm and therefore-

He turned away from the stag to see a young hunter materialize from the brush, longbow strung and arrow nocked and aimed right at him. Arthur – prince – hunter.

Merlin frozen, unable to see his expression behind bowstring and bent fingers, sighting down the shaft and deadly arrowhead. Arthur held. It ever he was going to kill magic, take his chance and end it, remove the potential threat, this was-

The prince lowered the bow, loosening the string to remove lethal tension. Behind Merlin, the stag bounded into fleet motion, crashing lightly away from human men. Merlin breathed again, and wondered how he could have doubted.

"I see you haven't forgotten how to ruin hours of stalking good prey," Arthur called, looking away from Merlin to pick his way down toward the pool, dropping carelessly from one step to the next.

"I'm sorry," Merlin offered uncertainly.

Arthur frowned at the apology, not meeting his eyes, and it occurred to Merlin that he looked like he hadn't slept much.

"I'm fine here," he blurted. "You know. There really isn't any need for you to… hang about. Our little farming village."

Arthur kicked at the delicate skeletons of last year's leaves on the ground, still disintegrating. "I'm not doing it for my own enjoyment, Merlin – I am the king and there are literally dozens of demands on my time and attention."

"Oh-" Merlin started, disconcerted. Arthur was king, not Uther? He had said so, but… That meant a great many things Merlin couldn't dissect in the moment.

"I wasn't kidding when I said there were… threats against us," Arthur told the forest floor. "With you like that, it's like… leaving a child vulnerable."

Merlin interrupted annoyed, "I'm not a child-"

"You wouldn't recognize friend from foe if anyone came here and-"

"Now hang on a minute-"

Arthur shook his head, not listening. "I don't want anything to happen to you. If you're not aware that you should defend yourself…"

Oh. That was… disconcerting, because… he meant it. He intended to protect Merlin from the unknown, not… bide his time for an opportunity to move against him.

"If you were yourself, you'd laugh in my face for that," Arthur went on, talking to a Merlin that was not the Merlin standing there listening awkwardly. "The idea that you need my protection. Just as I always laugh at you when you swear you're going to protect me. It's our way, I suppose. You'd mock the suggestion that I cared for you, but you'd… never question it. I don't think."

Merlin didn't know what to say – but a moment later Arthur alerted to some unseen provocation exactly as the stag had, head up and eyes keen. He leaped across the stream and began scrambling back up the ridge – and then Merlin heard the thump of horse-hoof and a fainter jingle-and-squeak of tack.

Some rider. How far were they from the track? From the next village in… which direction from Ealdor?

Going up the ridge behind Arthur, Merlin slipped and came down on a rock. He hissed at the blood welling through the dirt on his palm and ignored it to reach the top and continue to follow without further delay.

The horseman had reined in and leaned down to speak to Arthur, jogging to join him without hesitation. The horseman wore chainmail, and a distinctive red cloak.

Merlin froze again – but only for an instant. Flashes of red surrounded him, bleeding into and over the blur of the forest as he spun to find himself unexpectedly surrounded by the troop, riding not single file or in a tight knot, but ranging – scouting-

One knight on his feet, not five steps from Merlin's back – concentrated, serious – comfortable bearing his armor and the Pendragon's blood-crimson.

"What happened?" the knight – curly red-blond hair and a broad face - demanded of Merlin without preamble. "We found the point of ambush – we've been tracking you from there. Magic, wasn't it?"

Terror gripped the back of Merlin's throat and he turned to find the others dismounted, closing in - reaching for him-

"Stop!" Arthur's voice rang out. "Don't touch him – back off! He was cursed – he doesn't remember any of us!"

Shock, on the faces. Collective retreat made the terror slide down his throat to be swallowed – but left a lump of something else in its place and it was still hard to breathe.

"Merlin?" said the knight who'd spoken to him.

"What do you mean, none of us?" demanded the bearded one still mounted, that Arthur was speaking to.

And the big one, and the dark-skinned one, and… Knights. Of Camelot. Too many of them, and only one of him, and behind him.

"Take off the cloaks, why don't you?" Arthur suggested. Two or three reached uncertainly for cloak-pins.

"That won't help," Merlin blurted.

They didn't know what to think – they looked to Arthur, who snorted as if amused.

"You'll come back with us, though?" the knight nearest Merlin said – maybe to him, or maybe to Arthur, he couldn't tell while he had to look at all of them at once.

Like hell I will.

"Gwaine's told you about Bayard's messenger?" he added, now clearly speaking to Arthur. "Camelot needs you, sire – we brought your horses along."

No one made a move toward Merlin; enough of his focus loosened to notice two saddled horses without a knight paired to them.

Arthur looked at the man who'd spoken – the dark-bearded one still mounted at his side stared at Merlin and he avoided the contact – looked at the ground, hands on his hips. Then deflated slightly, relenting. He flipped a signal, and one of the knights led the extra mounts forward, and Arthur-

Crossed to Merlin, who found he couldn't back a single step toward one of the strangers sworn to magic-hating Camelot.

They all know. Do they all know?

"I think it will be dangerous for you, missing these years of your life, your past," Arthur said to him with swift and solemn honesty. "But I also think, Camelot will be more dangerous for you like this. So if you'd rather stay in Ealdor-"

"I can remain with him, sire," said the broad-faced fair-haired knight closest to them. "I will see that no harm comes to him, on my life."

Merlin shivered. He couldn't look away from Arthur even to search the knight's face at those words, but they felt true.

"If Arthur would rather have you than me in Camelot, I'll stay with Merlin," the dark-bearded fellow drawled with a sardonic grin.

They care about me.

"Yeah, they care about you," Arthur said. "Watch out for yourself, Merlin – I hope I'll see you soon." A hastily-spoken farewell, and he turned to stride to his mount, swing up to the saddle even as he reined the horse's head around ,and pressed heels to urge a start, and speed.

And how did Merlin know so much about horses? He'd seen… maybe three in his whole life, and from a distance.

The others mounted, trading glances that were confused - uneasy – utterly obedient to the prince.

"Wait!" Merlin said. His chest was tight, his eyes hot, and he felt it wouldn't seem safer to watch them all ride away save one, no matter the sincerity or oath. He'd hiked all the way out here looking, and he still felt the urge. Forward, not back.

Arthur looked at him, sideways as he sat a horse restive to return to the Pendragon citadel.

"You said," Merlin spoke haltingly. "My mother said – I could break the curse. And you said, if I had my books – I have books in Camelot-"

"Yes." Arthur's expression didn't change, but the hope in his one word strengthened Merlin's resolve.

"All right. Then. All right, I'll come. With you."

"To Camelot," Arthur clarified.

"Yes."

Another long look – another gesture – Merlin's heart thudded, but it only served to have the last spare mount led up for him.

"Hells, Merlin," the knight behind him sighed.

He ignored them all to stuff his boot into the stirrup and hop til he could get his weight shifted, up and over the stiff, unfamiliar saddle – and then hips and thighs seemed to know what to do, and the stirrup hugged his foot comfortably.

"I'll ride to Ealdor, let Hunith know?" the dark-skinned knight volunteered.

He stopped breathing – they knew about his mother.

"Course you will," the bearded fellow scoffed. "She always feeds the messengers well, doesn't she?"

"You'd know," the dark-skinned knight shot back, grinning – and headed off through the trees in the direction Merlin had come.

He had no idea how to lead or guide his mount, how to be certain to keep up with the other riders, but the beast beneath him – coppery-bronze in the sunlight, scent that tingled in his nostrils, hairs that slipped smooth under his palm when he bent to pat the neck and muscular shoulder – seemed to want nothing more from him than to be allowed to travel with his fellows.

Arthur remained in the lead, and didn't look back. The broad-faced knight with curly red-blond hair kept up the rear. Merlin found himself next to the dark-bearded knight, who watched him and watched him. "So you don't remember Gwen? Or Gaius?"

"My mother's told me about Gaius," Merlin corrected.

"Or the dorocha? Or the lamia? The slave trader, or the fisher king? Agravaine? Uther?"

He shivered – shrugged it off – shook his head.

"Gwaine," Arthur said over his shoulder, and that was it, but at least the dark-bearded knight quit asking uncomfortable questions, and instead embarked upon a fantastical tale of a quest into perilous territory, a blasted wasteland terrorized by some winged beasts called wyvern.

Merlin wasn't sure how much was the knight's own imaginative embellishment, but the others called only occasional disbelief or correction, and Merlin smiled politely when the knight looked to him for reaction.

And then they came to a wider road with cart-tracks. And then to a stone bridge, and other folks using the road in one direction or another.

And then they mounted a crest and one-two-three tower-tops came into view, flying great and distant pennants-

Tournament tents. A song that caused cobwebs – the gargoyles that launched attack-

He forgot to breathe under the tide of images that washed over him, moments that eddied back – I'm the sorcerer who… If you weren't my servant and I wasn't… Tension released between his temples and down past his lungs like a snapped string, and it almost hurt, thrumming faster and faster, until-

"Merlin?" Arthur said, just beside him.

He blinked and inhaled roughly and it seemed to take him a very long time to fill his lungs. "Give me a minute. There's a lot of it…"

"Five years of it," Arthur commented, watching closely.

"Six years," Merlin managed. "And five months. Give or take a week."

"I'd take some of those weeks," Gwaine said behind them.

"Some of them, I'd let you have," Percival agreed.

Arthur's smile flashed wide and satisfied. "But who's counting?" He shifted in his saddle and Merlin's mount responded to follow. Arthur added over his shoulder, "Welcome back."

Merlin grinned, eager now to reach their destination. Welcome home.

A/N: That felt really fast to me, for some reason, to read. Faster to read than to write... apologies if you find it disappointing for that reason...