Arthur watches Merlin push his fingers into his eye sockets and breathe deeply in an attempt to locate his patience. He knows he is being unreasonable but right now, he just doesn't care.

'I thought you'd be pleased out here, out in the open,' Merlin tells him. 'Doing another one of your manly man things. You know. Hunting.' Merlin drags out the word as if he's implying something sticking to his shoe.

'I would be if I wasn't imprisoned in this excuse for a body,' is what Arthur says and if his lip sticks out, if he sounds a bit sulky, well then that is just too bad.

'It's not my fault you fell off the horse Arthur,' Merlin answers, casting his eyes to the leafy roof of the forest, as if half expecting his patience to be stuck up a tree.

'Don't worry about it. Your back broke my fall.' Arthur kicks at a loose piece of rock and sends it flying.

'Oh that's just-, nice. Really nice. You know what? I give up. Let's just set up camp here. We can eat the hare that I caught and continue hunting tomorrow. I'll go find some firewood, you just-, stay where you are and feel sorry for yourself.'

'Fine! I will.'

'Good.'

'Great!'

'Excellent.'

'Merlin.'

'Oh shut up.'

Arthur mumbles something that sounds a little like that's my line at Merlin's retreating back before unfurling his bedroll, unceremoniously dumping first it, and then himself on the ground. He stretches out his legs, wriggling his toes in boots that really aren't comfortable (maybe he has a spare pair he doesn't use anymore, that Merlin could have), feet crossed at the ankles, arms crossed under his head and sighs. He scratches at his neck, Merlin's shirt being particularly itchy when damp with sweat (maybe he has a couple of spare ones of those too, for Merlin. Or maybe he could buy him some new ones, the prince's servant should look at least decent, right?).

For all the complaining he's been doing, he is happy to be out of the castle. And not even because it puts a safe distance between himself and Gaius's feet. The reason he enjoys hunting trips so much, is because it alleviates him from the burden of being Prince Arthur for a while, and he can just be Arthur. In the cover of the woods with nothing but a sword and a spear, he doesn't have to contemplate the effects every word he speaks, every action he takes, might have on the Kingdom. And even though he would never, not even under threat of confinement to a room full of spiders, ever admit it, he even prefers when it is just Merlin and himself. Other knights always feel they have to give him the best kill, the last word, the first shot, while Merlin just lets him do whatever he wants and is sort of a good friend for going along with it.

Arthur frowns at the sky, where a wispy white cloud drifts soundlessly past the blue stretch. He just thought of Merlin as a friend, which isn't exactly a first. The idea has been lodged in his brain for a while now, but it is the first time he explores the thought more deeply. He wonders when that initially started to happen, when he stopped thinking of Merlin as just a servant. Arthur snorts, a smirk pulling at the corner of mouth. As if he ever was a real servant - worst servant ever more like. So why is he still around? Did it happen when he watched Merlin lose a close childhood friend? Or when he drank a poisoned chalice to save Arthur, knowing it would most likely kill him.

Maybe the answer lies in smaller things, Merlin just being there when Arthur doesn't really want to be alone. Or when he irritates him to death with his constant worrying and the endless stream of words filled with caution, knowing all the while it is only because he cares. Or maybe it happened from the very beginning, because Merlin is the sort of person that will stand up for someone he doesn't know, against a whole bunch of armed someones he doesn't know either.

His mind flits over that hot afternoon at the market, there is something about you Merlin, and decides that must be it. There is something about Merlin. It doesn't really matter what, it just means that Arthur has a friend who he can't really acknowledge, but that doesn't stop Merlin from speaking his mind, so he suspects he knows without being told. And if that means he will have someone by his side who he can trust when he is King, to tell him when he is out of line, when he is rushing into things, when he is making a mistake, then he knows he'll have a whole lot more than his father ever had. Servant or not.

Where has that idiot gone to?

Arthur lifts his head, chin pressing to his chest, glancing to the left and right expecting to spot Merlin trudging back with an armful of firewood. He doesn't, but there is something else that immediately grasps his attention and causes his heart to batter against his chest as if it belongs on the other side. He stands, hunching low to the ground, automatically searching for his sword. Arthur swears softly when he remembers where it is: strapped to his useless servant yet valued friend's hip. He grabs the discarded bow and quiver, straps one to his back, the other over his shoulder and sets off to follow the path Merlin had taken. He doesn't know why, he can't explain to himself in one reasonable thought why he is stealing from tree to tree, alternately surveying his surroundings and tracking Merlin's footsteps. All he knows is, it is acutely necessary, that there is no time to lose, that the thought of being too late is quite unbearable.

Arthur drops down when he hears voices, arguing. He peers from behind a gnarled old oak tree, sees two men waving their hands about in an agitated fashion, indicating something on the ground. No, not something, someone, and not just someone, Merlin.

Merlin lies crumpled in a heap and even from his hidden location, Arthur can tell his left arm is folded at an unnatural angle. Carefully, with a furtiveness he didn't think this body was capable of, he crawls closer, to snatch up part of the conversation.

'We can't kill him, don't you know who that is?'

'That is exactly why we have to kill him! He's seen us, we'll never spend another day in peace if we let him live.'

'N-!'

The move is so sudden, Arthur is frozen in paralyzing incredulity. He knows there is no time, he knows there is nothing he can do to prevent this, that drawing an arrow from the quiver, nock it on the bow and release it will only take him seconds, but it will be light years too late. All he can do in his all embodying, gut wrenching helplessness, when the sword flashes in a terrible, deathly arch, is throw up his hands and shout No.