I am SO SORRY for the hiatus in this story. Truly, I cannot apologise enough. I have been busy elsewhere, and also my writing muse pretty much left me for a couple of months. Hopefully it is beginning to return: and to my loyal followers I promise that I shall get round to updating some of my other fics.

But anyway! on with the chapter!

Camelot opened itself before the people's little prince. Whenever Arthur went into the lower town, or even down the streets of the upper town, he found that before him, as if he were parting the Red Sea, the crowds divided in one fluid movement. He would never be refused entry to any shop, and he believed that he would be welcomed into any house he chose, should he knock upon the door. And eager market-traders always wanted to be seen giving him a little something – an apple, a strip of bacon, a trinket.

King Uther supposed that all this might go to his son's head, but to be perfectly honest he did not do much to stop it. Anyway, the child was intelligent enough. One day he would learn that the people acted more out of fear and reverence than out of kindness. Such was the life of one of the royal family.

But Arthur had not yet learnt this: and on this particular day he felt particularly pompous, for he had been given a new cloak. It was of the same glorious red as those of the knights, and indeed cut in much the same fashion. He felt magnificent, though that might equally have been due to the weather, and the fact that the market was in full flow, in all its noisy perfection.

Even the busiest of people stopped and bowed to him as he made his way down the street. A man halfway through cleaving a pig carcass dropped his knife, almost injuring himself in the process, in order to bend before his prince as quickly as was earthly possible. An elderly woman curtsied further than her back seemed to allow. Nevertheless they all smiled. Arthur smiled back, a little haughtily. It was nice to be adored.

Just as he was drawing near to the practice-grounds, for he had been meaning to train with one of his mentors, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face. Merlin. The young boy sped past, stopped an inch beyond the prince, and asked of him, without preamble:

'Where's the best place to hide?'

'Hide?'

Arthur was so startled by the question that he did not even register Merlin's apparent rudeness, for the boy had surely noticed by now that he was addressing royalty, and had not deigned to bow. Nor, indeed, did he refrain from looking straight into his prince's eyes.

'Hide. I'm playing hide and seek. I need to hide, quickly! Gwen's the seeker. She runs fast.'

'Hide and seek!' Arthur rubbed his forehead, wondering why his thoughts seemed to be going so slowly. 'I don't know – just – round the castle? Between the buttresses in the walls?' He didn't know. He couldn't say he had played hide and seek before.

'I'll find somewhere,' Merlin shrugged. Then, almost as an afterthought: 'Do you want to play?'

Surprised, Arthur at once shook his head.

'Fair enough. See you, Arthur,' and he ran off again.

'It's Prince Arthur,' Arthur yelled after him, at last finding his tongue, but the insolent child had already disappeared.

He was prepared to dismiss his recent acquaintance as merely a rude or ignorant citizen (there were a few about), but something halted him. Merlin wasn't rude. He had heard several people talk about him, and all reported him as kind and polite and charming. Furthermore he had not openly insulted Arthur, save by neglecting to address him correctly – or rather, in the manner that everyone else did. There was something about Merlin, something he couldn't put his finger on.

And he had invited him to join a game of hide and seek! That was the most damning thing. It had been a genuine request, and he had turned it down. Even as he met his mentor on the practice-field and began to stretch in preparation for a bout of sparring, he was still reliving the conversation he had just had: and with every iteration he found he more regretted his answer.

His practice did not go as well as he had hoped: he was still pensive. Halfway through, when he stopped for a break, he noticed Gwen running past, and called out her name, not really expecting her to pay him any attention. But the girl was polite, and so turned, and dropped into a low curtsey, and greeted him with a dazzling smile.

'Did you find Merlin?' Arthur asked.

'Oh, I found him ages ago!' Gwen said. 'Now Edwin's the seeker, and I need to hide somewhere.'

'Edwin?'

'He lives next door to me,' Gwen told him. 'He's the butcher's son.'

'Oh, that Edwin,' Arthur lied.

'You could come and join us,' said Gwen, after a moment. 'We've got loads of people playing... Even the Lady Morgana is playing.'

Arthur's half-formed response did not even reach his throat. 'Morgana?'

Gwen nodded. 'The King didn't much want her to, but she wanted to, so she came to join us. Do you want to –'

'I can't; I'm practising swordfighting,' said Arthur quickly.

'Oh,' Gwen replied. 'Oh, okay.' Then she curtsied again, and left.

He had done it again! and he knew he would regret it all day, but what was done was done. But Morgana! Morgana defying their father's wishes so she could play with some dirty scruffy poor children! What did she see in them? What did she see, he found himself thinking, in their stupid little game? Perhaps he was just trying to console himself, but he started to justify his actions – started to vault the art of swordfighting above that of hide and seek. They were just children, and he was doing grown-up things. Nobody would watch their game. People came to watch him practise. He could see them now, meandering towards the fence, their eyes following the blows that rained down on him, and which he returned to his mentor. They admired him. He knew that. He could have disarmed them with a glance. He liked that.

Yet still something was niggling at him, something that he could not properly pin down until he had returned to the castle. The game had evidently been disbanded, and both Morgana and Merlin, their high voices laughing as one, had come hurtling up the steps. They were chatting in disjointed sentences – he could not catch much of what they said, but he understood the sentiment, and at once he felt something within him sink. He knew the glances they threw at each other. Merlin looked at Gwen like that, and both looked at the other children like that, naturally, perpetually. It was simply a gesture of friendship.

And though he would have sooner died than admitted it, Arthur found it painful to observe. It was nice to be adored. But it would have been even nicer to be liked.