[September 15th, 2007]

He shouldn't be here.

The Prince of Wales should not be sitting in an old beater out in front of some local neighborhood playground. It's a bit strange, actually—his security would probably agree with him… which is why he made quite sure they had no notice of where he was going, and then took a few wrong turns besides.

Scrubbing his arm across his nose—stupid itch—Arthur smothers a laugh. Even if they thought to look for him here, they'd never look twice at the piece of junk car he's sitting in. What was it? Fifteen years old? Rust damage? He hadn't really bothered to find out when he'd bought it, and given that the man was perfectly happy to ask no questions when Arthur paid him in cash, it's probably best not to know just what this car has been through. As it is, there's a suspicious stain in the backseat that he really would prefer not to look at all that closely, though it's nowhere near as troubling as the smell emanating from the radiator.

Worrying stains and smells aside, though, this is worth it, right down to the atrocious jacket—fake leather—that he pulled on before coming here. A suit would've attracted attention, considering the area of town.

And, really, that's what concerns him most.

What is Merlin doing in this area of town?

Worrying his lip with his teeth—a childhood habit he never quite shook—Arthur reaches out and fiddles with the radio. Just static. Fine. Not like he's here for the music anyway.

That doesn't mean he's going to just sit here, though. Not like he's ever been good at that. Not in this life or the previous, if he recalls correctly, which he's sure he does, and, considering that, why doesn't Merlin recall anything? Does he recall anything? Does—?

Right, Arthur thinks, frustration rolling over him as he leans back in the seat, shoving his head into the cushioning. He doesn't know if Merlin remembers. That's why he's here. For all the good that's doing now, though: in a sudden fit of pure what-the-hell-Merlin-where-are-you, he shoves himself forward again, right up against the steering wheel. A quick realization and a nervy jerk backward are about all that saves him from setting the horn off.

No one outside notices. The couple of kids, none of whom are Merlin, keep at whatever they're doing. It looks like they're just standing at the swings, best as he can tell.

Swearing—because he really doesn't care to watch children he doesn't know—Arthur reaches for the file in the passenger seat. There's really no need for him to look again, but the broken radio—or whatever that junk is supposed to pass for—gives him a solid excuse. Better than just sitting here. And it's not like the image isn't imprinted in his mind anyway—might as well just look at the real thing again in order to confirm.

He flips open the folder.

Merlin Emrys. Twelve years old. Son of Balinor and Hunith Emrys.

It'd be better if it just stopped there.

Merlin looks okay in the picture Arthur has of him. He's still got that same lopsided, sloppy, and too damn endearing smile—the kind that always managed to make him look half his age, even once he put on enough years to suggest that shouldn't be possible. Same ears too, poor kid. He's probably gotten hell for looking like that growing up. This isn't Ealdor—people care about stuff like that now. That's not particularly surprising—people tend to have a little more time to gossip when they aren't working from sunrise to sunset and then a bit after besides.

No, the picture is fine. It's a school picture, and if Merlin doesn't look quite happy, he at least looks pleased in the moment. A picture in time, the snap of the camera—school photo day, and Hunith must have forced him into that tie, because God knows Merlin never liked to wear anything remotely formal if he had the choice.

If Arthur looks a little closer, though—really looks—it's not so hard to see what might be more pleasant to miss. Over the last few days, he's forced himself to face it enough times, but it—it's like he owes Merlin this, he thinks, skimming his fingers over the edges of the folder, catching the corner of it under his fingernail. Merlin deserves for Arthur to at least see the stain on the tie, the way his shirt is just a bit too worn on the shoulders. His face is clean, but his hair is overly long, like no one has been able to take the time to cut it.

And they probably haven't. Hunith Emrys works two jobs. She does the best she can, but Merlin spends a lot of his time home alone with the neighbors' numbers printed clearly on a sheet pinned to the refrigerator, just in case he needs help. Balinor—the man has tried, but two tours of duty have taken a lot out of him. An honorable discharge, highly decorated, but a lot of good those things do him when some days he can't even look in the mirror. He spends a good deal of time in the pubs, from what Arthur has managed to find out. Loves his wife and his son. Would do anything for them… but can't always do what he needs to in order to help himself first.

And Merlin is suffering for it.

Merlin.

Somehow, Arthur feels it the moment Merlin's feet touch tar, entering the park. He could never describe how, not even to himself, but before he's even actually sighted Merlin, he's putting the folder down, scanning the park. It's a bit of a chore to do that while seeming not interested. No, he's not interested. Not at all. Pity he's not that good an actor—and even if he were, he's tooinvested to seem disinterested.

For good reason.

He's not surprised when a small voice cuts out through the park, unremarkable in every way except that it belongs to Merlin. Things are never quite that easy, though—the surprise he doesn't feel at Merlin's voice is made up for plenty when he gets a look at just how small Merlin is. He's… only a little thing. Painfully skinny, not in the kind of way that suggests he's not getting fed, but just… Merlin. He was always slight, and here he is as a child before he hit his growth spurt, all huge ears that seem to dwarf his face and gangly limbs that Arthur can't quite figure out how he doesn't trip over.

It probably doesn't help that his clothes are a bit big for him. Thrift store buys, maybe, or even more likely, hand-me-downs. Whatever they are, they're too loose, they're stained, and it's obvious that he probably can't afford much better.

It's clear, right from the start, that the other kids know it too.

None of them are anything particularly special to look at. All of their clothes look cheap enough, even dirty in some cases, but, unlike Merlin, their appearance seems to meld with them more. Merlin—he just looks dreadfully out of place, too innocent and childish for the surroundings. Merlin was poor the first time Arthur knew him, but there had been a wholesomeness about it—an idealism that had ceased to be present at Court. Here, now—there is no idealism about this place, with its broken buildings and run-down houses.

It seems Arthur has a bit of idealist left in him: he can hardly recognize what he's seeing when he glances down and finds his hands white knuckled on the steering wheel. Worse, there's a very persistent itch squirming against his skin that makes him want to get out of the car, grab Merlin, and go, regardless of what Merlin remembers.

This is Merlin. Memories or not, he is Merlin, and that means quite enough all on its own.

Obviously, it's a horrid idea. This isn't Camelot where no one will question anything he does. This is twenty-first century England, and laws apply, even to the Prince of Wales. Kidnapping a child—it's not something he can do, and, anyway, what would he tell Uther when he showed up with a pre-teen in tow?

A sharp cry draws his attention back to Merlin. Less than a minute. Less than one minute, and damn if Merlin hasn't managed to get himself into trouble. It's almost like old times, only then it was Arthur standing over him, laughing in a marketplace and pretending to sweep out the trash. That—it's different. It's him, and it's Merlin. These kids—they have no right to shove Merlin down like that.

When one of them places a clumsily aimed kick—no good combat training these days—to Merlin's gut, it ceases to even be a dilemma: Arthur's hand snaps to the catch on the door, and he's kicking the door out wide too quickly to consider the consequences. So what? He wouldn't change his mind even if he had a ten-page list of pros and cons.

"Problem?"

Once, Merlin had told him he could dress in rags and there would be no denying who he was. You reek of royal pratishness Merlin had assured him. Arthur had, obviously, brushed him off, because he was royalty, and he certainly had to present like it. Regality was just in his blood… and Merlin hadn't really minded it that much anyhow. He'd just liked to whine and poke and prod.

Thing is, though, the way these boys are looking at him—it might actually be a bit… well, true. True in a rather relevant way. That is to say, he can't imagine that with a single glance he can convey I-have-led-thousands-of-men-into-battle-killed-more-than-you-want-to-know-and-can-do-the-same-to-you-even-unarmed, but, somehow, he seems to have conveyed exactly that, and it's got the kids taking one look at him and making it very clear that they'd really prefer not to have a second look.

Except for Merlin.

The way he pokes his head up, messy hair falling all over his face reminds Arthur rather firmly of a fuzzy baby animal. He's got the same kind of wide-eyed look, the same sort of helplessness that practically demands protection from those who can give it.

His eyes fix on Arthur. They skitter away to glance at the retreating boys. And then they're back, blinking slowly… and with no recognition.

Arthur doesn't even try to deny the surge of disappointment that rushes into his gut and curdles there.

"Who're you?" Merlin asks slowly. He still hasn't quite uncurled, but has instead tipped upward, righting himself, but keeping his knees loosely drawn to his chest, defensive. Evidently this isn't his first run-in with those boys. He's got the look of someone who expects to get tossed around a little more—and he's steeling himself for it.

Who am I? I'm Arthur. Your friend. Your king. The other half of some crazy destiny that neither of us has quite figured out yet.

"I'm no one." How sour those words taste on his tongue. Nothing about it feels right—the lie comes out of his mouth only reluctantly, anchoring barbs on the insides of his cheeks on the way out, clinging. "I took a wrong turn and pulled over to check my map. I saw that you were having some trouble."

Merlin scrubs his hand over his face. Too bad it just smears the dirt more. "M'fine."

"Oh? So you make a habit of lying on the ground?"

A person's lower lip shouldn't be able to stick out like that—really, it shouldn't, and it's not even that Merlin is trying to pout. He's just managing to look incredibly insulted and, okay, yes, petulant, all on natural talent. The emotion doesn't even look bratty on him. How unfair is that? Arthur spent his childhood getting scolded for things like that.

"I had it under control."

He feels his lips twitch into a smile. "Did you now?"

"Yes!"

"Didn't look like it."

Don't laugh. He shouldn't. It's—Merlin is just a child. Goodness, though, it's tempting. Still, he could pass up the laughing if he could just let Merlin know that, hey, twenty years from now? He'll still be capable of making faces like that. Personally, Arthur thinks it's the ears—no one can look entirely grown up with ears like that, and Merlin's habit of smiling with such childish openness—it hadn't helped.

"Those kids bother you often?" he asks.

Merlin just shrugs. Everything about the way his shoulder blades poke up under the oversized fabric—it's unsettling.

"I—" could help you. Want to help you. Am already planning ways to help you.

Inch by inch, Merlin cocks his head, a little like a ridiculous puppy. It would be funny—sort of still is—if Merlin hadn't done exactly that same thing in Camelot. It explains why the cook and the maid and the seamstress and just about every female—and some of the men—in Camelot had felt the need to mother Merlin.

Arthur—he can remember those days. Looking at Merlin now, the memories gain clarity, focusing the same way a fuzzy, muffled dream does once he begins remembering it. One thing connects to another, and pretty soon details are materializing, filling his mind, explaining things he already knew. Merlin getting leftovers from the cook, being snuck sweets by the girls in the kitchen; the seamstress stealing Merlin's jacket just so she could add some extra insulation to it; the knights, affectionate and teasing, dragging Merlin with them like a favored younger brother only they had the leave to pick on. They'd all been protective of Merlin. Arthur—he won't even try to deny any of it, not when he can remember so many times. Magic or not, they'd watched out for Merlin.

And the thing is, Arthur can't change now. He doesn't even want to, no matter how much this pull toward Merlin probably seems, for all the world, like he ought to be a danger—the kind of person Merlin has been warned against. Don't take candy from strangers. Don't get in people's cars. Oh, and don't talk to the weirdo who knows you from a pervious life and is feeling responsible for you. It's the sort of thing they teach in school, right?

Merlin, though—he's eyeing Arthur with fascination, peering up from under his shaggy bangs. There's nothing to suggest that he's scared—not exactly—but after a lifetime on the battlefield, it's not like Arthur doesn't know what tension is.

Tight muscle, that spark of not-quite-trust in Merlin's eyes. Even the quiet twitching of his mouth, small as gestures go, but always a giveaway. Never a loud gesture—and Merlin wasn't prone to showing his nerves that way anyhow, at least not when it counted.

"I should get home," Merlin mumbles after a few moments of awkward silence.

A lie. Merlin just got to the park, and Arthur knows very well that no one is waiting at home for him. Eleven and a half, and Merlin is being left alone like this. Frankly, Arthur would stalk right up to Hunith's door and demand to know just what she thinks she's doing if he didn't already know. Hell, though, that doesn't make it better: she's working to support a child and a mentally unstable husband. She's doing the best she can.

And it is entirely not good enough. Merlin deserves better.

Scuffing his feet in the dirt, Merlin staggers to his feet and takes a step back. Was there something on Arthur's face? Some sort of indication? He doesn't think so, but it's possible—his jaw is clenched, and even if he wouldn't admit it aloud, even under penalty of death, he won't lie to himself: he's thinking very seriously about whether or not he could get away with taking Merlin with him. Give him a bath, some decent food, clothes that fit, and it's not as though Merlin isn't going to remember eventually…

Another step back. "You should be going too," Merlin says, the tightness of his lips very clearly stating that it's not a suggestion. If he looked angry, it might have been easier to hear—but there's no anger in his face. If anything, it's only a vague confusion, at worst suspicion, but entirely devoid of malice. Merlin never did hate what he didn't understand. He wasn't like most people that way. Seems that hasn't changed.

"If you need anything—"

Merlin ducks his head and turns away. "I won't." One step, then another, coming faster and faster until he's skittering away across the dusty ground.

Don't let him walk away. Call him back. Do something. Arthur could, but… but he couldn't. Not feasibly. This isn't Camelot, and it's obvious that Merlin doesn't know him, and he can't just take a child that doesn't know him. It's Merlin, but it's not the Merlin he knew. Not yet. And that—it grips at Arthur's chest, squeezing in a knot of anxiety, in the knowledge that he can't fix this because it's not broken. It's just life. Another life. Merlin doesn't remember their life yet.

Morgana doesn't either. Maybe she never will. Merlin will, though. Watching Merlin turn and hurry away from him, kicking up dust with his battered sneakers—he's well aware that he has no way of knowing that for sure, but he remembers, and if the half can never truly hate that which makes it whole, then surely it can't forget what makes it whole either.

Closing his eyes, Arthur tips his head back and inhales the smell of asphalt and heat. Damn it all. He doesn't need some prophecy that a dragon told Merlin. Arthur just knows. Merlin will remember him. He'd stake his life on that. He knows.

And he also knows that time hasn't come yet.

[November 10th, 2013]

"You really cut yourself up."

Merlin can't find it in himself to do more than nod. Gwen has no idea just how true that is, especially in ways beyond his skin.

Not that his skin isn't a problem: that encounter with the glass left a degree of damage. Truthfully, if he were normal—if it were possible—he ought to be getting himself stitched up in a hospital. He can see the flap of skin, hanging sliced to the side and oozing blood. At least it's oozing now. Before it was pretty well flowing. Even Arthur had noticed it, but apparently he'd had other things on his mind. Goodness, though, how strange to think that Arthur probably would have helped him take care of it if things had worked out only a little differently back there. In fact, it would likely have been Arthur's doctors actually stitching the wound up while Arthur himself looked on, rather than Gwen, doing her best to clean and bandage and wrap.

Or maybe Arthur wouldn't have helped at all. But… no. It'd be easier to think that, but the Arthur he just faced—he would have helped. And that's terrifying, because how can Merlin possibly vilify someone who still cares for him?

"Am I hurting you?"

Gwen. He hadn't meant to tune her out. Really, he hadn't. In fact, her gentle fingers are about the nicest thing he's felt since he lost his mom. Being cared for—it's good. Really good, and Gwen was always talented at that. "You're fine," he assures her, trying to smile as she wraps the last bit of bandage around his hand. She's already taped up his side, for which he'd had to shed his shirt… and apparently he still hasn't put it back on. Well, then.

Damn it, he's blushing. He can feel it in the heat of his cheeks.

"Thanks," he murmurs, reaching hurriedly for the discarded piece of clothing.

It's just like when he first came to Camelot—and how stupid is that? He's known this woman for years, and yet here he is, glancing awkwardly up at her when she goes to hand him the shirt and their hands brush. She jerks back just a little too quickly, favoring him with an awkward glance of her own, and, yes, it's endearing, like it always was when she was still an unsure serving girl, back before she became a queen and learned better.

Honestly, though, he's not sure it was better. The Gwen who bumbled and said things that sounded terrible was a Gwen that seemed more honest. It wasn't that she was a liar once she learned to speak eloquently and refrain from making those awkward comments—but it never quite seemed like her either. She'd lost something.

In all honesty, Merlin can't imagine the Gwen who was a servant with him in those first years as someone who would have been unfaithful to Arthur.

"It was brave of you, what you did."

Oh? He looks up at her—and sees that she means it. There's a softness around her eyes, sympathy welled there, but it's belayed by the conviction settled in the rest of her face. But such gentle hands, even amidst all their encountering, and, yes, this is the Gwen he most admired. Always.

"And standing against your dictatorial husband isn't?" he asked with a thin smile. The bandage feels pretty good—not too tight; he flexes his fingers just to be sure. Gwen's fingers—they don't leave the dressing, not even when he moves. She just glides with his movements.

"Is it? Lovers often make the best enemies, I've found."

Interesting thought. "You think so?"

Her hand slips down, hovering over the line of skin where the bandage ends. If he had to guess, he would wager she doesn't even know she's doing it—whatever is going on in her head, she's too lost in it, bighting her lower lip and staring straight through him. "To be that intimate with someone—and then to have it fall apart…."

How terribly, terribly ironic. Arthur, of all people, would know most how she feels. Merlin doesn't laugh—couldn't get it out even if he wanted to, but, hell, hearing her say this now is so close to gallows humor—everything fell apart after what she did, after all. And she never even caught Arthur in bed with another woman. Not like Arthur caught her with Lancelot. Betrayed love? Arthur could have written the book. His uncle, his sister, his wife…

Not that Merlin will tell her. He never would. If she doesn't know… and, anyway, Arthur married her again this time around. God only knows why.

But that's not entirely true. Merlin—as much as he doesn't want to—as much as it makes his chest ache to consider when he's seen just how it plays out—he knows. Gwen is good, despite her faults. Beautiful. Kind. She always meant well, and he knows better than anyone that no one is perfect. She made a mistake—made mistakes. It doesn't make her evil. And Arthur loves her. He will always love her. She could stab him to his face, kill him stone dead, and he would love her. He could resent her enough to send her away, because he couldn't stand to see her face, but he would still love her through it all. She did inadvertently help destroy his kingdom, and he loves her enough to marry her again.

But, this time, she thinks Arthur has betrayed her.

"I'm sure he loves you," Merlin finds himself murmuring. He keeps on defending Arthur, even when he's fighting against him, just like Arthur stills loves Gwen, no matter what happens. It makes Merlin's head ache. He—he should have seen it. Arthur—he is not insane, and Merlin—did he ever really think he was? He can't be sure. Arthur has taken over, but he is not crazy, and it would be so much easier if he were. Because an Arthur who still loves his friends, loves his wife—that's too human. Too Arthur.

And Merlin doesn't want to fight Arthur.

She shrugs. "Yes. I think he loves me. And I think I loved him. But what he's done—what he's done..." She trails off, inhaling, exhaling, her eyes fluttering closed in time with the settling of her hands in her lap, all a visible attempt to calm herself. She must succeed to her satisfaction, because after a few moments she begins again: "I was blind to what he was doing at first, and when I found out, he was hardly even surprised—like he'd expected it all along. We were together, married, but for him—looking back, he never treated it as quite real. He never seemed to think it would last. He wasn't surprised when I confronted him, when I threatened to leave. It was—everything was a mess. I can't forgive him for that—for doing that to me."

Yes. Betrayal is cold like that. Like the cold side of the bed where the covers are still made up. Like seeing another man run away with your wife. Cold like that.

Swallowing down the rolling in his stomach, Merlin looks away from Gwen, pulling his arm slowly from her grasp. It's hard to do, difficult to feel her fingertips trail off and away from his skin, hear her surprised inhale of breath when she realizes how long she'd been touching him. And, worst, it's still hard not to admire her. Gwen. Gwen, who is always strong, who was wrong, who's fighting an Arthur who is and isn't the Arthur they know and love. Gwen would have left. Gwen did leave—has made her break from Arthur. Gwen is facing Arthur in a way—Merlin grimaces—in a way he can't seem to bring himself to do. He—he—God knows he's trying, but Arthur—it is Arthur. How can he truly oppose that when it comes right down to it?

"I don't think lovers always make the best enemies," he admits, blowing out a too-long held breath. Funny how those words feel cold coming out of his mouth. "But I do think they can make some of the best friends."

Once, Gwen was Arthur's friend. A good friend. Good counsel. He'd never seen Arthur happier, and, damn it, why couldn't things have stayed like that?

Gwen raises her chin, watching him unabashedly. "Maybe. When it's going right. No one will ever be closer to you. But when it goes wrong—there is no one you want to push away more. No one you resent more."

"Maybe not."

Somewhere along the line, this conversation has ventured to a place he very assuredly doesn't want to go. He can't tell Gwen about the nights he spent out on the ramparts in the cold with Arthur after she left, experiencing the ache Arthur felt, just because it was Arthur, and he was Merlin, and that always meant what no one could understand.

Was it something I did, Merlin?

No. No, Arthur, don't think that.

The way Arthur had looked at him, had smiled bitterly. I don't hate her, he'd said, and then he'd looked away, back out into the darkness, searching for something Merlin didn't understand then and still doesn't understand now. Arthur had raised his face to the wind, had let it pound over him until his skin was raw and chapped, and Merlin had dragged him back inside to a hot bath in the dead of the night. It was always the same, night after night: Arthur walking the floors, disappearing, letting—no other word for it—Merlin find him. Sometimes he'd allow Merlin to lead him back to bed. Other times they'd stayed up, sitting silently together at the table. Occasionally, they'd played dice. No one had ever won.

Merlin had always privately thought that they'd lost far too much already for any sort of victory to take place. Winning would have been a mockery.

And Gwen doesn't know any of that. Never did.

She can't be aware of what he's thinking, but when Merlin looks up and finds her brushing a piece of hair out of her face, he has to wonder if she's trying. She leans toward him, serious; Merlin shouldn't be, but he's drawn in by the earnestness of her face—in the pure belief there. "Arthur is dangerous, Merlin. I've seen it. The things he's done—is going to do—they're unforgivable."

Yes. He understands that. He has seen what Arthur has done, what he has destroyed. But God help him, every bit of his being is quivering to forgive Arthur. It has always been like that. It's like forgiving himself—he may never quite be able to, but he will always make up excuses, try to justify, to make himself feel better, more vindicated. He would—he'd forgive Arthur where she can't, but, still, he—hell, he knows. He knows what it is to see Arthur do these things, to love him, to watch that be misplaced.

The first time around—he'd never understood why Gwen did what she did. But this—he understands this.

He understands, but he cannot do the same.

It all comes down to his shaking hands and shaky conscience. A life lived doubly. Neither his hands nor his conscience can hold all this up anymore. "Thanks for your help," he tells Gwen quietly, gesturing to his arm. It was good of her to patch him up; it reminds him of those times when Camelot was at war, under siege—any of the times she'd helped nurse the wounded. It's bitter that she doesn't remember—he'd like to talk with her about it. Anything would be better than this conversation; it's gone on too long. Sadly, he's never gotten any better at slinking out of situations of this nature—it was never a skill he learned at Court, despite how useful it would have been. He'll always seem rude when he gets up like he's doing, giving Gwen a short, forcibly courteous nod. Smile. He should smile. But the muscles just don't seem to work.

He turns to go, but her voice calls him back. "Merlin."

She sounds so… fragile. And he can't understand why. "Yes?" Keep walking part of him says, but his feet don't move, and, at the very least, that's better than turning around and going closer to her.

"I don't want you to hate me."

Hate? No. He hadn't meant…

The air squeezes from his lungs. It's such a bad habit—this seizing up of muscle. Nervous, stressed, scared—any of it. "I don't know you," he lies. "How could I hate you?"

A line creases over her brow; she blinks a little too rapidly, leaving the line to twitch strangely with each movement. It's nearly a nervous tick—but he doesn't say anything. "I don't know," she says. "But you…"

He doesn't hate her. Not in this life, and not in the previous one. But he—he has something towards her. Some feeling. It's indefinable, though so infinitely present that he cannot fail to fall to its influence. But she wouldn't understand if he explained—there is no language of emotions. He can't say that he feels seeing Arthur pacing the castle at night. He can't say that he feels seeing Gwen with Lancelot. And, yet, those things—they are what hang in his mind, twined inextricably with Gwen.

Along with laughter. A gentle cloth on his forehead when he was ill. Flowers. Easy friendship.

He turns away again.

Behind him, he can hear her shift her feet, probably switching weight from one to the other. "I unsettle you, Merlin, even if I don't understand why. And I'm sorry for that."

Sorry for the unsettling? Or sorry she doesn't know why? Both? Does it matter? Either way, he'll lie. Or maybe he'll tell the truth just a little too well. Some days, there's not much of a difference. "Most people unsettle me these days."

A pause, and then… "I'd like not to be one of them."

And he'd like for her not to be. He'd like a lot of things, and—the taste of iron is spreading over his tongue. What…? Oh. Blood. He's bitten too hard on his lip. Quite possibly, his life just wants to flow out with his answer—it's a bit of a victory when all that comes out is words: "I appreciate that." And I want that. She was Merlin's friend too. She really never stopped being his friend.

But what she did to Arthur…

No. Time to go.

Licking the blood clear of the cut, he finishes his trek to the door. "Thank you for helping me, Guinevere," he says quietly, slipping out. Right, now shut the door. Walk away. This is not a time of serving banquets together, of mending clothes, of everything—and… he turns back: she's framed in the crack of the doorway, staring after him, hands clasped in front of her. He can't help but meet her eyes. I'm the woman you knew, they lie, and… he likes the lie, swallows it, setting his hands on the door, slowing in the closing, staring instead. It's not long before he stops shutting it altogether.

"I'm glad you're all right," she says quietly. Then, hesitatingly, she takes a step forward. "Do you… know Arthur?"

On the door, his fingers flex. Slam it, slam it. But he doesn't. And she takes another step forward. "Does it matter?"

"It always does. Why is he after you? He's never mentioned you before."

Wouldn't he just love to laugh at that? The muscle in his jaw even twitches in anticipation, but the emotion isn't quite there; the effort is too much, and he's left with a blank stare. "I don't suppose he would have."

"He hurt you." Like he hurt me the look on her face says.

"He stabbed me in the leg with a needle. Of course he hurt me."

Gwen shifts uneasily, wringing her hands. "He's got all of Britain looking for you. You must have something he wants. And you're only eighteen."

"I don't see how those two things correlate," he admits, laughing a little bitterly. Somewhere along the line, his fingers have loosened their grip on the door, resting lightly. He really has no business in even pretending that he's still going to close it in the very near future.

Giving in, he just pushes it all the way back open.

She frowns. Well, what? He hadn't meant for that to be upsetting. "You shouldn't be forced to face this."

Actually, I'm centuries old. More than old enough to face this. And look how much good those centuries are doing me. Doesn't quite flow off the tongue… "If I recall correctly, you're only twenty-eight yourself."

"Ten years makes a lot of difference. And you were just shot at. Assaulted. Hunted. I want to make certain you're all right."

She's not even lying—he can tell. It would be so much easier to hate Gwen if she didn't mean her compassion. She does, though, means it just as much as she ever meant anything else. Her love for Lancelot, for Arthur—it is, as far as he can tell, all part of that intricate, complicated mess of goodness and emotion. It's just the bit that's gone wrong. And he can't hate her for it.

His fingers clench more firmly into the wood.

Damn it, he's so tired. A nap—he needs a nap. Maybe he should have just gone with Arthur. Arthur would have let him sleep if that was what Merlin wanted…

Yeah, and all the world would have kept right on going to whatever Hell Arthur has apparently decided to lead it to. While Merlin napped. It's going that way anyhow, though, no matter what he does.

Because you won't really face him, his mind whispers, and, yes, he flinches. Gwen sees it, and he could swear in frustration, but he doesn't. There's no point. She's better than him in this, anyway: she'll fight against Arthur, and Merlin will try, but he just….

Leaning his head into the wood of the door, he sighs. "I appreciate the thought. I'll be all right."

"You don't look all right. You look terrible. Oh! Not to say you aren't attractive, but I only meant that you look sick—not that I think you're attractive, but I could see how you… could be…" She looks away quickly.

Blunt, and, yes, there she goes, half shocked at her own mouth, but not quite taking it back, because under it all, she is right. Even so, it's nice to see that spark of her—the Gwen he knew in the beginning. And, despite everything, it makes him smile.

"You're a good woman, Gwen. Thank you for your concern."

"If you need anything, you'll tell me?"

Probably not. "Yes."

Giving her one last, small smile, he pulls back into the hallway. It wasn't all a lie. Most everything is, but part of it-she is a good woman. He knows it as he sees her watching him go, brows etched in concern. She's his friend. Imperfect, but his friend. A betrayer, but if he still cares for Arthur after all that he's done, then forgiving Gwen—it should be nothing.

Shouldn't it?

Closing his eyes, he forces down the pounding in his head that sounds a lot like lie, lie, lie.