Chapter 6: Fire and Escape

Arthur paced his chambers like a caged wolf, his head throbbing.

Window, where he could see the guards constructing Merlin's pyre with brutal complacency in the courtyard below – to door, where there were two guards stationed, and two more at each end of the corridor.

"What the hell happened?" his father had demanded, meeting them as they emerged into the open-sided hall leading to the main levels of the citadel. "I was told, the sorcerer attacked with magic?"

"No, of course not," Arthur had begun, only to be spoken over by Gaius, pushing gently but firmly through the guards.

"I believe the fault was mine, sire," the old physician had claimed. "As close as I can estimate, the block Aerldan used was faulty, and when combined with the form of persuasion he chose for the prisoner, when released, resulted in a burst of air. Not destructive, but it did take us by surprise – and Aerldan was killed as a consequence of his own mistake."

"Magic is still to blame," Uther stated darkly.

After an awkward pause when Arthur could find nothing to say, Gaius said, "I cannot argue with that, sire."

So. The man who had blocked the magic was dead; the man who used the magic sentenced to death.

Arthur hadn't bothered protesting innocence or asking clemency. He'd suggested the possibility of delay, but that seemed to have sparked some alert in Uther, who demurred on the question and sent Arthur to his chamber with orders – orders – to rest and recuperate after his injury. An injury he'd scarcely mention, if received during training or by accident – and if he did, it would be to a disdainful disregard by his father. Gaius was detained to speak longer with the king, with the understanding that he'd look in on the prince, following – the only reason Arthur had submitted to the dismissal.

And the guards. Believed that confining him to his chambers – by force if necessary, he'd been told – was for his own good. How could he fight that? And if he did, he'd find himself overwhelmed sooner or later, and pinned bodily in his bed while Gaius poured some sleeping potion down his throat – for his own good – and… no, he wouldn't think of what might come of that, then.

As he turned, he caught sight of himself in the mirror on the wall, and stopped. There was blood on his shirt, and the side of his jacket – even a fairly clear fingerprint by his collar. Merlin's fingerprint, in Merlin's blood.

He yanked the garments off, scraping his nose on the lacings of the shirt, and flung them in a corner. Then proceeded to scrub his arms to his elbows, and his face all the way down to his collarbone. The scent of laundry soap was faint and comforting, as he inhaled through the towel by the wash-stand. Set out new sometime this day by the fuzzy-haired servant, no doubt. And it made him sick.

One way or another, he'd lost Merlin.

Grabbing the first shirt he saw from the wardrobe, he crossed again to the window. And cursed the unidentifiable guard who patted his bundle of dry twigs in place below the platform – his door opened and he turned to see Gaius slip into the room.
"How is your head, sire?" Gaius asked.

"It's fine what did my father say to you?" Arthur demanded. "Is there any chance I can still talk him out of…" He couldn't say it; he could only gesture to the window overlooking the courtyard where executions were carried out.

"So it's still hurting you," Gaius nodded in weary sagacity, untucking his hands from his sleeves to reveal a little glass dose-bottle with a cloudy-gray liquid inside.

"Gaius, I swear," Arthur growled, "I will not watch him die."

"Drink that," Gaius returned with asperity, "and I will answer your questions."

"Where's Sir Leon?" Arthur returned, taking the bottle and pulling out the stopper. "Do you think you could give him a message from me?"

Gaius frowned pointedly at the bottle, then back at Arthur. Who gave a hard sigh of frustration.

"Oh, fine." The liquid hit the back of his tongue and he swallowed quickly – that was always the best way for taking Gaius' medicines. "Now." He thrust the emptied bottle back at the old physician, who tucked it and his hands back in his sleeves.

"I believe your father had a specific task that will occupy Sir Leon's time for the rest of the day, if not tomorrow as well," Gaius said, "but it is likely you will see him shortly."

Fine. The pyre probably needed the better part of an hour to complete, anyway. They might be cutting it close, but if Leon knew a few fellows willing to take a risk… "What did my father ask you?" Arthur said. "What did you say to him?"

"I told your father it was my opinion that Aerldan had made many mistakes with this prisoner," Gaius said neutrally. "I couldn't answer for the veracity of the contents of the report."

"Last night Merlin told me he was going to tell the truth," Arthur said, not bothering to dissemble with this man, about his unauthorized visit to the cells. "Why would Aerldan have continued with the torture this morning, if Merlin was telling the truth?"

"Men will say many things under torture," Gaius generalized.

"Some of it was true, though," Arthur said slowly. "Wasn't it? He did catch the goblin – and he did help me free the druid boy Mordred from imprisonment."

"Come sit down," Gaius invited, gesturing for Arthur to follow as he headed toward the bed. "That particular tonic can make you feel a bit light-headed for a moment, initially."

Arthur discovered, although the pain was receding, he could no longer walk a straight line – fetching up with a bit of a clunk against the bedpost – but wasn't sure why it mattered. After all, it was only Gaius here.

"What about the oath?" he said. "If Aerldan's incompetence with the thumbscrew – or the magical block – caused that interruption, by all rights we should have another chance to talk Merlin into taking that oath."

Gaius sighed heavily, pressing Arthur to sit on the edge of his bed. "He wouldn't take it," he said quietly. "He couldn't keep it. Believe it or not, Merlin does take his promises and responsibilities very seriously –"

"Never said he didn't," Arthur protested. His eyes blurred briefly – was he swaying? or maybe that was Gaius – but he blinked them clear.

"If he faced a situation where only magic could save you, he'd use it," Gaius finished.

"And damn the consequences," Arthur told his knees sadly.

"Exactly so."

"What's going to happen, then?" he said. "How long have we got til my father decides –"

"The execution has been set. An hour's time," Gaius' hands were pressing on his shoulders, and he wondered why he was trying to resist.

"Tell Leon – on his own. Tell 'im find someone 'll help 'im…"

The old man lifted Arthur's boots to the bed – no Merlin'll have to clean the mud – he was so heavy the velvet pillows and coverlet were so soft.

"You are not the only one who cares for Merlin," Gaius whispered, from far away. "But sometimes, it is best to leave the action to others…"

Arthur could no longer hold his eyes open. So he stopped trying to.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin ignored the sting of the fresh cut on his chest, jamming the filthy pin awkwardly into a crack between stones where the floor met the wall in his cell to hide it. Making sure he had the spell memorized, he set the scrap of parchment down on the stone beside him.

And burned it, with one deliberate glance.

The magic still bubbled inside him, but the warmth revived him, now the restraining block-lid-whatever had been nullified, marred by the new line he'd scratched into his skin, breaking and altering the rune. It was full and ready, and anytime now –

"Hello, Merlin."

He set his palm down immediately over the smoking remains of the spell-scrap - fingers raised to keep them from brushing the floor, surreptitiously smearing the ash of the parchment into the anonymous grime of the stone floor - before lifting his head to meet her gaze.

Morgana loitered outside the cell, fine and proud as a queen. As an angry, vengeful queen, green fire snapping from her eyes.

"What did you do to the guards?" he said.

"Oh, please." She scoffed. "I should have killed them, to have you blamed for it – but really, what else can they do to you? A simple sleeping spell, Merlin, never worry for them. You, however, will not be so lucky." She smirked, but after Aerldan's rabid sadism, he found her ire as mild as dishwater. "You know, when we first heard – Merlin had done a spell of magic – I was a little worried, you might have tried it because of me. Perhaps because you envied my power, or perhaps because you were desperate to be able to counter it."

"You were worried?" he said, wearily sarcastic.

Her smile flattened. "A little. Until I realized. When Uther read your confession this morning – it was the truth, wasn't it." She tossed her head scornfully. "Mostly. You freed Mordred, I know, but not Alvarr, and not the blacksmith. And you did try to kill me."

"My apology," Merlin said deliberately, "was genuine."

She sneered. "You've been doing magic for years, haven't you. It really was your book of magic Gaius gave Uther during that goblin incident, wasn't it. You hide and you sneak like the little rat you are, because you're too ashamed of what you have, too much of a coward to finish off the man who is enemy to us both. Instead you trail after his son, sniffing for a bit of favor."

Merlin wanted to argue. Wanted to point out who else was hiding and sneaking, these days. Wanted to challenge her assumption of Uther's reaction if she'd made a similar confession a year and a half ago – and who was the coward who hadn't, now, between the two of them.

But the last thing he wanted to do was provoke her now. Whatever he did in self-defense, would be seen as done to the king's innocent ward. She wasn't his focus, his primary concern, she never had been – rather, Arthur's protection, and a far second, his perception of magic.

"Half of an hour, Merlin," she said, with a sort of elated cruelty. "That's how much longer you have to live. This time, I'll be watching you gasping for breath… and no one will come to save you." She turned on the heel of her fine slipper and click-clacked her way out of sight, up the stair.

Merlin considered his spell. And the timing of it. Wondering if he dared cut it so close, even for the obvious benefit where Morgana and Uther were both concerned.

And if Arthur could forgive him a lie like this.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Someone said Arthur's name, and he opened his eyes.

First he only saw the canopy of his bed above him. Then he saw a face – someone he knew, someone he knew he trusted – long curly blond-red hair, the same-colored scruff of beard on his face, and a concerned expression.

It pleased Arthur, in a small way, that someone he knew, someone he knew he trusted, was concerned about him.

The person spoke. He had trouble making sense of the words he couldn't quite hear, but figured there wasn't much urgency.

I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm so, so sorry. I don't know whether your father discovered something or just suspected, but – can you hear me, my lord?

"Yes?"

He turned his head further on the wonderfully comfortable pillow, to see that this man was wearing chainmail, and a red tunic with a golden dragon embroidered on his chest. That gave Arthur a sense of purpose, of responsibility greater than lying in bed.

So when the man's hands encouraged, pushed and pulled gently but relentlessly, he obeyed.

Sat up in bed. Swung his legs over the side. Stood.

There was someone else in the room. Someone short, with hair that looked like brown wool. Briefly Arthur wondered if it felt like wool – but he didn't know this man, didn't know if he trusted him, so he kept his hands to himself. The man did not return the favor.

He touched Arthur, straightening and tightening and tying laces on his shirt. Arthur was offended – no one touched him except… there were people who touched him and his clothes like this, he was sure. Distinctly he remembered black hair, but – male or female, short or tall… or both?

The man he trusted – the knight, he was pleased to recall the word – didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. Not the chainmail. Doesn't he have a… jacket, or… vest or something? Something ceremonial?

The shorter man left Arthur's range of vision. For quite a long time, it seemed, and Arthur felt very virtuous, waiting patiently.

The knight glanced at him. Impatient. Troubled. You'll be okay, Arthur. We'll get through this, I promise. What doesn't… well, it'll make us stronger, all right?"

Stronger. Yes, he agreed with that concept. A noble concept, and something he always wanted to be. For the sake of satisfying his father's expectations. For the sake of his people, and becoming what they needed in a leader.

Just anything. Hurry, can't you, for pity's sake?

The short man returned, shoving the sleeves of some garment up Arthur's arms, over the shirt he already wore, bunching and twisting it. It felt clumsy and awkward, and Arthur was embarrassed for both of them. This wasn't how – this – was done. But he bore the disarrangement of his clothing stoically.

It's time, the knight said. Are you ready, Arthur?

"Am I ready?"

The knight glanced at the other. Yes, you're ready.

"Yes, I'm ready," he repeated. Ready was good, just as good as strong; he was pleased at the prospect of being both at the same time.

The knight took hold of his arm just above the elbow – not tightly, not painfully – and he followed obediently. As they walked, he noticed the way the knight's shoulders were set, his head held high, his feet marched firmly, confidently. Arthur tried to mimic the posture, but found it hard to do at the same time as he was actually walking.

Just about the time he thought he'd managed to incorporate the attitude into his movement, he found the knight pulling him to a stop.

There was another man before him. A severe man with an intimidating scowl and scar, dressed in black and decked with silver and he felt his spine draw straighter. He said reflexively, "Hello, Father."

Father. This man was his father? This man was his father. He felt – pride and disappointment. Fear and longing.

Arthur. Are you ready? His eyes shifted away from Arthur's. Is he ready?

Someone behind him might have answered, but since Father's cold gray eyes no longer held his own, he let his gaze drift as well, and encountered two others. Girls.

One was sharp. Green eyes and black hair and she made him uncomfortable he didn't want to look at her.

The other was quiet and calm and sad, brown eyes and brown skin and she made him feel so comfortable he longed to return the favor. He wanted to be as close to her as possible, embracing her so tightly he could feel every breath along the inside of his arms and his chest and the air movement from her lungs on the skin at his neck and open shirt-laces, feeling her arms twining him so tightly his lowest ribs might compress a little but –

He was quite sure that was inappropriate, right now.

So he looked away from them both.

To see Father's back, as he strode away from Arthur, and two doors opened – all by themselves, it appeared to him; he squinted in bright sunlight that streamed in.

He shouldn't feel so drowsy and incoherent in the middle of the day.

But no one else seemed to mind, and the knight was tugging him forward, and the green girl was already passing outside, leaving her friend to sag against the wall with her back to the dazzling square of open doors. Arthur followed willingly – and nearly gasped aloud at the vista that opened before him.

He saw a small fringe of white – stone castle wall – at the lowest edge of a wide green sea of treetops. Shifting subtly, shadow and sunlight and he could feel the wind on his face and fairly smell the –

Father turned to face him, hand on an even more delicate fringe of stone. You need to watch this. He lifted his hand to point into the pit of stone below them.

Arthur obligingly glanced down – a puddle of hats and scarves and helms, a knot of gathered brushwood – boring. He lifted his eyes again to the mesmerizing view of all beyond.

Father spoke to the knight at his elbow. Keep him back a bit. We don't want him tipping right off the balcony. Then he turned to address the great wide green world, and it didn't seem to Arthur as though he was interested in what was being said.

He simply stood, and took pleasure in existence – fresh cool breeze, sun warm on his skin – then he noticed the sky, above the wide green sea. The other half of the horizon, even further away, where high clouds played remote and unhurried games.

There was a tiny black spot, marring the mottled blue-and-fluffy-white. Arthur focused on it, squinted a bit in the bright, a bird. Hovering gliding, wings extended – it drifted closer, but probably unintentionally. And slowly, perhaps warily.

Arthur thought, perhaps, he loved that bird. How wild and fearless it was, it would never voluntarily come near him – and if it did, the honor of that choice would forever set him apart from other men. He found he longed for that, for the bird – hawk? no… eagle – to glide down to the balcony and perch, and look at him. Befriend him, it may be, in the strange way wild creatures had, perhaps even stay with him. Return to him.

But. The eagle was better off where he was, probably, spreading his wings.

He didn't know how long he stood, watching the eagle, before the air currents drew the eagle away again. Arthur nearly voiced a wordless protest – though it was better, free, and he had no right to command a wild creature. He knew himself privileged to have had even a glimpse.

Arthur heard its shrill scream and couldn't help smiling as his heart leaped up at the fierce freedom of the creature, as it tucked its wings and dove deliberately into the sea of tossing green treetops.

The eagle did not emerge again. The whole castle sighed around him with exquisite regret.

Father faced Arthur again, capturing his attention compellingly. Almost he asked if his father had seen the bird, too, but didn't. He felt Father was not the sort of man to understand or enjoy what Arthur felt – and decided to keep it private. His eagle.

Take him back to his chamber and make sure a guard has eyes on him at all times until the physician says he can be trusted on his own.

That made him feel faintly uncomfortable. To have someone – maybe a stranger, someone he didn't know, or trust – watching him… but then again, he could probably lie in that comfortable bed and close his eyes and watch the hemispheres of blue and green and the soaring eagle that crossed the line between them so effortlessly. Yes, that sounded nice. Arthur could imagine he flew with the eagle, too – flight must be an amazing feeling.

Father said, Just rest, Arthur. In the morning, everything will go back to normal, now this foolishness is behind us.

Arthur didn't know how to respond. Should he agree? Did he agree? What foolishness?

He glanced down into the stone pit below them again, and saw that someone had lit the stack of wood and brush into a bonfire. He wondered what good that was – early summer, they didn't need the extra heat, and the people in the courtyard were paying it no attention at all, walking quickly away. What a waste of good firewood, and knights to tend it. Probably that was why the eagle had come no closer – birds feared fire.

Hands on his arms turned him, and he glimpsed the knight's face – eyes gleaming with barely-suppressed emotion. He wondered at that, as he was led back into the room – dark now to eyes accustomed to the infinite light of the open space – he saw the brown-eyed girl. Eyes covered now with her hands, and her shoulders shaking and something told him she was crying, not laughing.

He wanted, again, to take her in his arms and hold comfort protect her until she smiled again, but the knight was drawing him away.

Oh, yes. Back to chambers.

The room was empty when they reached it, the fuzzy-haired man gone. Arthur looked around; he didn't miss him, but there was someone he missed. Someone who belonged there, but wasn't.

He couldn't remember clearly. He was tired.

Just rest, Arthur. Father had told him to; the knight was leading, encouraging him to the bed. It seemed a fair refuge in the comfortable vagueness, and he allowed himself to be positioned, and the knight stepped back.

He closed his eyes, and was alone. But then he saw in memory, the eagle rise and swoop, and was consoled.

Arthur slept.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Half of an hour.

They brought Merlin a shirt, which surprised him – until he realized of course the evidence of the reality of Uther's justice would of course be covered up as much as possible. A cheap shirt of thin white cotton, which the two guards watched him drop twice while he bloodied the bottom hem, trying to get into it, before they intervened.

His hands shook and his breath hissed and the cold sweat made him shiver, as the nearer guard bunched and positioned the shirt awkwardly.

"Thanks," he managed.

"Hurry up," the guard returned. "We'll get in trouble if we take too long."

He squirmed so the shirt would fall properly down his body, so he wouldn't have to touch it. The sleeves were long; he held his hands up near his face, elbows tucked tight to his body, an illusion of easing the pain.

The other guard had a pair of chained cuffs. He knelt to fasten the first around Merlin's ankles upwards of his socks and boots; he felt the pain of roughly-knocked bruises on his shins, but it was distant and comparatively dim.

"Hands behind your back," the guard said then, standing.

"Wait," Merlin said. "You've got to unlock them again anyway, when you chain me to the post –" the first guard shifted uncomfortably – "can't I have them in front, like this, on the way?"

The second guard hesitated, eyes – as far as Merlin could tell, in the shadow of the cell and his helmet – on his hands. Swollen, torn, trembling uncontrollably. The bleeding has stopped and the blood had dried, but not before making several runnels down hands and wrists after his release from the questioner's chair, as he held his fingers upright in the least painful position.

"The king won't like it," he said dubiously.

The first made a tsk-ing sound. "Wouldn't you want the mercy, if you were in his place," he chided, and took the cuffs from his companion.

Merlin's forearms were bruised as well, and the weight of the iron uncomfortable, but the guard drew up his sleeves before snapping them locked. It protected his skin, a bit, and that helped. A bit.

At the base of the stair two more guards were waiting; one took up a position behind the two attached to his arms, while the other led them upward. Merlin walked but stiffly, through the bruises on his shins, and navigated the steps awkwardly, one at a time like a small child. Up, even. Up, even. Feet together. And by the time he reached ground-level, he was breathing hard and lightheaded. He needed water, probably.

Daylight blinded him, making his eyes cringe and water. The guards didn't hesitate, forcing him forward firmly, but not cruelly.

He could hear the murmur of a crowd over the sounds of their boots – four marching, and his shuffling – and he blinked dizziness from his eyes to run wetly down his cheeks. To meet the gazes of those closest in the crowd, unexpectedly. Faces he was familiar with, after so long serving the prince, it seemed most of the lower town was there, if not all. Shock and sympathy, a handful with a gruesome sort of eagerness.

They were parted to allow him and his guards passage to the middle of the citadel courtyard. Beyond the guard in front he could see the post of the pyre, the bundles of kindling bristling around its base like a very large and short-handled broom propped upright on the cobblestones. And the angle of their approach meant he wouldn't see up to the balcony where Uther had presided over executions before, until he was at the pyre.

He concentrated on breathing through his nose, controlling the panic that threatened. This was cutting it very close. Alone in his cell, he could allow for a few unsuccessful attempts at this spell. Here and now – no, probably not. He'd have to get it right, the first time.

"Brace your elbows," the guard on his left told him, as the leader of their procession mounted the platform with two long steps and the aid of a stool.

Confused, he obeyed – and the men on either side of him bent to heave him up by his stiffened arms. Reflexively cooperative, he lifted his feet over the brush and felt the platform wobble a bit under his boots. Well, it need only support his weight a short while. It was built to be burned.

The guard already on the platform steadied Merlin with one hand fisted in the front of his shirt – he hissed as the man's fingers raked carelessly across the cuts on his chest – and the chain joining the cuffs on his wrists. Spinning him casually – oh, there was Gaius – he proceeded to unlock one cuff.

"Hands behind your back."

He nodded to Gaius – who was alone, which probably meant Gwen wasn't present, that was good – trying to reassure the old man without alerting the suspicions of anyone else. His mentor looked five years older than when he'd breezed out the door – how many days ago was it? What could go wrong, he'd said to Gaius' usual admonition, Be careful, Merlin.

Merlin mouthed, I'm sorry.

And jerked, gritting his teeth as the guard refastened the cuffs behind him, around the upright beam. His vision whited out as gravity pulled blood down into his hands, his fingertips, and fresh agony throbbed through him.

He desperately wanted to sit down. Or curl up on himself. Anything to ease this hellish pain.

A voice boomed over the courtyard, drawing his attention up. Uther Pendragon, predictably spouting anti-magic spite. Morgana at his right. Openly smirking at Merlin on the pyre.

He sent a quick glance around the ring of torch-bearing guards – no one moving toward him yet – and lifted his gaze to the balcony again. Arthur stood a pace back from the railing Uther clasped with dramatic solemnity, Sir Leon just beside him. The knight was looking at Merlin as well – his expression set and too far for Merlin to make out anything else – but he gave a single nod. Encouragement, support, gratitude? But – Arthur.

"Arthur!" Merlin tried to call. The word hurt his throat; it came out raspy and not loud enough.

Uther lifted his own voice. "In accordance with the laws of Camelot you are sentenced to death by fire – which judgment shall be carried out without further delay."

The king nodded. The guards moved forward as one with their torches.

Merlin tried again. "Arthur!"

The prince turned his head slightly away, gaze distant, refusing even to look down to the courtyard.

Oh, he was angry, then.

"I'm sorry!" he hollered hoarsely, up to the balcony. "I tried only to use magic for good! I used it for you!"

The torches dropped among the bundles of kindling, which sparked and caught – the tongues of flame rising and spreading. He could feel the heat, not much smoke yet, dry as the wood was. That was a problem, he could definitely use more smoke.

He could feel Morgana's glare – triumphant, she thought. Her way and Morgause's way clear to again attack the man who had given her everything after her father's death – except confidence in his mercy.

Not quite yet.

He opened his mouth to draw a deeper breath, call once again to his prince – see Merlin, see magic, understand, forgive, don't hate – and inhaled a lungful of smoke. Too much, now, too much - it eddied around him now as the flames licked the edge of the platform. Doubling over to cough, the cuffs and post banged his hands which sent pain spiking through arms shoulders whole damn body, and he gasped more smoke. He could see flickers of orange and yellow through the gaps in the planks of the platform below him. The air was hot as an opened oven; he could feel sweat dripping down him.

Summoning the last of his strength, he straightened and screamed, "Arthur!"

Heat and smoke and tears in his eyes made the distant figures waver. But Arthur's chin was clearly lifted, his gaze nearly upward, avoiding Merlin.

Are you really this stupid.

Magic corrupts your soul.

Don't touch me.

Merlin sobbed, his chest tight with more than a lack of breathable air.

Arthur must live. Merlin must protect Arthur. That was truth.

It hadn't been easy to do, hiding his magic as the prince's manservant. It would be harder now, but… if no one was looking for him – Morgana or Uther – it was astonishing what he could get away with.

If no one was looking for him.

Letting his head drop, he whispered a spell – one different to that offered by Gaius as his escape – adding to the fire. Forbearnan.

A simple, special variation, one that allowed him to carry fire itself in his open palm, if there was no material to light, anywhere about. Therefore, harmless – though it looked no different – but also, no barrier to the real thing. His fire blazed, mingling with the real thing, engulfing him in a visually explosive inferno.

Hiding him from view.

Another quick spell – Onlucan me! - and the chains and cuffs would be left behind.

The heat was unbearable, blistering. He gasped out Gaius' spell.

Bedyrne me – Astyre me thanonweard!

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine yawned.

And leaned forward from his lounging seat at the base of a tree to squint through the thick green foliage of early summer at the sun. High noon.

He shifted his position, used the rough bark of the trunk to scratch an itch between his shoulder-blades and gazed at the top of the grain-tower, all that was visible of the village below, from where he waited. The hill-top itself was his focus, not the handful of houses and… the tavern.

Gwaine grinned at the memory. You and your friend are in a bit of a pickle… I guess I like those odds.

Lazily he crossed his legs at the ankle and flicked an ant from his trousers before crossing his arms over his chest. Too bad about that banished-on-pain-of-death bit; he could use a drink, if only to pass the time. Gaius had been vague on the when.

He tried to calculate the odds of someone reporting him to someone who cared enough to bring enough men to accomplish arresting him, before his second round. Simultaneously trying to guess how much longer he'd be waiting – the impossibility of completing either mental task while occupied with the other at least relieving the boredom – when a strong gust of wind rippled across the ridge.

Bringing with it a smell of smoke that had Gwaine startling alert.

And then a sound, that brought him to his feet, searching to identify the point of origin. Repeated – a human noise, and one of distress.

He moved quickly, quietly, his bag slung over his head and one arm, hand on the hilt of his sword. Wary for strangers – Gwaine knew who he was supposed to meet, but not if he'd be alone, necessarily. Followed, perhaps. He saw Merlin's boots first, and rounded the patch of underbrush in a rush.

His newest – only? – friend lay stretched full-length, face-down. Face buried in his arms, hands lifted off the ground – and understandably so, they looked dunked in blood.

And Merlin's clothes were smoking.

Well, that explained that, Gwaine thought, as he leaped forward to smother any possible spark with his hands; Merlin's whole body shuddered, and a single heartbroken sob escaped him. The nature of the crime – death by fire – an unexpected escape, and a sudden arrival.

"Magic, huh?" he said aloud. "Magic in Camelot. A bit like a servant trying to steal swords from a couple of crooked nobles. Hey. Merlin? It's all right – you're safe and away. I'm here – Gwaine – remember?"

Merlin stilled, turned his head sideways on his arms to show a couple of merging bruises and sweat-streaked soot on his face. "Gwaine," he said. No surprise, no curiosity. Because evidently he hadn't completely left Camelot, yet. "He wouldn't look at me."

Gwaine sat back on his heels and patted his young friend's shoulder – for a different reason this time. "Yeah, it's a shame," he said, without knowing who Merlin meant. "Can you turn over? Sit up? Let me have a look at you?"

Merlin regarded him with a dull eye, then rolled – but struggled to sit up, without using his hands.

Gwaine reached for his wrist to help him. "This okay?"

"It's blistered," Merlin told him. Gwaine shifted his offered grip, further down the forearm, raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Just bruised there."

Wrapping his hand carefully around Merlin's arm, he pulled the young man to sitting, and saw that the front of his shirt was filthy, smeared with detritus from the forest floor, soot and blood.

"Aerldan's a bastard," Gwaine pronounced, letting Merlin just sit for a moment, before he encouraged further action.

Take care of him, the old man had said – he was beginning to see that Merlin had been injured in spirit as well as body. Gwaine suspected it would only get worse. He'd never had a home, but he assumed it would be ten times worse, forced to leave instead of making the decision freely for valid reasons.

"Who's that," Merlin said, after a pause. Completely without interest. Well, Gwaine hoped water – and soap maybe – and a bit of something to eat, might help. Though his hands were definitely going to need a physician's attention, and soon.

"Your questioner," Gwaine said, and Merlin's head swung round.

"You know him."

He guessed it was a question, though the inflection was wrong, and gave Merlin a wolfish grin. "My life isn't always a full cup courtesy of a pretty girl, my friend. Can you stand up and walk?" Merlin considered, and Gwaine read disinclination to move all over him. "Come on," he went on, bouncing up from his crouch. "Your back all right? Just push with your feet and I'll –" Pushing against Merlin's weight as the younger man obeyed, he helped him stagger to his feet without falling. "And there you go. Come on, there's a stream just this way."

Merlin followed in silence; glancing back, Gwaine judged it best to leave questions of his own for another day, unless the younger man volunteered a conversation, himself.

"Just down here," he said. "Watch your step on this rock. Here." He stepped over the pace-wide stream to allow Merlin to approach. "We probably don't have time for you to take a full bath – but your hands, mate. We have to do something about that."

Merlin squatted down, stretching trembling hands toward the trickling water without making contact. "We don't have time?" he repeated. "Gwaine, you got a cook-pot of some kind in that pack? Even a flat-pan?"

"I've got a small one." Gwaine shrugged out of the strap of his bag and rummaged. "I suppose they can't track whatever trick you pulled to escape, can they? Here you go." He made to hand Merlin the pot, hesitated, then asked awkwardly, "What did you want done with this?" He was going to have to remember, with hands like that, Merlin was probably not going to be able to do much for himself for a good long while.

"Can you fill it with water?" Merlin said.

Gwaine knelt and let the faint current of the water pull the lower lip of the pot under, careful not to catch anything of the stream-bed. "But…" He held the full pot out, "They're going to have soldiers combing these woods for a sorcerer on the loose."

Merlin froze, a vaguely hunted look coming into his eyes, as if he hadn't realized life on the run meant, sometimes, exactly that.

Half a heartbeat later, Gwaine realized he'd misread his friend's apprehension – it was for Gwaine's knowledge of his identity and crime. For answer, he grinned and offered the pot again. And didn't flinch – much – when Merlin's eyes glowed gold and the pot floated from Gwaine's grip to nestle in the rocks at Merlin's feet. Another brief glow, and Merlin dipped one corner of the heel of his hand in the water – testing the temperature for an adjustment? He hadn't spoken a single spell. Damn.

"No, they won't." Merlin's fingers were curled loosely toward his palm. He ventured – hesitated – gritted his teeth – then dipped his hand into the still water, slowly but completely.

Gwaine dabbled his own fingers – the stream was quite cool, it felt good to him but – he cringed in sympathy and planned on sacrificing his extra shirt for bandages, once Merlin's hands were cleaned a bit. Merlin bit his lips together, white as a sheet under bruises and grime, and turned his head slightly. His whole body was shaking, shaking – gradually oh-so-slowly relaxing into the pain.

"They won't?" Gwaine said.

The look Merlin gave him was grim. "Gaius will know," he said, between clenched teeth. "But no one else will come looking." He ducked his head to watch as he swirled his hand gently and slowly. "All the rest… think I'm dead."

…..*…..

A/N: This story is loosely plotted in three parts (more or less coinciding with the three episodes I'm writing around). This – or next chapter maybe - is the end of part 1, which means I can reasonably estimate around 18-20 chapters. Or so.

And, Msomaji, since you didn't log in to leave the last review – thanks a bunch! Glad you 'enjoyed' the torture scene – hope you enjoyed the 'escape' as much?! And in answer to your wondering about Arthur and Gwen in regards to Morgana, yes, and gradually.

And, thanks for other reviewers that I didn't or couldn't answer in a PM – I appreciate you all, and honestly I'm surprised and pleased by the amount of comments!