Chapter 8: Feasting and Fighting

Arthur dreamed of Merlin.

He dreamed they were walking through a field of ripening wheat, toward Camelot – and for some reason, Merlin was in the lead by nine or ten paces. With his back to Arthur. Stalking like he was upset – and Merlin was so rarely upset, it bothered Arthur. In the dream, Arthur called to him – slow down, wait.

Look at me.

In the dream, Arthur struggled to move faster, to catch up, but he was wearing his ceremonial chainmail and the thick-growing grain caught at his boots like water. He glanced down at his footing – and when he looked back up he was alone.

The sun was shining. The white stone of the citadel gleamed perfection. The harvest rich all around him, and not a single hint of threat. It ought to have been idyllic.

But he was alone.

Gwen found him, the second afternoon, startling him with her call of his name from behind. A quick glance as she hurried to join him told him they were alone for the moment, before she reached him. And he reached for her.

He felt her shake with quiet tears. "I am so, so sorry," he said into her hair.

She leaned back to look up at him, lovely in spite of crying. "It wasn't your fault, Arthur, it wasn't. He wouldn't want you to blame yourself." He managed a nod; his throat was obstructed with a sudden and painful lump. She nestled into his embrace again, a quieter comfort. "I can't believe he's gone," she added. "Every corner I turn I look for him – twice today someone said my name and I thought it was him… somehow."

"Guinevere," he said, in the tone of please-stop.

"Oh! it must be even harder for you, he was with you almost all the time," she realized. "Morgana said you got to see him, just before – were they right, about… about… that he was broken? I didn't see him – during – I couldn't watch –"

He said her name again, in desperation. The warmth of her concern was going to melt the façade he'd constructed, to appear strong and in control until it was the truth and he didn't have to pretend anymore. "I can't… I can't do this right now."

"Yes, of course, you're right," she said, stepping away to quickly whisk tears from her cheeks and wrinkles from her dress. The lavender one he thought might be his favorite, he recognized distantly. "But Arthur, when you're ready to talk – and you know you should sometime – I am here for you."

"And I for you," he said huskily.

She twitched a shrug, beginning to back away. "I can talk to Morgana," she said. "Arthur – he believed you would make a great king, someday. The best thing you can do now, for him, is… try to make him proud of you? Because he was, you know… quite proud of you."

After that, Arthur had to go to the training field and beat hell and the straw stuffing out of two training dummies.

He dreamed it was raining. Pouring rain, and he was on the training field bludgeoning an old set of armor fastened to a pole, hacking like a first-time squire desperate to prove strength and resolve.

In his dream, he was desperate to exorcise the demons of anger and guilt and frustration over helplessness and loss. Because physical exhaustion brought a faint if illogical sense of accomplishment. That he was desperate for.

Miserable and soaked and angry at the senselessness of death, still he felt – in the dream – as if he turned to look over his right shoulder, Merlin would be there. Leaning against the wall, offering neither hand nor word as if he too recognized the great uselessness of everything that Arthur felt, but there. Soaked with Arthur – I didn't want you to feel like you were alone – life seemed futile but when it was shared, it was worthwhile.

But, in the dream, Arthur could not turn. He knew Merlin was there, waiting and suffering with him, but a faint dread whispered around him, if you don't turn and look, if you don't see him, he'll soon be gone. He'll leave. He'll vanish, like a wisp of smoke in the rain.

He struggled. He fought – and when he finally succeeded in turning his head, it was only on his pillow. And the driving rain beat against the window exposed by a newly-drawn curtain - the window that looked down to the courtyard – and Orryn was pouring warm water for Arthur to wash with, as soon as he rose.

It rained all day.

And when they sat for Morgana's birthday feast, lightning could be seen, periodically, flashing outside the colored glass of the windows, high in the outer wall of the banqueting hall.

He slouched in his chair as Morgana, on his father's opposite side, opened gift after gift, sent from royalty and nobility across the five kingdoms. He felt the light brush of Guinevere's hand briefly on the back of his shoulder as she moved forward to fill her mistress' goblet. He appreciated those gestures of sympathy and comfort – and thought perhaps it made Gwen herself feel better for having expressed them – but in some ways, it made it harder. He felt the same incongruity in other ways – on one hand it felt easier to put all thought of his previous manservant from his mind, all reminder and all regret; on the other, it made him furious when someone else seemed to do the same, trivializing his worth or forgetting him entirely.

When the last attendant moved forward with the little engraved box that held his gift, he straightened because he knew Morgana's – and therefore Uther's – attention would be directed to him once more. And he hid from them the confusion of reaction – so he termed it, because still he resisted feelings or emotions – that he hadn't simply stomped and shouted for a day, stewed and pouted another day, and then gone about business as usual, inserting Orryn's name for Merlin's.

Thinking of Orryn – Arthur put his hand over the top of his goblet for the third time, to prevent his new servant re-filling and re-filling. He might even have glared over his shoulder at the man who simply didn't understand Arthur didn't want any more, but for the knowledge of the pang he'd feel, seeing the short man with fuzzy brown hair standing jug in hand by the wall next to Guinevere. In Merlin's place. Where Merlin should be.

And when Morgana clicked open the wooden box to hold up the knife he'd gotten for her birthday present – elegant in its simplicity, razor-sharp and innocuous – he accepted her surprised gratitude and compliments with a tight wordless nod.

Because Merlin had teased him, the morning before the patrol – don't girls like pretty things, jewelry, maybe – and Arthur had scoffed, You don't know Morgana as well as you think you do. And Merlin had fired back a stupid repetition of the insult for answer, You don't know Morgana as well as you think you do…

Maybe he'd been right. Guinevere's eyes were red, tonight, and she'd hastily wiped a stray tear twice that he'd seen. Morgana's beauty was flawless, her proud spirit basking in the attention of the night, with a note of disdain just a bit… off.

Perhaps he did her an injustice. Perhaps she threw herself into the role of spoiled guest-of-honor, the king's pampered ward, to forget what had been done to Merlin. But the Morgana he knew – a year and a half ago – would have sulked and glowered and spoiled the whole evening just to punish Uther and let her rebellious disapproval show clearly to everyone.

As the gifts were all received, and the entertainment began – musicians and jugglers, this year – Arthur excused himself.

Outside the hall, the gallery – covered above, one wall a series of open arches – was cool and damp. Rain pattered down and the smell of grass and summer and wet stone was thick.

Arthur closed his eyes, feeling splashed and scattered droplets gather one by random one on his skin, on his hair. He might have stood there for a minute, or an hour before his melancholy was interrupted by the click of her heeled slippers, and then her voice.

"Arthur." A tone of arch sarcasm, typical for Morgana – but odd, under present circumstances. She used to be more understanding. She used to be able to be more understanding.

"I apologize for leaving your feast, Morgana," he said, without opening his eyes. "You should go back inside – you'll ruin your dress in the wet out here, and they'll miss you in there."

"You miss him, don't you." Any sympathy was mostly submerged in challenge.

"Did you watch, Morgana?" he said mildly, not answering her question.

"What?"

"You must've guessed that I'd been given something, that day," he continued, opening his eyes to face her, mostly dark shadow since there wasn't much light in this gallery, tonight. Pale face, dark lips and eyes. "I don't remember seeing him in the courtyard at all, or hearing him."

"Lucky you," she said sardonically.

He remembered that she used to excuse herself from the spectacle. Plead any infirmity in Gaius' books that Uther would accept. "So," he explained, "I can't quite completely convince myself that he's gone. I mean, I know he's dead. But I catch myself waiting for him, like he's just gone picking flowers for Gaius, or home to visit his mother, or drinking in the damn tavern. I catch myself thinking what I'll say to him, chores I want done –"

"You have a new servant," she said. "Orryn seems very nice, very capable."

"He is." And dull as dishwater. "Partly it's the way he died – I didn't see it, didn't see his body…" He could say these things now, past the lump in his throat; maybe he was letting his mouth run away with him and he should shut up, bottle it up – but maybe it would help. Somehow. "Partly it's because… I think his execution was unfair. And I should've tried harder to rescue him."

She snorted, a reaction that surprised him; he couldn't figure out a reason for it. "So what are you going to do about it?" she demanded.

"What do you mean?"

"You just let Uther kill your friend – you can still call him that, a sorcerer your friend? – and go on being your father's perfect son?"

"What would you have me do, Morgana?" he said wearily, ignoring the way she spat the word sorcerer – perhaps the trying year she'd spent away from home, kidnapped by the blonde witch had set her as firmly against magic as Uther was. And he still couldn't make the word sorcerer fit with Merlin. "What would be a fitting tribute to him, now that escape won't do him any good? Should I stage a coup at your birthday feast? Throw a gauntlet to challenge the king?"

"Why not," she said.

He made an impatient noise. "Do I really have to explain this to you? It won't bring him back. And as angry as I may be with my father for the way he manipulated me -" as angry as he was with himself for not realizing that his father probably saw right through him from the moment he dismounted from patrol – "there is always the balance of loyalty to consider."

"Loyalty," she scoffed.

He moved beside him, pointed through the open doorway to the hall behind her, and she turned to visually follow his signal. "For instance. Sir Brenner. If I defied my father's order – whatever it may be – openly, would Brenner side with me. Would he draw sword to fight my father, or would he draw sword to fight me. Would he kill me, following the king's orders to capture or subdue me in my defiance? Or would he allow me to kill him, because he can't kill the king's son?"

Morgana was silent. The subtler nuances of the court and royal household were something she often ignored in favor of charging straight at her goal, but Arthur himself might not have articulated the question just so, if not for Sir Leon's comments, the night after the trial.

"I said unfair, Morgana, not unjust. If Merlin had been a stranger, I'm not sure I would have spoken up. Gotten involved at all." That bothered him, it was something he'd have to think on, further; favoritism ought not enter a matter of justice. "By his own law, Uther did nothing wrong."

"Nothing wrong." She bristled, in the dark beside him. "You think as he does, then, that all magic-users should die?"

"It doesn't matter what I think." Yet. "I'm not the king; I don't make the laws." …Yet. "How can I ask any man, any knight who's sworn loyalty to Camelot and her king, to stand against that man and that law, because of what I want or what I think, based on the idea that I will someday be in that position of power, able to remember or reward? How can I take the throne and wear the crown and uphold the law and expect those who might disagree with me yet to obey without threat of force – if I don't do it, now?"

She backed a silent step away. "You will be just like him," she said. Her voice was cold, and hard.

And when she spun to stalk away again, Arthur loosed a sigh from the depths of his soul, stepping to the side of the gallery where the rainfall reached him, soaking the meaningless finery Orryn had laid out, respectful and tongue-tied.

By the gods, he hoped not.

He had the idea that strict adherence to the law was easiest. And mercy – or revision, he shivered involuntarily – exquisitely and dangerously complicated.

If he presided over the trial of a witnessed and admitted sorcerer – or any lawbreaker – took someone's word for it that the guilty man had committed the act with the best of intentions, showed mercy and administered a lesser sentence… only to have the criminal turn, sometime in the future, hurt someone or kill someone… would he be partly to blame?

Or should he punish someone – as Merlin had been punished – with the ability or even the inclination to commit acts of evil, before they had done so? His father's policy said yes. Prevent the crime with the blanket and uncompromising ban. He suspected he did not believe such – maybe pragmatic and expedient – to be just.

Hells. Who knew that this – someday king, but not yet – could be such a mire of hard questions with no right answer?

He pushed away from the open arch and headed for his room, deciding not to rejoin the company, not even to request official permission to retire, as wet and bedraggled as he must have been. Unfortunately, he realized, stalking back to his room in the dark, this was yet another issue that, a week ago, he could have discussed with Merlin – argued, insulted, questioned – and found his way at last to the core of clear belief.

Arthur dreamed of Merlin.

Dreamed he woke beside a cozy campfire in the forest in the very early morning, drowsy and safe. Dreamed he opened his eyes to the sight of his lanky black-haired servant huddled knees-to-chest and staring fixedly into the flame of the little fire. An expression of serious concentration on his lean face, and the light of the flames reflected golden in his eyes.

In the dream, he felt no fear – Merlin doing magic – only contentment. But he felt he must make the younger man look at him; in the dream, he couldn't move his hands to find an object to throw. But Merlin didn't notice the weight of his gaze at all, and he struggled to make his lips form the name, to make his lungs expel the air to sound it –

And woke in the darkness of his own bed, his own chamber, to the sound of incongruously disappointing success.

"Merlin."

No, he was gone. Arthur would have to find a way to struggle on – to make him proud – on his own.

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

It began with a footprint.

And resulted in Gwaine making his way back to his and Merlin's camp alone, after dark, and lost in thought.

It had stopped raining that morning, though the ground was still wet – allowing for the footprint that caught his eye and his fancy and led him out of his way and onto the path of discovery. But though it had stopped raining in the morning, the sky remained cast over by clouds and darkness came the sooner for it.

The fire was banked when Gwaine stepped softly into the little circle of forest that had been the focus of their living area four-going-on-five days now. Quite a tidy little hollow of glowing coals – Merlin must have used his magic.

Gwaine grinned down at the long still form of his sleeping friend, and reached for his own blanket. Only for the comfort of extra padding, and not because it was advantageous to stop the moisture in the ground leaching up into his clothes – it was perfectly dry within their circle.

Something it was surprisingly easy to get used to – and yet startling at the same time, every time. Merlin's magic. Odd to see him walking slowly and carefully – if he should trip he could not use his hands to catch himself. Those hands elevated and curled into his chest as he stepped – and the pot which had no doubt filled itself with water at the stream floating along behind him. While back at camp, the firewood continued stacking itself and the items of spare clothing they owned kept washing themselves, though he took no notice of it.

And, sitting quite still, the younger man had formed and laced and positioned the branches and leaves above and around them into a shelter a thatcher would envy. Without saying a single word.

Just how powerful are you, Gwaine had asked in joking bemusement.

Merlin answered crossly – because he was in pain almost constantly, Gwaine understood that, he couldn't maintain the cheer all the time, and bad weather tended to exacerbate injuries to joints or bones – how the hell should I know? How skilled a swordsman are you?

And they'd fallen into a bickering, teasing conversation comparing and contrasting strengths, training, potential and innovation of their respective crafts, as the storm pattered and flashed and rumbled around them and they and their fire stayed perfectly dry.

Gwaine spread out his blanket and laid down on his back without disturbing Merlin, head pillowed on laced fingers, boots crossed at his ankles.

As friendly and open and straightforward as Merlin seemed, he was also very deep, Gwaine had discovered. And there were dark currents running through Camelot, of that he had no doubt. Momentarily Gwaine marveled that he, of all people, should be content to be led – in this kingdom and among these people – by a man a handful of years younger than himself. Farm boy-servant-sorcerer, acquainted with one city larger than a village – while he himself was knights' son-swordsman-outlaw very widely traveled. Though their experiences with risk and danger were probably not so dissimilar.

Solitary, his adult life had been. And almost frighteningly natural, to include Merlin.

The younger man had not been voluntarily conversational, since his abrupt and magical appearance on the hillside. Gwaine had been aware that his sensitive friend was adjusting not only to physical limitations – and the one that was permanent – but the loss of the entire structure of his life for the past three years or so, and not by choice. He hadn't pressed Merlin's reticence, hadn't suggested any action whatsoever; even the chores Merlin performed around their camp were by his own choice and completed with magic.

But. What Gwaine had seen tonight, should probably be discussed with the one man he trusted to know the truth of personalities and plots within Camelot. When Merlin was ready for it.

It seemed he'd only just closed his eyes, when senses long used to pulling him immediately from sleep at any slight change in his vicinity did just that. He lay tense, and there was a muffled sound from Merlin, again.

Gwaine rolled over to squint at the shape of his friend in the middle-watches darkness.

Of course Merlin had nightmares. He himself had a few, every now and then, probably everyone did, even without the horror of recent torture, almost execution, and the resulting damage, physical and mental. The question was to wake him or not. To let him wake on his own and calm himself, thinking the episode private – or interrupt whatever terrible images he was seeing, at the cost of possible embarrassment and apology. No matter that Gwaine said it was all right, no I wasn't sleeping anyway, just wanted to make sure you were all right.

He knew when he woke from such a thing, often he felt relief that no one else had witnessed his unconscious terror or weakness. And occasionally, it helped if there was someone with whom he could recount the dream, recognize its irrationality, even laugh it off.

Making his decision, Gwaine pushed himself up to a crouch by the fire, taking a thick stick from the nearby pile to prod the coals awake, add that stick and then another. Light was also often helpful, to dispel a nightmare.

Another muffled whimper escaped Merlin. Gwaine paused and watched him, wondering if he should –

Merlin launched upright, hands still protectively huddled into his chest – mouth open in a great helpless gasp of air, eyes wild in the firelight, flaring gold –

And the new flickering flames of their campfire was extinguished instantly and entirely, like a pinched candle.

In the darkness, Gwaine listened to him panting, for an incredulous moment before venturing, "Merlin?"

His answer came distractedly, "Yes – what? – hells."

Stupid question, but anyway. "You okay?"

Pause. Silence. Then Merlin heaved an audible sigh of deliberately-released tension, and the fire flared to life again, the magic in Merlin's eyes fading a half-moment after Gwaine could see his face again. His haunted expression.

"It was just a dream," he said.

"Care to share?" Gwaine suggested. When Merlin didn't answer, not even to say no, just stared intensely into the white-hot heart of their flames, he went on, deliberately and annoyingly provocative. "Okay, I'll tell you mine, then. There were these two girls, and I was naked, and–"

"Gwaine!" Merlin was looking at him now, fighting a small grin.

"What?" Gwaine said, grinning back.

Merlin sighed again, and allowed the smile. "I dreamed… the execution." Gwaine made a sound of neutral understanding. "Only… it was Arthur. On the pyre. They were going to kill him, he was going to die, I knew it. It was going to happen, it was happening. And I – you know how it is in dreams – I couldn't move. I was frozen, and my magic too."

Gwaine was proud of both of them, the way those words my magic slid right off the younger man's tongue in conversation, not a bit of hesitancy anymore on Merlin's part, not a pang of ingrained alarm on his.

"I couldn't even turn my head to see him," Merlin finished, softly. And scrubbed the back of one forearm over his eyes, leaving it there, propped on knees drawn up, to cover his face. Even after he huffed a laugh. "It seemed so real."

"Sorry." Gwaine moved back to his blanket, sat cross-legged.

"S'all right." Something else seemed to occur to Merlin. "Gwaine."

"Yeah, mate."

"You were… late back." The younger man sounded faintly ashamed, though Gwaine couldn't figure why, and didn't uncover his face. "I thought… maybe you decided…"

"I was following a trail," Gwaine said. Because actions would speak louder than words to the young sorcerer, he thought, and a constant verbal repetition of commitment to companionship wouldn't reassure Merlin as much as the fact of Gwaine's steady presence would. That was something he'd never done before either, prove loyalty rather than proclaiming it – it was a new thing, but a good thing.

"You were hunting?" Merlin's tone was ironic.

"Not without a bow, and arrows to fire." Which wouldn't be a bad idea, if they were going to live off the land for any amount of time. "No, I was following a trail," Gwaine corrected. Because maybe now was as good a time as any to bring up what he'd seen; and maybe his interest in Merlin's home and friends would help prove his intentions. "Human. Female." He grinned as Merlin let his arm drop, but pointed a finger at the younger man's expression. "Not like that. Footprints, out toward the Darkling Woods. Obviously female, and alone, so I tracked her. And you'll never – or maybe you could guess. Who I saw."

Merlin nestled one temple carefully into the palm of his lesser-injured but still-bandaged right palm. "Someone we both know?" he said. "Tall, dark, and beautiful?"

"She was," Gwaine confirmed, seeing the woman again in his mind's eye. From a safe distance, because it wouldn't do to be discovered by her companion's guards. "The other one, tall beautiful and fair. And absolutely up to no good."

"Morgana," Merlin said, and Gwaine nodded; he recalled the memorable king's ward quite clearly from his few days in Camelot, though he hadn't interacted with the beauty at all, then. "And Morgause, then."

"Who's she?"

"Trouble," Merlin said, immediately and succinctly. "Morgana's sister, and a powerful sorceress. They attacked Camelot earlier this year, in alliance with Cenred."

"Ah," Gwaine said, remembering a rumor about the neighboring ruler and his new witch-consort. "One from within, one from without."

Merlin nodded. "Cenred's army – and magic."

Gwaine guessed what he hadn't said – and probably would have to be pressured to admit – that he'd had a hand in defeating the magical prong of the attack. "And they don't know about her in Camelot," he said, not really a question – if they did know, she would not be free to meet her confederate in the woods on her own.

"Were you close enough to hear what they said?"

"No, the blonde had guard dogs prowling her perimeter."

Merlin's grin spread suddenly, and Gwaine counted it a victory. "Tall men, black cloaks, hard fists?" he said.

Gwaine grinned back. "You met them?"

Merlin didn't answer; his smile turned secretive. "It was – Morgana's birthday, today. Yesterday? or… two days ago? Anyway, it could be only that. Happy birthday sister, did you get the present I sent to you anonymously… It's probably a good bet Morgana told her about me."

"Good thing you're dead," Gwaine remarked, and Merlin huffed without smiling. "Or… they could be plotting something more?"

"Gaius is coming again in two days," Merlin answered. "And – if it sounds good to you – maybe we should move a little closer to the citadel. Maybe start shadowing some of the patrols. Maybe…"

"It's too dangerous," Gwaine said, anticipating the last suggestion. "Not unless you can change our appearances like those two thieves at the melee. Anyway, are you sure you're up to more activity? Gaius told you to rest."

"Well." Merlin straightened a bit, not with defiance but with resolve. "There's nothing wrong with my magic. Or my feet."

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

Merlin waited in the forest alone. Sitting on his haunches at the base of a tree on a little rise, so he could see a good two dozen paces all around him.

It was nice, for a moment. Quiet but for the sounds of birds and other wild creatures who'd become used to his presence in the last quarter-hour. He had no jobs to do, no chores to be reminded of, didn't have to hurry anywhere because he wasn't late; he was waiting. He reached for his waterskin to take a quick mouthful of water, and squinted up at the sun to estimate the time; how long he might have until the patrol came in sight.

Almost three weeks it had been; he wondered if he'd see Arthur today. Because close enough to see was close enough to be seen, too, and of course they couldn't risk that.

It had been an interesting three weeks, at least. Gaius had been able to bring them some things, and Gwaine was surprisingly good setting rabbit-traps and fowl-snares. They'd thieved a rare few things from the villages around Camelot – garden vegetables, a loaf of cooling bread, a garment or two from a clothesline, but Merlin insisted on returning the stolen favors – leaving a full woodbox or a pair of rabbits – or just their skins – even a well-hidden charm of health or prosperity.

Arthur didn't go on every patrol; they'd tacitly decided not to try to protect every patrol – only the ones including the prince. He'd been out twice since… since Merlin left Camelot, but because of a number of factors – distance, terrain, Merlin's own state of recovery – Gwaine had shadowed both those trips alone. And had returned out-of-sorts. He claimed it was the exertion of keeping up with a mounted patrol, on foot and undetected; Merlin privately believed it was because there hadn't been any trouble, either time. And he knew very well the burden it could place on a person's temper, an unrealized expectation of danger.

Patrols were random, to catch lawbreakers by surprise and prevent an overnight camp becoming an encampment and drawing the disaffected in numbers. But – randomly – patrols kept track of any suspicious activity along the borders of Camelot, especially the contested ones, and kept an occasional presence in outlying towns. Ride in – ask after complaints – address any issues – ride out.

But. There was an occasional group of outlaws or thieves startled. There were risks inherent in the patrol from the terrain, the weather, the wildlife. And, Merlin had no illusions that Morgause or Cenred would turn their greedy gaze away from Camelot voluntarily. Though, hopefully, Morgana wouldn't make any unsanctioned move on her own – he believed a threat within Camelot would come with a certain amount of warning time, giving him a chance to react.

As a trusted member of the king's council, the court physician was privy to the patrol schedules and routes plotted weekly, which was enough time for him to bring notice to Gwaine and Merlin when he met them, every three or four days.

Gaius also talked with Gwen often enough to keep pretty good track of Morgana. Hearing what the old man didn't say, Merlin figured Morgana had no interest in indulging Gwen's mourning over his execution, and she turned to the old physician to share their grief, to find a friend who understood, and to help Gaius adjust to the loss of his primary assistant. She couldn't talk to Morgana, she couldn't be seen talking to Arthur, so she talked to Gaius.

Merlin hoped she would forgive him someday, too. This necessary deception – added to the necessary deception of hiding his magic.

Ah. His ears perked at a distant noise; he turned, and after a moment it was repeated. Another moment, and he could identify the sounds of the approaching patrol – the first mounted man riding a stone's throw ahead of his comrades, the better to take note of any activity the rest of the patrol prompted with their passage. Depending on who led it, there might or might not be a rider to either flank, or the rear.

This morning's patrol was essentially a great misshapen loop. Gwaine would follow the whole route, but because Merlin was still slower – his hand ached when his heart-rate kicked up – he would travel only the arc of the patrol that was furthest from Camelot.

For the moment, he kept his place, quiet and unseen; they'd pass about thirty paces from him. He watched them ride until he was sure of their number and position – half a dozen, and carefully spaced – he turned his gaze and searched until he found the unknown seventh.

Gwaine's eyes were on the patrol as he crept forward, but as he paused behind the trunk of a gnarled oak tree, he turned his head to search just off the patrol's route – and Merlin rose, catching his attention. The other man grinned and nodded – checked the patrol – then joined him nearly soundlessly.

"Arthur's not with them," he said.

Merlin's heart sank. "Why not?"

"Don't know. You want to follow them anyway?"

He considered. Their camp was contained in the two packs strapped to their shoulders; he'd expected and anticipated this jaunt not only for the chance of seeing his prince again, gauging his wellbeing for himself, but for the first real exercise he'd gained since… since. And if he was going to spend years trailing Arthur whenever he set foot out of the lower town, he might as well start getting used to how it was done.

"Let's go," he said.

Gwaine nodded and stepped past him into the lead, adopting a gait that was a mix of fast-walk, slow-trot, dart-and-wait, and lag-a-bit.

Merlin hooked each thumb through the shoulder-straps of his pack; it kept his hands elevated as he walked – nothing hurt more than swinging them at his sides except bumping them. The two missing fingernails were nearly half-grown in now, a nuisance more than anything else, and the only remaining bandages covered the last finger on his left hand, and immobilized the two broken fingers around a willow-bark splint - luckily they were right next to one another, the middle two on his right hand. Luckily, he scoffed to himself, and sighed.

Sometimes he had to pinch the empty air past the shortened fingertip – was it still called a fingertip? – in a parody of rubbing the missing joint, to calm the pain. However little sense that made, it did seem to help.

As they traveled, he kept track of where they were along the route, so when Gwaine turned aside to use a mossy fallen tree to cross a stream cutting deep between steep banks, Merlin followed without protest. The right-angle turn would bring them across the inside of the distant arc of the patrol without losing them from range of hearing. Then down a gentle valley and up the next rise before they'd be in sight again of the distant flickers of scarlet through the trees and brush.

"How are you holding up?" Gwaine said.

Three of his fingers ached. But he was used to that by now, it was a pain and a bore, and it probably would take another three weeks to quit. "I'm fine to keep going."

Then Gwaine froze, and Merlin caught the same alert. The sounds were faint but unmistakable – shout and clang of metal. Gwaine spat a single foul curse and darted forward, dropping his pack and yanking his sword from its sheath. Merlin followed, slower and more clumsy; to be free of his pack he had to slide it carefully down his arms, remove his hands slowly – so it banged on his back as he hurried.

Two armed men turned to Gwaine's rush; he barely paused, slashing through the midsection of one, spinning to parry and strike against the other's weapon. Merlin circled a bit to give him some space – saw another enemy from behind, intent upon what looked to him like an intentional ambush – and used his magic to give the man a shove hard enough to send him flying forward out of sight.

Up the little valley, onto the ridge – he caught Gwaine's eye and nodded to his signaled suggestion to split and circle the scuffle.

The six knights were dismounted and formed in a loose knot, facing outward so no enemy could come at their fellows' backs. The knight in command bellowed orders as each man fought – and in some cases, two opponents – it was Leon.

Merlin was out of breath and his hands were throbbing and this was not a ragtag band of thieves surprised by an unexpected patrol. So he focused grimly determined magic, not taking the time for verbal spells.

That man slipped on the grass, the wild reactive swing of his sword hamstringing his neighbor. That one lost his sword at the apex of his defensive strike – and another tripped over the lost weapon, falling into the path of an arrow. Merlin had not even seen the bowman; ducking around another trunk, he saw the man perched above him, ten feet off the ground in a tree maybe five paces from him.

Remembering something else, he grinned and directed a burst of a bit more complicated magic. The branch that supported the archer snapped and he dropped with a hair-raising yell – leaving bow and quiver suspended in the tree. Merlin nodded in satisfaction – but his hand really hurt and Arthur wasn't even here.

One of the attackers shouted something, making sweeping circular motion with his hand, and the rest of the men disengaged, pulling back to disappear into the forest beyond – leaving all their fallen, dead and injured alike. The patrol appeared to hold a quick consultation; Merlin kept a wary eye on them to see that no one noticed his own retreat, sent another quick glance upward to retrieve the bow and quiver of arrows, then returned to where Gwaine had dropped his pack, the scavenged weapons bobbing through the air behind him.

Gwaine arrived only moment later, jogging to him as he shoved his sword back into his belt at his hip.

"The patrol is leaving also," he reported, and gave Merlin a swift but keen once-over. "They might come back with more, to collect wounded prisoners, or maybe they just want to get home with their skins intact. But they're still outnumbered and probably don't want to risk a second engagement if those other fellows regroup." He bent to wipe his knife clean on the grass before reaching to tuck it back into his belt also.

Merlin made a noncommittal noise and took the chance to hunker down for a few moments. Sometimes the pain in his hands – even though a dull ache – made him feel sick to his stomach and lightheaded, and it helped not to be standing upright all the time. "I have something for you."

He nodded toward the longbow and quiver of arrows lying next to him on the ground. Gwaine took a step to see what he meant, and made a sound of pleased discovery, bending to retrieve the weapon, tucking the quiver into the crook of his elbow as he tested the bowstring. "Thanks, mate."

They could hear a couple of men call to one another, and a faster gait of hoofbeats; it sounded to him like they weren't continuing along the route, but cutting straight back to Camelot. Merlin squinted over his shoulder, saw a single flicker of red cloak before he and Gwaine were alone again.

"Think they'll be fine on their own?" Gwaine went on cheerfully, snagging his pack and shrugging into it, positioning it to carry comfortably alongside the quiver. "I doubt I can keep up with them at that pace, and you…" Merlin felt his friend's eyes on him and deliberately straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, though he kept his chest resting on his knees. "You deserve a rest."

"Two attacks on one patrol is pushing the limits of credibility," Merlin agreed.

"And Arthur wasn't with them."

"These weren't a handful of bandits," he remarked, "surprised by a random patrol."

"Ambush," Gwaine said succinctly. "You thought of that, too? Mercenaries, I'd say. Think they backed off when they realized Arthur wasn't with the knights." It wasn't really a question. "We're close to Cenred's border, here."

Merlin sighed. Kidnapping attempt, perhaps instigated by Morgause and Cenred, based on patrol information that Morgana had supplied. "I wonder why he stayed in Camelot today," he said, mostly to himself, trying to ignore the shivery sick feeling he suspected had nothing to do with the cessation of action and concentration of magic, anymore.

Gwaine gave Merlin a don't-borrow-trouble kind of grimace. "Change of plans at the last minute, maybe. We'll talk to Gaius day after tomorrow, and find out," he said. "You want to give me a hand searching the –" He gestured back toward the skirmish-ground.

"Hells, Gwaine," Merlin said, and his friend grinned, having used the phrase on purpose to stir him up. But a return joke didn't come readily. Merlin elected not to watch his friend riffle through the bodies in search of useful items or supplies. He found the idea distasteful, though he knew Gwaine's reasoning was more pragmatic. "No, I'll leave you to it. We're close to somewhere else, here, a place I haven't been to in a while and I'd like to again, and…"

"Good place to set up camp for the night?" Gwaine said. Merlin twisted in a shrug; not there, but maybe close by, there would be a good location. "Give me a minute to ask these boys to contribute to our secret protection campaign, and I'll go with you."

Merlin huffed. "Ask nicely."

Gwaine shot him a grin; he probably didn't like the idea of searching corpses any more than Merlin did, but he did a good job making light of unpleasant necessities. "Always do."

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and I didn't thank in a pm!

PS, this is a bit late due to a series of unfortunate events. I had to rework the last section (it ends up being longer that way – no one minds that, do they?), then the puppy I'm sitting chewed through the power cord on my laptop so the battery ran out, and to top it all off (pun intended) I got a headache – which for me stifles all creativity. Anyway, this is what you get, sorry, hopefully the next one is faster and much better. New and improved.