Chapter 15: Friends and Enemies

"Here. We camp here."

Arthur called a halt for the day about an hour before sundown. His ears had caught the murmur of a gentle brook above the quiet noises their foursome made, traveling; it was the work of a moment to locate it, and a spot of forage for the horses.

Probably they could travel another two hours, but that would bring them that much closer to Fyrien's castle and Cenred's men. He didn't have a good idea of how many enemies to expect other than we'll be outnumbered, but if there were any scouts or patrols on the lookout for the expected party, he didn't want to risk someone getting the idea and the opportunity to attack their camp before they reached the castle.

That, and the second reason he wanted to stop while there was still plenty of daylight.

He and Gwaine shared the duty of caring for the three horses while the girls attended to the comforts of food and bedding for their camp. A hundred times he'd done this sort of thing, and it was good that his hands knew what to do, because he couldn't quit scanning the visible distance to pay more visual attention to the task at hand.

"So," Morgana called conversationally, as they dragged the saddles and the last of the baggage to the small circle of slightly-higher ground chosen for their site. "Do you have a plan, Arthur, for when we get to this castle, to rescue Gwen's brother without getting caught?"

"Of course," Arthur said, courteous in spite of the bitterness he felt. Suspecting, as he couldn't help, exactly why she asked – not to help his plan succeed, but quite the opposite.

"Well, why don't you share it with the rest of us?" she said, a challenge as well as an invitation.

Arthur hesitated.

Gwaine stepped into the pause so smoothly Arthur was reminded what Gaius had said, He knows who is an ally, and who is not.

"Arthur doesn't want to give away all his best strategic secrets," he said, "not before an untrustworthy convicted criminal."

"Well, why don't you go away then?" she snapped at him; he shrugged, not taking offense. Gwen paid them little attention; she was understandably distracted, betraying no inclination to sit still but instead found occupation in readying their campsite.

"Time enough for that tomorrow," Arthur said mildly.

Morgana glanced between the two of them. "Fine. I'm going to look for firewood."

As she stepped away, Arthur turned his back on her to speak to Gwaine, who rose immediately from his casual crouch, all levity gone. "Go with her," Arthur said, more request than suggestion. "Keep an eye on her."

"For her safety," Gwaine said, in the same low tone that wouldn't reach Guinevere, "or ours?"

Arthur gave him a keen look, and knew the outlaw understood the situation at least as well as he did. And there was that second reason for stopping early. "Someone's been following us," he said. "All day, I think."

One or maybe two, he guessed. Not a group, like bandits looking for an opportunity or herding them into an existing ambush. A couple of hours after the suspicion had occurred to him, when he was more confident no attack was imminent, he'd turned his attention to his companions.

Gwen was oblivious, unaccustomed to woodcraft and content in any case to trust him with her safety. Morgana was conversely on edge – jumpy and watchfully wary. He thought it possible that she had a contact keeping pace with them – someone she expected, maybe; even if she never saw or heard them, still she might have been alert to the chance. If Gwaine had noticed, Arthur couldn't tell it made a difference to the man's easy-going demeanor.

Now the outlaw nodded as if coming to a decision. "Yeah," he agreed, throwing a glance toward their back-trail as he prepared to follow Morgana, stalking noisily further away from their camp. "He wasn't being careful."

His tone held not evaluation for a potential adversary, but the fond criticism of a familiar. Not Morgana's contact then, but a friend of Gwaine's, maybe another outlaw keeping his distance from the crown prince?

"Someone you know?" Arthur said.

Gwaine grinned. A fleeting expression, yet so knowing it set Arthur's heart thumping with a reaction and emotion he thought he'd left behind him for the trip. Lit with secret delight and humor – hiding and yet revealing some triumph or good news – it was almost the same beaming pride of the expression he'd caught a glimpse of in his mirror late one night, weeks ago.

He came because I asked him to… you are not the only one who cares for Merlin… leave the action to others…

Realization hit him like a blast of hot air – magic overcoming restraint – in the stillness of an underground cell, in the gasp and rush of headlong pursuit through open forest… from the courtyard execution Arthur could not remember. He thought he hated the uncertainty of hope – just tell me, dammit. "Someone I know?"

"I won't tell her if you won't," Gwaine said, and Arthur didn't have to ask, who he was talking about.

Who would you have told? Your father was not Merlin's only enemy… Did the illusion of death protect Merlin that he might continue protecting Arthur?

Gwaine's eyebrows rose, daring grin firmly in place – what are you going to do about it? The outlaw began to jog backwards to follow Morgana. "Say hello for me," he told Arthur, before he turned.

Arthur cleared his throat, keeping his voice even with an effort – calm on the outside, quite the opposite on the inside - and spoke down to Guinevere, beginning to position stones to contain their campfire. "I'll be right back."

She murmured agreement, and he moved away. Leaving their campsite, he headed for the last place he thought he'd caught a glimpse of someone following.

It felt very unreal to him, like he moved calmly through a dream where even the most unlikely made perfect sense. Hope and grief had both deserted him; he felt a sort of contented anticipation.

The ground was open beneath the beech trees that dominated this forest, there was no need to hurry; the lack of underbrush did not hide him, nor did he deliberately attempt to soften his footfalls. There beneath the tree he found an indentation of moss that might have been a human footprint. He lifted his head to scan the ground, to search between the bare grayish tree-trunks, examining those large enough to hide a man. Which direction might their follower have gone, from here?

Was that a flutter of cloth, or the wings of a bird?

Arthur quickened his steps – prowling more deliberately now that twilight was drifting down. A branch snapped in the near distance to his left; he paused to study that direction, before continuing on his current bearing, with more stealth.

Another indistinct flutter, further away.

He halted. This would not do, this hunting tactic. Not if he wanted his friend – the sorcerer – to show himself, to speak to Arthur. To ease the pain of tension in his chest that hope had tightened by imperceptible degrees.

Softly he called, "Merlin?"

Silence.

No wing-flutter, no twig-crack. Not even from a clearly-innocent squirrel or bird or other creature.

The whole forest held its breath.

Arthur tried again. "Please? Gwaine told me…"

He looked all the way around him – he'd come quite a ways out of sight of the camp, or anywhere Gwaine might have let Morgana wander in search of firewood – but there was nothing remarkable.

Until there was.

Twenty paces away, a man in a cloak stood, simply watching Arthur. The hood of the garment was up, effectively obscuring the face, but the edges were behind the shoulders, showing a white tunic tied with a leather belt over dark trousers. In one hand he gripped a leather bag – not heavy but full – by a drawstring cord.

Arthur moved forward immediately, eagerly, but the figure retreated. Not in a straight line, but away to the side, keeping trees between them. Arthur stopped again, where they could see each other; the other stopped as well.

He remembered, faintly but truly, watching a soaring eagle – hawk? – wild and fearless and free. A creature like that would never approach a man voluntarily – and if it did? A privilege to be valued, an opportunity to be awaited with held breath, and careful stillness. He knew he had no right to command obedience from this one.

"Please let me see you?" he said clearly. Very nearly coaxing.

Moments passed. The other betrayed indecision, first remaining still, then stepping forward. Hesitantly, as if wary or nervous, and halting entirely more than once. Arthur waited, and felt a strange but satisfying mix of calm and exhilaration.

Five paces away, he lowered his bag, and lifted his hands to the hood of his cloak – the suggestion of a face in shadow cleared, and Arthur looked at Merlin.

Just, looked at him, for a moment. Familiar, and yet different. And Arthur still could not put his finger on what that might be. His realization of Merlin's magic, maybe. Some lingering memory of Aerldan's torture – of Arthur standing inattentive while the pyre caught flame – of five or six weeks worth of living little better than fugitive.

There was no sign of Merlin's goofy grin, and Arthur missed it, even while he was glad – if Merlin had grinned at him, right that very moment, he might have punched the younger man in the teeth.

As it was, Arthur lifted his hands to grip Merlin's upper arms – thin, with wiry rather than muscular strength – felt him, really there. And then he shook him. Twice. Hard. Shoving him away and then yanking him back while his face showed shock and maybe apprehension – and the second time, he pulled Merlin all the way in to a hard and sudden embrace the younger man was unprepared for.

"You absolute ass," he said in Merlin's ear – mostly covered now by the black hair that probably hadn't been cut since he left Camelot. "I thought you were dead."

He both heard and felt Merlin's response – a single sound, either chuckle or sob, that trembled through his friend's slender frame, before he released him. Blue eyes, deep and expressive, shone with tears and an expression Arthur might have allowed was happiness. "I'm sorry –"

"No," Arthur said, interrupting. "No, don't you do that. Don't you apologize for a single thing you've done. I understand –" And how long had Merlin been waiting to hear Arthur say that? "Maybe not everything, but enough. Enough to say… thank you."

And then Merlin's wide brilliant smile spread, and Arthur felt nothing but joy to see it.

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

Morgana, as far as Gwaine could tell, really was gathering dry sticks for the fire, not watching and waiting to speak to a secret contact. He plucked a twig himself and began stripping the bark casually, sauntering out to alert her to his presence.

She looked up negligently, almost immediately dismissing his importance, letting her beautiful face settle into a condescending sneer. "What do you want?"

He grinned. "What does any man really want? Hot bath, hot dinner, hot cider… a girl to enjoy it with…" She snorted and rolled her eyes. "I don't know, maybe an admiring crowd to applaud his stories of exploits and conquests and… conquests… Arthur told me to watch out for you."

It was an innocuous comment, not a warning, but she straightened, her gaze sharper. "I don't need your protection," she said caustically.

"That, I'll believe." He bent to retrieve a likely branch near his feet, leaving one end on the ground and placing his boot-heel in the center to snap it to more manageable lengths.

"You don't seem the sort to take orders from the likes of Arthur." Her disdain edged into rudeness, but he supposed it could be taken as all for him, and none for Arthur. If he didn't know what he already knew, about the lady. And that blade probably cut both ways anyway – that Arthur was unlikely to listen to the likes of him, either.

"Normally, you'd be right," he told her. "But Arthur… the man clearly cares about his friends. And I don't care who you are, you have to respect that."

Another sharp glance. "Arthur's friends," she said contemptuously. "You mean, like you?"

He shrugged. "Like Merlin." Over another feminine sound of derision, he added, "Like Gwen. Like you… once."

Her lip curled. "What are you saying? That I am not Arthur's friend anymore?"

Gwaine let his grin drop completely. Deadly serious. "Are you not. Friends don't betray each other into greater danger, they help and protect."

She laughed mockingly. "Whatever you may think you know, I haven't betrayed my friends. I am helping, and protecting." Bundle of firewood in one arm, single stick in the other hand, she gestured expansively. "Here I am in the middle of nowhere, risking my life for my friends."

"Yes," he said. "Yes, you are. But the question is, which ones?" He bent to pick up another slender branch.

"What do you mean, which –"

He interrupted her blustering. "Arthur, would not have sent you to the court of a king you had declared your enemy. He would not have had you risk your safety or your life passing information. He would have cared for you, above any advantage your willingness to face danger might have given him – don't you think you might have chosen the wrong friends, after all?"

"What are you talking about?" she snapped, but at least, he saw, he'd shaken a bit of confidence out of her.

"I am no stranger to the hatred of a king." He stopped to consider. "More than one, come to think of it; your Uther qualifies lately. Obviously, I know what it feels like to live – even temporarily – in a kingdom that would see you dead if you're discovered."

"Why don't you just leave, then," she said, pale with suppressed and maybe fear-fueled temper.

"Why don't you?" he shot back. "Hells, m'lady, I was years younger than you when I left the place what was left of my family called home. Two steps ahead of the king's soldiers and some men I had thought to call friends, seeking my life. I could've gone back to find my revenge, but – the world is wide, and so are our choices. We find new friends – new family even it may be – a better reason for living than vengeance."

"What a charming story," she said furiously.

He sighed, and gave up. "Well, you can't say I didn't try."

She stalked to him and flung her armful of firewood down on top of his boots, before storming back toward the camp. "Try minding your own business."

Gwaine looked down at the dry wood a moment, before squatting to gather it up. Wondering if he might have made the situation worse. If that were possible… if he cared.

Hefting the balance of the bundle, he began whistling again, sauntering back to camp in her wake. He hadn't made a living the last ten years by minding his own business.

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

"You're not angry?" Merlin said, searching Arthur's face and finding differences; he was familiar with all the prince's expressions and hadn't been quite sure which to expect directed at him. Though honestly, he hadn't expected to stand face to face with Arthur so soon; Gwaine must have been sure of Arthur's discretion or he wouldn't have said – whatever he said to make the prince guess the truth.

There was a faint weariness to Arthur's bearing, concern buried deep behind the habitual faint arrogance. A smile tried to pull Arthur's lips sideways; he resisted it.

"I'm furious," he corrected Merlin softly. "I thought I lost you."

"But –" he had to press further – "you don't hate me?"

Arthur gave him a reproachful look. "No, I don't." Merlin filled his lungs and exhaled; hearing Gaius' opinion of the prince's state of mind was one thing, but he couldn't quite help fearing that there were less tangible consequences yet to be faced. "That matters to you quite a lot."

"Well, I…" Merlin shrugged, trying to explain how he felt, when neither of them were in the habit of doing so, at least to each other. "I thought… I might have lost you."

Arthur snorted, but the expression of his eyes was sympathetic. "What happened, then? How did you escape?"

Merlin lifted his eyebrows, and the sides of his own mouth in a smile, hopeful of avoiding giving offense. "Magic?"

Arthur made a fist and pushed Merlin's shoulder in place of a verbal threat – which actually served to relax Merlin a bit. He'd worried that the revelation of this secret – the magic, and the perceived execution – would change things irrevocably between them, destroy the prince's trust in him. That even if he forgave Merlin's lies and secrecy, even if he admitted the neutral nature of magic and accepted Merlin's motivation, he would still be held at arms' length. Treated like any other servant – physically close perhaps, but emotionally distant – even like one of the guards or knights, a resource in human form for Arthur to use dispassionately however he saw fit. Perhaps – depending on what Gaius had told him – like a foreign lord or envoy, given respect because of the possible repercussions if he was offended.

"You can do better than that," Arthur said. "Gaius told me, he believed you could overcome that block?"

"Yes," Merlin said, before noticing Arthur's sidelong glance at the front of his shirt. He lifted his hand to rub at the fading marks of the containment rune self-consciously. "Morgana – oh. You – know about her, now?"

Arthur's jaw tightened. "Gaius told me a bit. About the reason for her shift in loyalty."

"She came down to the cells, just before – before they brought me out? I thought, I would never be able to – do anything useful, if your father had the knights tracking me, and Morgause knew I had magic and I escaped and… I'm sorry. I think I had Gaius worried for a while, too."

Arthur huffed, shaking his head. "That old man is crafty," he said, and Merlin couldn't help smiling – but froze when the prince rounded on him, eyes narrowed. "There was one morning I came to talk to him, and he was in your room, and he said – you were there, weren't you? Right there."

"No, I left when we heard you –" Merlin shrugged at another narrowed glance and explained, "Magic?"

The prince grunted. "Merlin, that day… did Gaius tell you, he'd given me something? I wasn't just… ignoring you while they were getting ready to…"

"He told me," Merlin said softly.

"Leon said, you wanted me to look at you – I swear I never heard you." Arthur put a hand on Merlin's shoulder, turning him slightly so they faced each other directly. "I see you now. I want to tell you – hells, I thought I'd missed my chance – my father is wrong. About what magic is. What it's not. I doubt there's much I can do about it now, but someday…"
Merlin blinked hard, even though his smile was so wide it hurt. "Thank you. And I'm glad – I wished so many times I could tell you."

"Well." Arthur cleared his throat, and lifted a warning eyebrow. "Now you better, you hear me?"

"Yes, my lord," Merlin said, very nearly completely happy. Except for – "I really am sorry," he added, "about Morgana."

The prince shifted, lifting his head to gaze in the direction they'd taken, earlier when Merlin was following. "You're not going to join us in camp, are you?" he said. He moved to begin walking, returning slowly to join his traveling companions.

"I can't," Merlin said softly, following. He wished he could; he'd shared such times with Arthur before – and Gwaine more recently. It was a much better prospect than lingering alone on the outside edge, as he'd have to do, tonight. "She can't know – they can't know."

He glanced to be sure Arthur understood, and the prince nodded without looking up from watching the ground where he placed his feet. Of course Arthur would understand the advantage to having a hidden weapon – even if it was magic – but Merlin was relieved all the same.

"I will join you in the castle, though," he added. "Even if you don't see me, I'll be there."

Arthur opened his mouth – then shut it. Then sighed. "It's terrible," he said lightly. "My instinct is still to laugh at a clumsy servant who thinks he can protect a champion of tournaments."

Merlin decided not to tell him, how many of those tournaments had been won with the help of magic. "Trained to kill since birth," he added in the same mock-arrogant tone the prince had used, and Arthur shoved him. "Don't worry about it. Gwaine says the magic is surprisingly easy to get used to."

"Gwaine." Arthur looked up again, but his companions weren't in sight yet; Merlin was keeping an eye out, too. "When did you tell him?"

"I didn't." One blonde eyebrow rose incredulously. "I mean, the spell I used to transport myself out of the fire was evidently a dead giveaway." Merlin saw Arthur wince at the term, but pretended he hadn't noticed. "Gaius found him, asked him to meet me, after. I think he was supposed to make sure I left Camelot, safely."

"And instead, what?" Arthur said. "You two decided to stay in case I needed help?" Only a faint cynical arrogance sounded in his tone.

"You have enemies, Arthur," Merlin said quietly. "They weren't going to leave you alone. And Camelot – has something of a blind spot, when it comes to threats of a magical nature." Arthur stopped and studied Merlin in a way that made him feel self-conscious. "What?"

"That something about you, Merlin," he said. "It's more than magic. I still can't put my finger on it."

"Camelot is a good kingdom," Merlin said. "It's going to be even better. And you're going to be a great king. I just – want to help that happen."

It seemed to him quite a simple explanation, an easy concept, but Arthur shook his head as if comprehension still eluded him. "Tomorrow morning," he said, "when we enter the castle of Fyrien. It backs onto the sea – we're vastly outnumbered and Cenred's lookouts will spot us well before we've reached the gates. Unless I want to surrender myself in fact and hope he releases Gwen's brother in return, we can't go that way."

"There's another way?" Merlin guessed.

Arthur allowed a smile that held the particular arrogance that was confidence. "Yes, there is. When Caerleon was defeated by my father at the Battle of Denaria, he retreated to the castle of Fyrien and it seemed a victory would be denied us, but my father knew of a secret labyrinth beneath the castle."

"A labyrinth." Merlin could see problems with this, already.

"Fyrien was a merchant, and a greedy one at that. To avoid Camelot's levies, he dug tunnels from the castle to the sea. That way, he could smuggle goods into the kingdom without anyone knowing. We ambushed Caerleon using those old tunnels; he never saw us coming."

"And neither will Cenred," Merlin said, as much a determination to make it so, as a guess of Arthur's intentions. "Um, though – labyrinth?"

Arthur's smile was lopsided, but there. "Don't tell me, you're going to have trouble keeping up?"

"Keeping up, or keeping hidden, one or the other," Merlin retorted. "Maybe Gwaine could mark your trail? That way I won't lose you, and you won't lose me."

"Promise?" Arthur said lightly, but there was a note of truth buried in the teasing tone. He sighed again. "I should be getting back. Morgana might get suspicious."

He hated to ask, but… he had to ask. "What are you going to do about her?"

Arthur lifted his hand to rub at his forehead, just between his eyebrows. "If she's willing to put Gwen in danger, to get at me – I don't like the idea of her in Camelot. She could walk right in to my father's room in the middle of the night… But, if we come back from here without her, it'll be last year all over again."

Merlin didn't say anything. He had made decisions where Morgana was concerned before, and in his moments of darkest doubt wondered if he bore some responsibility for how things turned out. At the very least, he could have made different decisions… now, though, in spite of the fact that he'd like very much to turn that responsibility over to someone arguably more qualified than he, he rather thought Arthur had the right to this decision.

"But if Guinevere is worried enough to ask where I've been, just now," Arthur added, shifting his weight to walk away, "I hate to lie to her."

This time, Merlin cringed. A moment of silence passed, in which Arthur did not leave him standing alone. He ventured, "Should I have told you?"

Arthur didn't ask him to clarify. About Morgana, about magic, about surviving his execution. He didn't bluster about the relationships of masters and servants, the obligations of peasants to princes – he did, however, think seriously about his answer.

"No," he said. "Even if I felt an idiot and a fool –" Merlin began to protest, and Arthur raised a preemptory finger to silence him – "I understand there were reasons for your secrets. Good reasons, and I respect that. And you… you never wished me harm."

Merlin knew his friend was still thinking of the lady who accompanied him, perpetuating deceit with the intention of doing him considerable harm. He spoke in jest, then, trying to lighten Arthur's spirits, "Well, that first week – um, maybe the first month – well, call it a –"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur warned. But the glint of humor Merlin had intended to provoke was there. "In any case, we both survived each other this long. And tomorrow–"

"Look what we've got," Merlin said. "You and me."

"My steel and your magic," Arthur remarked sardonically. "My brains and your – oh, wait, no, the brawn is mine as well."

"Which means the brains are mine," Merlin said.

Arthur gave his arm a light whack, beginning to move off through the trees. "Not a chance. I better not see you tomorrow."

Sarcasm was appropriate for his tone. "Yes, my lord." Not unless there was no other choice.

Merlin slung his pack over his shoulder, watching his prince lope away. He'd have to remember to thank Gaius, when they got back to Camelot. Evidently he'd succeeded in death what he'd aspired to in life – and in no small part due to that crafty old man.

And he was so proud of Arthur.

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

Merlin was alive. And well, evidently.

Arthur wasn't fool enough to think that made everything right with the world – there was the problem of Morgana, and Guinevere's brother, to deal with in the immediate future. And when they returned home – because surely now they couldn't fail in their mission – he wouldn't be naïve enough this time to believe his father would have a change of mind or heart, to allow Merlin to come out of hiding, back from the dead, and have any place in Camelot.

But. He couldn't deny that knowing his ridiculously loyal servant, his powerful and strangely modest sorcerer – was alive and near and ready, made everything feel right with Arthur.

He laid on his back and watched the dying coals of their cook-fire gleam on the undersides of the beech leaves, remembering how he'd done so five weeks ago, waiting for Leon's watch and the other knights to fall asleep, so he could cut that cord that bound Merlin and set him free.

Tonight, he felt like the one set free.

Five weeks ago, he'd told Merlin, don't do magic again; didn't you know it corrupts your soul? And now, the thought of Merlin's magic at his back as he contemplated bearding an old enemy in his den gave him confidence. Magic wasn't good, it wasn't bad, it just was. But Merlin – Merlin was good. He was surer of Merlin's motivations than his own, at times.

He deeply regretted the suffering that had brought them both to this point, but. Merlin seemed to hold none of it against him, seemed willing to – well, to do whatever Arthur asked of him, whatever needed to be done. He hadn't changed; he was still the same person, only more. Even though their association had changed, their relationship hadn't, Arthur believed. And wondered if he dared hope that it, too, could be more.

And if so, would the suffering then be worth it. The benefits not limited to the two of them, but expanded ever outward to the kingdom…

Arthur was asleep before he realized it, because he woke a bit abruptly to a stifled sound. He tensed and waited for a repetition; it had been enough out of place to pull him from sleep.

A gasp of breath both quick and quiet. And a sniffle.

He sat up from his bedding – caught Gwaine's eye as the other man rolled to check the sound also. But it was Guinevere's body that trembled with suppressed weeping; Gwaine settled and closed his eyes again – figuring that Arthur would handle it? Guessing, maybe, that he preferred to handle it?

Before this venture was over, Arthur groused to himself a bit, the whole five kingdoms would know, the prince of Camelot fancied a maid. Not that he was embarrassed at all – but matters of the heart were supposed to be private. Rising, he padded around Guinevere and knelt, touching her uppermost shoulder lightly.

She'd been concentrating so fully on staying quiet she hadn't noticed him move; her eyes flew open and she gasped, covering her mouth. He smiled at her reassuringly, and she calmed, glancing over her shoulder at the other two, before pushing herself up to a reclining position on one hip.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I was too loud?"

He lowered himself to sitting cross-legged beside the fur she slept on to protect herself from the ground. "No, I just wanted to check you were all right." He ventured a guess, "You must be worried about Elyan."

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, managing to make the gesture dainty. "I'm always worried about Elyan," she said. "He's just one of those people. Never settled down, never thinks about the future. Just follows his heart wherever it leads him."

Arthur couldn't help smiling. "Doesn't sound so bad," he hinted.

"Well, it wouldn't be." Her voice held more fond exasperation than tearful despair; he counted that a victory already. "Except he always manages to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"To be fair," Arthur pointed out, "I don't think it was his fault this time."

Silence, and it was suddenly awkward. Because Arthur guessed that one of their companions – Guinevere's mistress, and someone who ought to have comforted and protected her, rather than using the intimacy and confidence of innocently-offered trust and friendship – was partly to blame, also.

"I thought –" She hesitated; the light wasn't good but he could see that she'd set her jaw to confide in him, a privilege that warmed him, every time she did it. "I thought, maybe, it would be like when we went to Ealdor. Remember? Even though we expected danger, it was kind of nice to be close, and together."

He knew what she meant. Barriers seemed to break down, status didn't matter – they could be friends, on the road. All four of them.

"But Merlin is gone. Gwaine's nice, but… She's been so different." Guinevere's voice dropped still further, the barest breath of a whisper. "Since she's been back. She didn't used to be impatient with me. She didn't have to try to be polite or friendly, and now. Maybe you think I'm being a silly girl, but she's changed, Arthur. When Elena was here, she told me… you couldn't marry me. I mean, basically. That I couldn't hope for anything, no matter how – you felt, or I felt, or…"

Daring, he reached out to put his hand on hers. He knew as well as she did, the way things were. He knew as well as she did, how they felt – and he hadn't given up hope that someday, somehow… They were young, yet. He hadn't asked her to wait, and if she changed her mind he wouldn't fault her, but he didn't feel ready to marry anyone, approved or not; he rather thought she felt the same way. She hesitated more often than she encouraged.

"Arthur," she said, less emotional but just as quiet, "I can't think of anyone else who knew that you – might care about me more than another maid. Who knew I had a brother, or where I sent him letters, sometimes. I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure, and – oh, I want to be wrong about her, but I'm afraid… And tomorrow, it'll be even more dangerous. Arthur, if anything happens to you, I won't forgive myself."

"Don't worry," he said, reaching his other hand to smooth a wayward curl that caught the light. "It won't."

"How can you be sure?" she whispered, a near-soundless plea that had all the power of a stentorian command upon his heart.

"Because you're right, and you're wrong." She pulled her legs further underneath of her to sit more upright, and lean closer. "About Morgana. I noticed. Gaius noticed. Guinevere, we – we lost our friend, a year ago. She didn't come back, not really." She covered her mouth with her hand, and tears glittered on her cheeks once again, but she nodded, accepting his statement of her suspicion.

"I won't say any more about that, not tonight, but… you were wrong about another friend you thought you lost."

For a moment she didn't react. Then, he thought, it was good she already had her mouth covered with her hand when she gasped.

"Don't say it," he hissed in caution. "I can't explain more, here and now, but… you can be cheered and heartened to know that – it isn't just the four of us, facing tomorrow. That is how I can be sure, nothing will happen to us."

She nodded slowly again, let her hand drop slowly. "He won't let it," she said. "Oh, Arthur – you've seen him?" His nod was interrupted as she sat forward suddenly to curl her arm around his neck.

"Don't cry," he said, as she trembled in the crook of his arm, and breathed to chide them both, "Guinevere… I came to comfort you, not to make you cry more." She sniffed and huffed a chuckle against him, then sat back, and he cold see her smile and shining eyes, radiant even in low coal-glow. "It has to be a secret, still," he warned her. "But tomorrow – I didn't want it to be too much of a shock, either, if you –"

"If I see him," she finished. "Arthur, I've missed him, too. If we can rescue Elyan and all get back to Camelot safely, maybe we can even persuade Morgana…"

He couldn't bear to contradict her. Not when he felt the same pang of why-not in reaction to the suggestion. Maybe he wouldn't be able to trust her, if she admitted her treachery but claimed a change of heart, back to them. Maybe he'd struggle with how much to tell anyone else, what penalties might be justly earned by what she'd done so far, but – ye gods, at least a chance.

"Get some sleep now," he whispered. "No more tears?"

He heard the smile in her whisper, as she prepared to lay herself down again. "No more tears."

A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.7 "The Castle of Fyrien."

So the reunion was a long time coming – it was satisfactory though, right? I got Gwen in the loop too, a bit of Arwen… and next chapter, on to Fyrien!