A/N: This chapter is two episodes; Morgana's presence doesn't complicate these situations as happened in-series, so I took the opportunity for some fluffier scenes before we get into the season 3 finale… Which will probably take a bit longer to write, so there will probably be a little delay before I post the next one…

Episode 3.10 "The Queen of Hearts"

"Perhaps a ride this morning, my lord?" Orryn suggested, smoothing wrinkles from a perfectly positioned coverlet.

Arthur snorted from his place at the window. He had one boot up on the sill, and leaned forward over his bent knee, turning his gaze vaguely back to the shifting clouds in the sky, rather than the more tangible world below. "You think I need to get out and clear my head?"
Respectful pause. "It doesn't matter what I think, sire. If you think it will help you…"

Again, Arthur missed Merlin. Orryn did not ride, or hunt. Of course, Merlin had still been less-than-completely-capable after three months as Arthur's servant at both activities, but while Orryn was more obedient and much quieter than Merlin had ever been, there was something amusing and distracting about Merlin's clumsiness and complaints. Something relaxing about winding Merlin up. And the outings had become about that, more than any claimed quarry.

Orryn was an attendant. Merlin had been a companion.

There was nothing specific on Arthur's mind, as he left the window – his room – the citadel. No threat any nearer than the northern border with Odin's territory. No disagreements with his father other than the one over Alice, nearly three weeks ago now. Nothing to break up his rather monotonous schedule except the anticipation of the tournament in another fortnight.

It wasn't meaningless, his life. And he did prefer peace to danger.

So what was it? he asked himself, setting the young bay stallion he'd chosen to a pace both of them found exhilarating, without leaving the relatively-assured safety of the territory nearest the heart of the kingdom. The distant threat of war with Odin? The question of Cenred and Morgause?

So much of his life seemed to be about waiting. Things he thought he wanted that turned out to be harder to handle than he expected. Magic, and Merlin. Love, and… He didn't see that any changes to those two areas of his life were possible, as long as his father was king.

And of course he wasn't in a hurry for that to change. Even though he felt himself moving, this year, toward a serious contemplation of his own reign, at the same time he thought he would never be ready to lose his father.

It was a good thing the king wasn't planning to enter the tournament this decade.

Although… he shifted his seat in the saddle and the bay stallion obediently slowed pace… as the physician's assistant, Guinevere would attend every match unless she was needed elsewhere.

He couldn't help thinking of his match with Olaf, foggy senses coming clear to the feel and taste and scent of her kiss on his lips, her body in his arms – a moment of glory before pain and realization of the trouble he'd gotten himself into crashed down on him. And yet another tournament, when he'd competed disguised – and slept in her house – and embarrassed himself with his thoughtlessness and arrogance – and kissed her again.

The realization came to him so clearly that he reined in, there in the middle of the path.

She forgave him his faults, and encouraged him to virtues. She made him feel strong and capable of victory – and yet she also recognized what true victory was. Skill and not acclaim; peace and not conquest. Her presence and caring had even made his injuries more bearable.

He loved her.

"Not thinking again, are you?" An amused voice startled him, and he had to pay momentary attention to the stallion who'd reacted to his reaction. Though of course he knew immediately who had addressed him. "Perhaps you ought to dismount for that, less chance of you hurting yourself."

The stallion settled; Arthur watched Merlin step down from the high bank on his right – and slip on a wash of pebbles, his long arms wind-milling for balance.

"I'm sure I'll be fine," he drawled. "Safer than you afoot, looks like." Merlin made a rude noise, sauntering beside Arthur's left stirrup as the bay stallion began to step down the road again. "What are you doing out this way this morning?" Arthur added.

"Gwaine is still up north," Merlin answered obliquely, with a glance up at him. "No news?" Arthur shook his head; the patrols had reported nothing noteworthy since frequency and unpredictability had been increased. The sorcerer shrugged. "Thought I'd start helping Gwen get Gaius' winter supplies laid in."

"Oh?" He tried to keep his tone disinterested, but Merlin's flashed grin was keenly perceptive.

"You mean to say you went riding on a whim and just happened to end up in the part of the forest where she'd be spending her day?"

Arthur followed the line of Merlin's arm and finger, lifted to point, and saw a female figure fifteen or twenty paces distant, crouched in a patch of greenery beside a basket, wearing the lavender dress that was his favorite.

"Yes, it was," he said stiffly, then considered whether Orryn might have known of Gwen's plans.

"Come on," Merlin proposed. "Nothing too pressing on your schedule, is there? Both of you deserve a day off, don't you think? Some time alone, some time together…"

"Merlin." Arthur warned him against suggestiveness with just the one word. The sorcerer tossed him another smirk, but one so full of boyish pleasure and shared joy he didn't have the heart to offer even a token reprimand.

Guinevere straightened, hearing their approach, and lifted her head to shade the sun from her eyes, the better to identify them; Arthur dismounted and drew his reins self-consciously through his gloves.

"Good morning," she said, beaming, and gestured with both hands to the two of them, side by side. "I have missed this sight."

"Guinevere," Arthur said, his heart doing an unexpected and uncontrolled flip in his chest. "You look…" And stuck on a word that would be good enough, without being inappropriate.

Merlin leaned forward, taking the reins from his hand. "I think he's trying to say you look nice," he teased them both. Arthur grimaced at him through clenched teeth, and his blue eyes widened innocently. "I'll look after your horse, then, shall I, sire? And Gwen –" he bent to snag her basket with his other hand – "it was goldenseal, elder, and yarrow, right?"

"Elder leaves," she hurried to clarify, beautifully flustered. "But you'd know that, wouldn't you…"

Their friend gave them a brilliant grin, turning to lead the bay stallion away.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Walk with me?" he invited. "There's a little stream down this way…"

She followed willingly, toying with a sprig of whatever she'd been plucking for Gaius already. Neither of them spoke immediately, but the silence with her was just as relaxing for Arthur as the bickering with Merlin was. However that worked.

"It feels different, doesn't it?" she ventured at last. "Being away from Camelot?"

"I love Camelot more than I can say," he said immediately, but felt his chest cave slightly with the sigh that followed involuntarily. "But when I'm there… I feel I can hardly breathe, everyone expects so much of me. Being here…" he dared greatly – "with you, I can be myself."

Her cheeks plumped slightly with her smile of pleasure, and he had to restrain himself from trying for a kiss with an effort. "I like that – you being yourself." Honesty, but with a bit of – flirtation?

The world smelled of sunlight and earth, pine and water. Their walk was leisurely; he took her hand and tucked it into his elbow, relishing the closeness with her. A bit of heaven, and he wanted… He drew her to a stop and closed his eyes to feel the shadows of the leaves tossing on his face, the backs of his eyelids.

"Sometimes I dream of leaving Camelot," he admitted.

He could feel her surprise in the tension of her hand in his elbow. "Really? Where would you go?"

"I don't know." Someplace without castles. "Somewhere where nobody knew who I was." Someplace where people lived in peace with their neighbors. "I'd get some land and become a farmer."

She tugged a bit on his arm, and he opened his eyes, following her to a fallen tree trailing its farthest leaves in the stream he'd mentioned. She seated herself daintily, spreading her lavender skirt carefully, but without the fuss a noblewoman might have put up. And when she spoke, it was with a gentle mix of humor and remonstrance that understood his feeling without approving it completely. Because of course, when all was said and done, he was the prince and it was an impossible dream.

"I can hardly see you toiling away in the fields all day."

He grinned as he put his boot up on the trunk next to her – keeping distance from her skirt – and let it turn into a joke. "Obviously I'd take Merlin with me; he can do all the hard work."

She laughed out loud and looked around for their chaperone – discreetly and industriously keeping his distance. Arthur didn't bother. "I'm sure he'd love that."

Their young friend probably would, Arthur thought. For a while at least. What was it Merlin had said to him – I wouldn't know what to do with easy, and neither would you. The stream gurgled and laughed and played, over stones and twigs; Guinevere heaved a sigh of contentment, her brown hands, strong and small, resting folded in her lap. Arthur shifted to put his boot down on the opposite side of the trunk, and seated himself astride it, facing her.

"Have you ever," he kept his tone neutral, "dreamed of life as a farmer's wife?"

She shot him a look – he wasn't so sneaky as he thought. That was a double question there, and she knew it as well as he did. "I haven't really… dreamed of being anyone's wife," she said carefully. Her eyes were dark pools, unfathomably deep. "No one has asked me, even to consider it. No one has given me a choice."

"It would not be an easy one," he warned, the thrum of his pulse increasing, a bit.

"The important ones never are," she told him. Her voice trembled slightly, but her eyes never wavered.

"I haven't said… anything," he told her, feeling sudden trepidation to be crossing this line. Because he was taking her with him, and neither could go back to a time when these things were unsaid. "I can't ask anything of you, and I can't offer… well, that's not quite true. I can offer you –" Brief hesitation, then brave plunge – "my heart. That's mine to give, no matter what, and I have the feeling it's belonged to you for some time, now. I'm not asking –"

She put her hand gently over his mouth, and he froze to keep from kissing her there, too. "Thank you for being honest with me," she said, a breathless catch in her voice. "I… feel the same. None of us can know what the future holds, but as long as we… keep being honest, about how we feel…"

A hint of a question. There could be no betrothal, no marriage for a prince without permission from the crown. Which would be exceedingly difficult if not impossible to gain, from Uther. Who might be king yet for decades. He would not ask her to wait, to lose her chance at a family as the years passed in frustrated expectation; he wanted her, but he hoped his love was big enough to let her go, if that was what her happiness required of him.

He took her hand in his, then, and kissed it, trembling in his grasp. Then he leaned forward and lay his cheek alongside hers, inhaling the scent of her hair. And after a moment, she relaxed enough to rest her head on his shoulder, and it was enough that they were together, as the moments passed in melancholy perfection.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen's basket was packed full, the knotty yellow root of goldenseal, elder-leaves from the patch of shrubs at the bottom of the meadow, the long feathery stems of yarrow now past its flowering stage. He'd also added some wild thyme and horsetail that Gaius could always find a use for.

Merlin had remained on the far edge of sight and hearing of his two friends, not intruding on their privacy. Protecting them from discovery, by friend or foe.

But. It had been nearly three hours, now, and surely people would begin to wonder about both of them. For the prince, someone might be sent out after him – and even if not, it wouldn't do to have them walk back into Camelot together.

Merlin glanced back up at the bay stallion trailing his reins across Merlin's shoulder in his crouch by the horse's front hooves. "I hate to do it," he told the horse. "But it doesn't look like either of them is going to say it." He sighed. "Time's up."

Rising to his feet, Arthur's mount stepping obediently behind him, he made his way slowly to the two seated on a low tree trunk near a gurgling brook. Each of them leaning into each other comfortably, companionably. He smiled, even as his heart gave a pang of something not unlike loneliness.

He wished his friends could court more openly toward an acceptable marriage. He wished Alice could have stayed with Gaius. He wished…

A yellow and black insect buzzed suddenly near enough his face to make him flinch; instinctively he used magic – and a puff of air – to sent the wasp on its way.

Right toward the snuggling pair. Oh, dear.

Arthur noticed it first, hovering just past Gwen's off shoulder. Merlin watched his prince stiffen; she reacted, pulling away a bit – then freezing as though he'd warned her to stillness. Intent on the tiny intruder, Arthur moved only his hand and arm, reaching for one of his gloves on the log next to him.

One well-aimed flap, and the wasp was dealt with. And Merlin could not help smiling at the way Arthur's very ordinary championship of the maid brought them very, very close – Gwen touched his cheek and leaned into the kiss.

Merlin turned to give the bay stallion the full benefit of his grin; it took no notice. He waited… and waited… and cleared his throat in an exaggerated way.

Behind him, Gwen giggled. Arthur said, "All right, Merlin."

And all was well with the world.

Episode 3.11 "The Sorcerer's Shadow"

Almost a day's journey from the citadel, but just inside the northern border, Gwaine dismounted to lead his horse awhile, privately lamenting the need to leave the road. Banished, and all that, and it was a right royal pain in the ass.

Although the tacit assignment had come with definite benefits, he had to admit. On Odin's side of the border he could travel freely, drink and gamble and… so on. Men were so much more talkative when they'd been drinking, but thought you'd been drinking more. While they were still winning the dice-throws.

But he'd reached the point where he didn't feel like he was doing anyone any good there, anymore.

Odin, he guessed, had been testing the span of the border for weaknesses, but the terrain wasn't good for an invasion-size force to take Camelot by surprise. Uther had answered the unrest by increasing the frequency of patrols, and Gwaine guessed it was Arthur who'd arranged the incomprehensibly random timing.

If he was Odin, he'd revert back to the dishonorable and at-least-once-thwarted tactic of hiring an assassin. And in Gwaine's experience, such a person was going to appear innocuous and innocent and would never be caught this far from the target. Camelot, the Pendragons, specifically Arthur.

So Gwaine was on his way to rejoin Arthur's secret protector.

Not so far from the road that he didn't hear voices, around noon when the sun overhead poured welcome warmth down through gaps in the colorful foliage overhead, and he was still a few hours from seeing the white towers.

"Your mother know you're out here?" Sneering superiority, the sort of tone that always made Gwaine itch to throw the first punch. "What's your name, boy?"

He stopped walking and turned to look his horse in one large liquid brown eye. And shook his head. Curiosity killed the cat, so it was said, but Gwaine figured he should have at least half as many lives as a cat. Dropping the reins where his mount would stand and wait unseen – unless something spooked the gelding – Gwaine began to circle to gain the road, also unseen.

"Give it back!"

A young voice, Gwaine noted, as he rounded the curve in the dirt track to bring the trio of strangers into his view. Two men he wouldn't hesitate to call bandits – approaching middle-aged, roughly dressed and well-armed, one fat and one bald - stood menacing a fresh-faced boy, on his backside in a meager clutter of belongings.

"I'm doing you a favor!" one of the men protested sarcastically. "One day you'll thank me!"

The boy was tense, white and scared, but demanded, "I said, give it back."

Gwaine prowled closer; they hadn't noticed him yet. He figured the second sword in Fatty's hand was the contested valuable. It was plain-looking, but such things could be deceiving, he knew very well.

"I thought you were a fighter?" Fatty jeered. "Well, here, I'll show you how to fight–" He took a sudden step, making an abortive slash in the air with the weapon in his hand, and the boy flinched back. Baldy snickered, and Gwaine had seen and heard enough.

"Good morning, boys," he said breezily. "How's pickings?"

The two men spun – startled but not afraid – and gave him a mocking appraisal. The boy behind them, being less experienced, showed his surprise at the interruption in wide eyes and open mouth.

"Who're you?" Fatty demanded. The more dominant – the more talkative – of the two.

"Now, I can't tell you my name," Gwaine said. "I'd have to kill you. See, I'm an outlaw – and I find I take exception to the pair of you robbing travelers on my road."

"Your road?" Fatty returned. "It ain't your road."

" 'Tis if I say 'tis," Gwaine returned impudently. "Give his sword back." Past the incredulity on their dirty scruffy faces – though his probably didn't look much better – he added to the boy, "They take anything else, mate?" The boy shook his head, and Gwaine shifted his gaze back to the fat thief. "Just the sword, then, and we can all be on our way."

"Thought you said you was an outlaw, and rob people on this road," Baldy objected. Gwaine pegged him for a significant lack of mental agility – though those muscles would need consideration in a physical altercation.

"So I did," he said. "But today's my day off." With his left hand he flipped his fingers in a condescending command for the sword to be returned to the boy. His right was already surreptitiously caressing the hilt of his own sword.

"You're going to make us, are you?" Fatty said, handing off the stolen blade to sweep aside the edges of his coat, revealing an array of weapons on his belt.

"He tried asking nicely, I tried threatening." Gwaine sighed. "We're really going to do this the hard way?" He moved forward, each step balanced, as if he would simply pluck the weapon from Baldy's hand.

Fatty unsheathed his blade, fast as a striking snake – and it met Gwaine's, inches from his throat.

A killing strike.

Gwaine stopped being friendly. "That was not nice," he said.

And flowed into a flurry of exchanged blows, fighting both at once – Baldy more hesitant, though direct and each attack came with all his strength behind it – Fatty more skilled and less principled but lacking subtlety and giving every move away in advance with his eyes.

Gwaine had drawn blood five times altogether, limiting the injuries to limbs – and was beginning to think he'd have to inflict more serious torso wounds before the pair would back off – when the perfect opportunity opened, and he took it.

A twist, a flick, and the blade of the stolen sword chimed softly as it soared across the road. That was Baldy disarmed – Gwaine spun and ducked and sliced deeply through the muscle on Fatty's right forearm. Not life-threatening, though possibly crippling; he didn't quite drop his weapon, but the fight was over and they both knew it. He wouldn't use that hand for weeks, and would need to seek professional attention to avoid losing it to rot or infection. Blood dripped through dirty fingers, breath hissed through clenched teeth, and Gwaine found he wasn't sorry at all.

"My mistake," Gwaine said, controlling his breathing through his nose. He combed sweat-dampened hair back with his fingers, and gave them a wolfish grin. "This isn't my road after all. Sorry for the misunderstanding – I'll just be on my way."

The boy was still standing there on the road, watching open-mouthed – though he'd had the presence of mind at least to snatch his belongings back into a leather pack, and strap the sword on his back again. Gwaine gave his head a suggestive jerk, and the boy retreated with him, off the road and into the underbrush, twenty paces or so to where Gwaine had left his horse.

"They won't follow," he mentioned, checking back once to every third glance the boy gave their back-trail. "Too busy licking their wounds."

"Are you really an outlaw?" the boy said uncertainly, as Gwaine reclaimed his reins and continued his journey through the forest.

"According to King Uther," Gwaine admitted freely. "But you have no reason to fear my company. On your way to Camelot, is it?"

"I'm going to fight in the tournament," the boy declared solemnly.

Gwaine looked him over and clicked his tongue as they began to walk. Just the sword, and not a bit of armor among the belongings that had been spilled around him on the ground. And if he couldn't stop himself being robbed by two men on the road…

"You sure about that?" he said. "It's a hard way to earn a living. I should know."

"It's honest, at least, prize money," the boy returned with a sideways look, and Gwaine laughed.

"I don't rob people on the road at the point of a sword, mate," he said. "Can't you tell a joke when you hear it? What's your name?"

"Gilli," the other said, a bit defensively.

"Tell me truth," Gwaine invited. "Did you run away from home?"

"My father –" Gilli began, then amended, "My parents are dead."

"And you thought you'd join them as soon as possible?" Gwaine asked lightly.

The boy grinned darkly without meeting Gwaine's glance. "Don't worry about me," he said. "There's more to me than meets the eye. I'll hold my own. I'll show them all."

Gwaine couldn't help a skeptical noise.

"You don't believe me?" Gilli stopped, and began digging in his pack. He unfolded a twist of cloth to reveal a gold ring, its flat top engraved with a symbol that made Gwaine think of Merlin's book of magic. "You're an outlaw, right? So you'd understand. This is why I'm going to win."

"You're going to fight with magic, huh?" Gwaine said. He continued walking, and after a moment the boy rejoined him, sliding the ring on his middle finger. "Normally I'd say good luck with that, but – I know someone who'd like a chance to talk you out of it." He glanced at the stubborn set of the boy's face, a hint of childish roundness remaining. "I think you owe me that much," he added mildly. "Tell yourself it's for dinner and a night's lodging, free of charge."

"The tournament starts tomorrow," the boy said mulishly. "If I'm not present, my place is forfeit."

"And your life?" Gwaine retorted. "What are you going to do if someone finds you out? I have to warn you, Prince Arthur is a lot sharper these days about spotting magic than he used to be."

"I'm not afraid of the Pendragons," Gilli insisted.

"Nor I, mate," Gwaine said easily. "But Arthur is an undeniably skilled swordsman – though I'd deny saying so to his face." Gilli gave him a suspicious look, and he grinned. "And, my friend – who I was telling you about before? – if he knew you were going to use magic against his prince… he'd stop you."

The boy scoffed. "What is he, some kind of sorcerer?"

"Yes, actually, and a pretty good one. See, I can be honest with you," Gwaine said. "Because for one thing, no one would believe you if you told them, and for another – well, let's say we have some very influential friends in Camelot."

"But you're an outlaw."

Gwaine hummed agreeably.

"And your friend, he's a sorcerer but he protects the Pendragons?" Such youthful scorn, Gwaine nearly grinned.

"Arthur's different from his father," Gwaine said. "Magic's going to return to Camelot someday, when the crown changes – well, heads, I suppose. But til then, I wouldn't recommend the use of it in public, or against Arthur."

"It's an open competition," the boy said stubbornly. "You're supposed to be able to use whatever skills you have. Without magic, I'm a nobody."

"I," Gwaine announced, "ran away from home when I was about your age. No shield, no armor, no tournament I was heading for, just sheer bloody stubbornness that I was going to make the world sit up and take notice. They were going to remember my name, no matter what it took. I was going to earn the respect of all men, with my sword."

Silence. The first fallen leaves crunched under their feet. Time passed in heartbeats and footsteps and eventually Gwaine's patience paid off.

"So what happened?"

"I got in fights. I got wounded, and robbed. I got drunk and tricked and tossed out on my backside. Nearly got myself killed. And one day as I sat alone in a tavern with empty pockets and an empty mug, I met two fellows." He grinned and shook his head, just to remember that day. "And, I ended up fighting for them instead of with them."

"And then?" the boy prompted, curious in spite of himself.

"I am still fighting for them," Gwaine said, and was glad neither was there to hear the pride audible even to himself in his voice. "I would die for them."

"Who are they?" Gilli said.

"Prince Arthur. And Merlin his sorcerer." The boy stopped dead in his tracks and Gwaine's mount bumped into his shoulder as he attempted to do the same. "It isn't the sword or the magic that'll win you respect of men that matter. Come on, same terms as before – and I'll show you what I mean."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gilli ended up staying with Merlin and Gwaine the rest of the week. Merlin had his reservations at first, but when the boy remained at the ruins instead of continuing to Camelot for the opening ceremony of the tournament, he relaxed and enjoyed the company of another magic-user his own age.

Gwaine gave Gilli the same pointers Merlin had watched him teach Elyan, and the two spent several hours every day at their swordcraft. Merlin showed Gilli the magic-book Gaius had given him, and taught him a fair few defensive spells. Confidence in his abilities, he thought, might soften Gilli's need to prove himself, and keep him out of trouble.

They told stories. They talked about their fathers. They talked about their dreams.

Elyan came to tell them of Arthur's victory in the tournament, and Gilli wore a pensive look as the three of them toasted their prince with jesting and with sincerity.

And when Gilli shouldered pack and sword in the early dawn glow, Merlin had two suggestions for him. "If you're still determined to make your own way, the city of Helva is a haven for those with magic," he said. "Or, here -" handing his new friend a small scroll – "there's a woman named Alice who's a healer. I've written directions where you can find her, as well as something of an introduction for you. I'm sure she'd welcome you as a student – or a guard." Merlin grinned. "Your preference."

"Thank you." Gilli took the scroll and tucked it away carefully.

"I know it doesn't seem like it now," Merlin added, "But one day magic will be permitted once again. And when that day arrives, you'll no longer have to hide who you are. Your gifts will be recognized. We… we will be free." He couldn't help a smile spreading, but Gilli answered it with a smaller one of his own, nodding. "And who knows, maybe then our paths will cross again."

"I hope so," Gilli said, sticking out his hand for Merlin to shake.

Merlin watched him walk out of sight – turning once to wave before he disappeared.

And sighed, wondering when he'd stop sending folks away from Camelot, and instead begin welcoming them back.