Hello, you charming bunch. Thanks for sticking with me. Sorry this has taken so long, and that it is so short. Term-time woes, as I'm sure many of you will understand. It does, however, reunite everyone's favourite king with his favourite sorceror.

A Good Man is Hard to Find

(9)

After Gwaine and Elyan had gone, Arthur stood shakily and crept over to the half-dressed unconscious guards that the knights had left on the dungeon floor. He frisked them quickly and hissed in triumph when he came up with a four-inch knife and, better, the key to his manacles. It was a relief to get the heavy metal off his chafed wrists. He wrapped the chain around a secure ring in the far wall and locked one wrist from each soldier into the cuffs.

As he straightened, his head spun horribly and he clutched the wall, closing his eyes and concentrating hard on calming his empty stomach. He cautiously raised a hand to his head as though by holding it, he could stop the contents from rolling around inside his skull. His skin was warm, and dry as stone, yet he was still shivering. He clung on to the wall and shuffled slowly along to the next cell, where Gaius lay still as the dead, with only his soft snoring giving away that he was still alive. The slice of sky was much brighter now, but the castle still seemed unsettlingly quiet.

Arthur lowered himself to the floor again gratefully, sitting in the doorway of the cell Gaius occupied, fixing his gaze on the door leading to the rest of the castle. He wasn't sure how much good he would be if it came to a fight, but if nothing else he would be a last line of defence for his oldest and most loyal subject. He tucked his injured hand inside his shirt, and with the other gripped the knife he had stolen from one of Morgana's guards. He listened intently, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the knife hilt to focus his attention. The pain in his back was sharp and fierce, keeping him alert, and dulling the competing aches of broken fingers, abused ribs and bloody wrists, and the pervading cold of the dungeon. His fingers' tapping fell into rhythm with his pulse and the throbbing of his wounds. There was no sound from outside; not even the low murmur of the guards' conversations, which were usually discernible in the moments when Gwaine stopped talking.

Footsteps outside shook Arthur out of his reverie and he tensed, rolling sideways onto his knees and clumsily pulling himself into an awkward crouch, knife raised, eyes fixed on the door. The steps were certainly coming closer. They paused briefly and a clatter echoed down the stone corridor as though something had been knocked over. Arthur waited, coiled like a spring. With an ominous creak, the door slid open.

Arthur's mouth fell open in astonishment.

"Merlin?" he hissed. "Seriously?"

"Hello, Arthur!" the servant replied cheerily. The smile faded quickly. "You look awful."

Arthur chose to ignore him. "Are you completely allergic to doing what I tell you?"

Merlin scuttled further into the room, noticing the sleeping Gaius and tenderly checking the old man's pulse. "No. Maybe," he replied vaguely. Satisfied that his mentor was alive if not precisely healthy, he turned back to the king, who had again sunk to his knees, the knuckles of his good hand pressed against the wall, a knife still closed in his fist.

"The others are coming. They'll be here before long. I'm... what you might call an advance party."

"A scout?" Arthur suggested, quirking an amused eyebrow.

"Something like that." Merlin faltered, uncharacteristically. "Actually, Arthur – I wanted to apologise."

Arthur snorted. "It's about time. What are you apologising for, exactly? The rust on my armour two weeks ago? The woodlouse in my dinner the week before? That time you called me a clotpole..."

"Shut up!" Merlin broke in, earnestly.

"You might as well apologise for that, too," said Arthur wryly.

"Sorry. But do shut up. I'm trying to apologise. For... leaving you. Twice. And letting you end up looking all... like that."

"There's no need. In fact, those may be the only two occasions you've ever done what I asked of you. What could you have done, anyway?" Arthur frowned, considering. "Looking like what, exactly?"

"Like..." Merlin looked the king up and down and lacked the energy to tease him. "Awful." At last, he approached hesitantly and seized one of Arthur's arms – the one that wasn't clutched against his chest – to study the grazes on his wrist.

"Get off me," Arthur protested, as Merlin startled at the temperature of his skin and reached for his forehead.

"You're feverish," said Merlin accusingly.

Arthur spluttered a bit, floundering for a response. He discarded 'go away' and 'you're useless' and settled on the patently untrue "I'm fine."

Merlin scowled. "What does Gaius say?"

"That the wounds are superficial. Will you let go of my arm?"

Doubtfully, Merlin released him, glancing again at Gaius and wondering if illness had made the old man delirious.

"Gwaine and Elyan have gone to the gatehouse," Arthur said, keen to change the subject. "They should be there by now."

"Leon and the others should be there soon, too, if they aren't already. They know this castle much better than Morgana's men do."

Arthur looked up at him suddenly with wide eyes. "Morgana!" he cried.

"No, I'm Merlin, remember..." said the servant patiently.

"Idiot. No, I mean – Morgana has magic. You saw her in the courtyard yesterday – Leon won't have a chance against something like that," Arthur explained.

Merlin tensed, wondering where this discussion was going. "That's... true," he agreed haltingly.

"We have to distract her – keep her occupied..." Arthur began.

"What?" Merlin squawked. "Have you lost your mind? What are we going to do?" He decided he would not like the answer to this question and amended it. "Are you aware that you can barely stand up at the moment?"

Arthur scowled at him. "You'll help me."

"No! She'll kill you. And then she'll kill me, and wear my ribcage as a tiara."

"She hasn't killed me yet," Arthur said softly, as though this were indisputable evidence of something which eluded Merlin.

"Again, you seem to be unaware of your own sorry condition. Sorry to be the one to tell you, but I don't think she likes you."

Arthur smiled sadly. "Come on Merlin. You don't expect me to sit here listening to Gaius snore while my friends are in battle."

"I'm quite tempted to knock you out and put you in bed next to him."

"That would be high treason," Arthur said mildly, pulling himself slowly to his feet.

Merlin groaned. "You can't pull rank on me now," he complained.

"Yes I can," Arthur croaked, hooking one arm over Merlin's shoulder. "I'm the king."