2.13 Where They Came to the Border

Gwen and her hastily-assembled, individually-chosen team took the early train to the coast in civilian dress – jeans with holes worn at the knee, faded t-shirts, battered running shoes. She herself wore a pair of khaki walking shorts and sandals that strapped securely enough that she could sprint a mile in them. They blended well enough that none of the other passengers in their rail-carriage were paying them more than casual attention, and none sat close enough to overhear.

"What do we expect at Britesea?" Cartwright asked, slouching on the bench next to her so far he nearly kicked Leon's boot.

Since they'd departed Fort Fuller, Gaius would relay any report from Pendragon straight on to the naval unit stationed at Britesea, so at the moment, Gwen was as much in the dark about any concrete plans for the immediate future as they were. And she wasn't willing to give out any information about Merlin's status and choices to anyone who didn't already know.

"I'll tell you when we get to Britesea," she retorted lightly.

Fletcher, who'd sat forward to catch her response to Cartwright's question across the middle aisle, rolled his eyes to McKenzie, settling back into the corner by the window. "Need to know."

McKenzie snorted sardonically, but without disrespect. "Ain't it always?

Silence eased into the swaying of the carriage and the clicking of the rails and the low conversation of other passengers. Across from her, Percival had his head turned to watch the passing countryside – treetops and distant roof-clusters.

"What did his sister say?" he asked mildly, as if continuing an innocuous conversation with Leon. Gwen listened in, but Cartwright was paying more attention to Fletcher trying to flirt with McKenzie.

"You know his sister," Leon responded in the same tone, and Gwen was ninety-nine percent sure she knew the brother they were referring to. "She was suspicious when I came back without either of them. And then we just left…"

Percival grunted. "Did she tell their father? Do you think she would?"

"I doubt it," Leon answered, crossing his arms over his chest. He glanced over at Gwen, acknowledging her listening in without a hint of self-consciousness. "They don't get along. If she knew anything she might tattle, but…"

Cartwright cracked his knuckles unconcernedly, studying the other people in their carriage, twisting sideways into the aisle to watch in the other direction for a few moments.

"She was there when it happened?" Gwen dared to ask Arthur's friends. Merlin bolted; Pendragon in pursuit…

"At his family's place for the weekend," Leon told her quietly.

She winced. No one had been there, that she'd ever heard boast of it. Leon and Percival, not surprising, though they didn't ever broadcast the fact of the event. But for Merlin to have been invited there – and then bolt.

Except – maybe she understood a little better, then, what had prompted that reaction from the psychic. There was a look in the depths of his eyes when she and Jennifer and Becca were lunching in the cafeteria and he walked near them with his full tray, alerting to her called invitation to join them - longing and hesitation warring across the field of his expression. He was afraid of what he wanted – now she knew why – but he was guilty over what he'd been given.

She felt that, too, when it came to Arthur Pendragon and relationships. Going to have to make that up, somehow; couldn't just push him back and ignore both closeness and push.

"I've never met his sister," she said conversationally.

Percival huffed without taking his eyes off the landscape passing outside the window.

Leon gave him a rueful glance, and said to Gwen, carefully neutral, "I wouldn't push to the front of that queue, if I were you."

And for Leon to say that… It's like that, is it?

Gwen settled back on her own bench, letting her knee jiggle impatience to reach their destination – and not even caring that the others might notice and speculate.

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

Merlin couldn't get comfortable. And it wasn't riding on the floor of the stolen delivery truck's cargo area - Hunith was sitting on the rucksack containing clothing rather than food – or the lack of windows to see out. Or even the wonderful awkwardness of reuniting with his mother after so long, in a time and place that didn't encourage relaxation and conversation.

"They know," he mumbled to himself. He avoided connecting to The Man psychically, he always had, in spite of the obvious advantage. "They know, they know… they're coming…"

"Merlin?" his mother said, leaning forward over her knees, away from the wall, looking concerned.

How long since they got in the truck? How long would it take them by vehicle, over paved roads, rather than hiking on foot as he'd done it, entering Essetir? Why hadn't he paid more attention to Arthur's description of where he left the small craft he'd rented to follow Merlin north?

And suddenly, jittering in place cross-legged on the rubber floor-tread between two sets of storage-shelves wasn't enough. He clawed his way to his feet, distracting himself with trying to pace while they were still driving at what Arthur considered optimal speed for effective escape. Bruises on his elbows, fingertips skating over metal shelves and cardboard boxes and plastic drink-crates.

"Merlin?" she said again.

"They know you're gone," he told her. Not really news, since that would have been immediately obvious to everyone. But it would have taken the guards a minute to establish her identity, to check who the contact person was that they were meant to alert – and then to make that contact. "Do you remember the Man who came to us? He oversaw my training, he was the one who pushed this mission, he'll have been the one responsible for placing you in that building. He knows you're gone, he's guessed I'm involved, he knows what that means… And he's coming after us."

Just like when they'd pushed the skid-cart motors, climbing the mountains out of Ealdor, and the sniper had taken his shot. If they couldn't recapture Merlin, they'd want him dead rather than in Camelot's hands. But the team the Man put together today would not be the same at all as the troop of soldiers sent to sift wreckage of a downed enemy night-flyer.

"They're still behind us," he said softly. "We're still ahead, but…"

They were splitting up. Or they'd connected to other soldiers elsewhere to join the chase, try to flank them, maybe to drive them off course, slow and distract them…

He realized that this felt completely different than Arthur on his trail, in spite of the rage and betrayal. But what could he do? Bang on the wall separating cab from cargo and take the time to stop, to explain a psychic sense of urgency that they go faster? Or ask to sit up front so he could see them coming, when he could already see them coming?

Arthur knew that; he was experienced and good at what he did, Merlin gathered. He wouldn't tolerate Merlin jittering in the seat and mumbling, They're coming, they're coming…

"Merlin," his mother tried again.

Even as he turned to acknowledge, to give attention, to listen to what she had to say – though likely it was something he knew already – the truck shuddered and momentum jerked Merlin forward.

He braced himself between the shelves lining the walls as the delivery truck decelerated vehemently; Hunith put out her hands to hold herself in place also, eyes wide.

A roadblock? Another problem? Merlin checked, briefly and almost involuntarily – watchfulness from the two scouts of Camelot, action and intent – but no alarm.

He spun and took two steps to the back door, yanking it up to roll in its segments along the ceiling of the cargo area. Stepping down to the back bumper, he leaned around the side of the truck, colorfully advertising the shipping company, blue crest-logo undiminished by weather and dust.

The driver's door opened and Arthur hopped down the step without closing it again, leaving the engine running.

"What's going on?" Merlin asked him.

"Last stop," Arthur said. "Everybody out." His movement said, Hurry up before we're caught and killed. His tone said, This is fun.

Merlin leaned back to the open back door of the cargo area. "Mum – bring our things? We're getting out of here."

"What?" she said, but pushed to her feet and carried his pack and her shoulder-bag to the door.

Merlin jumped down, boots to pavement, and watched Arthur crouch and roll to his back underneath the truck, catching the sensation of his flick-knife opened and used on the undercarriage of the vehicle with calculated brutality.

"What are you-" he said, then momentarily diverted to take the rucksacks from his mother, and give her a hand down before closing the cargo door again. Shouldering his ruck and carrying his mother's bag by its strap, he moved along the side of the truck to get closer to whatever Arthur was doing.

It smelled like fuel, and the scout was already maneuvering back out when Alice arrived, pack in place and looking permanent, with straps over both shoulders.

"How long will that give you?" Alice asked Arthur.

Merlin dithered for a moment over whether he ought to extend a hand offering to help Arthur to his feet; Arthur didn't even look up, getting his feet under him and pushing straight.

"Half of an hour, maybe less," he answered. "Small enough leak they shouldn't notice – or maybe attribute it to me ramming through that fence. Either way, it should look authentic."

"Why are we sabotaging our getaway?" Merlin asked mildly, to conceal the anxiety fluttering just under his breastbone.

"Don't worry about it," Arthur told him, pocketing the closed knife in a casual and practiced way. "Just follow Alice and do what she says." Turning on his heel, he strode back toward the open driver's door of the cab.

"We're on foot, down to the coast and the boat," Alice said. "He's laying a false trail for our pursuit, then he'll meet us."

Even as she spoke, he caught the intention of the plan from both of them and dropped his mother's shoulder-bag, instinctively moving to follow Arthur. Drive the truck further toward Bollport, make it look like we abandoned it because it broke down, they'll keep searching west along the Humber…

"Wait," he called to the scout, who didn't so much as pause, mounting to the cab. They'll catch up to you, you'll be slower, you'll have more ground to cover on foot, are you sure you can find your way back – "What if something happens?"

Arthur gave him a dirty look and reached to slam the door, insulted.

Merlin stepped up without thinking, blocking the door with his body. His hand was inches away from the dent-and-scrape in the frame he knew had been made by a bullet aimed for Arthur. "If something happens to you and this thing is still between us, I want to say-"

"I get it," Arthur said brusquely, impatient and uncomfortable. "You didn't want to, you had good reasons, you wish it had gone differently. I get it."

"Yes, but-"

Arthur exhaled swiftly through his nostrils. "Bloody hells, Merlin, if they capture and kill me, don't hang on to this, all right? Otherwise – this isn't the time."

"But I want to say-" Merlin persisted stubbornly.

"It's fine," Arthur said shortly, pulling the door against Merlin's body as a not-so-subtle hint.

It wasn't. It was so far from fine and Arthur knew it too, he was burying the emotion to deal with the situation, and later he'd deny it. And it wouldn't be fine, but they didn't have the time. Merlin knew it, and regretted it keenly.

"No, it isn't," he said unhappily. "I wanted-" He shook his head – no time, and no words – and leaned closer, in the empty space of the open cab door, Arthur's arm where he held the handle tight against Merlin's lowest rib and a flash of astonishment in his eyes. "I wanted…"

This. Partnership. Trust, and to help you. To be your asset, to be your friend. In spite of circumstances and borders and threats and secrets. I wanted this.

"Yeah," Arthur said, as if he truly got it, everything Merlin hadn't said. "But life doesn't give us what we want, huh?"

Ain't it the truth.

"Be careful," Merlin said, bending one knee to find pavement with his other boot, behind and below him, and his ruck sack bounced against his shoulder. "Because I'll know if you're not, and if you've told Alice to go on without you if you don't show, I won't do it, I'll come back for you."

The astonishment tightened for a moment, then lifted into humor. "Idiot."

"Yeah, probably," Merlin agreed, letting go.

Arthur slammed the door, gave him a grin through the window nearly manic with energy and excitement, then shifted the truck into drive and pulled forward, leaving them behind.

"Let's go," Alice called, waiting with Hunith, who had her bag over one shoulder. "We've got ground to cover – careful on the verge, and entering the woods here; we don't want anyone noticing our passage instead of following Arthur."

Yeah. Merlin strode back to them, focusing now on getting them as far and as fast toward the boat as possible. He could lead them right to it, and he'd know the moment their pursuit diverted – if it did.

And he could keep track of Arthur's progress til the scout joined them again.

"He's not anticipating any contact," Alice reassured them, stepping carefully on grass and choosing a place where weeds and undergrowth would admit them to forest cover without leaving much of a trace. "The handgun is for just in case. He'll ditch the truck further on, and circle around to meet us."

Hunith made a noise of interest and understanding, and Merlin paused to watch the truck disappear around a curve in the paved track before stepping back into the trees.

Half of an hour til the Essetirians reached this point, and either stopped to pursue them into the woods, or passed them oblivious. The soldiers – and the Man who led them.

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

Probably should have asked the psychic how far away any pursuit was, Arthur mused, abandoning the stolen delivery truck – gas tank empty, sputtering and rolling to a stop on the fumes – and taking to the woods on foot. How many men and vehicles and what type – a turf-bike could potentially take to the woods after him, after them, and gain ground. Though, if he knew turf-bikes were coming, he could plan for that and leave some nasty traps.

He was thankful for the cloud cover, at just past mid-morning. Hiking the eastern Essetirian woods in the daytime was different from doing it with the circle of the horizon blocking the sun's heat.

It was close under the trees, and he kept his direction by instinct more than by compass, head up to scan the visible distance for the best route unimpeded by underbrush, unexpected drops, unnecessary rises – ears ever alert for the first warnings of pursuit from the road gradually left behind.

A steady jog, shoulder-straps snugging his ruck to his back, keeping his boots from soft or muddy ground – kick over no leaves or stones, don't turn an ankle – swipe away a trickle of sweat. Pause on an unavoidable rise to pant, blood thundering steady through temples and pulse points – no sound other than comfortably-appropriate woods-echoes.

Wind in the leaves, birds in the upper boughs, red squirrels skittering up and down the bark…

Inhale, and check for the elusive tang of salt indicating the coast is close.

The ruck rubbed the healing wound still bandaged beneath the back of his belt. Blood pulsed against the scab behind his ear – sweat trickled under his shirt and dampened his scalp. Muscles stretched and smoldered and he had no problem ignoring higher thought processes to focus on the immediate, ever-shifting terrain beneath his boot-soles.

Time passed, steadily and inexorably and he finally, inevitably neared the coast and the air began to hint at moisture. He found himself side-tracking to avoid more streams, more low-lying places of sodden ground, morasses that slowed him down and threatened to hold footprints. Worry was overrated, though – even if they were tracking him on foot right now, he had enough of a lead to get to the boat and leave pursuit behind on the shore.

Push north past that last stretch of trees, and then the sea would be in view and maybe he could even halloo for his companions…

Arthur trotted through the trees, dodging the branches of a few fallen in storms, cresting the ridge to see rippled, wrinkled blue invading the horizon… and uninterrupted coast.

Wasn't it here where he'd left the Wrapter? According to internal compass, it should be… here. Give or take… fifty yards… or more?

Or – a thought struck him sudden as a rock at the toe of his boot, tripping him up and almost bringing him down. What if they'd taken the Wrapter? What if the psychic considered this his chance, and persuaded Alice of his right to escape – or maybe didn't give her a choice at all?

What if he was stuck on the coast alone, and the boat was already gone?

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

Merlin found his path angled further north than the course taken by Alice – and his mother picked her way behind the older woman, leaving him a stone's toss to their flank. And sure, he wasn't being very attentive to rocks and roots underfoot or thorny shrubbery growing in his way, whether his descent was steep or his climb precarious, but it unsettled him to be apart from his two companions – and made him uncomfortable to consider drifting closer, considering the obvious subject of their sporadic conversation.

"…When he was ill. There was no one to leave him with, you know, if I took time off work it was less pay, just when we needed more money for medicines…"

Who was in the lead, him or Alice? He knew exactly where Arthur had left the boat, after all, even if he was reacting to the distant presence and movement of The Man in pursuit. Maybe Alice was tracking Merlin's trajectory like a troop captain let another take point on a mission – maybe he was being allowed to lead, while she still considered herself the leader…

Who was responsible? That, he couldn't tell – Alice was giving no indications of her impressions on the matter, and all of them were pausing to rest according to Hunith's needs.

Maybe she was reacting to his own confusion on the matter. And maybe she was leaving it ambiguous to keep him unsettled – or to prompt him to decisiveness, in spite of what Arthur said about follow Alice.

Were they taking too long? The Man had traveled as far south as they had, not yet turning east toward the coast, and the sense of nonspecific unease crawled over the skin beneath the back of his hair.

Over the last hill, and it was a steep one, the sleek cream shape of the boat bobbing and bumping very near the shoreline below, the trees marching right down to the edge of the water that lapped at half-submerged rocks. He paused and looked over to see that the two women had spotted the craft also.

"There it is! Oh, we've found it!"

Overwhelming relief. Fatigue granted recognition and stamina surrendered – they slipped downward to the shore and for the first time that day he felt the simmer of unusual exertion in his muscles.

"I wasn't sure we'd make it before him," Alice remarked to Merlin. Her knees cracked as she lowered herself next to Hunith, draped over a fallen tree, closed eyes shadowed in a face that looked too pale to Merlin.

He didn't answer. She knew he could have told exactly where Arthur was – and that he'd meant to leave the scout psychically alone, to take no more advantages.

Making his way around them, he stumbled down to the rocks lining the shore. The boat tugged against a tether of braided yellow nylon, tied to a flotation device tucked behind the crook of a tree trunk and its diverging branch. He could see without trying to how the scout had maneuvered the craft alone and disembarked to leave it secured behind him.

Faith in his return and getaway unaffected by Merlin's betrayal – or was it only good training?

"I think we should try to get aboard before he gets here," Merlin said aloud, tilting his head so his voice would carry to them. "Save a little time? Mother?"

Something made him turn to make sure they were all right, and Alice made a conciliatory gesture to him before reaching to help Hunith upright again.

"She's fine. She'll be fine."

Merlin watched a moment longer, wincing as his mother winced over her steps – We're here, we're done, you can rest, you're safe… Then took hold of the nylon rope, pulling the boat as close as it would come, ignoring the way the hull scraped submerged rock, since they couldn't actually puncture a hole in it without a lot more weight and momentum behind the contact.

"Get aboard," he told Hunith, "I'll give you a boost. Looks like you could lay down on one of those bench seats, maybe? Just like a sofa."

Cold, hard, maybe damp sofa…

She didn't answer or look at him, taking his hand for momentary balance before reaching to the rail that topped the side of the boat.

He wasn't little anymore. Taller than her, and strong. Of course that would happen with time, and often enough she'd tried to picture the changes the years would make, but… it was her little boy she missed. On her lap to read a storybook, in her arms, sound asleep as she smoothed his hair and tucked an errant foot back under covers in the yellow glow of the nightlight… And that little boy was gone. Gone like he was dead, never coming back and the reality of the tall young man shattered those daydreams… And the tall young man was a stranger. It would take time to get to know him, time and effort and awkwardness and-

Individual-all grown up-separated-lost.

Merlin thought he hid his flinch in the effort of lifting her with the saddle of his linked hands under her knee.

But Alice surely noticed. "Merlin-"

"Now you," he said, repositioning himself and not meeting her eyes. "Then I'll toss the packs on board. And then – maybe I'll walk a little ways to meet Arthur."

"If you think that would be-"

Her foot slipped and she splashed two steps, thumping against the hull. Hunith exclaimed, reaching down to steady her, but Merlin felt it too, that firework-missile-arrowlike emotion lobbed high from a distance to be pulled down to them by gravity. Doubt that carried enough of Arthur's heart with it to hurt.

The scout was close, but not close enough to have found them yet, and the part of him where trust was damaged thought maybe…

"Oy!" Merlin bellowed, folding his body with the intensity of the call to reach him, hands curled around his mouth to project the sound. "Over here!"

Nothing. Merlin took one step back up the hill and Arthur surged into view above them at the crest, chin down and descending to them on a fast-paced downhill jog. Not being followed – Merlin checked – still focused on ground-water-boat, rather than any one of the three of them.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked breathlessly, slinging his pack off his shoulders as he came. And right over Merlin's belated sarcasm,

"You, of course…"

Arthur continued, "Get in – let's go."

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

Elyan met them at the station in uniform – short-sleeved blue over midnight trousers, unit patch on the right, flat-topped white cap - flanked by two junior officers. She didn't recognize them and didn't bother looking for their name-tags. Parade rest. No PDA in uniform.

She gave him a nod and an almost-smile in place of a more demonstrative hug, and his eyes gleamed as he pivoted to join her in leaving the station rather than wait for her to stop. He didn't introduce his men, or ask her for the names of hers; Leon on her other side and Percival on Elyan's, and the other three behind with the junior naval officers.

"An official visit?" Elyan said lightly – he looked good, happy and healthy.

"How goes the navy?" she returned in the same way, aware of the attention the uniforms were drawing from the crowds they passed through. Britsea rail-station was mostly open-air, barring a series of waiting-shelters along both sides of the line; on a sunny day it didn't matter – which it wasn't, really, but at least it didn't look like serious rain anytime soon.

"Swimmingly," he said, showing his teeth in a grin. Percival snorted and Elyan observed, "You've got a scattershot group here, Sis – Records? Logistics? Boots on the ground?"

They passed between the first two shelters and the paths began to clear as they headed toward the big tan troop transport idling on the side of the road.

"How much do you know?" she asked, finding herself impressed with his summary of their group – unless the Director had given the information.

"The Old Man called my commander at home last night," Elyan said in a low voice. "At home, Gwen. Called in a marker. This one doesn't go on the books til he says it does, which means…"

She debated how much to say, and how to say it, but one of Elyan's junior officers trotted forward to begin untying and shifting canvas so they could load up in the back of the truck.

"Psych Ops," she said, giving him an apologetic smile. "If I can tell you more later, I will."

He gave her a look that reminded her of their shared childhood, when she'd eaten the last of his favorite breakfast cereal, or hidden some vital piece of sports equipment til he agreed to let her play with his friends, too.

"The Old Man said, a boat and crew. Ready for passengers – and hostilities." He leaned closer, blocking Fletcher from giving Gwen a narrow look as he took his turn clambering into the troop transport. "We're not crossing into Essetirian waters, are we?"

"Not if we don't have to," she said brightly, moving around him to brace her sandal on the mount and heave herself up. It smelled like dust and sweat inside, just like their vehicles did.

Elyan tied down the canvas and went to join the driver in the cab, and Gwen perched on the edge of the bench next to Leon.

Not Essetirian waters, no. Not if they could be caught or recorded doing it. But she'd cross the hell out of the neutral zone for Arthur…

And what did that say about her decision to remain coolly associates-only with him?

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

It was hard for Arthur to hear anything but the wind in his ears, anymore. Rushing, rushing, plucking his hair and the edges of his clothes as he braced himself at the helm of the Wrapter.

Didn't matter. He didn't care to overhear anything that might be said amongst the passengers behind him. And if they glimpsed any pursuit by water, Arthur was sure they'd let him know.

It was hard to hear, and with his vision straining against the low gray horizon and the charcoal coast on the right, movement was brief in his peripheral; he flinched when Merlin appeared beside him, steadying himself by leaning backwards against the side of the control panel. Flinch covered by the motion of the boat, cutting through choppy waves – short slide, abrupt jerk, uneven slap of divided breakers along the hull.

He glanced over, but Merlin's attention was fixed to the rear, and the wind blew black hair to obscure most of the psychic's expression.

Happy now? We got your mother for you, like you wanted…

Arthur wasn't stupid. There was nothing simple about their situation, or human emotion. Rarely is something expected, something desired, an exact match for the idealization of imagination. Merlin wasn't going to cuddle up in his mother's lap and grin contentedly.

Then again… Arthur glanced back at the set of Merlin's jaw, the angle of his head, the tension in his frame, stiffly balanced.

"What is it?" he said aloud, pitching his voice to give the psychic no excuse for pretending not to hear – yet remaining private from the still-seated women.

He didn't respond.

So Arthur goaded. "Is Hunith telling embarrassing stories of your childhood? Used to hide under your bed from the monsters?"

Quick flash of inscrutable blue between salt-sprayed points of hair blowing over his face. Then again, Merlin's childhood monsters had been real, and hiding hadn't done him any good… Arthur grimaced to himself, shifting his weight. Boats like this weren't meant to be piloted standing, for so long.

"Want me to take a turn at the wheel?" Merlin leaned to enunciate against the high-volume air-flow between them.

Arthur scoffed – but the psychic was serious… Which made him reconsider. "You think we're going too fast?" he asked. "Ladies getting seasick back there? Or you think we're going too slow?"

Just like driving the truck. Top speed wasn't safe, or sustainable, so you had to balance urgency with good sense and come up with an expedient solution…

Merlin didn't answer, or look at him.

"You think we're too far out from shore?" Arthur said, even more joking aside. Because psychic, after all; Merlin had the most invested in the success of this venture, except for Hunith, maybe. "We can be spotted more easily from shore – but seen isn't stopped, Merlin, and if we followed the coast more closely, we'd lose time with anything less than a perfectly straight line." Or gradual arc, which was what he was going for, past the Humber and around Nightshead.

"We're being followed," Merlin told him evenly, betraying no emotion.

"Of course we are," Arthur returned – but couldn't help a glance over his shoulder. Too bad the Wrapter didn't have mirrors like the truck, but he could hold his course steady even as he twisted around and looked away.

Nothing in sight… The women were wedged in corners of opposite benches, silently lost in their own thoughts and paying the two of them little attention, hair wildly windblown and ignored. He looked at Merlin again, clinging white-knuckled to the side of the instrument panel, elbow tucked to his side, pinching his lip.

"How far are they?" he said aloud.

Merlin relaxed fractionally, angling slightly toward Arthur, and wasn't that an odd reaction?

"Less than half an hour behind us," he said, focusing on Arthur's face. "He went south from Drysell, right to Bollport, and they've got an Interceptor."

Ice slid melting down his spine, leaving an involuntary shiver in its wake.

"Down the Humber," Arthur said, though it wasn't really a question.

"Yeah."

Bloody hells. An Interceptor was quite a bit faster than this Wrapter, equipped with long-range and grande-calibre weapons, and they were down now to… an eighth of a tank of fuel. And of course the last half, and especially the last quarter of a tank, seemed to burn faster than the top half or quarter…

"We won't make Sutton Bay," he said aloud, not bothering to raise his voice for Merlin's ease of hearing. "Britesea might be a push… and they'll definitely follow us into neutral waters."

"Definitely," Merlin echoed, as though he didn't care if Arthur heard him, either.

They wouldn't know… whether Merlin's defection might have been genuine. From Essetir's perspective, Merlin's return to rescue his mother – a successful rescue of his mother – might indicate that he'd been working with Camelot all along. Obviously they'd doubted his loyalty – which would mean that they might doubt anything and everything he'd ever told his contact.

That would be brilliant, actually. Just about total damage control… Gaius was the only person of significant rank in Camelot who knew the truth – as far as anyone else was concerned, this might have been a mission planned and sanctioned, if only by Arthur's presence and cooperation. If they'd gone off the books together. If Merlin had trusted him with the truth, they could have-

Something shifted, something changed. The timbre of the engine's growl, not quite full-throated. Merlin didn't notice, clinging tightly and staring at spray-dampened carpet between his boots.

The fuel-gauge needle touched E.

Arthur lifted his head, searching the coastline – no indications yet of Britesea. Maybe the first of the most remote estates beyond the no man's land of the border.

"Damn," he said with fatalistic calm. "We're not going to make it."

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

Gwen braced herself on the deck of the Protector-class patrol vessel, bobbing at two hundred paces offshore, engine idling under the expert hand of one of Elyan's junior officers.

"My turn," Percival said to Leon, who was slow to turn over the set of binocs they were sharing.

She felt a bit out of place in civilians on this deck, though if the others shared that feeling, she couldn't tell it. Fletcher had brought a pocketful of gravel and he and Cartwright were amusing themselves testing how far they each could throw a pebble back toward shore, amiably bickering over unprovable results. McKenzie was discussing some aspect of the instrument panel with the second junior officer, and Elyan-

Stepped up to Gwen's other side, scanning the water's horizon as someone used to it.

"No sign of your scout?" he said to Gwen, referencing the bare-bones story she'd ended up telling when they embarked.

"Not yet," Percival answered. Leon crossed his arms over his chest and squeezed, and that didn't reassure Gwen at all.

What had Arthur said? Anything more specific than what she'd already assumed from their partly-coded-on-the-fly conversation yesterday? Should be leaving tomorrow… shouldn't take long… be ready for company.

Honestly, all she was certain of was that they hadn't passed Britesea yet. Tomorrow could mean this evening just as easily as first thing this morning, after all.

"We've a border treaty with Essetir," Elyan mentioned mildly.

Duh. "Don't tell," Gwen returned sardonically, "but we've broken it more than once already. Recon, and rescue."

"So've we." Elyan grinned, and it made him look younger – pity he didn't do it more often. "Which one was this, for you?"

"Rescue," she said, aware of Leon and Percival listening at her other side, as she was aware that Percival would sight them first. Keenly attuned, beyond the vagaries of the whipping wind – chilly, shouldn't've worn walking shorts – and the rhythmic rise and fall of the craft on the waves.

"It went bad? We're exfil?" Elyan asked.

"We don't know that it went bad," Gwen said, determinedly. "It might have gone fabulously." It might not have gone anything at all, yet; no reason to think of him captured-injured-en route to a prison cell like Nimueh's - that wouldn't be admitted to, either.

"Uh-huh," Elyan responded. "Then it's a rescue of an extremely important, extremely significant individual? If we're standing by to cover retreat?"

She huffed, wryly amused at the evidence of his insight. Intuition must run in the family. "You could say that," she allowed.

"One of ours?" Elyan pursued, lowering his voice. "One of yours, that got caught? That they've held?"

One of ours. For a moment Gwen struggled to breathe through the fickle winds. Merlin had been one of theirs, she'd have sworn to it, days ago. That cheerful smile through evident exhaustion, in the battalion corridor, after he'd been helping with post-operation intel and debrief.

That got caught… No, they never would have. Whatever happened between Merlin bolted and Pendragon pursued – Gwen believed that if it hadn't been Merlin informed Arthur, under whatever circumstances had transpired at the Pendragon family estate, they wouldn't have known. Merlin rarely lied, Gaius had declared, and she believed it. Just, didn't tell them everything.

That they've held. Him, or his mother. And his loyalty to her said something about him too, didn't it? Even if Gwen wished he'd have said something right away, she could see what a chance that would have been, from Merlin's perspective. Maybe he couldn't risk his mother on a poor reaction from Camelot.

"Should be at least three of them," Gwen said, finding firmer ground in professionalism. "Two young men, one older woman that we know of."

"Armed?" Elyan said, matching her tone. "Healthy, good swimmers?"

"Arthur is," Percival said from beside her. "Both, I mean."

She felt a little better about his chances, if he was armed. "Probably not the others," she said. Maybe the long-cover scout had a weapon, and was a good swimmer, but Merlin would not have had opportunity to swim much, she expected.

"I think I see something," Percival said abruptly.

"Is it them?" Gwen demanded.

He passed her the binocs as if she'd ordered it, pointing even as she fitted them to her eyes. "Don't know," he answered, his voice disembodied as she focused over the stretch of moving water. "Small craft, single person visible – not headed this way. Dead in the water, maybe?"

"Maybe there was no chance to refuel," Leon said quietly from further away.

Choppy, agitated horizon. She squinted, fingered the focus-wheel – then saw it. Like the flake of a dead leaf or bit of bark on the water – cream between the gray of sea and sky. Broadside to them, and she could only make out one person, too. Maybe the others were sheltering lower in the hull? Seated on the floor, lying on bench seats?

No appreciable progress in any direction. No obvious attempts to signal for aid, though…

"We should go out there," she said without thinking.

It could be a totally unrelated civilian motorist. It could be a deep-sea fisherman – maybe today was a perfect day for that sort of thing, she didn't know.

No one said anything; she dropped the binocs to look at her brother. Who was in charge of their vessel at least, which at the moment had a major impact on their mission.

She rephrased, "Can we go out there?"

Elyan set his jaw the same way their father used to, ready to stand firm against arguments for more candy or a later bedtime or delayed homework or chores.

"We shouldn't," he said.

A/N: Sorry it's been a while… But I'm pretty certain there will be two more chapters before part 2 is complete. Hopefully now that I'm into the climax-action, you won't have to wait so long for the next chapter?...