3.14 Where the Train Took Them
Merlin was wholly insensible when Freya and Gwaine draped his lanky body across the train-station bench. Freya crouched on one knee next to him to hold him in place – his unconscious pulse nudging her first two fingers clamped to his wrist – to catch her breath, to try to convince instinct they were safe. For the moment.
"I don't have to tell you-" Gwaine started, striding toward the door of the station-office, pointing to her – to him – to them-
"I've got him," she reassured the second-sergeant. Her hand found Merlin's – gritty, sticky, sweaty – and held on. His knuckles were bloody, his grip nonexistent.
Hey. What was that? Merlin hadn't re-acted to the improvised bomb in the burned-out truck at the side of the road. He'd… pro-acted. But psychic didn't work like that.
Generally speaking.
Gwaine reached the door of the rail-station office, but instead of grabbing for the handle, he back-stepped to let a girl step out.
She looked like a tourist on holiday. Like a rich college student who'd been there before, and knew how to blend in, on holiday. Way too much skin for a native Aravian, though her dark hair and skin would have passed. Exactly like the sort of tourist who'd come to a place like Janada – a short floaty skirt and a string-strap tank, paired with military-tied boots, the laces tucked in beside the tongue so they didn't come loose, or catch and trip their wearer. And she complemented the other CPO scout perfectly, in wrinkled tourist cotton in faded Mediterranean colors, and boots also. He was arrogant and assertive, telling Gwaine how he'd help – how they'd help. The girl seemed more calm – reactive, cooperative… like an under-ranked officer, and her partner was the captain.
Soldiers like Freya had opinions about officers, though.
The girl recognized Gwaine also, with the same surprise that Freya felt distantly; she didn't know Second was acquainted with any scouts. They exchanged a quick minute of information, which resulted in Gwaine delivering a series of signal-orders to whoever was watching their north flank. She didn't remember, but her duty was Merlin, whose fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around hers.
"I need the first-aid kit, Smith," Gwaine said to her, slipping past in the office doorway. "Or Jones? And the comm-block."
"Yeah," the girl said. "Just there…" And chose to come to Freya's side instead of lingering to exchange more intel.
"You're too little, too late, the both of you," Freya told her, feeling a bit grim. There was nothing really visible to treat Merlin for – and if she was even partly right about what he'd done with the bomb in the street, of course he'd launched himself into several more hours' worth of vague half-conscious psychic recovery.
"We're off the clock, actually," the girl answered without taking offense. And then her eyes widened and - "Omigosh, Merlin!" she exclaimed, joining them in a rush of graceful inattention – almost exactly as her partner had reacted. Matched pair, that; they knew his first name.
And that other scout was the brother that Merlin watched and listened for, facing northwest at the Camp George perimeter wire.
"He's not badly hurt," Freya told her, even as she hovered to check pulse and breathing and – bleeding? broken bones?
The girl exhaled, absorbing Freya's nonprofessional opinion, cupping Merlin's head between her hands to thumb his eyes open. "Merlin," she said again. "Hey?"
He didn't really respond, but his hand tensed inside Freya's, and his body made other subconscious movements on the bench, like someone beginning to wake from a very deep sleep, dragging one bootheel a handful of inches higher on the slats of the bench. He made a noise like he meant to speak, but it came out all slurred consonants, and tipped his head tipped toward her. She rose a little higher on her knee to be the first thing he saw when his eyelids parted; the merest flash of blue showed, dull and blank.
Freya mustered a smile and said softly, "Hey, you." You're okay. I've got you – we're safe right now.
It took him a worryingly long moment to focus, even knowing how psychic affected him. Like a concussion – and he still had drying blood smeared below and beside his nose, down his neck from his ears. Probably she did, too – probably from proximity to the blast of the bomb in the truck.
But though his eyes found her – awareness didn't.
"What happened?" the scout said, in the same tone of genuine dismay, only slightly lessened after the quick physical exam. So she didn't just know Merlin, she cared about him.
"We were deployed," Freya told her wearily. "From Camp George. The hospital…"
The scout looked at her – looked through her – looked back at Merlin, her hand not on the flak-vest covering his chest, but beneath its lowest edge, testing his abdomen for injury almost instinctively. As Freya and Gwaine had already done, with Merlin unable to report his own injuries. And Freya saw her make connections – the same connections and suspicions it had taken her own unit hours, days, weeks? to make, in a matter of moments.
Him. Merlin Emrys.
In that same moment, some realization came to Freya also. Merlin had been sent to the armpit of nowhere even though he was innocent of whatever charges – and a relatively short time later, not one but two scouts of Camelot arrived with every indication that they'd come for him.
That important. That talented and capable and… that good. Yeah, he was.
But it made him a target, didn't it.
The girl lifted her head to check down the long stretch of rail-platform for her partner. "Does he know? Does Arthur know? Did he see Merlin – that other scout, down at the other end where you came in?"
Arthur. The name fit him. Good-looking and confident and capable – unshaken by the two explosions and the scatter of rifle fire in the street just before their troop arrived in the station. The body that fell from the window, and the other left bleeding down the platform's translucent roof. No body armor, no helmet, not even the tough canvas fabric of their uniforms for protection. And he hadn't deferred to Gwaine's rank, but he hadn't really taken command, either.
And, he was the brother Merlin had worried about – that's the way it is, with family.
…And the look of horrified realization on his face to recognize Merlin and realize his condition…
…And they'd come to Aravia for him.
Said a lot, didn't it.
The look on the girl's face, squinting in early dawn's limited light a hundred paces down the platform, said a lot, too. And maybe a little bit more about Arthur, actually. First-name basis there.
"You love him."
Had that been her voice, all creaky-husky like that? Cracked and smoky like her lips tasted, like her skin felt? Must have been, because the other girl's attention returned to her in sharp surprise. Gosh-dang psychic…
But the girl's reaction didn't betray the confusion of her own heart unexpectedly bared – it absorbed Freya's embarrassed crouch over Merlin's side, hand clasped close to her cheek. It assumed another you and another him, as clearly as if the girl had said it back to her.
You love him.
Her heart thudded and her temples throbbed, her mouth dry and sweat prickling her body. No. No, no, no… dammit. Maybe.
Probably.
But Merlin's eyes were widening toward half-open and his head rolled, aware enough of a second person hovering to seek the scout visually. His mouth dropped open and he swallowed with difficulty before managing a hoarse question. "Gwen?"
The girl's round brown face relaxed a little in relief. "Hey, Merlin. How're you doing?"
It took him a minute – he didn't really have to say anything – bomb explosion hurts what did I where are we how come you're… And arrived right where Freya was afraid he was too clever to continue oblivious to.
"It was… my fault." He swallowed with difficulty. Freya fumbled for her water-pouch – a tear fought its way down the tracks of ash and blood on the side of his face, and his hand trembled as he tried to raise it.
"Not your fault," the scout Gwen said swiftly. "Merlin – hey. None of this is your fault, you hear me?"
Freya was suddenly certain that she spoke of much more than just Merlin's assignment to the sandbox, and this full-screw mission to Janada.
His eyes slid shut and he swallowed again – she readied the mouthpiece of her water-pouch – and his muscles tightened to launch him, albeit slowly, to an upright position. Freya thrust the pouch into his hands and he slumped over it, one boot-sole finding the ground next to her for stability – now there was room for her, and Gwen probably, to sit next to him on the bench.
But they were distracted by the movement and chuff of a train engine clattering determinedly into the station – past them, and a passenger railtruck with flaking green paint tugging obstinately behind… two of the same, and that was all, just those three units, before it jerked to a stop.
Freya was distantly surprised that she hadn't noticed the hissing and clanking and grinding-thudding-roaring of the engine being primed, then started. Gwen turned her head like she'd heard it coming, but Merlin took zero notice of the conveyance. Gwaine appeared, rifle on his back, hands free to hustle them all onto the waiting railtrucks, and Gwen was on her feet a half-second before Freya.
"Good, he's up," Gwaine said abruptly, sternly focused. "We've been authorized to take this much – Janada wants us out – but we have to go now. It'll take us long enough to build up any kind of speed as it is, away from any pursuit – take us as far as Alexandria, over the border without questions."
Into Egypt? What about returning to Camp George, three days south? The thought flitted across her mind and didn't stick, because Merlin lurched unsteadily when he tried to stand. All three of them made to catch him, but Gwaine was tallest and widest and most assertive, and so most successful.
"C'mon, Freya," Charlie urged from the top step of the last railtruck.
Behind her, Hector's rifle watched the opposite platform of the station and down the line. Gwen stepped swiftly off the platform to the railtruck, followed by Gwaine grimly supporting a staggering Merlin.
Freya paused at the last minute, one foot still on the platform, to glance down and catch Arthur doing the same at the front of the first railtruck, handgun shoved insouciantly down the front of the cotton drawstring trousers. Looking toward Merlin, hesitating…
Then he used his hold of the handrail to yank himself forward and aboard, out of her sight. And Charlie grabbed the shoulder of Freya's flak-vest to drag her onto the rear of the second unit.
Crouching on the floor because they were surrounded by so much window-glass that could be seen and shot through, she watched Gwaine fold Merlin prone again on the bench seat lining one wall, ducking below window-height himself. And the train – begged? borrowed? commandeered? – began to lurch sluggishly out of Janada.
Over. So it was over, thank heaven.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Rhythmic noise rocked Merlin gently, motion without effort, and he was dreaming, because beneath his back and hips he felt the comfort of a padded surface, not the turtle-shell of his flak-vest. His skull was cradled in comfort, with no hard rim of his helmet butting beneath his ears and brain-stem. Heat pressed a wide indistinct hand down on his chest through thin layers of jacket and t-shirt, and he was dreaming. Because no one took off body-armor til they were certain of safety.
He opened his eyes and wondered at his dream – instinct wanted to identify a railtruck, but it wasn't the chrome-and-navy of Camelot's line from Fort Fuller to the capital. The windows were crusted and smudged, and faded turquoise upholstery spilled yellow-brown guts barely held together with long white strings of seat-viscera. Rails and rims and arm-rests of some indeterminate dark metals.
And there was Arthur sitting across from him. Therefore, Merlin was dreaming.
Military-tough boots. Light cotton trousers grubby and wrinkled from long wear, and a collared button-down with what seemed to be a faint blue-green pattern of palm leaves. Like he'd been living in one of Percival's foreign-mission report binders for the last fortnight.
Arthur leaned wearily over elbows on knees, hands clasped and head hung heavily downward, swaying with the same movement that comforted and confused Merlin.
Was this now? Was this then, somehow? Or not yet? Somehow?
He blinked once and his vision blurred and doubled, replacing the unfamiliar railtruck with the white-stone walls of Arthur's mind-castle.
Which of course meant he was dreaming. Because the psychic landscape had been scoured bare for good this time, he was perfectly certain of that. No one there. Ever again.
And for the fact that the wall enclosed both of them at once, together. Merlin lying comfortably within, right next to an Arthur that was clearly worn and discouraged, exhausted and yet anxious. Vulnerable. And Merlin was right next to him.
Arthur exhaled, shifting in the seat to slump back, head turned and eyes focused on some distant problem yet unvoiced.
That was why he was here. Because he was needed.
Oh, Arthur. I can't. I can't help, anymore… The knowledge stabbed through Merlin and quiet agony made him shuffle over to his side so he could curl away and drift back into darkness.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Arthur dozed, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back against the grimy window, body rocking to the disjointed rhythm of the train. Maybe if he stretched out along the row of seats he could sink into a deeper rest, like Merlin was evidently doing, but… no, not right now.
He was aware when someone emerged from the cubicle washroom at the end of the rail-truck, but when that person didn't continue to exit to the narrow platform outside, he roused.
Second-sergeant Gwaine – also looking like he'd been through the wars. Face and hands clean now and providing contrast to the rest of him, helmet and flak-vest and jacket discarded like the other soldiers had done, with his permission. He was gaunt and exhausted, jaw shadowed with several days' beard-growth.
Gwen had been more involved than Arthur, in using the first-aid kit borrowed from the rail-station, for the squad's minor injuries, but he'd been aware of the triage taking place while he watched Janada fade into the desert behind them, guarding against pursuit. It seemed the second-sergeant was the worst case, and that was a flesh wound already almost a week old. Check for infection – no signs – and re-bandage.
Gwaine leaned against the wash-room door for long moments, staring out the window at the dusty landscape they were passing through, before beginning to move down the center aisle, balance jolting every other step with the movement of the train. Arthur drew back his boots so Gwaine could pass without impediment, the stolen Egyptian Weston shifting at the back of his right hip. But Gwaine paused, swaying in place to look down on Merlin. Then, without saying anything, he turned and lowered himself to a slouched seat next to Arthur.
Arthur didn't close his eyes again, but joined Gwaine in silent contemplation of the psychic, sleeping curled up on the opposite bench – arms hugged loosely to his chest, legs drawn up, boots unevenly stacked. It made him think of the unused bed in the Pendragon mansion guest-house… and the bare walls and standard-issue minimalism of the barracks room.
At some point Freya had joined him – Arthur heard but didn't open his eyes or lift his head to acknowledge her arrival - and she was huddled chin on fist as close to Merlin's head as she could come without bumping him at every sway of the train. As deep asleep as he was, to all appearances.
Psychic too, wasn't she. And the way she'd looked at Arthur over Merlin's unconscious body was night and day difference to the woman Nimueh, feeling Merlin up in the alley behind the Sunrise. One giggling maniacally over what abuses she was getting away with, and the other protectively demanding an accounting of someone else's treatment of Merlin.
"Your troop really went through it, in Janada," Arthur said.
Though it wasn't really a question, the statement invited the other man to elaborate, and Gwaine's body was too tense for him to be settling in for a little intended shut-eye, himself. Arthur couldn't stop thinking of a snowy hilltop between Ealdor and Camelot – of his sister's flat with a bullet hole in the window glass. Damn snipers.
"And before," Gwaine agreed, fingering the fresh bandage hidden by his jacket sleeve.
It was significant that they were both watching Merlin Emrys, psychic choker of the unit. Arthur didn't ask, Because of him? Merlin was supposed to be anonymously exiled to the sandbox to keep him clear of legal entanglements in case the murder of Morgana's roommate had been directed at him, rather than Arthur. Or both of them, together.
Gwaine added in a dusty drawl, "You're not our back-up."
Arthur snorted over the absurdity of the suggestion that two scouts could adequately support however many troops Camelot had sent to Janada from Camp George. "We were just in the neighborhood."
"Mm. Didja come for him?" Gwaine didn't move, didn't gesture to clarify who he meant. Didn't have to.
"Yeah." Arthur felt obligated to add, reluctantly, "Unofficially…"
Gwaine shifted in his slouch and Arthur felt the side-eye. "He's part of my team," the second-sergeant pointed out, all trace of levity vanished. "We've been protecting him for weeks, now. And no one briefed us on why."
Arthur wanted to say, Hey – blame the Old Man. "If I don't miss my guess," he said softly, "he's been protecting your team, also. Hasn't he."
Gwaine's noise of corroboration was nearly swallowed up in the rattling noise of the train. "So the rest is…"
"Confidential," Arthur offered inoffensively.
"Above my pay grade?" Gwaine suggested sardonically.
Arthur huffed. Above my pay grade. But maybe there isn't anyone else.
"So he was Psych Ops," Gwaine mused. "And the Old Man sent him to me on purpose."
"He does that." For a moment Arthur watched Freya shift in her resting position, without coming fully awake, then ventured, "Those two…"
"I ship 'em," Gwaine informed him bluntly, which pulled half a smile to Arthur's face, and answered his unspoken question rather decisively.
"In Alexandria," he said. "Because it's unofficial. It'll be Merlin's choice, whether to come with us, or…"
Or not.
"About that," Gwaine started.
To their left the door at the front of the railtruck slid open with the stop-jerk motion of very old material or inferior quality mechanism. It was Gwen, who took in the fact of their proximity to each other other, before watching the two sleeping soldiers opposite as she wavered a mostly-balanced approach.
"Engineer says we're an hour out," she reported, and Arthur at least heard the unspoken prompt – If you haven't settled anything yet, your time is limited.
Gwaine sighed. "Thanks, Jones," he said, his tone making an effort toward lightness. "Or is it Smith?"
Gwen's expression widened with a smile. "Thompson, actually," she said, leaning across Arthur to offer her hand to Gwaine. "But most people call me Gwen."
"Pleasure," he said – and as tired as they all were, he sounded like he meant more.
Arthur shifted his own position in a moment of unguarded unintentional irritation – and probably both of them noticed. Gwen retracted with an amused quirk to her mouth, and he met her eyes with an unspoken apology for presumption. He had no right to be territorial – she wasn't his girl.
Yet.
"And you are?" Gwaine continued, nudging Arthur with his elbow.
"Scout of Camelot," he said neutrally. "You can say Arthur."
"Confidential?" Gwaine drawled.
Gwen cleared her throat delicately. "So… what are you going to do when we arrive in Alexandria? Overland it'll take how long, to get back to Camp George? And you'll have to cross the border again – do you need to wait for confirmation of your orders, or…"
"About that," Gwaine said again, recalling Arthur's attention to their conversation interrupted by Gwen's entrance. "Turns out…" He sighed, leaning forward over his knees and turning his head to eye Arthur. "Camp George has been evacuated. Re-deployed. Sent home, closed down…"
"What?" Gwen exclaimed.
Arthur jerked upright, snapping, "So soon?"
In the bar in Paris, when he'd spoken to Gaius, the Old Man had mentioned the troops in Aravia being recalled, but something like that took months to coordinate, usually. Because there was the stability of the region being evacuated to consider, wasn't there?
"Something back home, evidently." Gwaine shrugged, watching Gwen look at Arthur as if he assumed they'd know more about that than he would. "There've been rumors, but I never thought…"
Back home was… Gaius abruptly retiring, and Uther announcing a recess to step down from the position of First Minister for his health. And the rest of the government scrambling for interim leaders and abbreviated campaigns.
And Junior-Director Jon Gregory was in charge of Psych Ops – with someone sent to Paris to cut off funding for whatever was left of the Isyad, and customs officials hopefully alerted to the arrival of Tosoldat – who could probably cross a border as unknown as they could.
"Dammit," Arthur said calmly, gazing away into the dirty yellow of the cloudy sky beyond the rail-truck's windows. They're moving fast, then…
"Does your troop get transportation organized?" Gwen said to Gwaine. "Or are you on your own?"
"On our own." The second-sergeant said the words at the same time she did, sounding bitter. "Don't know how we're going to swing that, with personal funds. Missing-in-action, that's us, til we can report back to chain-of-command. Officially."
Arthur knew what Gwen was going to say before she said it, and agreed.
"What do you say to a cruise on a Ten-Via?"
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Merlin gripped the edges of a white porcelain sink that could've been cleaner, the faucet rusting down to the drain in a sulfur-orange stain. His knuckles were battered and dirty to his elbows, grease smear and bruises.
He lifted his head to a square of scratched mirror and the reflection, added to his peripheral, told him public bathroom. Barracks, maybe? Not Camp George, though, this was all mossy tile and dented metal doors, dim lighting and filthy window-vents, echoing with the rough use of several other men.
"Use this," someone suggested, and the bones in his neck popped when he glanced down into a clump of dampened paper towels. "Clean up a bit. Change your shirt maybe, yeah?"
He took the wad of sodden-scratchy paper and scrubbed dutifully and uncomfortably in the rusty water of the sink. Mud in his ears from the field. Arthur emerging from the stall of the hospital bathroom in Stansford – the cocky half-grin of triumph… the overdose of meramine because he'd been responsible for all of them, over the mountains and back to Camelot.
Hinges creaked ominously on one of the stall doors, but the noise of the others didn't falter or diminish. And public-bathroom protocol was to pretend not to see anyone else unless you were both at the sinks, but he looked up into the mirror and met Arthur's eyes.
Arthur halted, and didn't look away.
It wasn't night and snow-gear and relief bordering on arrogance after a successful mission; he was dressed like he'd taken an extended leave of absence, as Leon had told him on the sidewalk outside the constable's station in Camelot. Merlin's feet had been inside these boots more than forty hours, this time – he tried to calculate, and couldn't; what time is it what day is it – but his t-shirt was army-drab and rank with sweat, not black Essetirian uniform or college-student snow-trip scout-cover.
But Arthur's eyes and expression held the depth and knowledge and shame of a secret betrayal, a hidden goal and purpose unshared – exactly what Merlin had seen in his own eyes, in those days, and no one else seemed to have noticed, because they'd chosen to trust him.
Merlin didn't know what to do with that. Arthur didn't hide anything – not the casual enjoyment of smug conceit, or the ruthless deliberation of an enemy's fate, the intimate expression of tentative friendship, the cold rage of discovery, the blunt acceptance of partners. But Arthur also did hide – most of himself from most people, whether the reasons were-
"Personal or just business?" Merlin said aloud.
The echoes chased each other into dark corners and stilled, listening. Gwaine at the next sink, Hector and JT behind him somewhere, the others – the girls – elsewhere, but safe.
Something skittered across Arthur's expression that looked a lot like pain, but swift and gone. His eyes never faltered under the burden of Merlin's gaze, but because the others were watching the scout, it suddenly felt very much like some match or game or contest, with the soldiers on Merlin's side of the line and Arthur playing alone.
Didn't Arthur prefer alone?
He went to the Sunrise with Leon and Percival and Gwen and the girls. And Merlin. He went for a weekend at his family estate with Leon and Percival.
And Merlin.
In the mirror's reflection, Arthur's mouth quirked into a half-smile, lazy and bitter. "Little of both, I guess."
He stood for another moment under their silent watchfulness, then moved forward to an unclaimed sink. Two down from Merlin, and Gwaine twisted to keep looking at Arthur, like they all expected him to keep talking. But he merely washed, flung excess droplets at the sink with an efficient flick of his fingers, and turned for the door, bending to snag the shoulder-strap of a battered all-purpose rucksack, and disappeared around the tiled corner. A moment later the door thudded closed behind him.
Gwaine turned back to Merlin, hair damp and skin pale-clean and eyes gaunt with stress and loss. "Did you mean," he asked Merlin quietly, "now? or before?"
Merlin didn't know. He closed his eyes and gripped the sink and his fingers wanted to slip in the slimy wet and maybe he was falling, but-
He dreamed he was on vacation with Freya. Somewhere brightly sunny, so hot the air had weight, but it wasn't enough to keep them from sauntering hand-in-hand, bodies bumping intimately, through crowded alleyways and past vivid booths selling beaded jewelry and embroidered scarves and pungent spices and meat-sticks sizzling on grills and melons and lemons and tiny limestone sculptures of local architecture he didn't recognize.
In his dream, they were still wearing parts of their uniforms – trousers and heavy boots, his t-shirt soft-sweaty and his jacket tied negligently around his waist. He was going to get a sunburn, like this.
"Where are we now?" he said to her lazily.
"Alexandria." She seemed relaxed – so that meant safe - but maybe a bit preoccupied.
"How'd we get here?" he asked, unconcerned.
"On the train." She spared him a quick glance and he couldn't help smiling at the way her hair curled around her ears when she wasn't wearing her helmet.
Cobblestones beneath his feet required more attention than paving or bare dirt, not to stumble. "Where are we going next?"
"A boat," she answered, and it came to him that she looked tired.
"You don't get seasick, do you?" he said gently. "If you can eat something, and rest on the boat, they say sea air is good… though maybe that's seaside air, not out-on-the-water air…"
"Are you hungry?" Freya said instead of answering.
He didn't notice that sensation, particularly, and discarded the notion. "Is this just you and me together?"
"No." She was watching him. "The whole squad."
"Gwaine?"
She glanced over her shoulder, and he followed her line of sight to their second-sergeant, a dozen paces behind them in the distractedly milling people. Absent his helmet and vest and jacket, and his t-shirt was new-white with some slogan in flowing Aravian script.
What a strange dream.
Gwaine caught his eyes and attention sharpened, brows lifting in clear question. You okay?
Merlin gave him a nod. Yeah. Okay. And said to Freya, "So where's this boat, then?"
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
The rail-station in Alexandria was five times as large as that in Janada, and nearly as modern as any in Camelot. It took a moment for them to clear customs – comm-block connection to Janada for the all-clear, and a warning that Alexandria would neither offer support nor tolerate violence. We're on our way out, Gwaine tried to reassure the rail-officials. They didn't look reassured.
The soldiers were uneasy to leave their gear in station lockers. Some of them opted to accessorize at one of the station shops, to minimize the effect of moving through the city in a uniformed group. Gwaine chose a t-shirt that said I love Aravia in flowing foreign letters; one girl chose a short denim skirt and the other tight leopard-print leggings; the shorter of the two men – Hector or JT? she wasn't sure of names, yet - put on canvas cargo shorts. Couple of hats and a gauzy-chic scarf.
Gwen helped Freya, who didn't want to leave Merlin, who couldn't be persuaded to more than tying his jacket around his hips. Aside from the first moment, prone on the bench in Janada when he'd said her name, Gwen wasn't entirely sure he was aware of her identity at any given moment. But before long, suspicion grew into belief that Arthur was avoiding catching Merlin's notice.
Of course the two of them were tourists, ambling through markets and admiring architecture and quaint local tableaux. Nothing to do with anyone wearing piecemeal uniform garments. But though Gwen was able to keep an eye on the separated troop members – so therefore, was Arthur – they somehow always managed to be within twenty paces of Merlin and Freya Douglas.
And Arthur was watchful and wary.
That hurt, and she couldn't do anything about it. Because clearly Merlin was functioning at a much lower level of awareness than he was capable of. She'd observed him straight out of Ealdor and over the snowy mountains, so she knew. And surely Arthur did as well.
Then the glittering ribbon of the sea-harbor appeared, resolved, expanded into a significant portion of the horizon. And there was Cartwright on the striped sling on a beach lounge-chair, folding his paper and getting his feet under him to see them approach.
Gwaine had taken the lead, and probably not by accident, Gwen thought. Probably he'd made sure his troop kept an eye on each other, and she and Arthur were in the rear to keep an extra watch on Merlin. Cartwright pointed out directions to the Ten-Via's docking slip, through the marina and out on the water, and Gwaine lingered in his company to pass on instructions and check the wellbeing of each soldier as they passed.
The two of them were within ten paces behind Merlin and Freya, now. And Gwen was starting to consider sunscreen, in anticipation of everyone settling in for the boat trip, when Merlin reached Cartwright and Gwaine, pausing though Freya seemed inclined to urge him along.
"All right there, Emrys?" Gwaine said casually.
Cartwright might have said something, then – that surname was not unknown to Psych Ops, and scouts were curious as a matter of course, and obviously the rumor was recent-
Merlin said quizzically to Cartwright, "Bungalow?"
Gwaine raised an eyebrow. Cartwright, astonishment showing on a broad face ruddy from the Mediterranean sun, said, "Bless you," as if Merlin had sneezed.
Gwen couldn't help thinking of Merlin's description of his psychic powers and how they seemed to him to work – bungalow was just right for Cartwright, too – but he'd never slipped and told anyone what their psyche looked like to him, and definitely not without them asking.
"Come on, let's get out of this sun," Gwen heard Freya say, tugging Merlin onward. "There'll be showers, maybe, and something to fix for dinner, all right?"
"Granola?" Merlin said in the same puzzled tone, looking at her like they were the only two people in the landscape, like he couldn't hear her and Arthur following, or Gwaine and Cartwright falling in with them.
"No, something better," Freya answered – glancing over her shoulder to Gwaine with an expression of dismay.
Gwaine winced, making a sound like he'd tried to swallow something painful.
"Seven of 'em saved," Cartwright said to Arthur, probably too casually for the soldiers who'd lost the rest of their comrades very recently. But he added, "Well done, Pendragon."
Gwaine jerked again, and the look he sent their way was a mix of disbelief and accusation, to hear Arthur's surname and recognize it. He didn't say anything, but he was sure to, at some point.
And Merlin tossed over his shoulder, serene and random, "No relation."
Which Arthur had said to him, upon meeting – Gwen remembered that moment, cold clear morning on the track beside their stolen snow-carts. And they all knew the truth… Arthur's fingers firmed around hers, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking as they stepped out onto the docks leading to their boat.
It was going to be an interesting voyage, she was afraid. Not over yet.
A/N: Again, sorry so late. I can blame my schedule, or the new school year, or changes within my family, or… yeah, no. My fault. No excuse…
But say – I've done a good bit of writing this week, so the next chapter is over half done, so it shouldn't take as long. Yay!