A/N: Canon compliant, post-season 2

We Daren't Go A-Hunting

Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen

We daren't go a-hunting, for fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk, trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap, and white owl's feather.

~ "The Fairies" by William Allingham

It lacked an hour til sunset. The world beneath the canopy of dying leaves - surrendering to the season and the subtle insistent pull of all things downward to the earth - glowed golden-brown. Brittle detritus underfoot, naked underbrush around, chill breeze making everything rattle just a little bit.

Normally that would please Arthur, since he could move swiftly and downwind of potential prey, getting close without giving himself away. Behind him, though, Merlin was grumbling under his breath, tramping carelessly through the underbrush.

The complaining Arthur didn't truly mind. Merlin was fine as long as he was talking. It was when he stopped talking that Arthur knew something was wrong.

It was the tramping that annoyed him, just now.

"You do remember why we're out here, don't you?" he tossed over his shoulder, tucking his crossbow in the crook of his elbow. There wouldn't be any shots to take for half of an hour or more, til Merlin saw fit to move more quietly and the wildlife in the area settled from their wariness. And he never obeyed an order from Arthur to do so; he'd much rather feign ignorance and maintain clumsiness and bicker about it.

Grumble, grumble. "…Out here… freezing cold… wasting time…"

Arthur didn't bother actually paying attention, knowing it would irritate his manservant in turn. Instead he declared what Merlin already knew, with forced cheerfulness. "It's a holiday. That means-"

"A day off work? Oh, no, not for the prince's servant, never for the prince's servant…" Merlin slipped into Arthur's sentence with a complete lack of respect, even though he knew and intended that Arthur should hear him.

"A feast," Arthur carried on as if he hadn't heard. "Which means-"

"Even more work…"

Arthur ignored him. It was like a game, when there was no wild game to be shot. "Extra food. And you'll notice we have nothing of the sort to return to the kitchens with-"

"Too late for them to properly prepare what we bring anyway-"

"And that means," Arthur finished through his teeth, despite his resolve to remain unperturbed by the younger man's mood, "that we've got to keep going til we actually have something to show for this hunting trip, and all the noise you're making only means it's taking us longer!"

Now he was making as much noise as his clumsy servant, stomping through the forest. This holiday was a day free from duties for them, since his father had anyone and everyone assigned to the search for Morgana for weeks. Weeks, and nothing to show for that hunt, either. In Arthur's experience, that meant magic and unless they got lucky by accident, they wouldn't find her unless and until the blonde witch who'd taken her from Camelot wanted them to find her.

Gaius and the council agreed, for the good of morale, that Samhain should be a day of rest. But Arthur didn't do well with inactivity, or failure, in spite of the exhaustive search, so he had volunteered himself for this hunting trip alone with Merlin. A little bit of proven success would be better than a day of doing nothing – and maybe that happy accident would find them today.

"…Should not be out here," Merlin was mumbling again. He was carrying their shared pack of supplies – solely medicinal now as it had been lightened of breakfast and the noon meal – and the extra bolts for Arthur's crossbow. "…Today, of all days."

Arthur loosed a rough, aggravated sigh. "That's superstitious nonsense, Merlin. Samhain is just a day like any other."

Mumble, mumble. It sounded a bit like one of Gaius' history lessons, half fact and half fancy, repeated with Merlin's own twist of absurd conjecture. The veil between realms thinning, on this day of the year… what utter nonsense. Arthur turned his feet down a hill, heading for the coppery glint of a lake between the trees. Surely there would be more wildlife around a small body of water – maybe he could pick up the tracks of a stag who'd come to drink…

"Nobody ever hears a word I say," Merlin griped under his breath, following Arthur.

"Everybody hears you, Merlin," Arthur corrected, feeling his spirits and hopes lift at the prospect of a trail. "And nobody listens."

"I'm just saying, today is not a day to be careless."

Now that was a different tone. A dark and serious tone, that so rarely issued from his boyish and slightly-ridiculous servant, Arthur didn't know what to do with it. So he teased.

"When am I ever careless?" he demanded, angling to saunter down a sort of natural lane between the willows leaning over their reflections in the mere on the right, and the taller, harder trees looming somberly to the left, spreading branches over them in an almost-archway.

"Every day," Merlin snapped back.

Arthur stopped, turning on his heel to refute that insult – just because he didn't take exaggerated and girlish care of Merlin's feelings didn't mean he wasn't careful when it was important.

But Merlin halted abruptly, straightening and pulling back slightly in alarm. Almost as if Arthur's swift turnabout intimidated him into silence for once – but his blue eyes, startled wide, were focused over Arthur's shoulder.

Instinctively he whirled, handling the crossbow as a weapon rather than a burden, even though there could be nothing there, he'd just been scanning the area-

They were surrounded. By…

Something. Someone.

People, at least they looked like. But everyone was dressed alike in a green jacket, open over bare chests, even the females, with a red cap set over hair too light in color to be termed brown, any of them, and all with hairless chins. The trousers – skirts? robes? – that covered their legs to mid-shin were made of some impossible floaty-misty white material that looked like feathers, of all things.

They stood motionless in a half-circle – a full circle, hells – around Arthur and Merlin. No sound had signaled their arrival, as if they'd just… materialized from thin air.

"Arthur…" Merlin whispered, and he could not spare a moment to decipher which emotion the younger man's tone primarily betrayed.

He leveled the crossbow at one of the beings stood in front of them, glancing about again to determine a leader by movement or attitude – and couldn't. It was a bit unnerving. He looked at their faces, and noticed something. Each and every one of them exquisite. Unearthly beauty, and boundless arrogance, and so they all looked alike, even when they didn't.

"I don't know who you are or what you want." He spoke calmly with an effort, and clearly for them all to hear him. "But I am prince of Camelot and these are our lands. I accuse you of-" His throat clicked as he swallowed dryly; half of them shifted posture at once and half remained unmoving and it was eerie enough to make his hairs stand on end. "Nothing, but I warn you not to hinder our passage."

"We should go back," Merlin was whispering to himself. "We should go back, we should go back…"

There was no apparent signal, but each blond person moved forward, tightening their circle, fluidly overlapping each other, more like a flock of starlings wheeling and dipping and turning than people, who always bumped and jostled in a crowd. Their eyes were all blue, he realized, and an inexplicable sliver of cold terror shot up his spine; unblinking and unwavering they focused on him even as they folded themselves more tightly together.

"Stand back!" He raised his voice, though they were closer now than a moment ago. "We will defend ourselves!"

Merlin was still muttering nonsense, words Arthur couldn't make out, but he sounded close to panic.

And Arthur really did mean to loose the trigger. He focused on one male; his eyes slid involuntarily to the person's neighbor – and then next – and his finger hovered over the trigger and his muscles were already so taut it couldn't tighten to release the bolt even when he squeezed-

Merlin shouted, but it was still nonsense and it sounded blurred and distant, like underwater. Two of the blond people reached out at once to touch Arthur's crossbow and he let go, hand and fingers immediately dropping limply. Three more had fingers at his waist, unbuckling his swordbelt and he let them, suddenly disinterested.

Hells. What was happening to-

Someone touched the back of his shoulder, the light brush immediately followed by four or five more, then too many to count. His flesh crawled, but his muscles didn't so much as twitch to shrug them off.

The world glowed bronze-yellow and indistinct around the edges of his vision – and tipped. He had no sensation of moving – of falling, or landing – but he smelled the musty fallen leaves that tickled his lips and nose and their bare feet were all around him, on a level with his eyes. Merlin's boots shuffled backward – turned to run toward Arthur, before his servant appeared to trip, landing full-length on the ground.

Arthur felt the vibrations even though he didn't seem to be lying on the hard earth, exactly.

Merlin's eyes fastened to him in an agony of fear and apology. He pushed one hand toward Arthur, through the carpet of decaying leaf mold, fingers clawed in desperation-

Arthur's eyes closed before Merlin could touch him.

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

Samhain. The day of the dead – and of more than the dead.

But no one ever listened to Merlin.

He did his best to exasperate Arthur into giving up and returning to Camelot, realizing only too late that the prince was going to be stubborn about having something to show for the hunting trip, and he should've rather kept quiet so a pair of rabbits or fowl could've persuaded Arthur where Merlin couldn't.

He'd never been over this hill and down this wood before, but it had his senses tingling alert. It felt like Avalon here, only… different.

We shouldn't be here.

Down a pleasant natural lane, just alongside a passive lake – a moment between day and night, a place on the edge of land and water.

This was never an ambush that Arthur would detect.

Merlin did, just moments too late.

With his back to Arthur, who held the crossbow ready and warned the creatures with words, Merlin tried magic. They were magic, he was magic – they probably knew him as he knew them; spells would come as no surprise-

Please, he tried to communicate silently. We mean no harm, just let us go.

Was it his imagination that some of those flawless faces smirked. And they began to close in around Merlin and his prince, and there was an edge of fear in Arthur's voice.

"We will defend ourselves!"

Merlin dropped the half-empty pack he'd been carrying, and took two steps away from Arthur, lifting his hands in clear warning. Don't make me do this. Oh, not another example of selfish, harmful magic!

"Astrice!" he hissed, feeling the magic flow-

But it divided, dissipated, slipped right past these creatures. Perhaps they needed an enchanted weapon but Arthur's sword was at the bottom of a different lake, and Merlin didn't have so much as a table knife. He glanced at Arthur's back, wondering if the prince could possibly miss or excuse his crossbow firing bolts blazing blue with magic – and Arthur inexplicably surrendered his weapon to the crowding fae.

"Stop!" Merlin shouted, angry as well as frightened, now. He could explain and excuse later, but for now the priority was- "Ic the withdrife!"

Nothing worked.

Arthur collapsed, not even trying to catch himself; though his eyes were still open, his expression was alarmingly lax.

Merlin took two running steps to reach him, protect him physically somehow, even though none of them held weaponry, but the creatures were close enough to touch him, and it was as if their fingers held fire. They didn't need knives or swords or bows.

Searing pain shot through him and his momentum carried him down to the ground, still focused on Arthur. Quivering uncontrollably with reaction, he pushed his hand forward, trying to reach his friend – he'd be damned before he'd lost Arthur the way they lost Morgana – but the prince sighed softly and closed his eyes.

And he could hear the others speaking, though the voices were so similar it was hard to tell where one left off and another began, or the gender of the speaker.

"We only need one. Shall we take them both?"

"Take them both. This one might be better suited to assimilation than to fedelsum."

It was a word of the old language, and it caught at Merlin's ear. It was a word that carried connotations of husbandry, animals kept for providing sustenance – eggs or milk or meat. Hells, they were going to be eaten? Abruptly he remembered hearing a story long ago that attributed the color of their caps to the dip-dye of human blood…

"In which case, we still need the other."

"Yes. Both."

Pale feet moved around Merlin and Arthur lithely, not disturbing a single leaf, not hesitating or getting in another's way. Merlin tried to push himself up, instinctively avoiding contact with their hands. Some moved back when he rolled while others followed his motion, and he made it to his knees still trembling.

"Don't touch him – he isn't yours!" he spat, crawling over Arthur's prone body. "You can't take him."

They contemplated him, some drawing closer and even crouching down. "You cannot stop us," they said – more than one in unison, he could see when their mouths moved, but otherwise it sounded like one voice. "You can resist us and be brought along in pain. Or we can leave you. Or you can come freely with us to the Cythe."

That word he knew also, and it sparked another term of definition. Fyxen-naedre. A race akin to the sidhe.

So his magic was useless. The only thing he could think was to enchant a weapon somehow – but they'd removed Arthur's crossbow and sword from his possession and Merlin couldn't see them anymore. And if he opted to be left behind – the better to return with a troop of knights after he reported the prince's abduction – he might not be able to lead them reliably wherever they took Arthur.

The knights might not be able to actually reach wherever they took Arthur. Cythe, like Avalon a realm only accessed through magic. And fedelsum terrified him with gruesome possibilities.

"What are you going to do with him?" he demanded hoarsely, heart pounding. If they meant him harm he'd have to find it in himself to do something to save Arthur. Anything, to save Arthur.

"We might invite him to join us," the one closest to Merlin said, cocking his honey-blonde head. "Or we might keep him for fedelsum."

So ominous. Merlin's mouth was dry. "And if I go?"

They moved thoughtfully, adjusting their positions relative to each other – but none of them glanced about to gauge what his fellows were thinking. Every pair of blue eyes was focused on Merlin. "Then you will be kept for fedelsum, and the choice to stay will be his."

And that wasn't even really a choice for Merlin. He backed off Arthur, pushing to his feet for an effort. His knees and elbows ached and his neck was stiff and his fingers felt swollen even though they weren't. He'd risked himself for Arthur before, he'd endured the physical sacrifice of pain, though he'd never really faced being eaten.

"I will come with you," he said.

At the very least, maybe they'd be left alone for a moment or two, and could discover or manufacture a way to escape.

Eight or ten of them sidled in and bent to pick Arthur up – Merlin tensed, but the prince's body remained limp and motionless. Evidently that fire-touch was an offensive thing, and not inherent. Together the fyxen-naedre carried the prince easily, smoothly, swiftly; the rest eddied around Merlin, maybe half of them watching him. Probably all of them ready to drop him in helpless agony with one touch.

In the absence of another threat-laden invitation, Merlin forced his feet to plod along in the wake of Arthur's carriers. No one brought their discarded pack, or Arthur's weapons – he twisted his head but could not see where they might have been left behind, either.

He tried a few questions. "Where are we going? How far is it? What've you done to Arthur? When will he wake?" but no one bothered to answer.

Not far and too far, all at once. The air shimmered into a high twisted arch like ephemeral glass, several paces down the lane and just on the edge of the lake. The red caps perched on sleek blond heads winked and bobbed like the fireflies children were warned never to follow because they weren't fireflies – and vanished as they passed through the arch.

Not even a ripple on the surface of the lake. And what lay beyond was invisible until Merlin himself took the last steps – expecting to splash down into the water-

Disoriented, he found himself coming out of a great placid black lake, in a vast underground chamber bounded by stone, across which rippled a dim blue light which seemed the only illumination. He squinted but could see nothing else, not even the edges of the cavern. No smaller caves, no signs of habitation or any individual belongings whatsoever.

Merlin spun to look back the way they'd come – of course there wasn't so much as a glimpse of the sunset-saturated lake-lane, but there was a feature of the surface of the underground lake, the only object – person – that hadn't entered the cavern with the group.

It was a tiny island, or maybe a raft, out in the middle of the water, which supported the figure of a sleeping girl or young woman. She was barefoot and maybe naked; her hair was inky black, the curls flowing down over her body to merge with the lake-water beneath her, leaving only glimpses of pale limbs sprawled gracefully.

"Morgana?" he blurted.

But it wasn't, he saw that her face wasn't the same, even in sleep. And Morgana's hair was nowhere near long enough to cover her.

Three or four of the fyxen-naedre paused within arms'-reach, interested in him, rather than the floating sleeping woman. For a moment more he studied her, and couldn't detect the movement of her breathing – was she dead? There was no sign of imperfection in her flesh, neither wound nor decomposition…

He couldn't help shivering, and turned his back on the girl to look for Arthur.

His carriers had lowered him smoothly – neither thoughtlessly nor protectively - to the ground a stone's toss away, but when he moved to join his prince, there were suddenly more of the fyxen-naedre between them, pressing close to each other to prevent his passage, and watching him with avid and almost voracious curiosity.

"It begins," one of the females hissed.

"Let me check that he's all right," Merlin said. All of his hairs were trying to lift right off his skin at once and he hated his ignorance and helplessness. Most powerful idiot. Why hadn't he learned – been taught, been warned – more about these beings? There was a dreadful horror in the thought of them swarming, baring their teeth, tearing at his flesh and he'd have to fight, but how could he hope to be victorious, or protect Arthur…

"He will wake in his own time."

"His worry is fascinating," someone else said, and it took Merlin a moment to realize the comment referred to him, not Arthur.

"More than worry."

"The loyalty is captivating…"

"Pain is best, however, especially when blended with anger."

Merlin tried to back away, but they had abandoned Arthur and there were more behind him and they were touching him – so impersonally and almost gently that it was overwhelmingly uncanny, and he turned, trying to shove them away.

"Anger, but not toward his companion."

"Regret – there is regret!"

They pressed closer, taking no notice of each other, but all reaching for him - a blanket of insistent hands. Lightning shot through him sharply, from a point just below his left shoulder-blade, through his skull and out his eye-sockets and he gasped through a moment of white-hot agony, before-

The cavern was gone.

He was stood in Arthur's bedchamber, staring at the prince's right shoulder and Arthur was speaking to him – turning round on him with murderous fury-

You… humiliated… me!

His mouth was sealed, he couldn't form the words to defend himself, to explain what had gone wrong with the accusation and evidence against Knight Valiant, to smooth the suddenly jagged landscape that separated him from Arthur.

This was the past… but he couldn't wrench himself free of the memory, and the prince turned away, quieter now but simmering with scorn and judgment – doubly difficult to bear, as it echoed freshly through him.

I need a servant… I… can… trust.

Merlin was trustworthy, he was… except when he was not. For all his mother's teaching and his pride in his integrity, he was not the man he always thought he'd be. He was not the man he wanted to be. He was frequently dishonest, by necessity, and that corrupted him more surely than the magic they'd blame. Merlin struggled against that brand, searing into his soul, but it was true, it was truer than true… he was a fraud, and could not be trusted.

I no longer… require… your… services…

He felt he was sinking in quicksand and there was no footing to push himself up, no handhold to grasp, no argument to be made.

Get… out… of… my… sight! So final, so disgusted.

The air pressed him like a score of hands, keeping him in the moment, drawing it out.

He was stood in Arthur's chamber and couldn't make his feet move to carry him out and away; he couldn't turn his head or close his eyes against the sight of Arthur's face, twisted with pure loathing. Arthur repeated, and repeated, Get. Out. Of. My. Sight.

Reactive emotions were scooped out of every space between his heartbeats, each deeper and longer than the last and it was agony and he couldn't breathe and he'd never survive but his body didn't die.

And abruptly he was stumbling out of a thicket in the middle of the forest, knocking into his prince before he could see him, before he could sidestep or stop himself, and Arthur was swinging round on him with the same sort of overwhelming revulsion and grating irritation. You really are a… total… buffoon… aren't you, Merlin?

No! Except, he'd just run into the prince. Couldn't argue that. His clumsiness cost Arthur – maybe this time just a shot at his prey, but maybe next time it would be something that meant the difference between life and death and it was truer than true that Merlin was embarrassingly ungainly and often that embarrassed Arthur. You humiliated me.

Total.

Buffoon.

His lungs expanded to drag in air and his heart thudded one more time – one more time – one more time…

Arthur's voice echoed. It's hardly my fault I have a… lazy… idiot… for a servant. Not speaking to Merlin but to Morgana, as Merlin hid from him, hid an injured druid boy from him, but the emphasis and venom he put into those words stabbed through Merlin's chest, and his protest was weak and small. Not lazy… not an idiot… But he'd saved Arthur's murderer.

Truer than true, and he'd been caught off guard today, again, just moments ago. Not paying attention. How many times? And Arthur had borne the brunt of his mistakes, even if he wasn't aware of it every time.

Lazy! Idiot!

He was required to stay at the prince's side by his destiny. By his own longing to impress – someday, somehow – to watch that expression change to wonder and gratitude and respect, in Arthur's eyes. But his destiny was an impaling stake, and his heart writhed around it, unable to escape, unable to die.

Oh, stop, make it stop. Even if it's true, stop it…

Didn't you choose this? Didn't you accept that you were born to this? You deserve this!

Images flickered past his sight, whirling in a dizzying spiral as the words blended together in the hundred different nuanced tones of Arthur's voice, disgusted and disparaging, and there was no release from the miserable humiliation and disappointed yearning. His battered heart would not give up, nor stay down, no matter how many blows it endured or how low it fell.

You… look… ridiculous!

Such… a… girl… You're-a-fool!

An.

Idiot.

Shift. And the memories held none of Arthur, or his voice.

He was sat in his room behind Gaius' chamber, aching inside and out, slouched over and whelmed with shame while the old physician tended bruising on his shoulder-blade. If I can't use magic, I might as well die.

I can't use magic. Not against them. It doesn't work.

I'm not a monster, am I? Someone who looks human, but isn't – a being of magic who doesn't think or feel like a normal person, but doesn't even realize it…

None of us can choose, and none of us can escape… the words growled around the corners of his memory, rattling and blurring the vision. None of us can choose, and none of us can escape… None of us can escape… None can escape…

Trapped in a nightmare and unable to breathe and unable to wake and realize his body would breathe on its own.

Let the boy die – if he lives – that little boy is going to kill Arthur…

You have it in your power… can't use magic… cannot choose, cannot escape, cannot fulfill your destiny…

If Arthur dies and I'm not good enough…

Not good enough… not… good… enough… Going-to-kill-Arthur!

He was caught in a thousand places, and he was being ripped apart.

They stole little Bridget for seven years long;

When she came down again her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back between the night and morrow;

They thought she was fast asleep, but she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since deep within the lake,

On a bed of flag leaves, watching till she wake.

(tbc…)