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Chapter Text

Merlin is the most ridiculous manservant to ever come to Camelot. The most undignified, incorrigible, outrageous mess of a man. Arthur cannot understand it. Merlin is never just a manservant doing his routine chores. He has to be utterly hopeless or startlingly brilliant. No middle ground. It's exhausting. Infuriating.

Take today; Merlin could be the best huntsman in the land. Arthur has caught him covering up animal tracks more often than anyone else has been able to find them. He actually jumped in front of Morgana’s cudgel and caught a hare with his bare hands, then ran off with it. Since no one could catch him, the hare went free. Leon and Elyan have been making non-stop jokes about how Arthur seems to have misunderstood the very basics of falconry ever since.

Merlin can not only recognise every bird call and mammal grunt, but is an astonishing mimic too. And yet, he has no inclination whatsoever for using this skill in any way helpful. Instead, Arthur has lost count of how many times he has snapped his head up at the squawk of a mallard or chirrup of a pheasant only to find Merlin looking innocent and Morgana and Gwen snorting and chuckling at him. Arthur pelted towards the river earlier this evening towards the cat-like screeches that suggested otters, only to have Gwaine and Lancelot whooping at him and Merlin crying with laughter.

When Arthur was so wound up he considered banishing Merlin home, Merlin just rolled his eyes and said “fine, if you really need meat for dinner,” and led him to a stream where there just so happened to be a goose with a broken leg. Arthur didn’t know whether to be further incensed or amused, but in the end he was hungry so he just shot the poor bird and gave it to Merlin to cook. And now, they’re eating the most delicious food he has ever had at a campfire.

“How did you know that goose was there, Merlin?” asks Morgana.

“Just had a feeling.”

“Did you see it earlier?”

“Oh, no, it hadn’t been there long. It was in pain, I wouldn’t have just left it.”

“And how many healthy animals have you prevented us from hunting today?” asks Arthur.

“Oh, I lost count ages ago,” says Merlin. “Hundreds probably?”

Unbelievable. Arthur doesn’t know how to punish him any more. Nothing he does has the slightest impact. So he settles for giving Gwen the night off and having Merlin do double chores. Merlin glowers at him all through the washing up, muttering about ungrateful princes and no goose next time. But the mead is open and everyone else is merry and Merlin never stays angry for long. Soon Gwaine is singing and Merlin dances round with Gwen and Morgana and even pulls Lancelot to his feet to jig.

Arthur is determined to outwit Merlin tomorrow. But, he can forgive him today. And Merlin seems to know it from the way he beams as Arthur scuffs him over the head and sends him to bed, letting him off the first watch. Arthur settles by the fire instead. He thinks as the others quieten down that he’s never been so happy, never felt so warm.

Which is why it’s such a shock when Leon shakes Arthur out of his dreams. He’s agitated and one look at his face is enough to have Arthur immediately on his feet. “What’s wrong?”

Leon can’t get the words out. He is trembling. Arthur immediately looks around, but there’s no sign of danger. It’s just after dawn and no one else in camp is even awake yet. Arthur wonders if Leon is sick. “Leon?” he asks, as gently as he can.

Leon gasps and Arthur is afraid to see his eyes are wet with tears. Leon rubs at his face and finally manages to whisper, “it’s Merlin, Sire.”

Arthur follows him to Merlin’s bedroll. He breathes out slowly to prevent himself from running over as fast as he can and starting a panic. He tells himself that Merlin must just be terribly hungover, it can’t be as bad as Leon is making out.

But it’s unmistakable. Merlin’s eyes are open but he’s too still. He’s cold.

“What happened?” says Arthur. “Leon?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know! Nothing. There was nothing wrong. I just thought he had overslept because the sun was up and he wasn’t getting you up and so I came over and I saw and - ” Leon is weeping. He’s trying to be quiet but his voice is all bunched up, he’s in pieces and Arthur can see one or two curious heads popping out from under blankets as the others start to wake up, heads turning at the strange sound of Leon, breaking.

Arthur kneels beside Merlin and reaches out to close his eyes. Sometimes this happens. The gods decide to take a man for no clear reason. Some sudden illness in the head or heart or a disharmony in the humours. It hurts worse than a battle because it makes no sense. Perhaps Gaius will be able to figure it out. Oh gods, Gaius. Arthur can feel his panic rising. He doesn’t want to be the one to tell the others. But he must. He cradles Merlin. And when the others gather round, he says “we don’t know what happened. The gods took him.”

There is shock and disbelief, even a little laughter. But Merlin doesn’t wake up. There’s no prank this time. And then Gwen keens with grief and that undoes them all. Arthur thinks of the words he was taught, “no man is worth your tears,” and he can’t say them. There is no one among them with a dry eye. Gwaine sobs like a man bereft. Arthur just holds his manservant. Time passes and no one is keeping track. Lancelot comes back to sense first and suggests they bury him here in the forest, where he was happy. Then Morgana says there was a beautiful, wooden boat a way back, by the river and Arthur nods. They do not have the right tools for digging. They will set the boat alight. He will pay the owners whatever they ask. He wants a beautiful end for Merlin.

He’s terribly afraid of going home without him. He can’t bear to think of Hunith or Gaius or what his own lonely days will look like now. He’s so angry at Merlin for leaving. He also smiles at the thought that the idiot was unpredictable to the end. He’s glad that it was here, in this beautiful place, after a perfect day. He wants to scream, to yell, to shake Merlin, hard. He doesn’t. He does what he has to do. He stands. He carries Merlin to the boat and lays him down gently inside. He kisses his forehead, then steps back to allow the others to say their goodbyes.

Chapter Text

Merlin has been looking forward to the hunt all week. Not because he wants to kill anything, of course not, but he loves being out of the castle, having the soil beneath his feet, the green, leafy ceilings, the space, the life, the beauty of the woods. He has been working on his earth magic recently and discovered the most wondrous thing: in a similar way to how he can throw his voice, he has learnt to throw his mind. It’s much harder in the citadel, there are too many people, too many things, but in the forest it’s easier than slipping into fresh, cool water. He can shake off his body to run with the deer, swoop with the swallows, roll with the beetles. It’s not that he can speak their language exactly, but the most magical part of himself is loosened. He haunts them. He is made into wind and sunlight, water and soil. The forest is so much more than he ever realised. And he can move through it, tasting it. Living it.

It would blow Arthur’s mind if he knew. Of course Merlin can tell where any creature is at any time. He blinks his eyes shut, quick enough that he won’t fall off his horse, and for a moment he’s the soul of the forest, on the wing, in the wriggling soil, everywhere, dancing. He has been giddy all day, drunk on the sheer ecstasy of being alive in a thousand new ways. Time is different here; the trees shimmy, the brambles hunt, the mushrooms rise and fall like the sea. The poor goose wasn’t going to make it; Merlin promised her a merciful end. But anything else that strays too close to Arthur’s knife gets a warning. He’s subtle about it. Mostly. Alright, catching the hare from right under Morgana’s nose, that was just him showing off and wanting to make the others laugh. But apart from that. He has been incredibly restrained, if anything. The forest croons and Merlin longs to lose himself to it.

Arthur lets him off the night watch, despite Merlin winding him up for hours; Arthur is a secret sweetheart. Merlin doesn't know anyone else who would tolerate him messing up their plans, teasing and showing them up all day long. And Merlin finds it irresistible. Sure, Arthur shouts and groans but at the end of the day, he always adapts, keeps smiling, lets himself be pushed and brings snappy comebacks quicker than anyone. And Merlin trusts Arthur can take it. He hasn’t had a lot of disappointment in his pampered, princely life. A little resistance is good for him.

As the others all settle in, Merlin lies there admiring Arthur’s profile silhouetted against the orange fire. He can smell the pine and willow twigs burning, hear them crackling in the flames. His lips still slip with honeyed mead and the oil from the meat. Arthur stretches and yawns. Merlin can’t quite make out if he’s smiling in the darkness. He’s tempted to throw his mind towards him, find out if he’s blushing. But he won’t. He’ll respect Arthur’s privacy. He’ll wait. He has a happy, little suspicion that Arthur feels the same way as he does. That no one else is in step quite like they are. No one else cuts to the heart of things, makes Merlin want to run and sing and be silly. Makes him dream of sweet nights, skin to skin, nose to nose.

But he needs to go slowly. Arthur doesn't know about his magic yet. And that is one hell of a conversation ahead. For a while, Merlin fidgets as he tries to puzzle out the problem. He trusts Arthur, he does, it’s just going to be a lot. He can’t see how it’ll go. And it’s not urgent. Merlin likes things the way they are. He’s tired. He aches with all the work of the day, but what a good day it was! He shuffles around to get comfortable and then sinks once more into the forest. He won’t stay all night, he does need to sleep, but he’s hooked on the sumptuous twilight, the roots, the foxes, the wood owls, the night flowers, the toads and the bats and the moths. He dissolves his mind and lets it twinkle with the stars.

He is lounging between moss and stone when he hears the first scream. “Emrys!”

He jolts, alert, but the voice melts away. He is snuffling at truffles with a badger when it comes again. “Emrys, please!” The voice is distraught.

Merlin can't quite get hold of where it's coming from. It's not a voice he recognizes. It's old, layered like multiple voices, multiple genders, human and non human scratching over one another. It's similar to having one of the druids speak in his mind but with a far richer, more discordant tone.

“Emrys, please, you must wake up! They're burning you. You're burning!”

Merlin stops. He immediately tries to open his eyes but he's gone too far. He's lost the thread back to his body. The horror is like looking over the edge of a cliff and then realising your feet have already left the ground and you're falling face first through the sky. He's falling faster than a waterfall, sharper than an axe.

They're burning him. They've discovered his magic then? It came to the pyre after all? He had hoped… Lancelot? Gwen? Arthur? They really chose the pyre after everything he's done?

Merlin is locked in the clamouring forest, struggling to loop himself back into his right mind. He throws himself outwards, sweeping through every rock, rattling every leaf, screaming with every creature until he finds himself again. As soon as he gets close, it's like the pull of a strong current. He slams back into his body.

He's burning. The pyre. This is his worst fear come true. It hurts. His lungs are agony as he coughs and splutters, his tongue hot and dry and painful. He thinks of dragons but it's not funny, there are flames licking at his neckerchief, his jacket, his fingers are already charred, it's a worse nightmare than any that has ever tortured his sleep. He lurches up and finds the ground unsteady. Before he can make sense of it, he's falling again. He yells out and crashes into cold, frothing water. It's a sweet release for a moment as the cold kisses his patchy skin. But then it's another burn in the lungs, a weight above him, he's sinking fast and can't remember how to swim, how to breathe, he's thrashing and getting nowhere.

He tries to call out for Kilgharrah but the water is blocking his throat. It's getting dark now, the water deep and slimy. He thinks of Freya floating. He thinks of Will splashing in the steam when they were little. He thinks of pulling Arthur from the Sidhe. Arthur humming in the bath. Arthur laughing, soap bubbles in his hair. He thinks of Arthur's face and suddenly it's right there, a blur, but Merlin knows the shape of it, would know that hair anywhere, even in the crashing confusion of the river, unless he’s hallucinating? But then Arthur grabs him and Merlin screams and kicks because it hurts, it hurts, but Arthur doesn't let go, just keeps pulling and dragging and fighting to hold Merlin close.

And then the world cracks open and there's splashing, slapping noises and cold air on Merlin's cheeks, cold air lifting through his hair, cold air drying his itchy eyes. He's retching and coughing and dark water that tastes terrible is coming up out of him and his throat is raw and swollen and he's so dizzy and Arthur has him. Arthur. Arthur the hunter. Who caught him. Burnt him. Arthur who is dragging him to shore.

There's no breath to say anything, they're both fighting to get air. But there are screams and yells from the bank and then there are many hands on him, lifting him. And Merlin jerks and kicks and Lancelot is hushing him but Merlin always knew it might come to this, that he might have to run from death, run from a pyre, run for his mother, run for his life, so he pushes himself up and uses magic to throw them all back because clearly the secret is out and he might not get many chances to escape while they're still in shock. He runs, flinging himself away from the river, away from the fire, away from the hunters, his enemies, running into his forest.

It's much harder with his body weighing him down. But he borrows the instincts of the hare and determination of the wolf and he'll worry about where he's going later. All he knows is that he has to get away.

Chapter Text

Arthur kisses his tears to Merlin's stiff face for the last time. Then, he stands back. Lancelot nods to him and together they set the oily cloths alight. Arthur pushes the boat away from the bank. The river pulls it gently on. Morgana sings. Her eery, sad song wavers in the air as they watch the boat idling down the river. Merlin’s last journey. Arthur has the slow, strange thought that it is a love song, just as much as any of the sweet, lively ones sung at court.

The boat drifts further and further. It takes some time for the fire to catch. There is a great groan as they finally see the flames licking up high. Once again Gwen is wailing and there is no comfort for her. Arthur doesn’t sob but he’s not sure of his feet; Leon is holding him up. His thoughts are foggy; he doesn’t have the energy to hide his grief. He’s glad he’s among friends.

And then the boat lurches and a shadow stands among the smoke and flame. It staggers to the side and topples into the river. Gwaine yells out, Morgana gasps and Arthur doesn't hesitate, he runs to the bank and dives in. There isn't time to think, only to swim and Arthur swims hard, shoves the water behind him, slaps it back, armful after armful. At the boat, he takes a great gasp of air and then drives himself deep down into the water.  He can barely see. He wills his legs to kick harder, his arms to stretch further.

And then he has him, Merlin, in his arms, struggling and thrashing and gods, his poor manservant, but Arthur isn't going to let him sink, not this ridiculous, determined man who didn't even obey death or fire. The water can't have him, he is Arthur's. And then they are shivering on the surface and Merlin's eyes are wild and scared and he vomits and vomits and Arthur just keeps kicking them to the bank, relief and hope and terror pumping through him as he clutches Merlin close. Merlin shudders and cries and tries to breathe, still flailing, still clearly in shock. Lancelot and Gwaine take Merlin from Arthur and Leon pulls Arthur out and claps him on the back. Gwen and Morgana are staring, holding one another.

But Merlin is panicking, won't lie still, is fighting, pushing at Lancelot, kicking at Gwaine, gasping and heaving. Before Arthur can say anything or step forward, Merlin jerks away and Arthur is thrown back, smacked into the water, all tangled up with Leon. Something pushed him, hard, like twenty hands at once. Arthur swears and splashes, finds his feet and checks for Leon. But by the time they can both scramble up in the mud, Merlin is gone.

"Gwaine's running after him, Sire,” Lance shouts quickly. “He's just scared, please - ”

“Of course, he's scared! What was that? Did he just do magic?”

And Arthur can read it all in Lance’s face. Merlin knows magic. They've hidden it from him together. And it's just so ridiculous, so Merlin that Arthur nearly laughs, except it's not funny at all, not when Merlin thinks they've just burned him and is running from them, half dead, half drowned. Arthur pulls at his hair, tries to think. What a mess. Every instinct is telling him to run after Merlin but he can't, he’s Uther's son and Merlin would run himself to death, Arthur can just see it. He has to hope Gwaine will catch him, calm him down.

 “Lance, tell him I won't hurt him. Please, go after them.”

“You swear you won't?” Lance stares at him, all big eyes and noble frown. Wasting time.

“I won't!” Arthur yells, “Of course, I won't! I swear! Just make sure he's ok, please!”

And Lancelot runs. Arthur lets himself sink to the ground. “Fucking Merlin!” he swears. “I'm going to kill him!”

Gwen's breath hitches.

“Not literally,” Arthur groans, putting his hands over his face. “I am figuratively going to murder his pasty, annoying little -” and he mimics strangling his curse of a manservant.

“You love him,” Morgana whispers. She's got a cut over one eye. It’s bleeding down her cheek like a tear. Arthur laughs. He doesn't deny it.

“Why did you get the lovely Gwen for your servant?” he asks. “And I got chaos incarnate? What have I done to deserve that?”

Morgana smiles. “Arthur…”  He looks up. She pauses. “Arthur, is it true, you won't betray him? You won't tell Uther?”

“No, Morgana. I won't tell Uther. Father really would kill him. And while I think adding sorcery to my clumsy, strong-willed, idiot of a manservant is about as good an idea as adding water to hot oil, I know Merlin wouldn't betray Camelot. Gods, I don't think even magic could corrupt him, do you? The man's too pigheaded.”

Morgana chuckles, then nods, but her face is a fragile mask over a wobble of tears and Arthur can see she's still shaking. Gwen brings them both waterskins and smiles, though she's biting her nails and repeatedly trying to straighten her tunic. Leon is pacing as though warming up for a run, his serious face made ridiculous by the way his hair sticks up in tufts as he pulls at it.

“I'm going to make some food,” says Elyan. Calm as a rock. The greater the crisis, the more Elyan stills. Arthur feels some of the tightness in his chest loosen. He's been huffing his breaths without realising. He tries to exhale slowly.

“I'll prepare the med kit,” adds Gwen. "You should rest, Sire. Let me check your arm."

Arthur looks down. His arm is bleeding a little. A scratch, probably from one of his plunges into cold water.

“Alright,” he says. As much as he desperately wishes to chase after Merlin, his fatigue is dragging at him. He’s too tired to move; He has to trust the others. Gwen bustles around him, brings him a pillow. He feels like he's fought several griffins.

“You saved him,” Morgana whispers, as she comes to sit next to him.

Arthur sighs and flaps his arms in some semblance of a shrug.“I don't know. He didn't look good, did he? We nearly killed him. And we still don't know what was wrong in the first place. Why he was all…” He can’t say it. Dead. Why was he dead? How did he recover?

“He'll be ok.” She squeezes his hand.

Arthur sighs deeply and rests his head back. He must doze because he wakes to twilight and urgent whispering. He sits up. Lance and Gwaine are there, both hunched in on themselves. Gwaine has tear tracks down his cheeks.

“What happened?” Arthur snaps.

Lance flinches. “We couldn't find him,” he says.

Arthur bristles. “He's hurt! His boots were in pieces! He can't have gotten far! We have to find him!”

“We know!” says Gwaine. “But if he doesn't want to be found, we haven't got a fucking chance!”

“Eat,” says Elyan. “All of you. There's stew and bread. We won't help Merlin if we're all dropping off from exhaustion. We eat, then we plan the next move.”

Arthur nods. They sit in silence, bowls clinking. Elyan’s stew isn't as good as Merlin’s. But it is warm. And Arthur didn't realise how ravenous he was. Elyan makes sure there's some set aside for Merlin, then gives out seconds.

“Alright,” says Arthur when they're done and Gwen is collecting the bowls. “Lancelot. Tell us what you know of Merlin’s magic. He lied to us all -” Gwaine makes an angry noise. “But he is our friend and I trust him,” Arthur continues. “If we are to find him, if we are all collectively to protect him, to commit treason by keeping his secrets… you must tell us what you know.”

Lancelot wavers; Arthur stares him down.

“I don’t know much,” Lancelot says, eventually. “But I know he’s powerful. His magic is instinctive. I found out when he enchanted my lance so we could kill the griffin. I’ve seen him use it to protect us a few times. He… is no fan of Uther. But he is your man, Arthur. And I believe, if he wanted to, he could have killed Uther long ago.”

“Do you think he means any of us, or Camelot, harm?”

“No.”

“Is he a druid?”

“No. I think he has spoken with some of them, but he doesn’t follow their rituals or anything. Not as far as I know.”

“Alright. Ideas. Where is he, how do we help him?”

“Ealdor?” says Gwen.

“Gaius?” suggests Leon.

“He might have just panicked,” says Gwaine. “He could be anywhere.”

“Can he heal himself?” Arthur asks Lance.

“I don’t know. I’ve seen him hurt before. So perhaps not completely? I suspect his strength runs out when he’s tired or injured, just like any of us.”

“Alright,” says Arthur. “We’ll assume he's hurt, so we don't have much time. One of us should stay at camp in case he comes back. Gwaine, you ran hardest, it should be you. Leon, Morgana, you’re fastest, I need you to ride back to Camelot. Speak to Gaius, fetch more medical supplies, bring him back here with you if you can. Elyan and Gwen, I want you on the road to Ealdor. Lance and I will try and pick up Merlin's tracks from here. So, that's Lance tracking with me, Gwaine here, Leon and Morgana to Camelot, Gwen and Elyan to Ealdor. Suggestions?"

“You and Lance should leave your weapons with me,” says Gwaine. “He's hopefully tired himself out and figured what a fool he has been, but if he's still panicking, the weapons might set him off again.”

Arthur considers. If Gwaine and Merlin were partners in treason, plotting against him, that would be exactly the suggestion to make. He breathes in and out. Merlin. And Gwaine. He knows them. He trusts them. And what are his weapons against magic anyway? He nods. “Agreed. Anyone who sees him, don't chase. Think spooked filly, slow movements, low voices.”

“Arthur?” says Morgana. “Don’t send me to Camelot. I think I may be able to help here.”

Arthur frowns at her. She doesn’t elaborate.

“Do you know something?” he asks.

Morgana hesitates. She keeps glancing around her and meets nobody's eyes. Her arms are wrapped around herself and she's still shivering.

“Alright,” says Arthur. “Leon, you can ride alone, I’ll speak to Morgana. Lance stay with me. The rest of you, on your way. Gwaine - help them with supplies. We should try to send word or meet back here in three day’s time. After that, we’ll have to head home.”

Leon, Gwaine, Gwen and Elyan disperse.

“What is it, Morgana?” asks Arthur.

She waits until the others are busy packing up, then whispers, “are we safe? You don't think magic is evil? Merlin is evil? You don't think it's a trap?”

It’s not a question Arthur was expecting from her. She has always been the one pushing Uther to admit that not all magic is the same. She was the one who wanted to rescue the druid boy. As he assesses her, he realises she's not asking for reassurance. She’s testing him. He considers his answer, fighting his urge to hurry away and get looking for tracks. He looks to Lancelot, who is standing between them in solemn silence.

“I don't know, Morgana,” he says finally. “That little druid boy… Merlin… perhaps they're misguided? But I can't believe either of them evil.”

“And if you protect Merlin… what if Uther banishes you? Or flogs you? Or puts you in the dungeons until you change your mind?”

“Then so be it. I don't think Father would kill me. He knows that everything I do is for Camelot. And if he did decide I deserved death, well, that would be one more sign it's time to consider whether he's still able to do his duty to our people.”

“You'd overthrow him? For Merlin?”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves. And not for Merlin, no. But you know we’ve both been uncomfortable with his tirade against magic. If it comes down to it, if he ever tries to execute Merlin… I don’t know Morgana. I don’t know what I’ll do. But I won’t let Merlin die.”

“Then - Arthur, I…”

“Yes?”

“I can find Merlin.”

“You can… find Merlin?”

“I… recently… I did nothing on purpose, I swear, but my dreams... I see things.” Arthur waits, while Morgana rubs her hands over her eyes. He’s not sure what she’s talking about. She has terrible dreams, always has, but that doesn’t seem to follow from their current conversation.

“What are you saying?” he asks.

“Time is strange with me,” says Morgana. “I see things. Things that come later. I tried not to for a long time, but it happens anyway. And I dreamt a few nights ago, I dreamt… you find Merlin. I didn’t think it could be real... not after he died. I mean, after we thought he died. But I know the clearing. There’s a huge, fallen yew. We passed it earlier when we went to fetch kindling, it’s not far. I think he’s there. I know he’ll be there.”

Arthur stares at her. “It's magic? You think you’ve seen where he is with magic dreams?”

“Yes.” She's shaking harder now. He steps forward and she stumbles back out of reach.

“Please,” says Arthur. “It’s ok, you’re ok. Will you show us where?”

Morgana gasps and nods. Arthur raises his hand slowly and holds it out to her. She looks at him and takes it.

Chapter Text

They don’t waste any more time. Morgana’s hand is small and cold in Arthur’s, but she pulls him forward with surprising strength. Lance runs to fetch torches from camp and then has to sprint to catch up with them. Arthur takes one, and holds it to the ground, thinking to search for footprints, but Morgana interrupts. “Don’t bother. He left no traces."

“How - ” Arthur starts, and then realises. “Magic. Of course. So he isn’t a clumsy, unskilled idiot, after all.”

“You know he never was.”

She doesn’t wait for him to reply but strides forward into the gloom, holding her torch aloft. Arthur is right behind her. He is torn between wanting to get to Merlin as soon as possible and fearing that if they run they’ll sprain their ankles. There’s not even a proper path this way. They have to pick their way across the slippery grass and leafy mulch, tree roots snaking out of the ground, boulders rocking in the loose soil as they step on them. The heady scent of wild garlic is thick in the warm, evening air.

The torches won’t last forever; Arthur has no idea how far they'll have to go. He is about to suggest they go back for the horses when Morgana finds a gap between the thorny shrubs: a deer trail, barely visible. Arthur longs to sprint down it but, for the first time, he feels the visceral horror of chasing something frightened, the gaping distance between hunter and prey, the impossibility of reaching them with anything but violence. No words, no soft touch, only their fragile body spilling in your hand. He slows. Morgana and Lance match his pace. For a while there is only the sound of them trudging on and the creak of the trees. There’s nothing to say. Arthur has no idea how Morgana knows the way. He’s afraid to ask. To distract himself from the nauseating realisation that he has very little grip on this situation, he stops to swig some water and makes sure the others have some too.

“Can you hear that?” Morgana says suddenly.

“What?” says Arthur.

“Something calling us,” says Morgana. “I think… Merlin’s ill. He's struggling to stay in his body. Arthur, he needs you.”

“Me? Why? What’s wrong with him?”

“Last night… I think he made a mistake and kind of… unhooked himself? Unsettled his magic. He needs to rein it back in.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about. How do you know?”

“I can hear… someone. Something. I think it’s the forest, calling to him? It’s afraid for him.”

Morgana used to tell Arthur ghost stories when he was very little. He loved it, even if it sometimes meant being too scared to sleep for nights afterwards. He hasn’t thought about those times in years. He so rarely feels properly afraid these days. Certainly not of Morgana. But right now he’s having to do everything he can to slow his breathing, calm his thoughts. For a moment, Arthur wonders whether straying into the darkness with one sorcerer to find another was a good idea at all.  And then has to physically shake his head to remind himself that he's following Morgana to find Merlin. She comes to stand next to him, then points ahead. Arthur squints, but there's nothing to see. He tries to stop himself from flinching at the sudden hoot of an owl and fails miserably.

Morgana puts a hand to Lance’s chest to stop him going further.  “We’ll wait here,” says Morgana. “You go, Arthur. Leave your torch with me.”

“Are you insane?”

“You don’t need it. Just walk that way until you find him.”

Arthur swallows an angry retort and instead glares at her. She waves him on, the orange torchlight dancing in her eyes. He throws her one last scowl and starts to walk. It’s so dark, he can only shuffle his feet forward, for fear of finding an edge and falling over it. He can just about make out large, looming bushes on either side. It doesn’t take long to confirm they’re brambles as their thorns spike right through his tunic and leather doublet. He pulls forward anyway, ripping his sleeve and the skin beneath. It's an old village superstition to plant brambles over graves to keep the dead from rising. A good place for a murder, he tries not to think. His hand keeps reaching for the dagger he left back with Gwaine.

And then the way is blocked by an enormous, collapsed tree trunk. Arthur gets down on his knees and feels his way along it. The wood is damp and crumbles beneath his fingers. He’s trying to be quiet, but it’s impossible not to crunch with so many twigs and leaves beneath him. He reaches the edge of the log and blinks into the hollow darkness. There are shadows in shadows. And two golden eyes like coins. Arthur thinks he's probably half a second away from being flung back by magic. He really doesn't want a faceful of thorns.

“Come on, you silly goose,” he says. “Can’t we please, just go home? My feet hurt.”

The silence has the weight of centuries to it. And then Merlin splutters. “What?”

“I'm tired, Merlin,” says Arthur. “Let's go home.”

“You can't call me a goose! Have you no tact whatsoever? You killed a goose just yesterday!”

“Only because you let me,” counters Arthur. And Merlin, for once, is speechless.

“Let's go already,” Arthur insists. “The others are going mad with worry. You made Gwen cry. And Gwaine. And Leon. Leon. Even Morgana, though don't tell her I told you.”

“I made them cry? I made them cry? You set me on fire!”

“Only because we thought you were dead! You were cold! I had to close your eyes, you little shit!”

There’s a long silence. “Did you cry, Sire?”

"Merlin, you idiot. What do you think?”

“You cried?” Merlin's voice is raspy with astonishment.

“Tears of relief," says Arthur. "I wept for joy knowing I would never again have to suffer you dropping another breakfast tray in my lap.”

“You wept!”

“Merlin, come on. The others really are scared. If I don't bring you back, I think Lancelot might stab me.”

Merlin laughs. “I would, but I'm stuck. I really jammed myself in here. Help me out?”

Arthur can barely see his own hand as he reaches it forward, never mind Merlin’s, which he assumes is stretching back towards him. He can hear Merlin shifting, twisting, whimpering; the rough bark must be agony on his sensitive skin. He has crammed himself into a very tiny space. His own woodland coffin, thinks Arthur and then shudders. Arthur can’t squeeze himself in any further without dislocating a shoulder, but there’s still too much distance between them. His hand keeps slapping empty air. “Can't you just use your magic?” he grouches.

Merlin goes still. “I don't know. Can I?”

“I don't care,” says Arthur. “I mean, you've got a lot of explaining to do. But Morgana has magic. Didn't you know? You're not the only one. I bet she's way better than you and your peasant magic anyway. She’s the one who knew where you were. She dreamt about it.”

He hears Merlin’s hand flop down. “She told you she has magic?”

“She interrogated me until I said I wouldn’t give you over to Uther. Then she told me.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“You’ll have to get out of this log, if you want to thank her.”

“I can’t believe it. Why aren’t you angry?”

“Oh, I am," laughs Arthur. "Believe me, I am. But we don't have to discuss it tonight. We'll figure it out. Together. When you’re feeling better.”

“Oh,” says Merlin, his voice cracking. There's an odd noise.

“Merlin? Are you crying?”

“Shut up, it's been a long day.”

“That's what I keep telling you! Up and at ‘em, let’s be having you. Time to go, lazy daisy. I want to get back to camp before Gwaine eats the rest of the stew.”

“Alright, alright. Stand back.”

Before Arthur can move very far, the log vanishes in a fizz of gold. Merlin collapses back to the ground with a thud and a groan.

“Can you get up?” asks Arthur. There's a rustling as Merlin twitches, lurches, but doesn't quite make it to his feet.

“Arthur,” he says. He sounds resigned.

“No, Merlin. No dying. That's an order.”

Merlin sighs. “I’m not dying,” he says. 

“Good. Then focus, Merlin. Come on.” Arthur scoops his arms under and lifts him, swearing as nettles and thorns scrape the backs of his hands. But he doesn't let go, not even as Merlin cries out. “It's ok, I've got you,” he soothes. 

And Merlin quietens. He presses his head to Arthur's chest as though trying to push away the pain.  “Let's get you home,” says Arthur. “And if there's anything you can do to heal yourself, I expect you to do it. That's an order.”

Merlin shudders. “I’m too tired,” he says in a wan voice. Arthur would usually tease him about sounding so pathetic. But Arthur is tired too. So instead he just breathes in the smell of Merlin’s hair. It’s not a good smell: smoke and river slime. But Arthur can’t help it; he bends to kiss it anyway. Merlin stiffens and then, after a moment, melts closer into Arthur’s chest, hands clutching at his shirt.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” he whispers.

“You’re welcome, Clotpole.”  There’s no response. Merlin has gone lax. It seems he has passed out. Arthur staggers back the way he came and soon catches the flicker of torchlight between the trees. Morgana and Lance hurry over as soon as he gets near.

“You've got him?” asks Morgana.

“Yes. Thanks for finding him,” says Arthur.

“I can't believe it," says Lance. "He's ok?"

"He's alive. Let's get him back to camp.”

Merlin stirs again as Arthur lays him down on his own bedroll. He's embarrassed to think that Merlin's one is now all burned away. Arthur just wanted his last resting place to be comfortable. When Merlin has managed to sit up, Gwaine insists on bringing him stew and water and meadowsweet tea, which Merlin makes a valiant effort to get down. After they've all fussed over him and Merlin has smiled and apologised for all the dying and kicking and running in a vague way that suggests he's still too exhausted for questions, Arthur sends Gwaine to ride after Gwen and Elyan and break the good news. He sends Lance after Leon, although him reaching Camelot and getting Gaius prepared for their return will be no bad thing. Merlin has rough, red burns all along his hands and feet, calves and forearms. Mostly not too serious, but a deeper, nastier one on his left foot. Morgana boils as much water as possible and uses some to clean bandages. Merlin cools the rest with a yawn, then enchants it to wash his skin gently. Arthur watches, fascinated. Once the wounds are clean, Arthur wraps them. “Can’t you heal them?” he asks as Merlin grits his teeth and struggles to repress his little whines of pain.

Merlin shrugs, eyes glazed. “Perhaps tomorrow. Cleaning was more important. I’m exhausted.” He’s shivering, so they wrap him in the softest blanket they have, taking care not to rub against anywhere hurt. Once Merlin is curled up, he stares at Arthur as though wondering why he doesn’t take his leave. But Arthur can’t let go of his hand. He holds it very gently so as not to press on the bandages. He's afraid to let him sleep. Morgana is also hovering. Arthur knows they should let Merlin rest, but…

“You didn't wake up this morning,” Arthur whispers. “I thought…”

“I'm sorry,” says Merlin. “It won't happen again.”

“How do you know?”

“I went too far into my magic.”

Arthur only just manages to stop himself from squeezing Merlin's hand tight. Instead he carefully moves some hair out of his eyes. “So sorcery is dangerous! You can't - Morgana can't - I won't allow -”

Merlin shushes him.

“You can't shush me -” Arthur starts, but Merlin puts a finger over Arthur's lips.  “It's ok, Arthur. I'm not a sorcerer. That wasn't sorcery.”

Arthur scoffs.

“No really, I'm a warlock. Half human, half magic. More like… a minor god of the forest, I guess? And the forest has already given me a proper bollocking. I scared it. I had such a good day yesterday, I went too far. I didn’t realise my own limits. I got lost and didn't realise how much time had passed. But I swear, it won’t happen again. I know the danger now. And besides, the forest won’t let me.”

Arthur isn't sure Merlin's making sense, but Morgana is staring at him, nodding along with a strange kind of awe on her face. Arthur’s too tired to figure it out so he just goes with it for now. 

“I’m sorry I panicked,” adds Merlin. “I thought you put me on a pyre. Thank you for rescuing me. Twice.”

“Anytime,” says Arthur. “I mean… hopefully never again. And you have Morgana to thank for finding you. Plus, she sang you a beautiful song at the river.”

“You did?” says Merlin. “Aww. Thank you. Did I have a beautiful funeral?”

“Better than you deserve,” sniffs Morgana. “I can’t believe you never told me about your magic.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re Emrys, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“And Arthur’s the Once and Future King?”

“Probably.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you talking about?” says Arthur. Morgana and Merlin just smirk at him.

“You don’t want to know,” says Morgana.

“I’ll tell you… tomorrow,” yawns Merlin.

Arthur resists the urge to shake him and instead just ruffles his hair very gently. He goes to get himself ready for bed. Happily Lance left his bedroll, so it’s going spare; Arthur pulls it right next to Merlin. He curls around him, not close enough that they’re touching, but near enough that he can see his chest moving in and out. A minor god of the forest? Arthur shakes his head. Ridiculous. No wonder he never lets Arthur hunt anything. Incorrigible, outrageous mess of a man. Worst servant ever. Arthur listens to his soft breathing for a long time before following him into sleep.