Fic: Then the War Came
Title: Then the War Came
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, pre-slash
Rating: PG
Words: 4,500
Beta: Many thanks to ignazwisdom and strainconductor
Summary: After discovery, Merlin sought refuge with the Druids. Future fic.
Merlin awoke to the drizzle for the third day in a row. The world outside his tent was grey and green; spring was coming, but it was not yet here. His shoulder ached in this weather, a reminder of a wound he’d got during that first, hard campaign. He'd been lucky to keep full use of the arm, but in the cold, it pained him.
He shrugged into his cloak, still damp from the day before. The camp already stirred, despite the weather and the early hour. Men and women worked fletching arrows, sharpening blades, gathering the supplies for spells and battle-charms -- everyone prepared for the coming summer campaign.
The Druids were not a war-like people, but they had learnt. If they resented his presence or mistrusted the former servant of Prince Arthur, they did not show it. They nodded as he passed, making his way to the command tent. He'd spent longer in the Druid camps than he had in Camelot.
He pushed aside the stiff canvas flap of the pavilion and ducked inside. A brazier warmed the interior, the cloying smoke smelling of pine and sweet herbs. Morgana was there already, adjusting a quiver of arrows over Mordred's shoulder with work-roughened hands. Her short-cropped hair was bound back at the nape of her neck, but strands escaped, curling tightly in the humid weather. If she were to arrive in Camelot, none of the courtiers would recognise her.
Mordred saw him first, his eyes so pale they were nearly colourless.
“Hello, Emrys. Did you sleep well?” he asked.
Merlin shrugged -- he never slept well.
“Oh Merlin, there you are,” Morgana said with a smile. “Come, Mordred, show him your new bow -- doesn’t he look wonderful? Quite the proper warrior.”
Mordred was taller than Morgana now, Merlin realised with a start. Strange that Mordred kept growing older when Merlin was quite sure that he himself never did.
Mordred straightened his bony shoulders, still adjusting to his new frame.
Morgana crossed her arms in satisfaction. “He’s ready. He’ll ride with us tomorrow.”
“Surely you don’t mean for him to fight, Morgana,” Merlin said, surprised. “He’s fourteen.”
“I am fifteen, Emrys,” Mordred said calmly, but his grip on the smooth curve of the bow tightened and something flickered through his eyes.
“And he’s old enough to fight. Besides, tomorrow will only be an ambush. We will strike and get out quickly.” Morgana put a hand on Mordred’s shoulder. “And he will stay close to me.”
“But….” Merlin said, thinking how easily magic-guided arrows could find an unprotected neck or the vulnerable juncture of shoulder and breastplate. Mordred just looked at him, his expression empty and unreadable.
“It is time for Mordred to whet his appetite in battle,” Morgana said. “The Council has already decided. He rides tomorrow.”
And that was that.
---
“Here,” Morgana said, reining her horse in. “This is the place; I’ve Seen it.” Tendrils of damp hair clung to her pale brow. She pointed to the road, which wound its way through the hills. “Uther’s men will come from there with the wagons on their way to the western supply post. We take them unawares, destroy what we can and retreat before they know what hit them.”
At her signal, half the gathered men and women scrambled down the steep incline to hide themselves amongst the trees on the other side of the ravine. Clad in motley greens and browns, once they’d taken their places, they seemed to melt into the forest itself. Most were on foot, but it wasn’t the disadvantage it might have seemed. Uther's knights had learned the hard way not to pursue them into the trees -- few knights who did ever returned.
“Merlin, where will you stand?” Morgana asked. It was an apology of sorts; she knew he was still unhappy that Mordred had been allowed to join the party.
Merlin cleared his throat. “I prefer to remain with you and Mordred.”
Morgana shot him a grateful look; she thought he was doing it to protect Mordred. Merlin gave her a tight-lipped smile. Merlin followed Morgana and Mordred as they retreated behind the shelter of the trees.
He heard the train before it came into view: the cries of the drivers, the whinnying horses, the rumble of the cart wheels over the ruts.
The knights rode in defensive positions at the fore and aft of the procession. Merlin did not need to use magic to enhance his sight -- his eyes found Arthur immediately, riding at the head of the line, his helm held carelessly under one arm.
Merlin caught his breath, looking away. He was startled to catch Mordred watching him, face blank and still.
“Nervous?” Merlin asked with forced cheer even as his stomach twisted.
“I am not afraid,” Mordred answered. With any other youth, Merlin would have thought the answer bravado, but Mordred he believed.
Morgana had her bow strung and ready; she shushed them. The only thing that gave away her tension was her clenched jaw. Merlin himself carried no weapon besides the knife at his side -- a blade more practical than deadly -- and wore no armour. He didn’t need them.
The wagon train drew closer; Arthur was a hundred yards away, no more. Merlin could see that he’d grown a beard, which struck Merlin as ridiculous. Some part of him was surprised to find that Arthur had changed, even in such a small way.
“Now!” Morgana shouted, her voice echoing across the valley.
Mordred set his heels to his horse, bursting from the woods. Morgana followed, and Merlin hastened to spur his own horse after them. They raced down the steep bank, Merlin muttering a spell to help his poor mare keep her balance and trying not to think about what would happen if he fell.
Druids poured from the woods like ants from an anthill, closing on the train. A knight blew a horn, the long sonorous note echoing through the valley, only to be cut off as an arrow caught in his throat.
Mordred wove through the scattering men and animals, firing off several shots, all of which found their mark. He did not seem to care whether he hit knight or civilian, as he worked his way toward the head of the line. Toward Arthur.
Merlin urged his mare faster, thoughtlessly batting away a knight's lance. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Morgana, fighting desperately. Two knights closed in, forcing her back as she countered their swords with her own.
Merlin turned away to pursue Mordred, who rode on heedless of Morgana's trouble. They came around one of the carts, the draft horses rearing and aimless with their driver hanging bonelessly from the bench.
There was Arthur, still helmless, pulling his sword from the chest of a Druid.
Merlin reached out with his magic as Mordred raised his bow. He should have been able to turn the arrow aside, but Mordred had charmed his own arrows, and the missile buried itself in Arthur’s thigh, just above the knee. Without Merlin, it would have been his throat.
Arthur grunted, but kept his seat, his shield coming up automatically.
“Mordred!” Merlin's magic seized the reins of Mordred’s horse, pulling it around. Mordred fought to regain control of his horse, but Merlin’s hold was too strong. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Arthur rode toward them, and Merlin spared a thought wondering why the gods saw fit to punish him.
“We need to get out of here,” Merlin said desperately, hearing Morgana cry for the Druids to fall back even as he fought with Mordred. He found Morgana on the field; the blood spattering her front was not her own. “Come, Mordred. This is no time for pitched battle.”
Mordred’s brow furrowed, angry and obstinate, but then he turned his horse. Merlin threw a glance over his shoulder as he made for the woods; Arthur had nearly closed the ground between them. Panic washed over Merlin, and he spurred his horse.
Ahead of him, Mordred and Morgana had already reached the safety of the woods. Merlin let his horse pick her own path as she strove up the steep ravine wall.
Arthur’s charger was gaining on him; Merlin could hear nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. With one final heave, his horse gained the top of the ridge and hurtled into the trees, a branch catching his cheek as he passed. He didn’t slow, though, guiding the steed into the thick brush.
The drumbeat of hooves behind him didn't fade; Arthur still pursued him, heedless of the danger. Merlin didn’t spare the breath to shout you fool, turn back, but he thought it. Not that it would matter -- Arthur had lost too many knights who’d followed the Druids not to know the danger. The knights' strength was in their numbers, in carefully drilled manoeuvres and open combat. Once they ventured from the known territory, it was easy for the Druids to pick them off one by one.
But nothing would stop Arthur in the pursuit of his quarry.
Merlin bent low over his horse’s neck, guiding her away from the direction of the camp, praying that Morgana wouldn't notice his absence. Arthur’s charger had more difficulty navigating the underbrush, but he was faster and showed no signs of flagging as Merlin’s mare began to slow. Her sides were lathered with sweat, her breathing laboured.
They were far from the others when Merlin finally brought her to a stop. He heard Arthur do the same behind him. The hair on the back of Merlin's neck stood up.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Merlin said, finally.
“I could say the same of you.” It was that arrogant, too-familiar tone that drove home that this was real; that this was Arthur.
“I’ve no choice.” Merlin swallowed, trying to wet his throat. He brought his horse around, and they were eye to eye.
“Merlin....” Arthur sighed and slid out of the saddle, unconscious.
---
If the caves hadn't been nearby, they never would have made it. Any sizeable magical expenditure would be sensed by the other magic users. It took all of Merlin's strength to get Arthur, wet and in three stone of armour, back on his horse. The caves were small, just large enough for Merlin to stand in at the highest point, the walls smooth and gently sloped, the floor sand and blessedly dry.
When he'd got a small fire going, putting water on for tea, Arthur woke up. He groaned, pushed himself up on an elbow, and with a wince, lay back down.
Merlin emptied a small packet of herbs into a tin cup and poured the hot water over them. Fragrant steam rose, strong enough to clear his sinuses. He helped Arthur sit up enough to drink. Arthur sputtered and choked a moment, but then drank deeply.
“How’s your leg?” Merlin asked when Arthur had finished.
“It hurts. Rather a lot, actually.”
Merlin went and carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage he’d applied earlier, thankful that Arthur had been unconscious when he’d pulled the arrow out. The wound was a good one, relatively speaking: clean entrance, no major vessels severed, just muscle damage. Arthur hissed as Merlin peeled the last layer of cloth away. Merlin pressed both his palms to the welling blood, his fingers gripping either side of Arthur’s thigh.
With a few words the flesh under his hands grew warm, and Arthur’s pinched expression eased.
“The pain?” Merlin asked.
“Gone,” Arthur said, disbelieving. “Did you…?”
“It’s not healed. I couldn’t do that much magic without the other Druids knowing.”
“The other Druids?” Arthur scowled. “So you’re one of them now?”
“They were the only ones who would take me, after--” Merlin cut himself off, “--after I left Camelot.”
There was a silence in which they both found things besides each other to look at.
“Get my horse; my men will be looking for me,” Arthur said and cleared his throat.
“You’re not going anywhere in your condition,” Merlin retorted. “I’m still not entirely sure you won’t go into shock.”
“I’m fine,” Arthur said. “And I cannot delay.”
They glared at each other before Merlin sighed and threw up his hands in exasperation.
“But don’t blame me if you keel over before you’ve gone half a mile.” Merlin took back Arthur’s cup and refilled it, adding more herbs. “At least drink this. It’ll help your strength return."
Arthur hesitated before accepting the cup. “It smells funny.” He sipped it cautiously. “And it doesn’t taste much better.”
“Sorry,” Merlin said ruefully. “I didn’t pack honey.”
Arthur drained it in one go, making a disgusted face. He blinked slowly, confusion clouding his features. “I feel a bit odd.” His eyes widened in sudden realisation. “…You’ve drugged me, haven’t you?”
“Yep,” Merlin agreed with an apologetic shrug. “S’for your own good.”
“I am going--” Arthur yawned hugely, “--to kill. Uh, to kill you….” He sank back onto his cloak, sighed, and passed out.
Merlin checked on his wound again and tucked a blanket in around him. He set a small alarm spell and left.
---
The wounded were laid out in the main tent when he returned to the camp. Two of the men had been killed -- though perhaps ‘men’ was a generous term; neither of them was past the age of twenty -- and a half dozen more had been injured. Merlin swallowed to clear the sour taste from his mouth and set to work healing them in the way he had not dared to do for Arthur.
He’d just finished with the last, a father of three who’d taken a nasty blow to the head, when Morgana found him.
“I lost him,” he said in answer to her unasked question.
“You should have finished him when you had the chance,” she scowled.
“Could you have?” he asked. “He was once your friend.”
She bit her lip and looked away. “I don’t want his death, but he has too much of his father in him. Our people can never live in peace with a Pendragon on the throne.”
“You’re wrong,” Merlin said, taking up the old argument more out of habit than any hope he would change her mind. “Arthur is different.”
“Let’s not argue,” she sighed. “I’m too tired for it. Besides, I wanted to thank you for intervening today. Mordred’s not ready to face Arthur by himself. Not yet.”
Merlin shrugged. “It was nothing. I would not see Mordred fight Arthur either.” He knew, even if Morgana had not yet admitted it aloud, that she hoped to see Mordred on the throne in Arthur’s place.
She smiled and the line between her brows eased. For a moment he saw clearly the beautiful girl she had once been. She cupped his cheek with her hand, her calluses rough against his skin.
“You were always too good for him,” she said, and kissed him once on the mouth. She turned and swept off, leaving him with the scent of juniper and pine.
---
Merlin returned to his tent, going through his stores and setting aside herbs and unguents. He hesitated, a vial of lavender oil in hand; he would need it all when the summer campaign started. Arthur’s wound wasn’t so very grave…. But there was nothing better for the prevention of infection.
Merlin packed the oil, just in case.
He also packed food and an extra bedding. He considered risking more, but he didn’t want questions; luckily the camp was still in disarray from the raid, and he slung the saddle bags over his horse’s haunches and led her out.
He stopped short, his heart hammering. Mordred watched him, standing in the shadow of an old elm tree. His arms were crossed, his expression one of mild curiosity.
“Where are you going, Emrys?” Mordred asked, cocking his head to the side.
“I need more willow bark,” Merlin said, the hair on the back of his neck prickling.
“Shall I come with you?” Mordred suggested. “Work shared is work halved.”
“No,” Merlin said with undue firmness, “Ah, no, thank you. Arthur’s men may yet be about, and Morgana would never forgive me. You should help her with the wounded.”
“As you wish,” Mordred said simply, but he did not move.
Merlin guided his horse around the boy, feeling Mordred's gaze on him long after he was out of sight.
---
The cave was empty when Merlin returned. A quick glance revealed Arthur's cloak and pack, but no sign of the prince himself.
“Arthur!” he called, his heart in his throat. Heat ran through him as he called his magic to him, preparing to cast a spell, consequences be damned.
Suddenly he was seized from behind, the cold blade of a knife against his throat. “Do not ever drug me again.” Arthur’s breath was hot in Merlin’s ear.
“It was the only way to keep you from running off and bleeding to death before you’d made it half way,” Merlin snapped.
The knife fell away from his throat, though Arthur still gripped his shoulder, leaning into him. Merlin staggered a bit as he took more of Arthur’s weight.
“You’re feeling faint, aren’t you?” Merlin asked, irritated and concerned in equal measure.
“No,” Arthur said stubbornly. Merlin twisted and managed to catch Arthur as he swayed.
“It’s a bloody miracle you’ve made it this far, you know,” Merlin said, hooking Arthur’s arm around his neck.
“I’m fine,” Arthur said, but he free hand clutched Merlin’s shirt as he fought to keep upright. Merlin helped Arthur to his makeshift pallet, and Arthur gracelessly cooperated despite his muttered complaints. Arthur settled with a grunt of pain, his arm tightening around Merlin's neck. Arthur drew breath through clenched teeth as he eased his injured leg out in front of him. He smelled of sweat and leather and of loam.
Arthur released him, leaning back against the cave wall with a sigh.
“Magic has limits. You shouldn't go testing them,” Merlin said, but cut off further remonstration at Arthur's look. “How is Gwen?”
“She misses Morgana more than she's wiling to say, I think.” Arthur closed his eyes. “She still holds out hope that one day Morgana will return.”
Just one more life that had been destroyed that day. Merlin rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease some of the tension that had settled there. “I … don't think that's likely. Morgana's hatred of Uther consumes her as his hatred of magic consumes him. She means to kill him.” Merlin didn't add and you, but it hung in the air all the same.
“You're quite cool about it. I suppose you share her sentiment,” Arthur said, his old haughty tone returning.
“No, I don't hate Uther. I did, at first,” Merlin said. “It kept me going right after I left, when I didn't think I could keep going. I don't need to hate him anymore.”
Arthur said tiredly, “He's ill.”
“How ill?” Merlin asked softly.
Arthur shook his head. “I'm not sure. The new physician isn't as skilled as Gaius was. He hasn't been able to shake a cold all winter. His cough sounds bad, and he tires easily.”
Merlin said, “I'm sorry.”
The corner of Arthur's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Why would you be?”
Merlin didn't answer the question. The fire had burned out, but he started it again with a wave of his fingers, flames licking up the damp kindling. Even with magic, it gave off more smoke than heat.
“You shouldn't have left Camelot.”
“What would you have had me do? Let Morgana die?”
“Dammit, no -- I would have found a way--”
“--Before or after her execution? Because you were cutting it a bit close--”
“--But you had to swan in, like one of the gods of the old religion to rescue her, never mind dozens of guards, never mind the king himself watching. And your eyes....” Arthur shuddered. “I don't know how you kept it a secret all that time.”
“It wasn't that hard, actually. You're not, shall we say, the most observant. To think of all the magic I got away with right under your nose?” Merlin whistled appreciatively. “You'd have to be blind and deaf -- or an idiot.”
“Was it all part of your plot? To infiltrate Camelot?”
“Plot?” Merlin couldn't help himself; he laughed, the sound ending shrill and manic. “Yes, that's it exactly. Get myself a job at the castle. Win your trust by polishing your boots, shining your armour, mending your shirts -- protecting you and your interests at every turn. Diabolical, wouldn't you say?”
The colour rose on Arthur's cheeks. “You lied to me. You left me,” he cried, his voice raw and unguarded. He caught himself and stopped to draw a deep breath.
The anger washed out of Merlin, leaving him feeling empty and wrung out. He set his elbows on his knees and cradled his head with the hands, too exhausted to sit upright. “I meant to let her die. Rather than give myself away.” Merlin felt Arthur's gaze upon him, but he didn't look up. “And there have been times since that I wished I had let her burn. This war is my fault -- if I hadn't saved her, if I hadn't fled to the Druids ... so many have met their deaths because I couldn't face hers. Or mine.”
Merlin heard Arthur draw breath to reply, but he stood abruptly before Arthur could speak. “Hope you feel like dried venison; s'all I have.” He produced strips of the meat and held them out to Arthur, who eyed them suspiciously. “Go on, it's not drugged, I promise.” He tore off a bite to prove it, but Arthur didn't accept it until he swallowed.
Arthur bolted the food faster than he should have, but Merlin was glad he had an appetite. He took the flask Merlin handed him without comment and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“I'll have to return in the morning, whatever your opinion on the subject. As soon as my disappearance is reported, my father will send everything he has against you.”
Merlin nodded in acceptance. If Uther's forces found the Druids' camp, it would be a massacre.
“I need to redress your wound,” Merlin said, “And then you should get what rest you can.”
He readied an unguent to apply to the wound, grinding it carefully with mortar and pestle. Arthur jumped as Merlin reached for his bandaged leg, but didn't prevent him from unwinding the cloth. The skin of Arthur's thigh was pale under the ruddiness of dried blood, the grain of fine gold hair coarse under Merlin's fingers. Merlin cleared the soaked bandage as gingerly as he could, but Arthur still hissed through his teeth.
“Sorry, sorry,” Merlin muttered, applying the thick ointment. “Just a moment more.” He wiped his fingers off on his trousers, already reaching for a fresh bandage.
“This isn't how I pictured it,” Arthur said, sweat beaded his brow and his voice was shaky.
“Pictured what?” Merlin asked distractedly, winding the cloth tightly.
“Our reunion,” Arthur replied wryly. “I always thought there would be more grovelling, more begging for absolution.”
Merlin sat back on his heels, tucking the end of the bandage in. “No need for that. I forgive you.”
Arthur laughed in a short, surprised bark. “You know, some things never change.”
Merlin set the palm of his hand lightly over the wound and reset the pain-relief spell. He met Arthur's gaze briefly. “I really hope that beard isn't one of them. Honestly, what were you thinking?”
“It makes me look commanding.”
“It makes you look like a prat.” Arthur's brow knit in irritation; Merlin reached out without thinking to brush the line of Arthur's jaw. The beard was softer than he'd expected, a redder gold than that of Arthur's hair. Arthur's mouth was open, a retort on his lips, but he didn't say anything. Merlin had only meant for it to be a teasing pat, but he found himself lingering, cradling the curve of Arthur's cheek. Arthur's eyes widened, and Merlin jerked his hand back. “You should get some rest.”
He helped Arthur stretch out close to the fire. After a moment's hesitation, Merlin lay down between Arthur and the cave's wall -- not close enough to touch, but perhaps enough to stave off the chill.
---
Merlin didn't sleep, but listened to the easy tempo of Arthur's breath and waited for dawn.
---
Arthur stirred just as the eastern sky began to lighten; the clouds had rolled away during the night. Thin tendrils of mist curled across the ground, already dissipating. Arthur said nothing as he ate a quick breakfast, while Merlin saddled his horse.
With Merlin's help, Arthur made it into the saddle. His horse sidled under him, and he brought it under control, hands firm on the reins. Merlin stepped quickly away.
Merlin bit his lip and refrained from reminding Arthur to be careful; Arthur knew full well what would happen if any of the Druids caught him. “Are you sure you can find your way back? Perhaps I should go with you--”
“And just how would I explain you to my men?” Arthur cut in. “I can find my way home without your help.”
“Yes, fine. Go on, then.” Merlin waved him away. “Good riddance.”
The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched upwards and then his expression turned wistful, almost tender. “Merlin,” he said. “The war won't last forever.”
Merlin nodded wordlessly, watching as Arthur turned his horse and disappeared into the trees.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, pre-slash
Rating: PG
Words: 4,500
Beta: Many thanks to ignazwisdom and strainconductor
Summary: After discovery, Merlin sought refuge with the Druids. Future fic.
Merlin awoke to the drizzle for the third day in a row. The world outside his tent was grey and green; spring was coming, but it was not yet here. His shoulder ached in this weather, a reminder of a wound he’d got during that first, hard campaign. He'd been lucky to keep full use of the arm, but in the cold, it pained him.
He shrugged into his cloak, still damp from the day before. The camp already stirred, despite the weather and the early hour. Men and women worked fletching arrows, sharpening blades, gathering the supplies for spells and battle-charms -- everyone prepared for the coming summer campaign.
The Druids were not a war-like people, but they had learnt. If they resented his presence or mistrusted the former servant of Prince Arthur, they did not show it. They nodded as he passed, making his way to the command tent. He'd spent longer in the Druid camps than he had in Camelot.
He pushed aside the stiff canvas flap of the pavilion and ducked inside. A brazier warmed the interior, the cloying smoke smelling of pine and sweet herbs. Morgana was there already, adjusting a quiver of arrows over Mordred's shoulder with work-roughened hands. Her short-cropped hair was bound back at the nape of her neck, but strands escaped, curling tightly in the humid weather. If she were to arrive in Camelot, none of the courtiers would recognise her.
Mordred saw him first, his eyes so pale they were nearly colourless.
“Hello, Emrys. Did you sleep well?” he asked.
Merlin shrugged -- he never slept well.
“Oh Merlin, there you are,” Morgana said with a smile. “Come, Mordred, show him your new bow -- doesn’t he look wonderful? Quite the proper warrior.”
Mordred was taller than Morgana now, Merlin realised with a start. Strange that Mordred kept growing older when Merlin was quite sure that he himself never did.
Mordred straightened his bony shoulders, still adjusting to his new frame.
Morgana crossed her arms in satisfaction. “He’s ready. He’ll ride with us tomorrow.”
“Surely you don’t mean for him to fight, Morgana,” Merlin said, surprised. “He’s fourteen.”
“I am fifteen, Emrys,” Mordred said calmly, but his grip on the smooth curve of the bow tightened and something flickered through his eyes.
“And he’s old enough to fight. Besides, tomorrow will only be an ambush. We will strike and get out quickly.” Morgana put a hand on Mordred’s shoulder. “And he will stay close to me.”
“But….” Merlin said, thinking how easily magic-guided arrows could find an unprotected neck or the vulnerable juncture of shoulder and breastplate. Mordred just looked at him, his expression empty and unreadable.
“It is time for Mordred to whet his appetite in battle,” Morgana said. “The Council has already decided. He rides tomorrow.”
And that was that.
---
“Here,” Morgana said, reining her horse in. “This is the place; I’ve Seen it.” Tendrils of damp hair clung to her pale brow. She pointed to the road, which wound its way through the hills. “Uther’s men will come from there with the wagons on their way to the western supply post. We take them unawares, destroy what we can and retreat before they know what hit them.”
At her signal, half the gathered men and women scrambled down the steep incline to hide themselves amongst the trees on the other side of the ravine. Clad in motley greens and browns, once they’d taken their places, they seemed to melt into the forest itself. Most were on foot, but it wasn’t the disadvantage it might have seemed. Uther's knights had learned the hard way not to pursue them into the trees -- few knights who did ever returned.
“Merlin, where will you stand?” Morgana asked. It was an apology of sorts; she knew he was still unhappy that Mordred had been allowed to join the party.
Merlin cleared his throat. “I prefer to remain with you and Mordred.”
Morgana shot him a grateful look; she thought he was doing it to protect Mordred. Merlin gave her a tight-lipped smile. Merlin followed Morgana and Mordred as they retreated behind the shelter of the trees.
He heard the train before it came into view: the cries of the drivers, the whinnying horses, the rumble of the cart wheels over the ruts.
The knights rode in defensive positions at the fore and aft of the procession. Merlin did not need to use magic to enhance his sight -- his eyes found Arthur immediately, riding at the head of the line, his helm held carelessly under one arm.
Merlin caught his breath, looking away. He was startled to catch Mordred watching him, face blank and still.
“Nervous?” Merlin asked with forced cheer even as his stomach twisted.
“I am not afraid,” Mordred answered. With any other youth, Merlin would have thought the answer bravado, but Mordred he believed.
Morgana had her bow strung and ready; she shushed them. The only thing that gave away her tension was her clenched jaw. Merlin himself carried no weapon besides the knife at his side -- a blade more practical than deadly -- and wore no armour. He didn’t need them.
The wagon train drew closer; Arthur was a hundred yards away, no more. Merlin could see that he’d grown a beard, which struck Merlin as ridiculous. Some part of him was surprised to find that Arthur had changed, even in such a small way.
“Now!” Morgana shouted, her voice echoing across the valley.
Mordred set his heels to his horse, bursting from the woods. Morgana followed, and Merlin hastened to spur his own horse after them. They raced down the steep bank, Merlin muttering a spell to help his poor mare keep her balance and trying not to think about what would happen if he fell.
Druids poured from the woods like ants from an anthill, closing on the train. A knight blew a horn, the long sonorous note echoing through the valley, only to be cut off as an arrow caught in his throat.
Mordred wove through the scattering men and animals, firing off several shots, all of which found their mark. He did not seem to care whether he hit knight or civilian, as he worked his way toward the head of the line. Toward Arthur.
Merlin urged his mare faster, thoughtlessly batting away a knight's lance. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Morgana, fighting desperately. Two knights closed in, forcing her back as she countered their swords with her own.
Merlin turned away to pursue Mordred, who rode on heedless of Morgana's trouble. They came around one of the carts, the draft horses rearing and aimless with their driver hanging bonelessly from the bench.
There was Arthur, still helmless, pulling his sword from the chest of a Druid.
Merlin reached out with his magic as Mordred raised his bow. He should have been able to turn the arrow aside, but Mordred had charmed his own arrows, and the missile buried itself in Arthur’s thigh, just above the knee. Without Merlin, it would have been his throat.
Arthur grunted, but kept his seat, his shield coming up automatically.
“Mordred!” Merlin's magic seized the reins of Mordred’s horse, pulling it around. Mordred fought to regain control of his horse, but Merlin’s hold was too strong. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Arthur rode toward them, and Merlin spared a thought wondering why the gods saw fit to punish him.
“We need to get out of here,” Merlin said desperately, hearing Morgana cry for the Druids to fall back even as he fought with Mordred. He found Morgana on the field; the blood spattering her front was not her own. “Come, Mordred. This is no time for pitched battle.”
Mordred’s brow furrowed, angry and obstinate, but then he turned his horse. Merlin threw a glance over his shoulder as he made for the woods; Arthur had nearly closed the ground between them. Panic washed over Merlin, and he spurred his horse.
Ahead of him, Mordred and Morgana had already reached the safety of the woods. Merlin let his horse pick her own path as she strove up the steep ravine wall.
Arthur’s charger was gaining on him; Merlin could hear nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. With one final heave, his horse gained the top of the ridge and hurtled into the trees, a branch catching his cheek as he passed. He didn’t slow, though, guiding the steed into the thick brush.
The drumbeat of hooves behind him didn't fade; Arthur still pursued him, heedless of the danger. Merlin didn’t spare the breath to shout you fool, turn back, but he thought it. Not that it would matter -- Arthur had lost too many knights who’d followed the Druids not to know the danger. The knights' strength was in their numbers, in carefully drilled manoeuvres and open combat. Once they ventured from the known territory, it was easy for the Druids to pick them off one by one.
But nothing would stop Arthur in the pursuit of his quarry.
Merlin bent low over his horse’s neck, guiding her away from the direction of the camp, praying that Morgana wouldn't notice his absence. Arthur’s charger had more difficulty navigating the underbrush, but he was faster and showed no signs of flagging as Merlin’s mare began to slow. Her sides were lathered with sweat, her breathing laboured.
They were far from the others when Merlin finally brought her to a stop. He heard Arthur do the same behind him. The hair on the back of Merlin's neck stood up.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Merlin said, finally.
“I could say the same of you.” It was that arrogant, too-familiar tone that drove home that this was real; that this was Arthur.
“I’ve no choice.” Merlin swallowed, trying to wet his throat. He brought his horse around, and they were eye to eye.
“Merlin....” Arthur sighed and slid out of the saddle, unconscious.
---
If the caves hadn't been nearby, they never would have made it. Any sizeable magical expenditure would be sensed by the other magic users. It took all of Merlin's strength to get Arthur, wet and in three stone of armour, back on his horse. The caves were small, just large enough for Merlin to stand in at the highest point, the walls smooth and gently sloped, the floor sand and blessedly dry.
When he'd got a small fire going, putting water on for tea, Arthur woke up. He groaned, pushed himself up on an elbow, and with a wince, lay back down.
Merlin emptied a small packet of herbs into a tin cup and poured the hot water over them. Fragrant steam rose, strong enough to clear his sinuses. He helped Arthur sit up enough to drink. Arthur sputtered and choked a moment, but then drank deeply.
“How’s your leg?” Merlin asked when Arthur had finished.
“It hurts. Rather a lot, actually.”
Merlin went and carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage he’d applied earlier, thankful that Arthur had been unconscious when he’d pulled the arrow out. The wound was a good one, relatively speaking: clean entrance, no major vessels severed, just muscle damage. Arthur hissed as Merlin peeled the last layer of cloth away. Merlin pressed both his palms to the welling blood, his fingers gripping either side of Arthur’s thigh.
With a few words the flesh under his hands grew warm, and Arthur’s pinched expression eased.
“The pain?” Merlin asked.
“Gone,” Arthur said, disbelieving. “Did you…?”
“It’s not healed. I couldn’t do that much magic without the other Druids knowing.”
“The other Druids?” Arthur scowled. “So you’re one of them now?”
“They were the only ones who would take me, after--” Merlin cut himself off, “--after I left Camelot.”
There was a silence in which they both found things besides each other to look at.
“Get my horse; my men will be looking for me,” Arthur said and cleared his throat.
“You’re not going anywhere in your condition,” Merlin retorted. “I’m still not entirely sure you won’t go into shock.”
“I’m fine,” Arthur said. “And I cannot delay.”
They glared at each other before Merlin sighed and threw up his hands in exasperation.
“But don’t blame me if you keel over before you’ve gone half a mile.” Merlin took back Arthur’s cup and refilled it, adding more herbs. “At least drink this. It’ll help your strength return."
Arthur hesitated before accepting the cup. “It smells funny.” He sipped it cautiously. “And it doesn’t taste much better.”
“Sorry,” Merlin said ruefully. “I didn’t pack honey.”
Arthur drained it in one go, making a disgusted face. He blinked slowly, confusion clouding his features. “I feel a bit odd.” His eyes widened in sudden realisation. “…You’ve drugged me, haven’t you?”
“Yep,” Merlin agreed with an apologetic shrug. “S’for your own good.”
“I am going--” Arthur yawned hugely, “--to kill. Uh, to kill you….” He sank back onto his cloak, sighed, and passed out.
Merlin checked on his wound again and tucked a blanket in around him. He set a small alarm spell and left.
---
The wounded were laid out in the main tent when he returned to the camp. Two of the men had been killed -- though perhaps ‘men’ was a generous term; neither of them was past the age of twenty -- and a half dozen more had been injured. Merlin swallowed to clear the sour taste from his mouth and set to work healing them in the way he had not dared to do for Arthur.
He’d just finished with the last, a father of three who’d taken a nasty blow to the head, when Morgana found him.
“I lost him,” he said in answer to her unasked question.
“You should have finished him when you had the chance,” she scowled.
“Could you have?” he asked. “He was once your friend.”
She bit her lip and looked away. “I don’t want his death, but he has too much of his father in him. Our people can never live in peace with a Pendragon on the throne.”
“You’re wrong,” Merlin said, taking up the old argument more out of habit than any hope he would change her mind. “Arthur is different.”
“Let’s not argue,” she sighed. “I’m too tired for it. Besides, I wanted to thank you for intervening today. Mordred’s not ready to face Arthur by himself. Not yet.”
Merlin shrugged. “It was nothing. I would not see Mordred fight Arthur either.” He knew, even if Morgana had not yet admitted it aloud, that she hoped to see Mordred on the throne in Arthur’s place.
She smiled and the line between her brows eased. For a moment he saw clearly the beautiful girl she had once been. She cupped his cheek with her hand, her calluses rough against his skin.
“You were always too good for him,” she said, and kissed him once on the mouth. She turned and swept off, leaving him with the scent of juniper and pine.
---
Merlin returned to his tent, going through his stores and setting aside herbs and unguents. He hesitated, a vial of lavender oil in hand; he would need it all when the summer campaign started. Arthur’s wound wasn’t so very grave…. But there was nothing better for the prevention of infection.
Merlin packed the oil, just in case.
He also packed food and an extra bedding. He considered risking more, but he didn’t want questions; luckily the camp was still in disarray from the raid, and he slung the saddle bags over his horse’s haunches and led her out.
He stopped short, his heart hammering. Mordred watched him, standing in the shadow of an old elm tree. His arms were crossed, his expression one of mild curiosity.
“Where are you going, Emrys?” Mordred asked, cocking his head to the side.
“I need more willow bark,” Merlin said, the hair on the back of his neck prickling.
“Shall I come with you?” Mordred suggested. “Work shared is work halved.”
“No,” Merlin said with undue firmness, “Ah, no, thank you. Arthur’s men may yet be about, and Morgana would never forgive me. You should help her with the wounded.”
“As you wish,” Mordred said simply, but he did not move.
Merlin guided his horse around the boy, feeling Mordred's gaze on him long after he was out of sight.
---
The cave was empty when Merlin returned. A quick glance revealed Arthur's cloak and pack, but no sign of the prince himself.
“Arthur!” he called, his heart in his throat. Heat ran through him as he called his magic to him, preparing to cast a spell, consequences be damned.
Suddenly he was seized from behind, the cold blade of a knife against his throat. “Do not ever drug me again.” Arthur’s breath was hot in Merlin’s ear.
“It was the only way to keep you from running off and bleeding to death before you’d made it half way,” Merlin snapped.
The knife fell away from his throat, though Arthur still gripped his shoulder, leaning into him. Merlin staggered a bit as he took more of Arthur’s weight.
“You’re feeling faint, aren’t you?” Merlin asked, irritated and concerned in equal measure.
“No,” Arthur said stubbornly. Merlin twisted and managed to catch Arthur as he swayed.
“It’s a bloody miracle you’ve made it this far, you know,” Merlin said, hooking Arthur’s arm around his neck.
“I’m fine,” Arthur said, but he free hand clutched Merlin’s shirt as he fought to keep upright. Merlin helped Arthur to his makeshift pallet, and Arthur gracelessly cooperated despite his muttered complaints. Arthur settled with a grunt of pain, his arm tightening around Merlin's neck. Arthur drew breath through clenched teeth as he eased his injured leg out in front of him. He smelled of sweat and leather and of loam.
Arthur released him, leaning back against the cave wall with a sigh.
“Magic has limits. You shouldn't go testing them,” Merlin said, but cut off further remonstration at Arthur's look. “How is Gwen?”
“She misses Morgana more than she's wiling to say, I think.” Arthur closed his eyes. “She still holds out hope that one day Morgana will return.”
Just one more life that had been destroyed that day. Merlin rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease some of the tension that had settled there. “I … don't think that's likely. Morgana's hatred of Uther consumes her as his hatred of magic consumes him. She means to kill him.” Merlin didn't add and you, but it hung in the air all the same.
“You're quite cool about it. I suppose you share her sentiment,” Arthur said, his old haughty tone returning.
“No, I don't hate Uther. I did, at first,” Merlin said. “It kept me going right after I left, when I didn't think I could keep going. I don't need to hate him anymore.”
Arthur said tiredly, “He's ill.”
“How ill?” Merlin asked softly.
Arthur shook his head. “I'm not sure. The new physician isn't as skilled as Gaius was. He hasn't been able to shake a cold all winter. His cough sounds bad, and he tires easily.”
Merlin said, “I'm sorry.”
The corner of Arthur's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Why would you be?”
Merlin didn't answer the question. The fire had burned out, but he started it again with a wave of his fingers, flames licking up the damp kindling. Even with magic, it gave off more smoke than heat.
“You shouldn't have left Camelot.”
“What would you have had me do? Let Morgana die?”
“Dammit, no -- I would have found a way--”
“--Before or after her execution? Because you were cutting it a bit close--”
“--But you had to swan in, like one of the gods of the old religion to rescue her, never mind dozens of guards, never mind the king himself watching. And your eyes....” Arthur shuddered. “I don't know how you kept it a secret all that time.”
“It wasn't that hard, actually. You're not, shall we say, the most observant. To think of all the magic I got away with right under your nose?” Merlin whistled appreciatively. “You'd have to be blind and deaf -- or an idiot.”
“Was it all part of your plot? To infiltrate Camelot?”
“Plot?” Merlin couldn't help himself; he laughed, the sound ending shrill and manic. “Yes, that's it exactly. Get myself a job at the castle. Win your trust by polishing your boots, shining your armour, mending your shirts -- protecting you and your interests at every turn. Diabolical, wouldn't you say?”
The colour rose on Arthur's cheeks. “You lied to me. You left me,” he cried, his voice raw and unguarded. He caught himself and stopped to draw a deep breath.
The anger washed out of Merlin, leaving him feeling empty and wrung out. He set his elbows on his knees and cradled his head with the hands, too exhausted to sit upright. “I meant to let her die. Rather than give myself away.” Merlin felt Arthur's gaze upon him, but he didn't look up. “And there have been times since that I wished I had let her burn. This war is my fault -- if I hadn't saved her, if I hadn't fled to the Druids ... so many have met their deaths because I couldn't face hers. Or mine.”
Merlin heard Arthur draw breath to reply, but he stood abruptly before Arthur could speak. “Hope you feel like dried venison; s'all I have.” He produced strips of the meat and held them out to Arthur, who eyed them suspiciously. “Go on, it's not drugged, I promise.” He tore off a bite to prove it, but Arthur didn't accept it until he swallowed.
Arthur bolted the food faster than he should have, but Merlin was glad he had an appetite. He took the flask Merlin handed him without comment and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“I'll have to return in the morning, whatever your opinion on the subject. As soon as my disappearance is reported, my father will send everything he has against you.”
Merlin nodded in acceptance. If Uther's forces found the Druids' camp, it would be a massacre.
“I need to redress your wound,” Merlin said, “And then you should get what rest you can.”
He readied an unguent to apply to the wound, grinding it carefully with mortar and pestle. Arthur jumped as Merlin reached for his bandaged leg, but didn't prevent him from unwinding the cloth. The skin of Arthur's thigh was pale under the ruddiness of dried blood, the grain of fine gold hair coarse under Merlin's fingers. Merlin cleared the soaked bandage as gingerly as he could, but Arthur still hissed through his teeth.
“Sorry, sorry,” Merlin muttered, applying the thick ointment. “Just a moment more.” He wiped his fingers off on his trousers, already reaching for a fresh bandage.
“This isn't how I pictured it,” Arthur said, sweat beaded his brow and his voice was shaky.
“Pictured what?” Merlin asked distractedly, winding the cloth tightly.
“Our reunion,” Arthur replied wryly. “I always thought there would be more grovelling, more begging for absolution.”
Merlin sat back on his heels, tucking the end of the bandage in. “No need for that. I forgive you.”
Arthur laughed in a short, surprised bark. “You know, some things never change.”
Merlin set the palm of his hand lightly over the wound and reset the pain-relief spell. He met Arthur's gaze briefly. “I really hope that beard isn't one of them. Honestly, what were you thinking?”
“It makes me look commanding.”
“It makes you look like a prat.” Arthur's brow knit in irritation; Merlin reached out without thinking to brush the line of Arthur's jaw. The beard was softer than he'd expected, a redder gold than that of Arthur's hair. Arthur's mouth was open, a retort on his lips, but he didn't say anything. Merlin had only meant for it to be a teasing pat, but he found himself lingering, cradling the curve of Arthur's cheek. Arthur's eyes widened, and Merlin jerked his hand back. “You should get some rest.”
He helped Arthur stretch out close to the fire. After a moment's hesitation, Merlin lay down between Arthur and the cave's wall -- not close enough to touch, but perhaps enough to stave off the chill.
---
Merlin didn't sleep, but listened to the easy tempo of Arthur's breath and waited for dawn.
---
Arthur stirred just as the eastern sky began to lighten; the clouds had rolled away during the night. Thin tendrils of mist curled across the ground, already dissipating. Arthur said nothing as he ate a quick breakfast, while Merlin saddled his horse.
With Merlin's help, Arthur made it into the saddle. His horse sidled under him, and he brought it under control, hands firm on the reins. Merlin stepped quickly away.
Merlin bit his lip and refrained from reminding Arthur to be careful; Arthur knew full well what would happen if any of the Druids caught him. “Are you sure you can find your way back? Perhaps I should go with you--”
“And just how would I explain you to my men?” Arthur cut in. “I can find my way home without your help.”
“Yes, fine. Go on, then.” Merlin waved him away. “Good riddance.”
The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched upwards and then his expression turned wistful, almost tender. “Merlin,” he said. “The war won't last forever.”
Merlin nodded wordlessly, watching as Arthur turned his horse and disappeared into the trees.