Archive of Our Own ^beta

. . 

He sinks to his knees amongst the rocks of the cove, presses his palms to the stones until they indent and bite at his flesh, and weeps. 

. .

The woods, the lands he knew as a child have changed, grown — at times more wild, at others more tame than the recollections from his youth. But he doesn't get lost; he's rooted to this placed, called home with each step.

He crests the last hill that surrounds the valley of his estates and pulls up short, his weary muscles nearly dropping him to his knees. 

He knows the land beyond as well as he knows his own self but the years have been unkind to them both. The fields that encircle the village should be rich and lush, overflowing with harvest this late in the season. Instead the land is barren, dirt parched and cracked under the harsh summer sun. 

There used to be such noise from people and animal alike but the streets are empty, nearly deserted. No horses whinny in stables, no low lament of a cow nor bracing cry from a hen disturbs the afternoon peace. There’s no life to speak of, just the gentle hush of wind as it rolls down the hills towards the valley he calls home.  

He descends, his unease growing with each step.

There’s something wrong about this place. 

. . 

Gaius greets him at the doors to Pendragon Manor, his old joints stiffly bowing as Arthur approaches. 

“None of that, dear Gaius,” Arthur says, wrapping the old man in a hug. “I'm so pleased to see you in such health. Although I fear I can't say the same about Camelot.”

Gauis’s face pinches in scowl. “It was a difficult winter and come spring we have suffered under the demands of meeting one tithe after another. It’s been a trial to make ends meet.”

“Surely Sir Tom —” Arthur bristles. 

“— is no longer the Sheriff.” Gaius interrupts. “Uther rules in his place.”

From the arch of the man’s brow he knows there’s more to this story, truths layered behind the things Gaius leaves unsaid but he hasn’t a moment to contemplate it or pry the old man for answers before the thunder of hooves draws him back out into the courtyard. He shields his eyes against the midday sun, catches a flash of black and yellow heraldry as the riot of horses are reined to a stop. 

Amongst their midst sits a man of an age with Arthur’s father were he still alive, hair as raven as the cloak around his neck, deep frown marring his otherwise handsome face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he calls, stepping towards the throng. “I don't believe we’ve met.”

“Sir Agravaine du Bois,” the man, Agravaine, bellows from atop his mount. 

“Well, I am Arthur Pendragon, Earl of Camelot and Lord of this estate and your services Agravaine —“

“Sir Agravaine,” the man cuts. 

Arthur tips his head in deference. “Apologies, Sir Agravaine. I thank you for your stewardship of these lands in my absence. But now I find myself returned and your services are no longer needed.”

The deep flame of humiliation colors Agravaine’s cheeks though he does well to hide it. “You shall have to take that petition up with the Sheriff during the next counsel meeting. Until then, young Pendragon, I grant you clemency to stay.” 

. . 

To his surprise, when he walks into the Great Hall for the counsel meeting there's a seat open for him and he takes his customary position between Sir Gorlois and Lord Rodor of Nemeth. 

Lord Baybard of Mercia, his father’s staunchest critic, sits across from him and he's flanked by his allies: Lord Godwyn of Gawant, Lord Alator of Catha, and Sir Odin. Sir Thomas completes the circle of councilors, the old sheriff slumped in his seat, looking frayed and beaten. Guinevere stands behind him, spine straight and face impassive and Arthur tries to mimic her repose despite the sudden twist in his gut upon seeing her. There’s only one other person standing as Guinevere does - Annis, Lady of Caerleon, and with a start Arthur realizes the chair in front of her is vacant. He presses two fingers to his forehead and bends deeply, the only sign of respect he can pay her deceased husband before the towering oak doors swing open. Uther strides into the room, Agravaine and a host of guards filing in behind him. The guards post along every nook and cranny of the hall, eyes vacant behind their helms, their mail sounding like the rush of many waves upon the shore as they rest their hands atop their swords. 

He catches the slight shift in the room, the unease that settles across certain members of the Counsel as Uther and his men settle in to place. But he has never been cowed by tyrants before; will not start in the face of such threats now. 

“Three hundred pounds,” Uther sneers, his hand landing like a vice on Lord Godwyn’s shoulder. 

“It's more than the last,” Godwyn withers. “My Lord, we can't supply any more without completely depleting Gawant’s reserves.”

“And what about the reserves of King Richard,” Uther presses, folding himself into his seat at last. “His men starve in the Holy Land while the people of Gawant will eat a warm meal tonight. But that’s okay, is it not, since you have given more ‘than the last’?”

Godwyn isn't fool enough to make promises he and his lands can't keep; remains silent in the face of Uther’s cruel mockery. 

“Isn’t that correct, Lord Pendragon?” Uther’s attention drags over to him, face impassive. “Were you not most recently serving in the King’s company?”

“I was, sir,” Arthur says, spine straightening under the attention. “And I thank the Lords of this Counsel for whatever provisions they’ve been able to supply to support our effort. Their generosity didn't go unfelt in the Holy Land. However — ”

“However?” Uther echos, eyebrow arched in scorn. 

“There will be nothing left to fight for if these tithes you implement don't relent. I must admit my shock to return and find my lands in such a state.”

He regards the other men of noble blood seated around him, tries to asses some mark of kinship, of their assent in his words. But these men whom he has known his whole life, who have taught him how to be a leader and what it means to be stoic and wise; these men, like fathers all, who shook his hand and spoke of their pride in him when he set off for the Holy Land — these men now can't even look him in the eye, their gaze downcast, averted as if ashamed every time he speaks.

“Did Sir Agravaine not manage your estates to your satisfaction?” Uther presses. 

“In truth, sir,” Arthur steels, “I believe he managed them to your satisfaction.”

. .

“My father would like to see you,” Guinevere says, voice low, stopping him with a hand to his chest.

She's four summers younger than he is and was barely blushing into her youth when he left. If she was pretty before she’s certainly beautiful now, fully blossomed into the swell of womanhood with curving hips and delicately full breasts where she used to be flat and stick-straight. 

“Guinevere,” he sighs, rakish smile tugging at his lips. “You’re looking quite striking.”

And still, needling her has always been a favored pastime.

She fails to hide her smile in return, rolls his eyes and drops her hand from his chest. “We are watched,” she warns. Even now she glances over her shoulder, sweeps her gaze out the window beyond. “Come after midnight.”

“Still living with your father? So that must mean —”

“Be careful not be seen,” she says, gathering her skirts to leave.

He arrests her with a hand around her wrist. “I'm touched you care for me so.”

At that she does laugh at last. “I don’t care about you, I care about my father. You’ve been gone for too long, Arthur and you're a fool to speak to Uther and Agravaine as you did. They’re dangerous - no don’t laugh!”

It may be arrogant for him to think but he knows danger and these men are not it; they are small men, given a lick of power from a distant King and have distorted his decree to gather funds and provide for the country’s brave soldiers fighting in far off places under the banner of their God, with robbing the fields and those who tend it for every last drop. 

“Guinevere, wait —” Arthur’s hands settle at Guinevere’s waist as he pulls her toward him.

They were to be wed once upon a time, the sheriff’s daughter and the young lord who stood to inherit the estate. But they grew up more like siblings and their love felt nothing of the romantic sort. To their young hearts, their future wedded bliss was known to be nothing more than a strategic alliance, a union of filial duty. 

Maybe he’s forgotten the comfort of her attention or maybe he’s been too long without the hand of a lover upon him, but something stirs within him as her eyes flutter in his embrace. He curves his neck down until they are level, draws a finger under her chin until the words he speaks are but a whisper on her lips. “I must say, dear Guinevere, the years have been kind to you. Your beauty…”

She snorts, a great unladylike sound. “Five years gone, Arthur Pendragon, and still blathering on like a jilted poet. Your pretty words had little effect on me then and even less on me now.”

He laughs as well, the first genuine smile since stepping foot back on English soil spreading across his face. “You tongue’s as sharp as ever, my lady.”

“Midnight,” she reminds him. “Take pains to not be seen.”

She steps out of his arms and takes her leave at last. 

. .

He dismounts from his horse, stands under her window and give three short chirps, mimicking the sound of a common sparrow. It’s long been their secret signal, concocted during their mischievous youth, days spent shirking their responsibilities to run through the fields of barley, escape in to the wood to climb trees until sun set beyond the horizon. But she doesn't return the call and the shutters across her window remain firmly closed. 

He makes quick work scaling up to her window, chirps again while his nails scratch across the wood. 

Guinevere answers at last, face pinched as it appears between the shutters. “I was wrong to have you come here.”

“Nonsense,” he says, pulling himself fully into her room. 

She paces away from him, worries her thumb between her teeth. “Guinevere,” he asks, blocking the anxious path she cuts across the floor. “What’s wrong?”

“My father,” she chokes a sob, tears rolling down her cheeks. “He can’t be trusted.”

He doesn't know what to make of this declaration and is ready to dismiss her worries when she cuts him off. “There’s a plot against you. I’m so — Arthur, I’m so sorry but you can’t return home. Uther’s men plan to ambush your estate tonight, set fire to it. They mean to burn you with it. You must leave.”

The news of this plot meant to bring about his death isn't what stops his tracks, stills his heart. Rather, it's the way Guinevere seems to crumple under the weight of her own distress, the discovery of a turncoat under her own roof. 

“Your father? Guinevere, I can't believe this,” Arthur insists. “Our families have always been close allies; Thomas was my father’s oldest friend.”

At the mention of her father’s name she doubles over, arms wrapping tight about herself in grief. “I wouldn’t have believe it either had I not overheard him speaking with one of the Sheriff’s men earlier.”

Arthur draws her into his chest, whether for her comfort or his he's unsure. 

“Things have changed, Arthur,” she tells him, her cheek along his shoulder.  “You’ll find people are no longer friendly to the Lord they believe abandoned them.”

“Abandoned? Guinevere, I assure you I didn't —“

She straightens, furiously wipes at the tears that have wet her face. “I’ve no time to quarrel over such trivial matters, my Lord. You must leave. Now!”

A thundering rap at the door below disturbs their quiet. Arthur’s steps are noiseless as he crosses to lay an ear against the door and strains to catch the short, clipped exchange between Thomas and those at the threshold. At the swell of heavy boots on the stairs, Guinevere grabs at him, tugs and pushes him toward the window. “Hurry, Arthur!”

He kicks his feet over the sill and her knuckles are white from where they’re twisted in his sleeve, halting his movements for but a moment. “I don’t have time to explain, but go to the forest,” she tells him, her hands coming to cup his face.

The brush of her lips against his all too fleeting.

Arthur reels Guinevere towards him, grips at her waist and slides a hand through her curly tresses until his fingers become tangled; licks at her lips until she opens under him, drawing his tongue into her mouth. For a moment he thrills at the small gaps that slips between her lips, at the way her body arches into his. 

The lock on her door rattles, the sound as jarring as plunging his head into a trough of ice. She wrenches herself from him, eyes wide and mournful. “You must go!”

“I don’t — Guinevere, I —”

“Please,” she begs. “Trust me.”

. . 

He rides until he can no longer hear the sounds of the flame eating away at the only home he has ever known, until he can no longer smell the tang of smoke in his nose. 

He rides through the night and in his haste to depart, he’s paid no mind to the course he’s cut, his only though to kept his head low alongside his horse’s neck, heels digging in to her flank, urging her faster, further. He has no idea if he’s still in Camelot and with nothing but blanketing dark all around him, he worries he spent the entire night chasing his own tail, spinning in feverish circles. 

He stops only when he spots the creep of the sun on the horizon, only when the stars begin to wink out of sight.  He posts his horse, slides the sack holding all his earthly possessions under his head, and sleeps. 

. .

Five years away from the comfort of his bed — four of which were spent living like a soldier in a foreign, hostile land — has taught him to sleep lightly. Every gust of wind or twitch of a branch has him reaching for the sword about his waist or the quiver along his back. 

It's why it's even more surprising to wake with the kiss of a blade against his neck. 

“Don’t move.”

The command seems to come from the very air itself. 

“Stand.”

Arthur rolls to his knees and catches a glimpse of a figured cloaked in the shadows of the early hour. He’s alone, no horse nor traveling companion, though he appears to be dressed too finely to be a farmer or mere peasant out to hunt and forage before the larger animals of the woods wake. 

“Please,” Arthur says, hands held up in front of him. “My purse is in my bag. If you’ll just allow me to —”

The hooded figure cuts him off, reaches out to haul him to his feet and crowds behind him until they’re pressed front-to-back, Arthur’s arm twisted and trapped between them. “In my experience,” the stranger says, his voice sounding like rich velvet in Arthur’s ear, “all noble men become liars when their lives are at stake.”

Stubble scrapes along Arthur’s temple as the thief speaks. The bite of his captor’s blade remains steady at Arthur’s throat while the man’s gloved hand runs down Arthur’s chest, his fingers dancing along the knives tucked like protective plating along his ribs. The man takes almost gleeful delight in slowly, nearly sensually, sliding each blade from their snug sheaths. 

Nor does the man’s blade waver even as his roaming hand searches lower, sweeping down Arthur’s right thigh like an impish lover; lower still until it alights upon the dagger strapped to his calf.

“My, my,” the stranger taunts, “how impressively equipped you are, sir.” 

The bandit finishes his search of Arthur’s person with a final brush of his palm along Arthur’s left leg, his touch light as it drags from his heel to his hip before curling into the inner pocket of his coat. 

Arthur shoves his elbow into his captor’s stomach before the man’s fingers touch upon the coin purse tucked within his breast pocket. The stranger backs off with a wheeze and Arthur rocks his head back but doesn't meet the resistance of a chin or nose, doesn't feel the gush of blood across his head. 

He’s an archer and inelegant in hand-to-hand combat but brawls often are inelegant things; he wouldn’t have survived these past five years without being able to throw a decent punch. His attacker dances outside of the swing of Arthur’s arm, shifts his weight before darting back in, knuckles connected with Arthur’s side. 

Much of his face is obscured by a hood and Arthur is only able to asses the other man in flashes — eyes the color of a cloudless summer day; dark, neatly kept beard. They would be, if he were permitted to stand to his full height and not stooped dodging glancing blows, level with one another. Or perhaps, Arthur reassess as he tries to land a strike across the man’s jaw, his attacker is even few inches taller and is as broad of chest as Arthur is. 

The man twists around him, his fist jabbing into the meaty flesh of Arthur’s back before his arm comes grips like a vise around Arthur’s neck, the tense muscles against Arthur’s throat certainly hinting at a strength to match the assailant’s stature. 

He’s only able to get a few more glancing blows to the other man’s chest before his breath leaves him completely. Black spots dance along the corners of his vision, his fingers turning lax where they’re gripped along the man’s flexing arm. 

He’s dropped in a rush, falls in a tangle of limbs to the cool forest floor. He sucks down grateful mouthfuls of the crisp air, kicks out and drives his foot in the bend of the bandit’s knee. It's a child’s attack, peevish and insolent and after a brief stumble the man recovers, turns back to Arthur with a new fire in his eyes. 

“What the fuck,” his attacker pants, the tip of the sword biting into Arthur’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood, his boot heavy on Arthur’s chest. 

There’s something about the phrase, a familiarity in the way in which the curse is spat with such incredulous derision, especially from one aiming a sword at a beaten and unarmed man. A dawning sense of recognition begins to toll clear as a bell in Arthur’s tired, hazy, frantic mind. 

In his frustration the man pushes back the hood that’s been obscuring his face and a laugh burbles up, slips through Arthur’s lips. 

. . 

The twin flame of realization strikes them at the same time, their names falling from each other’s lips, hands reaching out, grabbing, confirming they are flesh and blood and real, not just a wicked trick of the mind. 

“Really, Merlin?” Arthur says, pulling the stranger-turned-friend into a hug. “Highway robbery? I would say I expected more from you but alas.”

“Piss off,” Merlin laughs, giving Arthur’s shoulder a shove. “Besides, I prefer to consider my work more vigilante justice than petty theft.”

The tale Merlin weaves as they cut through the forest sounds impossible, improbable. After their tussle, he doesn't doubt Merlin’s physical prowess nor his ability to strike fear in those he claims to rob but the rest of the tale seems spun from a child’s book of tales — men living in the woods, stealing from the rich to provide for the poor. 

Merlin stops him with a hand upon his shoulder, curls his lips under his teeth and lets out a piercing whistle in a perfect imitation of a starling’s shrill rise and fall. (Part of him thrills that Merlin still remembers. Because it was he and Merlin who developed the system of bird calls first — Arthur imitating the sparrow, Merlin learning the delicate whistles of a starling. And later, when her lips were strong enough to mimic, Guinevere the pretty titters of a goldfinch).

The chirp of a robin responds, the wood coming alive around them as men — whom he didn't note, didn't even hear — emerge around them. 

“This is Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin says by way of introduction, waving in Arthur’s general direction. “He’s an old —”

“You mean Lord Pendragon?” someone calls. “Can he be trusted?”

“Yes, Gwaine,” Merlin snaps, right hand coming to twist upon the grip of the sword at his waist. “If you have an issue with that, you can take it up with me.” 

None of the men move nor object further, though they remain wary in his presence, their jaws clenched and eyes hard. “Good.” Some of the tension held along Merlin’s shoulders dissipates. “He’ll be staying with us.”

“My Lord,” Gwaine snickers, head demurred in mocking deference.

Arthur bristles, shifts the weight of his pack across his shoulder. 

“I suddenly find myself with no lands and therefore no title.” He will not let the shame of truth color his cheeks and says each word slowly, catches the eyes of every man standing in scorn around him. “Just Arthur will suffice.”

“Well, ‘just Arthur',” Merlin says. “Let me help you with —” He reaches for the strap slung over Arthur’s shoulder, knuckles brushing along the skin of Arthur’s neck as they curl around the canvas.  

Arthur stills at the touch and Merlin blushes prettily. He must have spent too long in the Saracen desert that such a touch of innocent fingers — and that those fingers should belong to Merlin, no less — causes his pulse to flare and his stomach to twist into knots. 

They’re of age, Arthur born under the sun of the spring planting season, Merlin the moon of the autumn harvest. As wild young things they were inseparable, the terror of their village, days spent frightening cows and horses as they raced through the fields, chasing the barn cats through the rafters, swinging sticks about as if they were swords and turning them on one another until they bruised. 

In their youth they were strange bedfellows, their friendship unlikely given their stations in life. But youth is often blind to such concerns of propriety and they filled their days playing as all young boys do: loud and expansively, voices talking over one another, innocent bickering turning to scuffling matches in a blink, the victor decided by whatever whim struck them. 

With age they were pulled apart by their duties - Merlin to the land, and the crops, and the animals; Arthur to overseeing the affairs of the estate, and attending counsel meetings by his fathers side, and learning to hunt and aim an arrow and swing a real sword. 

Perhaps once they were friends. But time has turned them into men and made them strangers in one another’s eyes.

“My Lo — Arthur,” Merlin corrects quickly. “If you’ll follow me?” 

. . 

The outlaw’s camp is exceedingly well equipped, nearly an acre of forest tamed and built to be as much of a home as the wilderness can provide. 

Canvas stretches across the treetops, providing a cover for whatever the English weather can throw their way. Hammocks hang two abreast between tress and wet clothes criss-cross on lines near the fire. A small stream burbles through a tumble of rocks, and there’s a deep pot buried in a dying fire. The air smells of bread and he spots fresh eggs and a larder full of hard cheeses and fresh meat. 

It is, all together, nearly cozy.

“What’s that old saying,” Merlin quips as he takes in Arthur’s frown. “Something about catching flies with honey?” 

“Yes,” he rolls his eyes. “I can see how paying people with illegal coin would warm them to your cause.”

“Oh don’t be so noble about it,” Merlin ribs, dumping Arthur’s pack on to an empty hammock. “There’s no place for that out here. You’ll be fed and safe. If you want for anything else, you’re free to leave.”

. . 

He’s on third watch, the chirps and trills of the forest around him a welcome comfort as the rest of the men sleep. Despite his protests, Merlin rises early to keep watch with him. He rubs the last dregs of sleep from his eyes as he sinks to the loamy forest floor, his back braced by a log behind him. 

“I'm trained to kill with a sword, you know,” Arthur says, adding another scrap of wood to the dying fire. “I don’t need you to sit here and nanny me.”

Merlin snorts. “My memory of your swordsmanship leaves little to be impressed by.” He kicks his legs out in front of him as his arms come to rest across his chest. “I think my men would sleep more soundly with the knowledge I'm here to back you up.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, unbelts his scabbard from his waist and tosses it at Merlin. “Polish that, would you?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Merlin snickers.

Arthur tramps around the fire, takes up his quiver and settles across from Merlin. He draws his arrows out one by one and inspects them in the light of the dancing flames, setting aside those needing new binding along the cresting or new feathers fastened for the fletching. 

“Why did you leave?” Merlin asks. At the blank stare Arthur levels him he clarifies, “To fight in the Holy Land?”

“I left…” No one has posed this question before, at least not with such earnestness and for a moment he has no answer. “The people of these lands needed to know I'm capable of leading them. Of protecting them.”

“You can’t protect your people if you leave,” Merlin challenges.

Arthur sets aside his quiver, braces his forearms across his knees and frowns. “It’s not that simple.”

“Is it not?” Merlin matches Arthur’s pose, his gaze sharp and daring. “Arthur you left — you abandoned us. All that’s happened has happened because of your absence.”

“No,” he stands, something like fury, like guilt, burning through his veins. “No. My father was alive when I left. He — I wasn’t —you can't lay all the blame at my feet, Merlin. It's unfair.”

An uneasy stillness falls between them, the spark and catch of the fire an echo of the tension crackling between them. 

“I did what was expected of me,” Arthur speaks at last, eases the clench from his fingers as he stares at Merlin across the fire, willing him to understand. “I did what I though best.”

“Best for who?” Merlin presses. “People around here don't care about the glories of a distant war. They care about being able to put a meal on their tables, to keep warm during the winter. And for the past two years very few have been able to do so.”

“And what of it?” Arthur argues. “You say you care so much but what have you done? You’ve retreated to the wood to live outside the law.” 

“I have retreated,” the word is spat back, mocking and cruel. “To the wood because the fields this village relies on were destroyed and my livelihood along with it. You haven’t lived these past years under Uther’s oppression. You don't know what we were made to endure.”

Merlin stands, rounds the fire and shoves Arthur’s scabbard into his chest. “If by running away I can protect just one other person, then that’s a choice I make gladly.”

. . 

It’s a trap.

That much is obvious. So much so that he certainly doesn’t need Guinevere crashing through the forest, twigs and bramble catching in the hem of her fine skirt, to tell him as much. 

Still, the obviousness of the ruse only adds to the temptation; makes it all that more tantalizing of a score. 

“Merlin,” Guinevere turns, exasperated, in search of an ally. 

“Guinevere,” Merlin smiles, attention fixed on stoking the fire, “you know as well as I that his Lordship does as he pleases.”

“They’ll kill him if he's caught!”

“My dearest Guinevere,” Arthur grins, pressing a kiss to her cheek though no spark of desire seems to ignite at the touch. “It almost sounds as if you care.”

“Oh, bully you!” She flushes in anger as she grabs at her skirts, deep frown marring her lovely features. “On your head it be, Arthur Pendragon.”

. .

They shave his beard and leave only a thick mustache behind; fashion a bolster of old rags that he ties to his back to distort his figure into something gnarled and humped. They tailor a new cloak out of torn and damaged parts of their own: the deep hood from Gwaine, the heavy bulk across the shoulders from Percival, the delicate metal fasteners from Leon to lend pedigree to the personage they create. 

Arthur wakes before the sun, sets aside his compact recurve bow and trains all day with a long bow in hand until the exertion renders him weary, makes him shake like the string after a loosened arrow. He notches arrow after arrow until he can feel the reflex take root in his muscles; doesn't stop until he can close his eyes, pull back the bowstring to kiss along his cheek, and fire the arrow straight and true. 

Merlin catches robins, twists their delicate necks and plucks their crimson bodies; bends over the fire as he binds new tails for all of Arthur’s arrows. 

. . 

He spots the moving shadows of Merlin’s men across the tower turrets, sees them tuck themselves into the dark corners of the crowd as he stands shoulder to shoulder with the other men vying for his sheriff’s prize. 

They announce him as Robin, named so after the feathers Merlin plucked for his arrows, and he comes up to the firing line. He strikes the target with three arrows, makes no bullseyes or impressive cluster; fires just well enough to see him through. 

Again and again, round after round, he looses red capped arrows until he stands alongside Uther’s archer in final round. The mans smirks over at Arthur while they reset the target, move it even further afield. 

Two final shots, two final arrows stand between them and the prize. 

It seems an unfair fight — Arthur hasn’t landed a bullseye yet and Uther’s man has barely missed them. So when Uther’s man fires first and sinks his arrow dead center, Arthur’s not surprised to watch as he pulls his second shot wide, launches his final arrow in a high arc to land a pace or two away from where they stand. 

Arthur says nothing has he pulls both of his arrows from his quiver, lines them both up on his string and draws back. They race off his bow and sink into the target at same time, landing perfectly on either of the arrow his opponent lodged at the center of the bullseye, their tails quivering in unison from the force of their impact.

The crowd turns rapturous at the sight and in the chaos, Arthur ducks away, his position on the stage swapped with that of kindly old farmer from a neighboring village whom Leon and Percival push into the fray. Though their statures bear resemblance, the man’s back isn't stooped thanks to rags across his shoulders but rather from a lifetime toiling in now-barren fields. And his deep wrinkles are genuine, a marker of a long, hard life and not a mud-painted trick meant to deceive the eye. 

Uther storms the stage, rips back their pretender’s hood and smothers his alarm with practiced ease. And when the grounds are searched and there’s no trace of the coveted outlaw this farce of a competition was meant to oust and capture, their man is named the winner and bestowed a silver arrow for his effort. 

From their coffers they pay enough to feed his village for the next two winters, remittance for his help and for his silence. They take the arrow to a trusted blacksmith and he melts the prize down, stamps the King’s face onto shiny new coins.

To Arthur, the rushing heat on his face from the forges’s flames feels better than any victory. 

. . 

“In truth, I don't know how to lead them,” Merlin admits as they set out to gather wood. “I know these lands, these people, but little more.”

“They’re here because of you,” Arthur offers, driving an axe into a dying sapling. It surrenders with a creak and a shudder of leaves. 

Merlin drives his heel into the fallen trunk, snaps it cleanly in half. “They need a leader, Arthur.”

. . 

He stands amongst the men while they take their morning meal, holds himself still despite the wild knock of his heart as their attention turns towards him, their jovial conversation falling to a hush.

“Merlin’s done well to bring you all together,” he starts. “But he's a farm boy with the brain like that of his beloved goats and has no mind for strategy.”

At this Merlin chirps, indignant, but it earns a chuckle from the gathered men. It bolsters him enough to carry on. “This little rebellion of yours — ours — will not last long if we don't start acting like it.”

He studies the shift in their gaze, sees their eyes harden from that of mere men to soldiers listening to their commander. It helps; he’s always found it easier to speak to soldiers than friends. 

“There will be order. And discipline. Things change today. I understand that this isn't what you came here for and those who choose to leave can do so without recourse. You have my word, we’ll look after your villages.”

When no man moves he finally allows himself to smile. 

“Good. Let’s begin.”

. . 

Percival squares up, draws the string until his knuckles brush his cheek but instead of shooting towards the target, the arrow slips between his fingers and clatters to the ground. Arthur comes beside him, offers a friendly pat to his shoulder. 

Beside him Merlin draws back and fires, his arrow wobbling through the air before catching the edge of the target. 

“Take your stance,” Arthur encourages, watching while Merlin notches his next arrow. It balances between his long, delicate fingers as the bowstring is pulled taught. 

“Relax,” Arthur breathes, laying his hand gently on Merlin’s cocked elbow, applying gentle pressure until it rests beside his ear. “Now use your mouth as an anchor.”

“Excuse me?” Merlin snorts.

Arthur takes Merlin’s wrist, guides Merlin’s hand until the fingers curled around the nock and string rest along his lips. “Perfect,” Arthur murmurs, positioning his hand upon Merlin’s waist. 

His other hand reaches out to cover Merlin’s own and slides it down the riser of the bow until Merlin’s grip is centered with his chest. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Arthur says, his voice like the rumble of a summer storm in Merlin’s ear. 

Merlin fires, the kick of the bow rocking him back into Arthur. 

Merlin laughs as the arrow lands within the rings of the target. He twists in Arthur’s grip, wide smile on his face. “Guess you really are a bit more than a pretty face.”

. . 

Things devolve, in the way most things go when a group of men are involved, into a competition; cheers and jeers rising, money passing hands, with each fired arrow.

“Come on then, Arthur,” Gwaine taunts leaning on his longbow. “Show us what you got.”

“Gwaine, I wouldn’t bet against him,” Merlin advises as Arthur pulls arrows from the targets and shuffles them into the quiver at his back. 

“Five arrows,” Gwaine challenges. “Bullseyes, all.”

“Take an extra twenty paces!” Leon eggs on.

“As you wish, good sirs,” Arthur says with a smile, bowing deeply before marching back. They count his retreating paces, cheering once he’s sufficiently far away.

He draws back the bowstring, slows the beat of his heart with a long exhale as he lines up his shot. The men begin to jeer, catcall and throw insults at him while he takes his aim. He fires off two arrows before they even see them land in the target; fires the remaining three in total silence. He walks back another ten paces and lets two more arrows fly.

“Jesus wept,” Gwaine swears as Arthur jogs towards them. He doesn't need to look at the targets to confirm his shots landed true but follows the men toward them anyway. 

Across the three targets, an arrow lodges in true center on the ones to the left and right. For the target in the middle, five arrows form a cross in the middle of the concentric rings — one dead center, the four others embedded like the points on a compass around it. 

Merlin bumps his shoulder, smile curling his lips. “Showoff.”

Arthur tips his head back and laughs, a deep and joyous thing. He hasn’t shot for the sport of it in a long time and feels lighter for it; feels buoyed by the laugher he shares with these men, by the smile Merlin offers him. 

. . 

The plan was to head East, sneak through the King’s forest and hunt whatever game they can, distributing the meat and pelt to the people they cross on their way back to camp. But they’re waylaid by rain, the kind that falls in thick, blinding sheets. 

By some divine hand they come across a tavern at the edge of a village and they deliriously stumble inside, wringing water from their sodden clothes, the blast of heat from the roaring hearth soothing their cold and aching muscles. 

An ample barmaid greets them, bullies loafing patrons out of seats until a table is cleared for their little band. They pile around it gratefully, though the men hunched on neighboring stools scowl as they pass, curl in and turn their backs to them.  

“Never mind them,” the barmaid says, filling each of their tankards with mead. “Everyone’s been on edge for days. The Sheriff’s reported missing stores of flour, ten bags total, and sent his men to pay us a visit.”

“Are you all okay?” Merlin asks, the worry on his face genuine. 

She smiles, waves away his concern. “Uther’s men will return in the autumn to oversee our harvest and take back what they feel has been stolen.”

“But that’s — ten bags —” Merlin sputters, incredulous. “You won’t have enough to store for yourselves!”

Under the table, Arthur rests his hand upon Merlin’s knee, his touch a balm meant to sooth the other man’s agitation. Merlin bumps his knee against Arthur’s and the motion shifts Arthur’s hand higher up Merlin’s thigh. He doesn't think to move it, nor does Merlin make any effort to dislodge the lingering touch.

“We’ll make do, love. Except,” at this she turns uncomfortable, glances around at the other tables. “They arrested two of our boys — Gareth and Erec. Good lads, really. Strong, hardworking, polite as a daisy most days. But, well, young men find it hard to hold their tongues.”

She leaves them with a promise to return with bowls of stew and in her absence they all fall quiet, faces solemn. 

“I’ve heard reports they’ve installed a new door to the dungeon,” Leon murmurs. “It’s at least two feet thick.”

“Well, I heard about that door too,” Lancelot says, taking a slow drag from his tankard. “I also heard that Robert of York built it.”

“Yes,” Gwaine probes, impatient as ever. “And?”

Lancelot sets his drink down, leans across the table. “Well the problem with Richard of York is that he can’t find his way around a hinge. His locks will withstand all manner of assault but the hinge side?” He shrugs, smile slowly spreading across his face. “Just a passing look from Percival is likely enough to make the thing fall apart.”

. . 

Merlin is right in one regard - though he’s trained to kill with a sword he’s always been better with a bow and arrow in his hand and as they set upon the castle he’s sent to the battlements while the rest of the men press themselves to the wall, waiting for the all clear. 

He fires an arrow at random, lets it clatter across the cobblestones of the courtyard below, drawing attention of the patrolling guards. With their posts abandoned, he chirps a sweet sparrow’s trill and waits with a tense grip, arrow notched between his fingers, until he hears Merlin’s answering call telling him they’ve made it through the doors of the keep.  

He’s more accustomed to throwing himself boldly into the fray; waiting is an agony. He keeps to the shadows, pulls his hood further down his head to keep the glow of the full moon from catching in his hair. There is nothing to note the passage of time, no call of victory nor cry of distress to alert him to his men’s happenings. 

And so he waits. 

. . 

Their exit from the keep isn’t as secret as their entrance. They spill into the courtyard amongst the sound of men yelling, the clash of blade against blade. He runs along the wall, sending arrows down to clip at shoulders and sear along legs, tipping the odds in their favor. 

He catches sight of Merlin, blade locked as the guard he faces presses him into a corner, the rounding wall of a tower coming up against his back. The guard’s arm draws back behind his head, the momentum of a killing strike building with his downstroke. 

Arthur fires, arrow striking clean through the guard’s back. The dead man tips forward, his weight catching Merlin unawares, body crumpling. 

“Merlin!” He screams feet flying him down the battlement stairs. He pulls the man off of Merlin and his heart lunchers at the sight of Merlin covered in blood. 

“Where are you hurt?” He roars, hands sliding along his chest. “Merlin!”

Merlin bats his hands away, pushes himself upright. “You great bloody prat,” he laughs. Merlin draws the back of his hand across his head but it only steaks his face in more blood. “Do you know how hard it is to get this much blood out of fabric? This was my favorite tunic!” 

Arthur laughs, hauls Merlin into his arms, holds him there until the riot of his heart abates. 

He stands, extends his hand toward Merlin. “Let’s go home.”

. . 

“We thought you were dead,” Merlin admits.

They’re riding side by side across a meadow, the destination of no importance. Merlin simply awoke that morning, turned to him with a wide smile and said, “Let’s go riding.” 

He’s been wondering, has danced around the same conclusion for a while now. Though the truth of it plain and simple on Merlin’s lips stings. 

He wrote, for moths and months, even as he received no letters in return. At every post, he crammed tiny script into every available inch of parchment, wrote by candlelight until his hand cramped. He wrote faithfully until he received a short missive, a few brief words scrawled in an unknown hand that turned his world upside. 

I regret to inform you…

They wouldn’t have assumed he was dead had he stayed, had he been there to fill the void left by his father’s passing.

Regret and sorrow are not something he was raised to believe, to feel. But he's no longer the defiant, self-assured child he was and now that he has seen the hardships endured by his people, has lived among Merlin and his men, he feels nothing but remorse for the way things have unfolded in his absence. 

“I…am sorry.”

He knows now that admitting such a thing isn't a weakness at all. 

The brilliant smile Merlin turns upon him is its own kind of absolution. 

. . 

He’s pretty sure it’s Gwaine’s idea to camouflage themselves in mud. It’s an elaborate concession for such a simple raid, one they’ve done a dozen times before, but it makes all the men grin and laugh as they alight upon the carriage.

They look like wild things, made of the very forest itself as they run towards the lake, it’s surface aglow under the summer sun. Gwaine strips before he even reaches the muddy bank, climbs up an outcropping of rock and launches himself into the water. 

The rest of the men follow his lead, filthy clothes marking the path from trail to boulder top. The men follow one another off the ledge, sometimes jumping in pairs, a steady stream of bodies and laughter.

He and Merlin have never been shy in their nakedness before, have grown up running to this very lake to escape the claws of summer; have lived alongside one another for months now that a flash of skin is perfunctory, mundane. 

But still, there's a beauty to the shape of Merlin’s forearms, his wrists, his fingers; the way his muscles bunch and flex and he unties his vest and tugs his tunic over his head. And alas, what a view that offers at last, the strong swell of his chest peppered with soft curls that match the mess atop Merlin’s head. 

Merlin is no longer the coltish farm hand, the awkward teen built of nothing more than long, wiry limbs, all knees and elbows and bafflingly large ears, that Arthur remembers him to be. This new body he sports tells of a life Arthur was not privy to and for a moment he lets himself appreciate it, watches the flex along Merlin’s torso as he drags his britches down long legs corded with muscle.

He catches Merlin watching him but Merlin’s face doesn't contort in disgust or color under the attention; he only smiles in return, eyes that hint at hunger — the pangs of which grow stronger within Arthur himself with each passing day — trailing over Arthur’s own nakedness. 

They are the last at the top and Arthur grabs for Merlin’s hand, Merlin’s yell of protest lost to the wind as Arthur drags him down like a rock towards the water. 

Arthur breaks the surface of the lake first, treads in place while he waits for Merlin to pop up. When he does it’s with a smile on his face - the kind that crinkles his eyes, pulls reluctant dimples from his cheeks. 

He catches Arthur’s arm, drags himself through the water until Arthur loses count of the number of places their bodies touch: Merlin’s hand on his arm, the sweep of his eyelashes along Arthur’s temple, Arthur’s hand at the hollow of Merlin’s throat. The ripples of the lake bob them back and forth, sway them away and back again and again and he counts each touch anew: a shoulder, a hip, a knee, an ankle. 

“You have —“ Merlin blushes prettily, his hand raining cool drops along Arthur as it rises out of the water. His thumb traces Arthur’s hairline indulgently, comes away dirty. 

“Mud,” Merlin finishes, the word but a whisper in Arthur’s ear; he can feel the drag of each syllable from Merlin’s lips against his cheek. 

He can’t think, can’t breathe so wrapped up as he is by Merlin. Merlin’s hands come to his shoulders and he pushes, sends Arthur sinking down to the murky lake bed in a rise of bubbles. He comes up sputtering but it’s no matter — Merlin’s hands tangle through his hair, rest on his shoulder. 

“Much better,” he laughs. 

. . 

“Arthur,” Merlin muses one morning, bowl of porridge cradled in his hands. “Your beard’s become quite wild.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” He frowns, rubbing a hand through the wiry hair along his jaw. In a way, he’s proud of the whiskers that have grown to cover his cheeks and chin; sees the growth as a marker to pass his time here amongst these men. It makes him feel like a solider again.

“No,” Merlin admits. “Only, I fear I miss the look of your face.”

There’s such wild, impossible flirtation dancing in Merlin’s eyes and it knocks him off kilter, turns all his blood molten. The only thing he can do in response is fetch a blade and press it into Merlin’s hand. 

“Off with it then,” he smiles. 

“Why did you come back?” Merlin asks as he draws the razor up the column of Arthur’s throat. “The war isn't yet over.”

“I woke up and everyone moved on.”

There's more truth to the tale but that's the heart of it: he was injured defending the King, took a deep stab somewhere along his side, his blood leaving him in a pooling rush. They patched him as well as they were able with no physician amongst their ranks. But in time the stitching became infected, Arthur succumbing to the ensuing fever. When he awoke after three weeks toeing the line along death’s door the King had moved on, his discharge papers the only marker that he had even been there at all. 

Merlin stands, runs his fingers along the now-smooth planes of Arthur’s face, admiring his work. Arthur leans into Merlin’s touch as his fingers trace along the sharp cut of Arthur’s jaw, skim the delicate swells of his cheeks before drifting along the jut of his cheekbones. 

He feels like a lump of clay or slab of marble being carved out and made new under an artist’s hand. 

Merlin’s hand drifts over the back of Arthur’s head, comes to rest at the base of his neck, his thumb sweeping a gentle rhythm behind Arthur’s ear.  

For one wild moment he thinks Merlin may press a kiss to his forehead. 

For one wild moment, Arthur wants him too. 

“I will always be here when you wake,” Merlin says at last, hand falling to Arthur’s shoulder. “I promise.”

. . 

They learn of a town beyond Camelot’s borders, its citizens quarantined in the wake of a pestilence that was said to be spreading through its populace. The rumor, as it's told to them, is that the sickness is long gone but Uther’s men remain in place and no one is able come or go through the confines of the village’s protective gates.

They are starving, the rumors say. They need help. 

They arrive with a cart full of bread and rich, fatty pastry wrapped around venison and rabbit meat that they hunted the day before. They are, predictably, denied entry by Uther’s sentries but Arthur doesn't waver. He piles his arms full of rolls and scales a nearby hill. One by one he spears each baked good with an arrow, notches them and sends them sailing into the village beyond. 

“That's a waste of arrows!” Merlin laughs even as his men reach for their own quivers, run loaves of bread through with their arrows before sending them over the gate in wide arcs. “You could simply throw it!”

“But where’s the sport in that?” Arthur smiles, golden hair haloed by the afternoon sun and Merlin relents, loads his own arms full of provisions and joins him at the summit of the grassy hillock. 

Merlin may be right but here, at last, is an act of service he can point to, one undisputed good deed to soothe his soul. 

He should know good things don't last, come with a price of their own. 

Arthur sees the archer before the rest of Uther’s men come crashing through the brush, sees the yellow fletching streak through the sky, arcing towards Merlin whose back is turned, unaware of the growing commotion as he looses his own pastry-tipped arrow. 

Arthur falls across Merlin before he has any sense of his actions, sees only the shock of surprise in Merlin’s wide eyes as they fall, their chests pressed so tightly he can’t make out the frantic beating of his heart from that of Merlin’s. 

“I — Arthur, you’re bleeding!” Merlin’s hand falls from its grip around Arthur’s bicep and comes away crimson. 

“Oh,” is all he can manage to say as Merlin pushes at him, untangles their bodies. It's the worry, the anger in Merlin’s face that registers the sear of pain across his arm. “I’m fine.”

“Idiot,” Merlin says, taking a knife to the hem of his tunic, ripping bindings to wrap the bleeding wound on Arthur’s arm. “You shouldn’t have put yourself in harms way for me.”

“Merlin,” he smiles, his hand braced upon the column of Merlin’s throat, this thumb dragging along the line of his jaw. “I would take worse than the nip of an arrow if it meant keeping you safe.”

. . 

Merlin crashes through the house, returns to the table with his arms full of supplies. 

“Drink that.” Merlin passes him a bottle of something brown and just a whiff is enough to make Arthur’s eyes water. He takes a cautious sip, the liquid burning like fire down his throat. He coughs up more than he swallows and Merlin frowns, gentle fingers diligently working to unwind the blood-soaked wrappings from around Arthur’s arm. 

“Keep drinking,” he instructs softly when Arthur makes to set the bottle down between them.

“Merlin,” he sighs, “I don’t —” 

“You do. Drink.”

He obliges, grimaces through one mouthful, then another as Merlin holds a needle above the candle flame. 

“This needle is…not ideal,” he frowns, drawing it out of the lick of the flame. “It's thick and blunt.”

Arthur’s eyes alight on the way Merlin’s tongue darts to wet hip lips, tracks the path the tail of thread makes through them before Merlin’s deft fingers make quick work threading it through the eye and tying it off. 

“No need to boast, Merlin,” Arthur taunts, his grin lecherous. “Besides, it’s what you do with it that matters.”

“Oh?” The grin Merlin levels back at Arthur is even more fiendish. “Did you have something particular in mind?”

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. Quick as a flash, Merlin grabs the bottle, splashes some of the liquid on the oozing wound and Arthur howls, back arching, knuckles bone white as they dig into Merlin’s arm. 

Merlin bites back a smile, steadies his expression under Arthur’s scowl. “Settle now, the worst is over.”

The hard press of his lips tells Arthur otherwise and in preparation he makes to grab the bottle back, his hand landing across Merlin’s own, fingers tangled. 

They are but a hair apart and if he were to just twist, only a fraction, it would be as simple as breathing to pass his lips along Merlin’s own.

“Ready?” Merlin asks, voice low. 

Arthur’s mind is sluggish, already light and dizzy from the lull of the liquor beating through his veins. His fingers twitch against Merlin’s, their hands still stacked atop the bottle neck. 

“Yes,” Arthur breathes. 

The needle sears through his skin and Arthur tips his head back, grimaces through another swig that shoots fire down his throat though it’s a welcome distraction — the tug along his wound, the push and pull of a needle through his serrated flesh is enough to make his stomach roil. He thumps the bottle down on the table next to the bowl of water now murky with his own blood.

“Doing good,” Merlin murmurs. “Just keep breathing. Almost done.”

His arm throbs in time with the pulse raging in his ears. He watches the flutter of Merlin’s eyelashes, studies the way Merlin’s lips curl in concentration.

Merlin ties the stitching off and flexes his fingers. Arthur only briefly catches the shake in them before Merlin takes a long pull from the bottle, passes it off to Arthur who finishes it down without reflex. 

Merlin rises, extends his hand toward Arthur. “Let’s go home.”

. . 

They’re setting rabbits snares when the sounds of feet upon the footpath has them all reaching for their weapons. Two priests bend into view, the their robes dark with sweat around their pits, hems caked in dirt as they twist along their ankles. 

“Good day!” One calls as they stumble towards them. Percival raises his hand in greeting, makes to move toward them but Arthur throws his hand along the other man’s chest, staying his motion.

“Please, sirs,” the second priest takes up the call, hands twisted in supplication. “We are in need of help!”

“State your cause,” Arthur shouts, redrawing his arrow and keeping both men within his sight, arrow steady as it awaits along his taught bowstring. 

“We have been robbed but not an hour ago. We have nothing more than the cloaks upon our backs,” the taller among the pair says. “If we could ask for some food, or maybe some coin to help us on our way?”

“Dear brothers,” Arthur relents, arrow sagging at last in his grip. “Of course! And we shall pray with you too, ask God for guidance and the money you so richly deserve.”

Arthur kneels and the others follow unsteadily, copy his motion to bow their heads over pressed hands. The priests kneel in silence, shifting from knee to knee though their lips don't move to recite any prayers. When at last they make a move to stand, Arthur pulls his sword from his belt, advances upon with with the blade trained towards their chests. 

“These men are not priests,” he spits, fury etched in each hard line of his face. “They are charlatans.”

“Arthur.” His name across Merlin’s lips sounds like a warning but he doesn't heed it. 

“For four years I fought under the banner of their God,” he says advancing upon the con men, his sword shaking in his grip. “I nearly died in His name. And now they come upon us in false supplication, can't even recite a prayer to save their souls."

Unmasked the men turn to fleet but in their haste they trip along their drooping robes. On hands and knees they scramble along the forest floor as Arthur levels the tip of his blade towards them. 

“With my mouth I will greatly extol the Lord; in the great throng of worshipers I will praise him,” he recites. “For he stands at the right hand of the needy, to save their lives from those who would condemn them.”

“Arthur,” Merlin repeats. He steps to Arthur's side, lays his hand upon his arm and only under Merlin’s touch, with his name spoken with such care from Merlin’s lips, does he relent, come back to himself. 

Arthur flips the sword in his hand, slams the butt of his pommel across each pretender’s temple and they drop, boneless, to the ground. 

Merlin curses, crouches to check the men are still breathing while Arthur’s hand slips into the folds of their robes and emerges with his fists full of gold. 

. . 

Merlin is on third watch, the peaks and valleys of his face thrown into flickering shadows. Despite his protests, Arthur rises early to keep watch with him, sits beside him in front of the fire.  

“I read the Q’aran while in the Holy Land.” He doesn't know why he mentions such a thing, only that there's something about Merlin’s presence, pressed as they are from knee to shoulder, that anchors him, soothes him, pulls this small confession from the depths of his heart. 

“The what?” Merlin asks, his hands growing still along the scrap of wood he was whittling. 

“The scripture of the Turks,” Arthur clarifies, adding another log the fire. 

“Why?”

“I wanted to know what it was that we were fighting.” It seemed like such a simple, such an obvious thing to do a the time and the truth of it sounds naive even to his own ears. 

“And did you?” Merlin’s voice is barely above a whisper.  “Learn?”

Arthur falls quiet, watches the flames rise and fall and dance along the logs until their conversations feels like a boat slipping beyond the horizon. When he speaks again, his voice is rough from disuse. “No. I truly don’t know what it is we’re fighting anymore, Merlin.”

Because in that moment he doesn’t what fight he’s referring to - perhaps it doesn’t matter, perhaps Merlin knows anyway for in that instant he surges forward, presses his lips to Arthur’s. 

The gasp of Arthur’s name on Merlin’s lips, the race of his heart under Arthur’s hand, the slide of their lips, messy and hungry is a greater bliss than he has ever known.

. . 

Two of the younger boys in their band sneak out before dawn. Their ranks are not so large that their absence goes unnoticed but it's not altogether unusual for the men to come and go as they please; there would be no trust, no honesty among them if they feared their every move was tracked. 

Hector returns as the sun slips below the trees, tracks of tears cutting through the dirt on his cheeks. “They have Mordred,” he wails. “We were hunting and Agravaine — I’m sorry Merlin, we were no match. He took Mordred.”

They spend a tense night around the fire sharpening blades and fashioning new arrows while a plan is formed. But such talk is for naught, for in the morning Mordred rides through their clearing on a chestnut stallion. He dismounts amongst a roar of cheers and as they pour wine and toast to his return, he regales them all with the tale of his capture and lucky escape. 

It's not until they hear the pounding of a calvary of hooves echo through the otherwise quiet forest do they come to realize the deceit. 

Leon and Percival run into the clearing, faces red and chests heaving, words tumbling, broken and scattered. “The Sheriff — Agravaine — his men.”

They speak over one another, their words a jumble, but it's enough to stir everyone to action though Arthur stands fast, face twisted in a frown.

“Mordred!” He roars, slamming the boy into a nearby tree, his fist bunched the boy’s tunic. “What did you do?”

“I — I — ”

“The horse,” Lancelot says, face grim. “Its shoes are marked.” 

They all pause, eyes falling to the dirt around them. Lancelot toes one of the marks, an X bridging the curving band along the heel.  

“I’m sorry,” Mordred cries, fat tears sliding down his rosy cheeks. “My mother — I had to — they have my mother!”

It's Merlin who catches the glint the knife in the boy’s hand as he angles it toward’s Arthur back; it's his fist that sails across Mordred’s cheek until he's slumped in Arthur’s grip. 

“Fucking bastard,” he spits, wrenching the dagger from Mordred’s limp hand. 

“Go,” Arthur commands to any who will listen, slinging his quiver across his back. 

Merlin catches him by the arm, “Arthur, what —” 

“I will draw them away but it's not safe for the rest of you to remain here.” His hand drags through Merlin’s curls, cups his cheek, his thumb brushing across Merlin’s lips. “Go!”

Arthur throws himself into the saddle, accepts the bow Merlin hands up to him. He allows himself the indulgence of keeping their fingers twined for the span of a breath and then another before he pulls away, grips at the reins. “I will find you.”

Merlin steps away, nods, and turns his attention back to the camp, barking orders for the other men to follow. He straps himself with quiver and bow and sword and by the time he looks up again, Arthur is gone, not even the sway of the brush giving away his direction. 

. . 

He has always been a skilled horseman and with his mount stolen from the Sheriff’s own stables, they are unstoppable, the wood around them nothing more than a blur. 

He rides until sweat begins to wick the horse’s haunches and only then does he turn back towards their camp, his men; towards Merlin. He spots a flowing stream and slides from his horse, lets it drink deeply while he lists against it’s flank. But he must have ridden farther than he thought, crossed the bounds between Camelot and Merica because knights dressed in red crash through the clearing, surround him and force him to his knees. 

They hold him until night begins to creep along the sky, a dozen blades and a dozen more arrows trained on him until a lone figure cuts through their midst. He is handsome as ever, not a lock of raven hair out of place as he dismounts and approaches Arthur.

Agravaine smiles. “Arrest him.”

. .

They make an example of him, drag him to the stocks and flog him until his tunic lands in tatters along his back, until his voice runs hoarse. In private, they make no effort to hide their cruelty or pull their punches.

One morning they storm into his cell, upend a bucket of something wet and cold over his head, drawing him from sleep in gasping sputters. Hands land like vices on his arms, yank roughly at his hair, exposing the column of his throat to the bite of a knife before it hacks through his hair. 

When he at last has strength in his limbs he runs his fingers through his butchered tresses, feels the ridges of new scabs along his head, run through the roughness of the cut. His once golden hair — hair that Merlin used to press sighs into, used to wrap his fingers around in teasing, in ecstasy — is shorn close to his scalp like a lamb in spring.

He does not, will not cry over such vanity, but he comes close to it. 

. .

They build the gallows outside his window, the sound of hammers driving nails his only companion. He prays to all the gods he knows for forgiveness, for absolution, for freedom; for whatever desperate plea they may grant him. 

They come for him in the morning, landing punches in places that are already tender and purpled by bruises, binding his wrists behind his back before they drag him roughly from his cell. 

He gets but a glimpse of the sky, pulls fresh air deep into his lungs before they push him, send him stumbling, knees biting into the stairs. 

More bruises, more blood, more pain. 

Faces swim before him, none familiar save for those of Uther and Agravaine, smug atop the castle steps. 

They place a hood over his head, his world reduced to his own stuttered exhales and still he doe not cry, doesn't loose his knees or stoop his back even as he feels the weight of the noose draped around his neck. 

Beyond, he can only make out the rising and falling tone of Uther’s booming voice, the speech he can't hear no doubt condemning him, making an example of him; reducing his life, his deeds, to petty crimes of ego, painting him to be nothing more than a traitor to his King, his country. 

And still his feet remain steady. And still the boards below him hold still, remain unchanged.

. . 

The noose tightens as the courtyard beyond explodes into noise. 

He hears, or thinks he does — though does not let himself hold on to any false hope — the rising pitch of Merlin’s voice call his name.

He feels the air shift around him, hears the thud of the hangman as he drops dead. Beyond his hood there is only the clang of meeting blades, the grunt and huff of colliding bodies, the clatter of hooves along cobblestones. 

“Easy Arthur, easy.” The hands around him are strong and sure, gentle as they bear his weight.  “I have you.” 

Light blinds him as the hood is lifted and the ropes binding his wrist are cut free. He blinks until the world rights itself, until Merlin’s face swims into his vision. 

Merlin’s hands cup his face and his lips, when they reverently press against his, feel like salvation.

He sinks to his knees and weeps.

. . 

It takes three of them to get Arthur seated in the saddle. Merlin swings up behind him, wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist. He presses a kiss to Arthur’s neck, holds Arthur’s body close to his as his heels dig into the horses’s flank. 

“Let’s go home.”

. .