Disclaimer: Merlin is not mine.

It had been an interesting homecoming.

They had stumbled into the courtyard of the citadel of Camelot, weaving back and forth and apparently looking distinctly worse for the wear. The guards had certainly not recognized them.

It hadn't helped that they'd spent the final day of their quest walking again. Aithsua had begun to fly lower and lower as he'd carried them away from the white castle. Merlin eventually persuaded the dragon to admit that he was tired, which led Merlin to immediately forsake his and Arthur's safety for the sake of giving the damn creature a break.

Arthur actually hadn't minded nearly so much as he'd exclaimed. Aithusa had done them a great service by flying them all over the place, and while he had dropped them a few times, Arthur supposed that perhaps adolescent dragons just did that from time to time. He wasn't entirely sure how the ages of dragons and humans correlated, but he knew that he hadn't been a vision of grace during his pubescent years. Besides, if Aithusa was growing tired, Arthur wasn't particularly anxious to risk another tumble off of his back. Aithusa wasn't the only magical creature who was exhausted, and Arthur didn't want to rely on Merlin to have to catch them every time they fell from the sky.

Aithusa had gotten them most of the way anyway, and Arthur had been trying to think of a tactful way to tell the white dragon that he didn't want him to deliver them directly to the castle. Friendly as Aithusa could be when he so chose, the people of Camelot had not yet forgotten the havoc wreaked upon them by the Great Dragon. It hadn't been that long ago, and even Arthur was uncomfortable around Kilgarrah. He had tried to kill the beast, after all.

So they had spent the last day walking, so tired of maneuvering themselves through unfriendly territory that they just forged their way through whatever happened to be in their way in the forest, not bothering to try to find a path. They wanted to get where they were going as soon as they could, and if that meant that they had to spent half an hour fighting through brambles, what did it matter? They were so sick of being careful that they would plow through anything and they were so sick of eating woodland delicacies that they were hungry to the point of nausea and they were so sick of each other that they didn't waste any breath to speak. Great friends they might have been, but Arthur had the feeling that both of them would probably have flipped on the other if it meant a hot bath and a hearty meal.

As it happened, trudging through the forest for a day, walking through streams and bushes and brambles and mysterious bogs that they hadn't wanted to examine too closely after spending four days on dragon back was enough to render a pair of men rather unrecognizable. Lacking mirrors and any inclination to look at himself for weeks now, Arthur had had no idea what he looked like. He saw Merlin—dirty, scratched, wounded, scabbed, wind-burnt, sun-burnt, fire-burnt, spotted with dried blood, bruised, scraped, tattered, smoke stained—and knew that he looked terrible and that, having gone through the same ordeals as Merlin, he could hardly look any better. But he'd gotten so used to Merlin looking as though he had been caught in just about every natural disaster possible that his state of shabbiness didn't seem out of the normal. Besides, the only other people that they'd seen had been Mordred and Morgana. They hadn't been keeping particularly normal company. He just hadn't realized how out of place they would appear when they turned up back in civilization.

So he supposed that he really shouldn't have been offended when a few of the citizens of the lower town looked upon their king and his councilor and screamed before running back into their homes. He'd been too worn out to particularly care at the time, and it wasn't until the guards stopped them as they tried to make their way into the castle that he realized that no one recognized them.

Merlin had laughed until he cried, tears actually leaving trails down his cheeks as they washed away bits of the grime. Then he'd nearly vomiting and had to sit down with his head between his knees for a few minutes before he could contain himself again. They had come so far, he kept saying, and now this...

Arthur would have been annoyed and probably embarrassed by Merlin's display if he hadn't been so busy putting on a display of his own. He'd shouted. He'd shouted a lot and, in hindsight, he wasn't too surprised that there seemed to be more and more guards gathering around them the longer that he shouted. He was brandishing Excalibur all over the place and declaring that he was Arthur Pendragon and he would have them all exiled if they didn't get out of the way, let him grab Merlin before the idiot found a way to give himself a hernia, and if they would just find the queen then she would tell them and in the meantime he was going into his damn castle.

He supposed that they did present a rather alarming pair. It was probably lucky that Merlin had been too busy giving himself a health crisis to take note of Arthur's waving of Excalibur and decide to start shooting fireballs to prove himself the sorcerer in question. They would have ended up stabbed.

Fortunately, it was only a few minutes before one of the guards recognized the sword and the blond hair and the voice of Arthur and the neckerchief of Merlin underneath all of the grim and ruddiness and had the presence of mind to fetch the queen.

It then occurred to Arthur that it was entirely possible that he would be stabbed. He half hoped that she wouldn't recognize him and he'd be thrown into the dungeons for long enough for him to think of a sincere and apologetic and hopefully satisfying explanation for what he'd been doing over the past three weeks. It was almost too bad that neither he nor Merlin had any serious injuries. She'd have been too distracted by loving them to remember that she had to hate them for a decent interval of time.

But she came, and his heart ached immediately. She looked pale, he saw, and rather drawn, but she was so beautiful. She was so lovely and loving and loveable that if he had not been prevented by the swords of a dozen guards and an incredibly uncooperative body, he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from rushing to her and burying his face in her hair and holding her so tightly that it would be entirely possible that he'd never let her go.

She had rushed to him, recognizing him immediately behind the filth. She'd started crying, of course, from the moment that she saw him, and he found that he was crying as well and that it didn't even matter that people were looking because he was home. She held him close until she caught sight of Merlin and hurled herself at him in turn, taking him so by surprise that she knocked him over where he'd been sitting on the steps. Then, pulling them up to stand in front of her, side by side, she had looked them over in a slightly hysterical examination.

Arthur didn't learn until later that she had been checking for any of those serious injuries that would have been so convenient.

It took her a few moments. They did look pretty bad, and neither seemed particularly inclined to stand up straight and give her a good view. He found that sagging was far more comfortable, and he and Merlin were soon leaning against each other even as they stood.

That gesture was apparently enough for the queen. Later, she would inform them that she'd been able to see past their double disappearing act when she was thinking of how dreadful they looked, but when they started leaning on each other, the dam had broken. They were teaming up on her again, she'd felt, laughing as she related it.

There was no laughter for quite some time, however.

Fortunately, she'd contained herself well enough that she was able to drag them into an empty room before she let loose on them. Neither protested. They just hung their heads and listened and nodded and said "yes" and "no" and "I promise" and "you're right" and "it was a bad idea, now that I think about it" and "I'm okay" and "nothing" and "it was all his idea" and "it's okay" and "it's over" until she exhausted herself and excused them to get themselves cleaned up.

Merlin had been bewildered and clearly uncomfortable when Guinevere sent him to his chambers with a servant to help him. Merlin still had trouble remembering that his status was higher now that he was an official advisor to the king, and Arthur had not yet seen him give a proper order to any servants. They were always requests. But Guinevere had said that there was no way that either of them would be fit to be seen anytime soon unless they had help, so a manic Robert was summoned for Arthur, filling the king's ear with speeches about how very glad he was that he had returned and how it was wonderful that he was safe and if he required a companion for his next quest, Robert would be more than willing to step in for Merlin, against whom Robert had long nursed a bizarre grudge that no one seemed to understand.

And a servant was called for Merlin.

Arthur wasn't sure which of them looked more nervous. Merlin probably would have fetched bucket after bucket of his own bathwater—or maybe he could do something magical to make himself water—even as tired as he was, if it meant that he didn't have to have a servant serving him, and there were still so many people uncomfortable with magic. The young servant didn't look any happier than Merlin. He wondered vaguely as Robert bullied him into his bath whether Guinevere had done that on purpose. She still had the lingering taste of the servant's predilection for what Merlin called "petty revenges," which generally involved the sabotage of food or the selection of itchy clothing or any other trivial annoyance that a servant could do without getting him- or herself sacked. He had to admit that Guinevere did have some grounds for revenge on both of them.

When Arthur had finally lowered himself all the way into the hot water, he'd almost fallen asleep immediately, hardly even noticing that Robert had for some reason filled both the good bathtub and the backup. But what did it matter? The water was so warm and so nice and so safe and so civil that he could have dropped off right away. But Robert would have none of it. Arthur would get properly cleaned, and Arthur would have put up a fight if it didn't look as though Robert believed that his life depended on giving the king a thorough bathing. He did end up bringing Arthur food for him to ravage as he soaked, and Arthur found himself suddenly far more agreeable, even when he learned why Robert had prepared the second bath. Apparently, Arthur was so filthy that he had to get himself out of the first batch of dirty water and into the clean before he would actually be able to properly see his skin again. When he'd glanced back at the water, he saw that it was almost black, and after that Robert had a far easier time persuading Arthur to take the second bath.

When he was finally done, he'd found that he was having trouble getting himself out of the tub. He'd gotten so comfortable and his muscles had unwound after three weeks of tension that they felt like jelly when he had to go and use them again. Robert ended up having to heave Arthur out. He laid out a rather spectacular and distinctly kingly assortment of clothing to wear, no doubt celebrating Arthur's return to civilization, but Arthur had dismissed it all immediately in favor of trousers, boots, tunic, and coat. He didn't care if it was time for him to be the king again. He could dress the part tomorrow. That night, he wanted comfort. He'd've gone down in his nightclothes if Robert hadn't nearly fainted when he'd joked of the inclination. The only ornament that Arthur wore was Excalibur.

When he slouched out of his chambers, leaving Robert to the joyless job of emptying the water, he was told that the queen was waiting for him in the council chambers. Trudging toward the council room and brushing away the guards who tried to accompany him, Arthur just hoped against hope that she would be alone. He didn't think that he could possibly handle anything even associated with his rule until he'd had a proper night's sleep.

When he entered, he didn't even see his wife at first. All he saw was the table. It was covered with all manner of food, meats and cheeses and fruits and vegetables and breads and puddings and many flagons of drink that Arthur all but prayed were of the befuddling type. None of it seemed to be made of acorn.

Then, he saw Guinevere. As it happened, she was not alone, but Arthur did not begrudge her the company. She sat at the head of the stable, her face prim, with Merlin at her left. He was staring down at a plate heaped with all sorts of food and, from the look on his face and Guinevere's severe expression as she looked at him, that the queen had chosen the servings and was going to glare at him until he ate himself healthy.

He was also very clean. Exhausted, but clean. Even beneath the ruddiness from the wind- and sun-burn, Merlin looked as pale as ever, and his hair wasn't matted to his scalp in sweat and rain and blood. The cut along the side of his face was still long and cruel, but it had been cleaned and looked far less gruesome. He was wearing clean clothes that still had all of the proper seams and threads intact. Only his neckerchief looked threadbare, but Arthur knew that Merlin would never wear any replacement neckerchiefs. His mother had made those neckerchiefs.

Arthur found himself stumbling over his feet as he entered the room, intoxicated by the smells. Merlin and Guinevere looked over as they heard him trip and watched as he sat himself down. Guinevere immediately threw a napkin at him and began piling food onto his plate. Arthur looked across the table at Merlin, bewildered. Merlin just looked at him bleakly.

"Hi, Arthur," he said, as though they hadn't spoken for ages. "I had a servant."

"Yeah?" asked Arthur, watching his wife add a second heaping of some kind of meat that was almost certainly not squirrel to his plate. "How was it?"

"I didn't like it," said Merlin immediately. "I didn't need it. And he didn't like it any more than I did. I think he thought that I was going to turn his head into a turnip if he displeased me. By the way, I've discovered that ever since my magic came out as public knowledge, people have interpreted my insults rather differently. Turnip-head and cabbage-head seem to have taken on whole new meanings. Although no one has yet figured out what I do to turn someone into a dollop-head. Plus—"

"Merlin," said Guinevere sternly. "No talking. You, eat."

"I got food during my bath," Merlin protested, half-quailing under her gaze. "Is that normal? I never brought Arthur food during his baths, but I didn't do a lot of the stuff that I was meant to do as Arthur's servant. It seemed strange, but I was hungry, so—"

"Merlin. Eat."

With a dutiful nod, Merlin picked up a fork and looked unenthusiastically at the food. Arthur knew what was going through Merlin's head. They both had wildly different routines when they came back from their more grueling of quests. Arthur could have eaten everything in the castle kitchens. Merlin could only eat so much, needing to, as he phrased it, stretch out his stomach before he could inhale his food. Still, if he didn't start eating something, Guinevere looked as though she'd force feed him.

She soon finished loading Arthur's plate and she glared at him without a word until he too picked up a fork and began to eat.

It was silent for a long time. Merlin had stopped eating quickly, but Guinevere was apparently satisfied. Clearly becoming uncomfortable at sitting there while the queen guilted the king into eating and while still very clearly not permitted to leave the room by the queen, he took hold of the pewter pitcher nearest him and filled a goblet. Seeing this, Arthur had the feeling that things would begin to get interesting.

He also had the feeling that he was growing jealous. Seizing a jug for himself, he poured.

After a while, even Arthur couldn't eat any more. Chancing a glance at his wife, who hadn't had a bite of food or a gulp of drink, he saw that her expression had softened. Taking this as a sign that he would be allowed to stop eating, he pushed his plate back and reached for the jug again. Whatever it was, it was tasty.

As he filled, he glanced across the table. He nearly smiled as he saw Merlin slumped back in his chair, goblet dangling precariously from his hand as he slept. Good for him, Arthur thought. They deserved sleep, and even the wooden chair had to be an improvement on the ground that had been their beds as of late.

"Arthur," said Guinevere softly, speaking to him in a voice that seemed to actually invite response for the first time since he'd returned. "Where did you go?"

Arthur put down his goblet and looked at his wife. She was so beautiful…

"Guinevere," he said seriously. "I don't know."

"How can you not know?" she asked, almost whispering, looking dreadfully sad.

He gave a short laugh. "Don't think that I'm not answering because I don't want to tell you. I don't know because I flew on the back of a dragon following an invisible magic path that I'm still not entirely sure that Merlin wasn't making up."

She stared at him for a moment. "You're actually serious, aren't you?"

He nodded. "I am. And honestly, I had my eyes closed for a lot of the time when we were on that dragon. This may sound obvious, but dragons can fly really high, Guinevere."

She smiled at that. "Not a fan of dragon flight?"

He settled himself back in his chair, glad that this was going to be a real conversation. "Well, with regard to speed, I am a huge fan. With regard to height and the very real possibility that you might fall off at any point, I am not so much a fan, no."

"Well," she said. "As mad you've made me, I will say that I'm glad that neither one of you fell off of the dragon and died."

Arthur hesitated before he responded, unsure if he should correct her. Technically, they had both fallen off of the dragon, but Arthur had only fallen a few feet and been immediately rescued by Merlin. And while Merlin had actually plummeted to the ground and possibly died—Arthur still wasn't exactly clear on how that had worked—he was still very much alive, if asleep at the moment. Did Guinevere need to know that? Did she need to have to imagine in her head or dream in her dreams how both of them had had some rather close calls with the dragon?

She didn't, he decided. Not now. Maybe later, when it was all a bit more behind them. Now, he would just let her be glad that they both came back in one piece.

"Me too," he said.

"So you don't know where you were," she said slowly. "But you got where you were going?"

Arthur nodded, knowing that he would have to tread carefully. "We did, yes. I don't know how. It was all Merlin and the dragon. Honestly, I'd still be wandering around in the outskirts of Camelot if it hadn't been for those two. Although, do me a favor and never tell Aithusa that I said that. We have a complicated relationship, he and I."

"Aithusa?"

"Oh," said Arthur, almost laughing. "Sorry. I'm not used to being the one who has the magical knowledge and talking at someone who had no clue. It's really annoying isn't it?"

"Aithusa, Arthur? What does it mean?" she asked, kicking him gently under the table.

"It doesn't mean anything. Well, it probably does. It seems like everything magical has two meanings. Even Merlin's got his two names. But Aithusa is the dragon's name. White dragon. He's beautiful, in a sort of terrifying way. Don't tell him I said that either. If you two ever meet. He'll probably he nicer to you than me just to spite me."

She waved a hand at him, apparently dismissing his dragon babble. "Merlin has two names?"

Arthur hesitated again, wondering if he should leave this to Merlin to explain. Arthur wasn't even sure that he understood all of it. "Normal people call Merlin by Merlin," he said, sounding inarticulate even to his own ears. "But magic people—some of them, mostly Druids, I think—call him Emrys. It apparently means 'immortal'—see what I mean about everything have a double meaning? Of course, Merlin has to go and have a triple meaning—but I'm pretty sure that it doesn't mean that Merlin can't die."

She stared at him. "What on earth does any of that mean?"

He rubbed his face with his hands, dreadfully worn out. "I honestly have no idea. Morgana seemed to find it all terrifying."

He bit his lip as soon as the words left his mouth, horrified at himself. He and Merlin had agreed to leave what had happened where it had happened. And now, here he was, back in Camelot for only a few hours, already talking about Morgana…no one else was supposed to know. Even his wife. Especially his wife. He didn't want her to have to bear the burden of knowing what had happened there.

She caught the look on his face. "Morgana? It was Morgana? I had though Morgause for some reason. But…Morgana?"

He studied her expression. Guinevere was always so difficult to decipher when it came to Morgana. They had been such good friends once, and the betrayal had hurt Guinevere more deeply that almost anyone other than the Pendragon men. He didn't want her to know what had happened to Morgana.

"She was there, yes."

"It was her?"

Arthur groaned, wishing that he and Merlin had worked out exactly what they were going to say to explain this to people. Gwaine would have his fair share of questions as well, and he had just enough of the truth to ask the right questions. "She was there," he said guardedly.

She suddenly looked frightened. Nervous. As though she was full of dread for something that had already occurred. "Arthur, what happened?"

"Nothing," he said quietly, placing his hand over hers. "It doesn't matter. You're safe. Camelot is safe. It wasn't...none of it was what it seemed to be. But everything's going to be alright now."

She looked at him. "Oh, Arthur. You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Arthur shook his head, his heart heavy, wishing that he was heartless enough to lie about this. "No, I'm not."

"And Merlin won't either," she said, knowing.

"No, he won't."

"Just…tell me one thing. If you can. I don't know what you and Merlin have agreed upon, and I won't try to come between that—as if I could, you two are so odd together—but try to tell me something."

"Yes?"

"Wherever you went, whoever you saw, whatever…whatever you did. What it was…what did you find there?"

Arthur leant back thoughtfully, throwing a glance at where Merlin was slumped in his chair, sleeping soundly. Arthur hoped that he wasn't dreaming.

"Ice," said Arthur, a tone of finality in his voice. "Ice and ash."

She looked as though she wanted to press him for a slightly less irritating answer, but his expression stopped her. "Wherever you were, Arthur," she said. "Whatever you did, it is warm and clean here. You've left your ice and ash behind."

Looking into her eyes, he almost believed it.

Looking into his, she saw the almost believing.

"I think I need to go to bed," she said, sighing heavily and rubbing her eyes. "Will you join me?"

Arthur just stared at her incredulously, and he must have looked absolutely pathetic, because she started laughing. "To sleep, Arthur. To sleep. Honestly, you look like you'd have a hard time climbing a flight of steps without needing to take a break. I'm asking about sleep."

Despite everything that had happened, Arthur found himself blushing. She must have noticed, and she tried to smother her giggles.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," she said, her voice strained as she tried to look solemn. "You just looked…appalled. It was…well, you'd've laughed if you'd seen it."

"I don't think that I would have," he muttered.

"Are you coming?" she asked, standing.

He fully intended to say yes. Sleep sounded amazing, even if she did spend the rest of his waking moments giggling at him. A bed and blankets and pillows…it sounded wonderful. He intended to say yes.

But his gaze fell on the sleeping sorcerer.

"Not just yet," he said softly.

Guinevere smiled and leant over his chair. She didn't look surprised. Kissing him softly on the brow, she said very quietly, "I'm glad that you're home."

"So am I," he said, and he heard his voice shake. For heaven's sake, he thought distantly. He was on the verge of tears. Again! He did need sleep.

"Try to stay for a while this time, okay?" she ordered gently.

"I'm not going anywhere," he answered, looking into her eyes and meaning every word of it.

She just kept smiling and left, brushing his hair with her fingers as she moved away. His eyes followed her until she left the room. He heard her say something to the guards who had undoubtedly posted themselves outside of the council chamber, and the doors were heaved shut.

Arthur rearranged himself more comfortably in his chair, closing his eyes and wondering why on earth he had stayed. It wasn't as though he was going to wake Merlin. He wasn't that cruel. Still, this was nice, he thought. He heard the crackling of the fire behind the table, remembering that damn fire room that Merlin had conjured so long ago, surrounding them and changing everything forever. He remembered how many times that the council chambers had been destroyed and remembered the times that Merlin had had a hand in it and wondered how many times that Merlin had secretly had a hand in it. He sat in his chair, back at home, well fed, certainly well quenched, and was satisfied.

"Is she gone for the night, then?"

Arthur opened his eyes, somehow unsurprised. "Were you pretending to be asleep?"

Merlin looked at him from across the table, completely alert. "I didn't want her to yell at me. I was sure that you were in for it."

"Coward," Arthur remarked casually, reaching for a random jug and filling up his goblet. Taking his cue from Arthur, Merlin reached across the table with his own goblet. Arthur obliged.

"Well, what would you have me do?" asked Merlin, looking curiously down at the beverage.

Arthur took a deep swallow. "Stand for your king. You were eager enough to do it a few days ago."

Merlin took an experimental sip. He made a face, then took a larger swallow. Arthur laughed.

"Against Mordred?" said Merlin, coughing slightly. "Sure. Against Morgana? Why the hell not. Against Guinevere? You will always and forever be on your own against her, my friend."

"Traitor," Arthur observed, swirling the liquid in his goblet. It was pretty. The purple on the silver of the…silver. Pretty. Was it always pretty? It was definitely tasty.

"Sticks and stones," said Merlin, draining his cup. Arthur poured him a refill and, indignant that Merlin was outpacing him, gulped down the rest of his own.

"What about them?" asked Arthur, refilling his own goblet.

"They may break my bones, Arthur," said Merlin, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Ahhhhhhhh," said Arthur, understanding. Taking a celebratory sip, he finished the phrase. "But words will never harm you."

"Well," said Merlin. "That depends on who's saying the words."

"So what you're saying," said Arthur. "Is that I probably shouldn't say that words will never hurt me when I'm taunting you."

"You," said Merlin, drinking deeply. "Should probably stick to the sticks and stones. You're good with sticks and stones. Besides, I think that its 'names will never harm me.'"

Arthur was vaguely offended. "Names are words," he informed Merlin, draining half of his cup in an indigant swallow.

Merlin nodded wisely. "Words with capital letters."

"All words can have capital letters," said Arthur, on a roll with and impressed by his wit.

"Places," said Merlin thoughtfully, over the rim over the rim of his goblet. "Places have capital letters."

"Titles," said Arthur importantly. "I'm a king with a capital K." He tried to rise and strike a regal stance to emphasize his point, but he found that his chair was still pulled into the table, and his thighs hit the bottom of the table as he tried to stand. When the hell had that happened?"

Merlin snorted. "I think that you're drunk with a lowercase d," he said, trying to track Arthur with his gaze as Arthur struggled to sit normally once more.

"I think that you're a pot calling a kettle black," said Arthur, reaching for his goblet and finding it mysteriously empty. When the hell had that happened?

"You wouldn't know a pot from a kettle if you saw one," said Merlin, sliding the jug at Arthur. "Do you even know where the kitchens are?"

"Of course I do," said Arthur, recovering his dignity as he refilled his cup.

"I would like to see you prove it," said Merlin, sounding very proud of his idea as he looked somewhere over Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur laughed. "Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. I don't think that either of us should be walking just now. Definitely no stairs."

Merlin snorted again. "Yeah, because you'd need to take a break halfway through."

"Shut up, Merlin. Merlin. Hey, Merlin! Merlin."

"Well, if you don't want to go for a walk—or, in your case, exploring—what do you propose that we do instead?"

Arthur looked around at their surroundings. The magnificent spread was still before them. Arthur had had his hearty meal, enjoying the flavors that were not vaguely woodsy and foods that were not a consistency that was…paste-ish. With the occasional bonus stem. From the look of Merlin's plate, however, it looked like he hadn't touched anything that Guinevere had not bullied him into.

Well, he'd touched his cup. That much was apparent.

It also solved the conundrum of what they ought to do that did not involve any coordinated movement. He knew what they should do.

"Eat, drink, and be merry," began Arthur, then stopped. It was such a famous phrase. How had he forgotten the rest? He must have been even wearier than he'd thought. There was no other explanation. How did the rest of it go?

"For tomorrow we may die?" Merlin supplied, laughing. "Ah, the timely wisdom of the great King Arthur."

"Well, what would you say?" asked Arthur tetchily, reaching across the table and snatching Merlin's goblet away. He refilled it and slid it back. Merlin picked it up smoothly before it even stopped moving. Arthur noted distantly that, what they lacked in mobility, they seemed to maintain in dexterity. Just as well.

"'A needle is…'" Merlin began. "The needle…a stack of needles…something about a needle in a haystack."

"That sounds impractical," said Arthur doubtfully, abandoning his goblet and taking the jug as his own. They were practically on dregs anyway, Arthur realized with a jolt. When the hell had that happened? Was there magic afoot? He shrugged. Merlin was magic, and he was usually afoot. "Why would anyone want to do anything with a needle in a haystack? Wouldn't it just be easier to get a new needle? They're not rare or anything…"

"'Lightning never strikes twice,'" suggested Merlin, snapping his fingers in Arthur's direction.

Arthur snorted. "With you, it does."

Merlin waved Arthur's comment away, undeterred. "'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush?'"

That one wasn't so bad.

"Maybe," said Arthur, giving it some careful thought. "But who's the bird in the hand? Guinevere?"

"Don't let her hear you say that," said Merlin, smiling.

Probably good advice.

"Merlin. Merlin. Hey, Merlin!"

"What?"

"Are we the birds in the bush?"

"That would make sense," Merlin commented, nodding. "There are two of us."

"'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,'" Arthur muttered. "What does that even mean?"

"I didn't really think it through," admitted Merlin. He looked down at his goblet, looking vaguely surprised. "What exactly am I drinking right now?"

"You need to eat something," Arthur informed him. "You're too skinny for this."

Merlin shook his head, looking drowsy. "I can't eat, you jinxed us," he told Arthur. "Two out of three is bad enough. I can't eat, because I'm already merry and I am not going to stop drinking, and I don't want to die tomorrow because tomorrow is only an hour from now."

"Is it?" asked Arthur, surprised. He looked around at the windows. There seemed to be a lot more of them than usual. He supposed he just hadn't ever taken a good count. That was understandable. He must have been paying closer attention during those council meetings than he'd thought.

"I have no idea," said Merlin breezily, handing over his cup. Arthur reached for a new pitcher and filled the cup. "I made that up."

"It is dark," said Arthur, looking around for his own goblet. He seemed to have lost it. He shrugged and poured some of whatever they were drinking from the full pitcher into the one that he'd emptied. He was so resourceful, he thought, pleased with himself. "Very dark."

"Want me to light something on fire?" Merlin offered.

"In this state?" Arthur scoffed. "You're liable to light me on fire."

"I won't say that I've never been tempted."

"I'll drink to that," vowed Arthur solemnly. He then kept his word immediately.

"To me lighting you on fire?"

"If I'm going to be on fire," said Arthur, pointing the jug at Merlin. "I'd rather be drunk for it."

"But wouldn't that make you more flammable?"

"Huh. I guess it would."

"I'll drink to that," said Merlin.

"We might as well drink to something," said Arthur. "Might give us more of an excuse tomorrow."

"Gwen's already mad at you anyway," said Merlin from within his cup.

"I don't want to drink to that," answered Arthur, although he drank anyway.

"To eating!" exclaimed Merlin, picking up an apple and beginning to toss it up and down in his hand. Arthur was amazed that he could manage it. He was also amazed that the man who looked as though he'd never eaten a day in his life was toasting to food.

"To drinking!" said Arthur, taking his own advice and feeling suddenly tired again.

"To being merry," countered Merlin.

"To dying," said Arthur, before amending himself. "To dying tomorrow. Or in an hour. What the hell time is it?"

"I'd rather not drink to dying, I think," said Merlin.

"To life, then," Arthur suggested instead. "To life. To freedom. To choice. To dragons. To falling off of dragons and living to tell the tale. To not telling the tale because we said we wouldn't tell the tale. Not to Aithusa, because he kept dropping us and being mean to me. To acorns. To destiny!"

Merlin looked into the fire as Arthur momentarily stalled on topics for toasting. The flames reflected in Merlin's eyes, and Arthur shivered.

"To a destiny denied," said Merlin.

That was a good one.

"'To a destiny denied,'" echoed Arthur sleepily.

"Cheers," said Merlin, sloshing his goblet in Arthur's general direction, seeming to not want to risk taking the effort to lean.

"You're welcome," Arthur mumbled. Yawning, he put down the jug and rested his forearms on the table. He dropped his head down and rested his chin on his forearms and found that he didn't want to drink to anything anymore. He wanted to sleep, and he thought that he might have even drunk to enough that he might not dream. That would be good.

He didn't think that it would take long for sleep to take him.

He didn't think that it would take long for sleep to take him and, unlike most of the thoughts that he came up with when he was in such a state, it turned out to be accurate. The last thing that he saw before his eyelids drooped all the way was Merlin, leaning back in his chair, staring into the fire with a strangely becoming expression of deep thought. Picking up his apple, Merlin paused for a moment, contemplating.

Then, smiling so slightly that Arthur might not have realized it if he had not known Merlin so well, Merlin put his goblet down with considerably more grace than how Arthur had abandoned his trusty jug and rolled the apple in his hand. Merlin's face was rosy in the firelight. There was a tiny smudge of dirt on his temple, almost concealed by his black hair and somehow missed in the scrubbing. His cheek was marred by a long cut, just beginning to heal. He smiled. The fire crackled. The wine was cold.

The apple was red.

Merlin took a bite.

.

.

.

The End!

.

.

Thank you for reading! I was going to add an epilogue, but I don't know that the one that I have in mind would be particularly well-received.

I'd love some reviews!