One

TREES, shrubs, creepers all rushed by in a blur, roots hidden in the thick leaf mould enemies to speed and twigs snapping ruining any chance of silent running. The pair of them pounded through the woods, flying through clearings and across game trails in a mix of running, stumbling and limbs flailing for balance. Arthur charged on in as straight a line as he could manage, arms pumping, sword waving about in one hand, glinting in the late afternoon sun. He hopped a log and put on a burst of speed, head down, grim determination set on his face. He was fighting fit, he was on a second wind, adrenaline racing around his system powering him onwards.

A dull knock and muffled curse behind him denoted Merlin falling over the log and crashing headlong into the pile of leaves resting on one side of it. Arthur would have been worried, if not for the loud scuffling and cracking of twigs that meant Merlin was on his feet and following.

It was a shame, Arthur found himself thinking, that Merlin was so damn clumsy. His servant was fast – probably faster than he was himself, though it would be a cold day in hell before Arthur ever admitted it – if he didn't fall over everything, they would probably have gotten away by now. Arthur hazarded a glance behind.

Sure enough, there was Merlin half-running, half-falling after him, long out of breath, and behind him the entire camp of bandits, and the patrol belonging to Lot, roaring along waving swords, spears and axes above their heads. He faced forwards, dodging around a bramble bush that Merlin inevitably crashed through in his wake.

Alright, so maybe taking the open path down from the ridge of Essetir had not been his brightest idea, and maybe leading the patrol into the woods and straight through the middle of the bandit camp that had kept him out of the woods in the first place had not been his most inspired, but come on! How was he to know that the bandits and the patrol would actually join forces rather than kill each other!? Who could have seen that coming? None of this could really be called his fault!

If Merlin hadn't been whining so loud about not going into the woods in the first place, the patrol wouldn't have found them, they wouldn't have had to go into the woods, he wouldn't have fallen off Spumador, Merlin wouldn't have fallen off that shabby gelding of his trying to get Arthur onto it behind him, his backside wouldn't be sore and they would have been able to go on their merry way unmolested.

Clearly this was all Merlin's fault.

That in mind: "Merlin!" He bellowed over his shoulder at his half-dead manservant, "This is all your fault!"

He expected the indecipherable grumbling, and concentrated on sprinting ahead when it came.

That second wind was fading fast now, a stitch aching in his side. He couldn't keep this up much longer, he knew it. Looking to get onto a smaller, harder to follow path, Arthur veered away to the left onto an overgrown old trail. Stupid woods that stupid Merlin had wanted to go into. He didn't even know where they ended, didn't know any hiding places. Where was he even supposed to run to?

A snap and crash behind drew him to look round and see that a branch had somehow come down, knocking several bandits over and a few of Lot's men from their horses. Merlin didn't seem to have noticed, just kept on run-stumbling, very red and sour faced. A few more bandits fell over their collapsed fellows and flailed in a heap trying to get up. Arthur wanted to grin, but clenched his teeth and ran on instead. That was lucky.

He turned from the trail between two bramble bushes covered in pretty white flowers and abruptly found himself looking down into a chasm. Well, maybe 'chasm' wasn't quite the word. It was more like a steep sided canyon, a little path running through about twenty feet down. He glanced across, debating whether or not it would be too far to jump. If he did, and he made it, then it may slow the men on foot and would stop the remaining horses altogether.

… thoughts of horses made him think of Spumador. Stupid thing had better be alright. It was more accident prone than Merlin on a bad day. Just had to hope today was a good day.

Commotion behind heralded Merlin's arrival through the brambles. He stumbled to a halt beside Arthur and glared at him with all the ferocity he could muster whilst dying. "Why do you never listen to me?!"

Arthur didn't answer, studying the gap ahead closely. Merlin didn't seem to care and whittered on regardless.

"You never listen to me! You always know best, whatever the situation. Why, for once in your life, could you have not just listened to me?!"

"Shut up, Merlin."

"Let's go down in full view of every pair of eyes for miles. Let's not go through the woods, where we'd be covered, and quicker because it's a shortcut, like Merlin says. If we'd done what I suggested, we'd probably be there by now, but oh no. You never listen to me."

"This is no time to start a tiff, Merlin."

Arthur heard the sound of approaching hostiles behind and started zigzagging back and forth along the canyon top in search of a way down. They could maybe jump it, but it wasn't guaranteed. Going down would stop the horses, but not many of the men, though he didn't know where the path at the bottom led. Could be into a dead end for all he knew. What to do? What to do!?

"Over or down?" He muttered to himself through gritted teeth.

A loud crash from the brambles behind had him whirling round just in time to catch a downward strike from the sword of a bandit and grab the man's shirt to send him hurtling down into the canyon below. Arthur released the breath he had been holding and looked up to see the other bandits and what remained of Lot's patrol approaching the small gap between the bushes. He paled. They weren't slowing down...

Aware that he had to make a decision there and then he looked at Merlin with the aim of gauging how tired his servant was. To his relief (and chagrin), Merlin was breathing heavily, but able to glare back at him with a high and mighty air, his ridiculous skinny arms folded petulantly over his chest. Before Arthur could say anything, Merlin spoke, "Now are you ready to listen to me?"

The king did not nod, but neither did he shake his head. Good enough for Merlin. "Right." Merlin reached for Arthur's belt and grabbed his dagger. Tossing it back to the king he snatched a second one from Arthur's boot. Without pausing to explain, Merlin bolted towards the canyon and leapt. Arthur followed suit, just as the first wave of bandits flattened the smashed brambles behind.

The both of them hit the ridge on the far side and sunk their daggers into the earth. They hauled themselves up and Arthur let out an umbrageous squeak of protest as Merlin's hand clamped around his wrist and pulled him away into the sun dappled woods beyond.

The jangle of weapons and chain mail behind, and a quick glance back revealed the bandits to be following over the chasm. The patrol remained on the other side, apparently not willing to leave their horses.

Arthur faced forwards, getting a stinging swipe across the face and a mouthful of hazel leaves for his trouble. There was going to be a branch shaped mark across his nose and forehead, and it stung like billio. Enraged, he spat out the leaves. "Merlin!"

But now his servant wasn't listening to him and continued dragging him through the woods as fast as his stick legs would carry him.

"Bog!"

"What?" Arthur soon found out, Merlin springing lightly across the tufts of green grass, his own feet splashing down in the thick, sludgy dark mud between. "MER-LIN!"

"Come on!" Exactly how they managed it, neither could be entirely sure, but between them Arthur managed to scramble out of the chest-deep filth and up onto solid ground. They were up and running again as the pursuing men became acquainted with the mud.

Merlin was still dragging him. While that annoyed Arthur, they were putting a little distance between themselves and the bandits, and though he must be close to dropping, Merlin was trying his underfed heart out. Arthur felt an inane giggle bubbling up in his throat. He was right. When Merlin wasn't falling over everything he was fast.

Suddenly, Arthur stumbled, off-footed as Merlin changed direction, veering right and down a very steep slope. Oh Lord. This was not going to end well.

To his eternal surprise, neither of them fell there either. In fact it was Merlin who unwittingly demonstrated how to negotiate the obstacle by skidding down onto his side and sliding down the worn dry mud in the centre. They landed on their feet and stumbled away along a small path almost overgrown with lush ferns.

Shouts above, and loud bumping noises were exactly what Arthur wanted to hear as a few of the bandits had trouble with the slope. He didn't look back, though, focusing intently ahead on Merlin's dusty back. Why did the idiot have to be dry still? Why did it have to be him to fall in the mud? There were clods of foul bog filth clinging to his chain mail, and his boots were soaking and squelched with every step. It really wasn't fair.

Merlin led off the path suddenly, through a tall patch of bracken and towards the thicker tree line on the other side. The ground began to drop away in a gentle slope; an old path, worn away into a deep groove by years and years of use. The bracken growing on the intact , grassy sides was soon above their heads, screening them from view to the hill above.

'Great.' Arthur found himself moaning internally. 'Bracken. Probably littered with adders. Last thing we need. Well done, Merlin.'

Oblivious to the silent grumbling, Merlin changed direction again, towing Arthur left through the trees and out of the bracken, unconsciously nullifying the unspoken adder threat.

The sounds of pursuit were quite distant now, the occasional, very faint 'shing' of steel likely the bandits laying waste to the bracken patch in search of their quarry. As said quarry, Arthur was more than a little relieved to be far from the carnage.

He and Merlin emerged from the trees onto a river bank and followed the water for a few minutes before turning across a small, rickety bridge and ducking into the trees on the other side. The bandits were left behind by now, though Merlin seemed to have no intention of stopping just yet. Up ahead, through the trees, Arthur could see what appeared to be the edge of another canyon... and Merlin wasn't slowing down...

"Merlin?"

No. Not slowing at all, or stopping for that matter. Arthur stumbled after him, legs like jelly and moving too fast under Merlin's forward momentum to pull back and stop. Oh no. His heart sank. He wasn't? Merlin wasn't going to...? …! The other side was at least twice as far as the first canyon, and they had only just made that one. Merlin wasn't going to try and? He wasn't seriously?! Arthur's eyes flew wide.

Yes. Yes he was.

"MERLIN!"

They took off into space, flying out through open air, not going to make it! They fell. About five feet.

Arthur crashed down on his side in a clatter of armour, and curled in on himself, winded. Damn him! Merlin was going to pay for this.

Before he could recover his breath, hands grabbed him – obnoxiously bony hands, as if it were even possible for hands to be obnoxiously bony, Merlin's would be by far the most obnoxiously bony hands in existence – and tugged him backwards. Aching, Arthur went, skittering back into an overhang beneath the 'canyon's' edge.

He sat back against the earthen wall and looked over to see Merlin sitting propped adjacent to him, his face bordered by dry roots.

Silent, Merlin held a finger to his own lips and glanced upwards.

It wasn't a very large hole that they sat in. More a deep dent underneath the path above. Probably an old badger sett that had been weathered away and fallen open over time. Whatever it was, Arthur was grateful for it, even if it was no wider and taller than his wardrobe. He did have to wonder, how exactly Merlin had known that it would be there. If he were to ask, he would have got no answer. Merlin was still ignoring him in favour of gazing intently at the ceiling of their refuge. Voices overhead soon explained why:

"Where'd they get to?"

"Prob'ly following the river towards the cave. Reckoning they can hide away in there."

"How'd they know about it?"

"After the dance they just led us?"

"... Good point."

The voices began to move away, still rabbiting on about the cave, wherever that was.

Arthur shifted one leg, arm clutched tight across his aching ribs. Neither he nor Merlin spoke for several minutes, each taking the time to ensure that the bandits had in fact moved away permanently, and to catch their wind.

Once they were suitably recovered, Merlin took a deep breath, savoured it, and exhaled. He glanced briefly at the king before leaning forward and patting Arthur's muddy boot. "Come on."

With a grimace, Arthur got to his knees to crawl forward out of the dent and stand. He felt like hell. Aching, tired out, horseless and smothered in mud. Merlin was stood a couple of feet away, his hands braced on his hips as he recovered the last of his breath. Looking disgustingly carefree, all things considered.

Arthur ground his teeth, and stumbled forwards grasping for Merlin's shoulder. He found purchase and turned his manservant to face him, sticking a finger in his face. "I swear, Merlin. If you ever do anything like that again-"

"We're alive." Merlin retorted, flinging his arms out to the sides as thought to demonstrate the fact. "No thanks to you!"

"Excuse me-"

"Not to mention this whole thing was your fault in the first place ! If you had just listened to me-"

"The woods were infested with bandits, Merlin!"

"And they still are, so stop shouting if you don't want to give away our position!"

"You're shouting too!"

"I know!"

They both fell silent, and glared at one another. Arthur glared at Merlin, who glared back at him and refused to stop glaring. This was clearly all Merlin's fault, and feeling as righteously indignant about the whole situation as he did, Arthur refused to back down first. No way was he backing down first.

So they glared at each other for a full two minutes before Merlin threw his hands up in the air and walked off along the little canyon. Arthur started after him, incredulous, though still glad that he had won the battle of the glares. "Where are you going?"

"Away."

Unaware of their doing so, Arthur's feet began to move, following along after his angry manservant. "Away where?"

"Away from clot pole kings."

Arthur openly snorted at that and quickened his pace to catch up with Merlin. "We're in the middle of nowhere, Merlin, or have you forgotten that little fact?"

Merlin didn't answer. Just folded his arms over his chest and sped up into a faster walk.

Arthur sped up a little more also. "We're lost in enemy territory. Lot's men are hunting us and a whole camp of bandits are out for our blood. There is no 'away'."

Still no answer.

With a huff, Arthur tried again. The idiot was going to get himself killed wandering around the woods if he didn't stop and listen. If that were to happen, Arthur knew he would have to go through the rigmarole of finding a new servant. That would be a pain. He could end up with George, heaven forbid. There were definitely better things to do with his days. Plus Guinevere would probably cry, and he never liked to see that happen... and, maybe if he was to tentatively admit it to himself, he would miss the bumbling, incompetent oaf. Yes, it would be too much of a hassle to have to get used to clothes without creases. His skin had grown sensitive to fabric that didn't have folds places it shouldn't. He had to keep Merlin alive. He tried a different approach.

"So," Arthur intoned, perhaps sounding more bored than casual, "when you get 'away', what are you going to do?"

"Go to bed."

"Go to bed?"

"That's what I said."

Oh, for crying out loud!

The path led up a small rise and back into the trees. Arthur scrambled up it after Merlin, still disbelieving of how someone could be so thick-headed and stick to their convictions so strongly purely for the sake of it. As annoying as Merlin could be when he prattled, Arthur had to acknowledge that his silent treatment was worse. It made him want to grind his teeth.

"So 'away'." He began, grinning inwardly at the immediate and very visible slump of Merlin's shoulders. "This 'away' you're going to. It has beds, and presumably something to eat?"

"Presumably."

"Well good." Arthur ran a few steps to catch up. " Because after you dragged me hell for leather through the woods, dropped me in a bog and pulled me off a cliff, I definitely need a good night's sleep and a hot meal."

Merlin gave a snort, and slowed his pace to allow Arthur to fall into step beside him. "Don't know if there's enough food for you too."

"Well, that's easily settled. I'll just have your share." As much as he would never say it, Arthur was pleased to see a smile on Merlin's face at that. "Then again, with the measly portions you eat to maintain your girlish figure, I doubt somehow it would be enough for me."

The smile became a grin, directed at Arthur with a turn of the head in equal parts innocent and filled with mischief. "I doubt there could ever be enough for you, Sire."

With feigned annoyance, Arthur folded his arms around himself (perhaps a little self-consciously, though he would never admit that). He did take the opportunity to bump Merlin with his shoulder as he walked, knocking the servant sideways a little. Of course, as expected, Merlin retaliated with a bump of his own. So Arthur did the only decent thing, and bumped him back twice as hard. He didn't so much as miss a stride as Merlin careened sideways to collapse in the bracken growing between the trees, and probably the adders that frequented it in Arthur's mind.

As soon as Merlin stumbled back onto the track and caught up, Arthur knew that he was alright. More so at the shin swipe he received. There was no need to retaliate further. Merlin had got the message with his journey into the foliage, so the king let it lie. At least Merlin was out of his prissy huff.

While they walked, heading along the brow of another little hill before turning down a small, winding path to the tree line, Arthur couldn't help but feel a little worried. Here they were, horseless and wandering around in enemy territory with no way of contacting the knights back at Camelot. Only the select few knew that he was out in Lot's lands, being a secret mission that Arthur had decided to undertake himself, to vigorous protests. With Merlin along too, of course. Their situation really wasn't all that great, and maybe it wasn't entirely Merlin's fault. The idiot had managed to get them away from the bandits, which was rather impressive. Even if it had involved falling in a bog.

With a grimace Arthur remembered the squelching in his boots and began to feel a little less charitable. As soon as he could take them off, Merlin was going to clean them. Thoroughly. Twice.

Back to the matter in hand. They were lost in hostile territory. Spumador was probably upside down in a ditch somewhere, as was Bryn. Loathe to admit it as he was, Merlin's black gelding was by far the smarter horse (it had to be to make up for its master), so if they were in trouble it was probably Spumador's fault. Quite the reverse from their masters' predicament. Without the horses, he and Merlin were very much stuck for the time being. Escaping bandits and patrols intent on gutting them was not an easy task on foot, as they had just discovered.

If only they could get word to Camelot. Yes, Guinevere would be furious, and the knights would tease him about it and his undoubted banishment to the guest chambers on the other side of the castle with no small cajoling from Merlin, but once they were safely home the danger would have passed.

"Unless we find the horses we're stuck here overnight." He said aloud to Merlin suddenly, discomfited by the thought of taking turns on bandit watch, and sleeping without blankets. His cloak was on the horse too. Stupid, flighty beast. Called itself a war horse? He broke from his disparaging thoughts about his disgraced steed to frown at Merlin's flat reply.

"I'm aware of that."

"So we ought to make camp."

"No."

"... No?" Arthur halted, staring at Merlin's back as his manservant kept on walking. "Why not? What's the alternative? Fall down in the nearest ditch and hope it's comfortable enough?"

Merlin did halt then, and looked back at Arthur impassively over his shoulder. "I told you. Bed."

"Bed?" Arthur hurried after him as he began walking again, down towards the tree line. "Have you been at the cider, again? Did you actually bring it with you this time?"

What was this? Since when had Merlin been giving the orders? It wasn't up to him to decide what they did. Arthur was the king, not Merlin. He should be giving the orders and making the decisions. Then again, since the first 'chasm' (and only 'chasm', for the sake of accuracy it had barely qualified as a 'chasm' in the first place really, but that was neither here nor there) Merlin had been giving the orders and making the decisions. In fact, Merlin had led the way all through the woods and facilitated their escape from the bandits and the patrol. In some strange, round about, upside down and inside out world they had managed to stumble into, Merlin was verging on brave and intelligent. Also on the tree line, way ahead of where Arthur had fallen behind in his sarcastic musings. The king hurried to catch up with his stomping manservant, recalling where he had been in the conversation prior to the mental tangent he had wandered off on. "What do you mean bed?"

Before he could demand an answer he broke out of the woods and came to a halt where Merlin stood on the brow of a gentle, grassy slope. Arthur couldn't help but think that he looked particularly smug the way he stood with arms still folded, one eyebrow very slightly quirked in a proto-Gaius, looking down the hill.

So Arthur followed his line of sight, to find out what it was that had such an irritating smirk plastered over Merlin's pale – and oh so punchable – face.

Ah. Didn't he feel a little foolish.

Noting the interesting twitch of his king's face, Merlin flicked his eyebrow and nodded, slowly and deliberately as though encouraging Arthur to keep up. "I mean bed."

Without waiting for acknowledgement or opinion, Merlin started away down the hill to the flat where the simple houses and farmland of Ealdor nestled peacefully in the late afternoon sun.

Arthur huffed and followed, running a few steps to keep up.

Right, so. Perhaps Merlin wasn't brave and heroic, and intelligent. He was a cheat, and a sneak. He had known exactly where they were all along, hadn't he? All his wailing and whingeing about listening to him was actually justified. That display in the forest was not what it seemed. Taking charge? Showing leadership? Pfft!

Arthur let his shoulders slump and relaxed a little. The perceived threat to his manliness and inborn authority had passed. He knew that he was just being petulant. Just like he knew that Merlin was brave, and far from stupid. In this instance, though he would NEVER admit it, he was glad that he had listened to Merlin. Occasionally, when he wasn't acting the fool, or doing something... utterly bizarre, Merlin was capable of showing his intelligence, and of doing things right. This was one of those occasions. Looking back on it all, Arthur found himself quite impressed. Merlin didn't need to know that, however. It would just go to his head. Nope. Not necessary to divulge that information at all.

Also, there were more pressing matters at hand. His stomach was growling for one. So, with a whistle, he cuffed Merlin lightly round the back of his fluffy dark head, tripped him over with a sneakily placed ankle, and broke into a shaky run down the hill.

"Oi!" Merlin was up and after him, laughing like an excited child as Arthur himself grinned, both of them tearing down the hill. Yes, the prospect of food and bed was definitely better than the ditch and bandit watch option, and Arthur was glad. Really, really glad that he had brought his idiotic, incredibly stupid, brave, wise man of a servant along as extra luggage. Really glad.

…

… Stupid, handy Merlin.

FUN FACT: Arthur's horse really was called 'Spumador'.

First 'Merlin' story. I have never used so many Italics in anything before. Ever. So many Italics.