Chapter One

It had been high summer when Merlin had arrived in Camelot. As he scuffed through the leaves, trudging behind Arthur on another interminable hunting expedition, it hardly seemed possible that autumn was upon the land already. It hardly seemed possible he had served the Prince of Prats for an entire season. But there was no denying the brilliant fading leaves beneath his feet and the golden, glowing light that flooded through the trees.

He tried to tell himself that his time as Arthur's manservant wasn't all bad. Gaius had been teaching him many things. He had begun to teach him about herbs, about how plants were related and how they were not. Once he understood what Gaius called the 'taxonomy', he had applied the same idea to magic. Information began to organize itself in his mind and Merlin's understanding of his instinctive magic was deepening. He had only begun to explore the intricacies of herblore and medicine, as well as the most basic of magic instruction. In the latter area he had already outstripped Gaius' ability to answer many questions, but he struggled with certain types of spells, to his unending frustration.

Many times Merlin suspected he was actually a cabbage head at the whole magic business, warlock or not, but Gaius assured him it was quite the opposite. He advised patience. Merlin kicked at the leaves. Patience!

His mentor's opinion was that his powers were so vast in some areas that he found it difficult to find spells strong enough to focus his strength without sacrificing finesse. It was the opposite of most sorcerers, but as a warlock was rare, there was no telling how to deal with Merlin. He was deeply thankful for Gaius' instruction and friendship. There was shared joy between the old man and the young as they worked at both his public and private studies. Merlin was struck anew everyday by the relationships, between the study of medicine, herb lore and the magical.

And then there was Arthur. Demanding, arrogant and puerile; those words fit the prince perfectly. Merlin's life had become a nightmare of lugging unwieldy armor up the stairs, picking up wadded up clothing under the bed, finding the missing vambrace because the prat had flung it somewhere in a fit of pique and then there was the polishing. After the unending stream of chores, there was always polishing and more polishing. And he had to see to the horses. And wash the clothes. And then whenever it was almost done, there was Arthur covered in mud. The crown prince was enough to drive any servant to complete madness. As he seethed through his chores, Merlin enjoyed thinking of new found vocabulary with which to describe the golden prince of Camelot. Puerile. Good word. Supercilious. That was good too.

The young warlock raised his head from the his view of the leaves. His master was up ahead. Standing at a natural curve in the forest as the hills rose and fell. He was looking off to the left. The servant wondered if he had sighted a deer, but Arthur's snort of disgust dismissed that possibility.

"I've seen old ladies in the market move faster than you, Merlin."

The prince said his name with that particular emphasis that irritated him the most. He suddenly felt the straps of his knapsack cutting into his shoulders as he hitched his burden upwards and heightened his pace to keep up with the Prince. Sometimes, it made him want to spit in the clotpole's drink.

"Yeah, I'm sure all the old ladies have to carry your stuff."

"You are the servant, Merlin. I am not. That's why you carry the stuff. Really, don't they cover this when you come to work at the castle!" There was laughter in his voice. He wondered if Arthur was being friendly but he quickly dismissed the idea; the prat was only laughing at his own joke. Narcissistic.

But his delight in the word and his irritation with the prince quickly gave way to another feeling as the object of Arthur's attention came into view. It was a stone arch, alone, in the middle of the forest. Looking like the strongest of doorways into solid building, it was not quite as massive as the castle gates, but large enough to impress. Behind it, the forest glowed. No walls, no roof, not even the remains of those things remained. Perhaps they had never been. The doorway sang with magic. It prickled in the back of his throat, it shimmered golden and bright. It smelled intoxicating in the slight breeze, the sweet scent pulling at his own power.

"I have a bad feeling about this, Arthur," he said softly.

The prince paused and looked more carefully at the strange gate.

"There are no Druid markings," he remarked as he strode towards the doorway. he placed his hand on one the stones near the edge of the door. Merlin's stomach clenched immediately in an almost primal fear, as if he was gazing down from a great height and Arthur was standing beside him unaware of the drop. He touched the Prince's shoulder.

"No!" He said louder than he meant.

"Must you always be such a petticoat, Merlin! It's pile of old rocks in the forest. There must have been a house here or something.

"Or something," muttered the servant.

Arthur responded by giving Merlin a playful shove. "Don't tell me you're afraid," he taunted. He shoved again, but this time unbalanced by his knapsack, Merlin stumbled backwards through the doorway. A wave of cold damp gripped him as he fell. Everything darkened around him as the cloying fog suddenly burned strangely in his lungs. He scrabbled in the leaves, his hands sinking into the dark earth below. Arthur was gone as if he never been and so was the doorway.