Disclaimer: Merlin is not mine.

Merlin was behaving strangely.

Of course, it was only Merlin who really thought that Merlin was behaving strangely. There was no one else with him who had seen him frequently enough or knew him suitably well to find his current behavior particularly contrasting to that of before his exile. There wasn't even anyone with him at all have had the chance to adjust to the quirks of his personality. Not that day.

Even then, as darkness was falling and he walked alone and as silently as he could through the dimming forest, looking for a patch of ground that could be reasonably comfortable to spend the night, he felt so very strange, yet also distantly glad for the solitude. Enough things were different now. He liked to think that he was staying more or less the same. A constant surrounded by and reacting to variables rather than being affected by them. He must not lose his focus. Not now. And not the way that he was traveling. Alone, no one was there to tell him that he was changing.

Maybe he wasn't behaving strangely. Maybe he was just behaving differently. After all, he'd spent so much of his time over the previous seven years doing the same thing and going on the same adventures and seeing that same people that perhaps this was just the way that he would have always behaved if he was taken away from what had become so normal to him. Perhaps he wasn't adapting at all. Maybe he was just…being in a different place and around different people. Maybe this was just how he was, and he'd never known.

But that didn't explain everything. No, strange actions or not, it was not so much his behavior that was unsettling him. It was the way that his emotions should have reacted to the isolation and the fact that they had not. It was the way that he supposed that he was supposed to feel.

He'd expected it to be lonely.

Not for the first time in the months since he'd left Camelot, Merlin began thinking about how he ought to be feeling and wondering if it was a good or bad thing that he was not. He tended not to dwell on it. There were generally so many other things to focus on that were far more satisfying to think about than the way that he was not feeling. At night, whether he was sleeping on a floor or mattress or the uneven and familiar lumpiness of forest ground, he was generally too tired to spend too much time thinking about himself. During the day, there were too many things to do to bother finding other things to think about.

Building fires, those were the dangerous times.

On nights when he was growing dangerously sentimental, he'd taken to actually physically building the fire. Generally, he'd just gather wood and use magic to set it ablaze, but on the nights when he was sentimental? Those were the nights to keep on going until he was tired.

It didn't always work, and he'd be left to spare a moment's envy for men like Arthur who never seemed to have too much trouble not thinking before he'd go back to the same thoughts that always seemed to visit him on forest nights when he camped alone.

This was one of those nights. So he sat on the ground, turned up the collar of his jacket, leaned against a tree and watched his carefully built fire burn into the night, blinding himself to whatever might have been lurking in the darkness around him. He rearranged himself until he was as comfortable as a skinny man leaning against a tree could possibly be, and he began to think.

He'd expected it to be lonely.

That had actually been his greatest fear with the whole ordeal. He'd felt that he could consider himself brave for the way in which he had weathered the storm that had led to his exile—after all, he'd taken it without protest. And since no one else seemed to want to commend him for getting himself banished, he simply took to calling himself brave. He imagined that it was the same sort of thing that Arthur did whenever he looked into a mirror and just did his best to emulate the king.

But there was no getting around the fact that the man who had done the banishing had protested the sentence significantly more than Merlin had. Merlin would have been so very touched by that at the time if he hadn't worked so hard to harden his heart to the whole situation. Because he understood. He had to leave. It had to be that way. For magic to become legalized in Camelot, for Arthur to maintain the show of law and order after his own manservant had been caught committing what was technically a crime by doing magic, for both men to be able to grow and develop independent of one another…Merlin had to leave. And Arthur had to be the one to make him go.

Merlin did feel bad about that. Arthur had been so tormented by the whole thing. He valued loyalty far too much for it to be an easy decision. After all, despite the loyalty that the king had always attributed to Merlin's character, hadn't the secret of his magic been the ultimate display of disloyalty? Such irreconcilable conflict must have been difficult for him to bear alone. Arthur, despite all of his claims to the contrary, tended not to be the sharpest arrow in the quiver when it came to choices that affected him personally, that struck too close to the heart for comfort, that involved smearing with shame the people closest to him.

And who had been closer to him than Merlin?

Yes, Arthur had a wife. But Merlin had preceded Guinevere's closeness with the king by enough time and with enough intimacy that the two men had a closeness and a bond that could not be duplicated. It was not necessarily stronger; it was just not to be copied. Who ever said that a friendship had to pale in comparison to a romance? They were different relationships, that was all, and to her credit, Guinevere understood that she would always be on some sort of equal level to Merlin and seemed to welcome him into their married life.

Which, now that Merlin thought about it, sounded very strange when actually put into words.

But the whole situation was strange, between all three of them, not least because the two people who spent the most time with the king of Camelot were either a former servant or a current one. If only Uther could see his son now!

It had been nice, though, when Arthur and Gwen had married, and not just because to see them happy after their many trials was a thing of beauty. Arthur's taking of an actual wife seemed to significantly reduce any teasings that Merlin had been the one to occupy that position in the king's household. Of course, accusations of improprieties tended to embarrass Arthur more than they did Merlin—after all, how many people would have had the nerve to say in the king's presence what they could say in front of a servant?—and it was satisfying in that sense. Embarrassing Arthur was always fun. Plus, once the nickname had been laid to rest, the other servants suddenly became much more deferential to Merlin. He was the servant with the highest status in the kingdom. He may have been a dogsbody, but he was dogsbody to the king.

And he wasn't just a dogsbody, was he?

Merlin smiled reflectively as he gazed into the firelight, tossing the occasional acorn or pinecone into the blazes. He had been an advisor in all but title, and it was that fact that had kept him by Arthur's side, through thick and thin, with only marginal complaining. At least, in comparison to the complaints that he didn't voice. Whenever he'd been grouchy or resentful, usually at some punishment or particularly unpleasant chore set him by the king, he'd reflect on how he would have resigned his post long ago if it were not for the ways in which Arthur seemed to need him that did not necessarily involve the changing of sheets—which Arthur for some reason seemed to believe was necessary every day—or the polishing of armor.

Plus, the whole destiny thing. There was that.

But Merlin didn't like to think about the role that destiny seemed to play in his decision to remain at Arthur's side. He liked to think that it was choice. That Arthur did not listen to him because fate had decreed it so, that Arthur did not put up with his completely inappropriate insolence because it was beyond his control, that Arthur did not acknowledge a friendship between himself and his manservant because of some cosmic interference that had dictated their lives long before they had begun.

Because that was why he stayed, wasn't it? The friendship. Merlin rolled his eyes at himself, his vision slightly blurred from the intensity of the fire into which he had been staring. He simply could not make himself believe that friendship—certainly not one such as theirs—was something that could be pre-ordained. No, their friendship had to be coincidental, something earned by a completely unlikely meshing of personalities that complemented each of them.

And, eventually, stagnated them.

Which was such a large part of why he had left.

Merlin closed his eyes for a moment, hating himself, just a little bit, for that being why he'd gone. Ostensibly, he knew, he should have made this sacrifice of life in Camelot simply for the sake of magic-users all over the kingdom and for the future of an Albion that would be safe and prosperous for all. He knew that he should be giving up everything only for the sake of the big picture.

But that wasn't it, not entirely. He was giving it all up because of his friendship with the king. He was leaving because Arthur relied on him far too much, and Merlin had grown to relish that fact far more than was natural.

Martyrdom could be so unhealthy.

Of course, he also usually counted on Arthur to pull rank and get him out of any scrapes that he'd gotten himself into. Yes, he'd usually have to deal with an angry Arthur once he'd intervened on Merlin's behalf, but Merlin knew that he wouldn't face any real danger at the king's hand.

But then Merlin had insisted on thinking about it all, and then he just had to go and realize that, as sentimental and epic as it sounded for the two of them to be destined as "two sides of the same coin," they would be far more useful as just two coins instead. Two coins in the same purse. After all, if two coins were used for the same purpose, would the purchase not be of higher quality?

Merlin sighed. Exile was making him far more metaphorical than was good for him. He'd gone off track when reflecting on the circumstances of his departure from what had become his home—whether it was sulkily or wistfully or happily—and made a variety of increasingly creative comparisons, but he'd never sunk so low as to relative his and Arthur's relationship to currency. He really was running out of metaphors.

Which Merlin decided to regard as an accomplishment. At the moment, there was no one by his side to appreciate the creativity, if not necessarily the wit, of his most recent metaphor, but that was okay. This may have been one best kept to himself.

He could do that easily enough. Having no one with him as he traveled wasn't so bad. There was never a whole lot to talk about anyway, and it made the conversations whenever he reached his various destinations all the sweeter. It was the thrill of the chase.

Actually, Merlin had never really believed in the idea of the "thrill of the chase" before he'd begun to relish the anticipation for contact on his journeys between villages and encampments. Originally, he'd just explained it to Arthur, as seriously as he could, on one occasion when Arthur had been convinced-with surprising ease-that Guinevere was secretly furious with him.

Which had actually turned out to be pretty funny. Gwen didn't always approve of the various ways in which Merlin and Arthur strove to trick one another—Merlin's usually being somewhat more subtle than Arthur's—and had called them "cruel" on more than one occasion. However, she did not seem to mind the ones that involved her receipt of gifts from a repentant Arthur, who was silently apologizing from afar for a nonexistent wrong that had apparently rendered her furious.

She'd forgiven Merlin for that one. It had been entertaining.

Arthur had been significantly less entertained it, once he'd worked it out. But that had been okay. It was worth it. And Arthur always seemed to console himself by proclaiming—fortunately, only when he and Merlin were alone and not within earshot of any others who would know better—that Merlin would no doubt go and drink his woes away in the tavern as soon as Arthur's back was turned.

Merlin was fairly glad that Arthur had not brought Merlin's seemingly frequent visits to the tavern to attention during their final meeting in the forest. Merlin wouldn't have minded clearing his name as the drunkard that the king clearly suspected that he was becoming, but Gaius had almost always been the one to state the alehouse as Merlin's refuge whenever he had been off secretly saving the day. Arthur knew that Gaius had been in on Merlin's secret, but Merlin didn't want to incriminate his guardian more than was necessary.

Gaius.

Merlin didn't often feel lonely—not too lonely, anyway—but he missed Gaius. He missed them all, the people that he'd left behind, but he really missed Gaius. They had been something of a team together. Gaius would give advice, Merlin would more often than not take it, they would laugh over meals, Gaius would do his best to teach Merlin the ways of the physician…Gaius had opened his life and home to Merlin when he'd had no reason beyond an inherent kindness to take him in. Merlin had wept bitterly when he had witnessed his father's death, despite knowing him for only a few days; but Gaius was his father in every sense but blood. Yes, he missed Gaius.

That was it, Merlin thought suddenly, blinking rapidly and seeing white blurs on the inside of his eyelids from the steadiness of his stare into his flame. It had been troubling him that he was not feeling more lonesome. After all, everyone that he loved other than his mother was in the place from which he had been technically banished for the rest of his life. He should have been wallowing in complete misery, probably singing songs of his woe and drinking his weight in spirits and summoning the dragons every night to complain to the two beings in the entire world who were quite literally and physically obligated to listen to him.

But he wasn't.

Admittedly, he had had his share of melancholy in the first days following his banishment. And yes, he had basically begun weeping immediately after he'd waken in the clearing—head pounding with what would probably turn into a concussion courtesy of Excalibur's hilt—and seen that Arthur had only knocked him out so that he could leave Merlin's horse behind for him, saddle bags stocked with food and even a blanket. Somehow, that had devastated him far more than anything else concerning his exile, even that awful hour when he'd had to bid his goodbye to Gaius. He'd known perfectly well that Arthur hadn't exactly been cackling with glee and rubbing his hands together at the prospect of banishing Merlin, but it made the whole process of leaving so much simpler if Merlin could believe that Arthur would be able to get over the whole thing after a few days.

Riding out alone at the crack of dawn to give the exilee a horse and provisions did not reassure Merlin of Arthur's speedy recovery. So, yes, Merlin had wept. Who knew that Arthur could have been so very considerate? Merlin may have made his own bed, but it was at that moment that it really hit him how he'd have to lie in it.

But Merlin discovered fairly quickly that the sadness that he was feeling was not loneliness, and it had been troubling him, off and on, ever since. At first, he thought that Arthur had just cracked him on the head with enough force as to seriously reduce his brainpower—after all, that would have explained a lot about Arthur, considering how many blows to the head that he'd suffered—but that seemed so inadequate. No, there was a reason. He just had to find it.

Half a year later, and Merlin still hadn't found it.

There had been the lingering curiosity as to when he'd be summoned back. As difficult as leaving had been and as sure as they had all seemed that he'd be gone for good, he had been and still was certain that he would be called back to Camelot. He'd received letters, of course. Guinevere had been a regular correspondent. Her letters had slowed lately, but he'd been okay with that. She'd mentioned that she and Arthur were considering trying to start a family, and Merlin was not particularly keen for any details that were involved with that. She was like a sister.

But she had managed to sneak some letters in from Gaius, which had been a wonderful surprise. Apparently, the old physician had figured out quickly enough that Gwen had some sort of contact with Merlin and asked her about it. When he was leaving, Merlin had asked Gaius if he wanted a way to stay in touch, but Gaius had said no. That it would be too difficult. Their goodbye certainly wasn't the easiest that either had ever experienced. But apparently the temptation for discourse had been too much, and there had been a few times when Merlin's heart had leapt to see Gaius' handwriting peeking out at him from below Gwen's purple wax seal.

But there had been no letters from anyone that so much as hinted that Merlin would be called home. That was okay. It would all be okay, surely. He had known that this would take time. Yes, surely it would be okay.

Although it was far more difficult to feel extremely certain nowadays than when he had been so frequently faced with Arthur's utter uncertainty. The inequality had given him a sense of control. But it was difficult to find the proper way to think about all of it now.

Granted, Merlin had been busy. After all, there had been mothers to see and druids to visit and sorcerers all over the five kingdoms to contact and he'd had so many ideas and plans and hopes and successes and failures that it had been difficult to find too much time to wallow in self-pity. In fact, it was just when he was able to think about Camelot with what could almost be called objectivity on that night by the fire that he realized what it was that wasn't loneliness for Camelot.

He just…missed it. He missed everyone.

And he could live with missing it.

Loneliness would have destroyed him by now. He knew it. Perhaps retreating into his head had been what had saved him. Those few times when he had been all heart had been awful…when he'd woken to find Buttercup waiting for him, stocked with food and left for him by Arthur…when he'd gone to see his mother and broken down immediately before telling her the whole story and being taken care of just as he had as a child when he'd feel so alone and rejected, the gravity of what had happened finally being allowed to wash over him…when he was spreading word that Camelot was protected, defended, watched over, even from afar…when he met a druid whose eyes were the same ominous shade of blue as Mordred's, yet lacking the unsettling malice that Merlin had helped to instill…when the first sorcerer pledged his allegiance to Emrys…yes, those times had been awful.

And oh so wonderful.

He did not feel or think about them very often. Whenever he did, he was always struck with some sensation that was so powerful and deep and striking that he could never be entirely sure if it was intense pleasure or terrible pain. It was like when he would dip a finger into a cauldron over a fire and there was that one moment when he was not sure whether or not it was very cold or very hot. The awful and the wonderful were just as close to one another.

But there wasn't time to feel them. He was far too busy. It hadn't been a lie when he'd told Arthur that he had a plan of sorts. Yes, he could miss them all during every waking moment as he traveled. But he could suppress so very much that it almost felt like company in his heart rather than emptiness by his side. He could keep it as more of a motivator than a depressant. He could live with it.

And he could do his work. That was enough for him. That was enough for now.

Merlin stretched, hoping that perhaps all of his musings—so much more serious than he liked to be—were heavy enough to tire him into sleep. He would go to sleep with thoughts of tomorrow, rather than of years past. Those could wait. Until he was called home.

And then, as if summoned by his determination to banish thoughts of all things Camelot for the night, a square of folded parchment zipped through the air and landed in his lap. In the flickering of the firelight, he could see the purple wax of the seal. He smiled and leaned back against the tree once more. This was a good night, he thought, and he broke the seal.

The first thing that he registered was that the handwriting was sloppier than it had ever been before. For some reason, Merlin began to feel anxious. It wasn't as though the sloppiness was giving him any difficulty; he'd had nearly seven years of deciphering Arthur's scratchings and recopying them for others less skilled with translating Arthurisms into the vernacular. Not for the first time, Merlin reflected on the fact that Arthur had been lucky to land a literate manservant. But he had secretly grown grateful for Arthur's ridiculous handwriting. Merlin could now read just about anyone's, and even here, Guinevere's messy scrawl was more legible than Arthur's on his best days.

Yet Merlin had to wonder why it was so messy. She'd written to him in a hurry before, and that had been entirely different. No, this looked almost as though she had been shaking very much as she had taken ink to paper. Merlin could recognize it. He'd done it before.

He folded the letter up and watched the wax reform into the seal before leaning his head back up against the tree trunk, his face tilted upward so that he could see the stars peeking through the canopy of the forest, thinking over her words. It hadn't been a long letter, just a sort of summary of events that had gone on in the castle. Guinevere had kept her promise that she wouldn't keep him in the dark about the goings-on in Camelot, and it had certainly saved lives on more than one occasion. He wasn't sure if she knew that he'd had a hand in the way that there had been surprisingly few attacks on the city since he had left, but he was used to his contributions going unnoticed. His reputation was preceding him to the others of his kind, and it seemed that those more violently inclined against Arthur and Camelot were beginning to choose to take their battles elsewhere.

And word of the changes in Camelot regarding magical legislation had caused their own stirs, independent of Merlin's broadly bland threats.

Yes, it was a good thing that Guinevere was keeping him updated, and he had been able to see the honesty, somehow, in each stroke of her quill.

Yet this letter seemed deliberately infused with optimism and positivity and a sort of cheerfulness that somehow felt unnatural in tone, even if they were written rather than spoken. She'd written of no crises or emergencies that required his help. There had been no near death experiences to put certain people into particularly forgiving and nostalgic moods. Everything was just so wonderful that it sounded as though Merlin would be needed for the sole purpose of completing the picture as it had been outlined before his terrible betrayal had been revealed to all. The whole castle was feeling so sunny that all it would take for Merlin's safe return was a surprise visit and a smile.

Or so she said.

Merlin wasn't fooled. How many letters had he written that had been full of euphemisms and truths carefully concealed under reports of the exciting things that he had seen and the lovely people that he had met and absolutely nothing about his reasons for seeking them out? How many times had he listed everything good with such effusive wording that the recipient would hopefully be so busy thinking over what he had written to consider the seriousness of the things that he hadn't?

But Guinevere wasn't to know that. All that she knew for sure was that Merlin had not wanted to leave and wanted very much to return to the people and place that he'd loved, only leaving for reasons that he could not explain. And surely she hoped that her message would make him so very happy that he wouldn't question the circumstances, not with the peculiarities hidden away in her letter. Surely she was relying on what she was telling him, that he'd be too pleased to be too curious as to the circumstances. Why wouldn't she? She basically was telling him what he wanted to hear.

And that was more troubling than anything that she'd ever written before. Including about she and Arthur trying for children.

By the time that Merlin had finally exhausted himself enough to fall asleep, thinking vaguely that there was no way that Arthur could have ever thought himself to sleep, there were three things that he knew had been in the content of her letter, both explicitly stated and hidden between layers of overcompensated cheerfulness.

He was going home.

She had not told him why.

And something was wrong.

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Now that the exposition and recap are out of the way, the story can really start! Time to go back to Camelot.

I hope that this was a decent beginning and not too boring. I had to get some things out of the way.

Updates should be consistent on this one, I think.

Thank you to anyone who followed me over from "What Goes Around."

Reviews are much appreciated!