A Good Man is Hard to Find

Arthur followed Merlin into the trees at a lurching run, his back curled slightly to protect his aching ribs. He ushered Guinevere ahead of him, fearful that she might fall behind with Agravaine and his baying hounds so close on their heels. The ground sloped steeply upwards, treacherous and uneven. Gwen took a fistful of her skirts in one hand and ran in earnest, and Arthur, ever-vigilant, stayed close behind. The smoke from the village was heavy on the air even as they climbed further and the trees thinned out. The slope was covered in dry tufts of grass and loose shale, but ahead, the rock face of the mountain loomed. Arthur's lungs seized in horror – the hunters were so close he could feel their whoops and hollers moving the hairs on the back of his neck, and they would be trapped against the rock. He sought out Merlin's eyes, uncomprehending. The servant had halted, ahead, helping Isolde up the precipitous incline of the last few feet.

"Into the caves!" he called. "We can lose them in here." Without further explanation he slipped out of sight through a crack which seemed barely wide enough for a man. Isolde vanished after him, then Tristan, who was obliged to turn sideways, squeezed through into the darkness. Arthur glanced back, and saw the bright torches spread out among the trees, a shadowy multitude in the dusk.

"Arthur." Guinevere's insistent voice drew him back, and he followed her quickly. Inside it was impossible to tell the width or depth of the tunnel, and yet Merlin, with the serendipitous foresight which he occasionally showed, had acquired a torch which threw a flickering yellow pall over each of their faces.

Merlin's eyes met Arthur's across the cave. He looked wretched. Arthur shook his head impatiently – his friend's unfortunate habit of assuming guilt for things which weren't his doing was endearing, but it would have to wait. "Go – we'll follow you."

Merlin scuttled into the gloom. They staggered after him, half-blindly groping towards the yellow light cut with the shadows of the two mercenaries. Telling himself it was for her reassurance, Arthur placed a steadying hand on Guinevere's lower back. He felt dizzy with relief and confusion at finding her here, now. Now, he told himself, was not the time to puzzle out what was between them. The ground was rocky and moved underfoot, and both of them stumbled, clutching blindly at the cave walls, which were always closer than expected, black and invisible in the dark. Gwen cracked her shin on an outcrop and yelped, and his arms reached for her instinctively.

"I'm fine," she whispered breathlessly.

A few stumbling, hurried steps later, Arthur's head struck the ceiling hard enough for him to momentarily lose all sense of his surroundings except for her warm fingers pulling him inexorably on. Possibly there were forks in the tunnel, but it was too uniformly gloomy for anything to be clear besides the torch ahead. Abruptly it stopped, and Arthur heard a muffled thump and an apology as Gwen bumped into Tristan's back.

Merlin's voice floated back to him. "Arthur – the tunnels come out on the other side of the mountain. We should be able to take cover in the woods... I think we're close."

Arthur nodded. He hadn't heard any sounds of pursuit since they entered the cave. The darkness pressed on him like a blanket, and his head was still ringing. He could feel a thin trickle of blood sliding off his eyebrow and down the side of his face, making his eye sting where it ran into the corner. He felt directionless, this mad flight was a last, desperate hope to salvage some tiny remnant from the ashes and the ruins. He couldn't have said whether the brief months of his reign and the tentative control he had gained over the kingdom had been a dream, or this, perhaps, a nightmare, this abrupt return to chaos. Lost as he was, it was instinctive to throw his trust upon Merlin.

They were moving again. Gwen was limping, so he gripped her waist and elbow from behind, the tunnel being too narrow for anything but single file. His eyes burned with the effort of focusing on a flame in relentless darkness. Somewhere nearby, water was dripping.

The coldness of moonlight struck like a blade, as painful and as sudden. Merlin's momentum was abruptly reversed, and with a wordless yell he tried to hurl himself back into the tunnel, but collided with Isolde and Tristan and lurched forward again. He screamed "Arthur, no!" just as the king followed Guinevere out into the light. The moonlight's harshness was bolstered by torches and the gleam of bared steel. Agravaine sneered in triumph. Theywere surrounded. Arthur quickly crushed Guinevere against the rock behind him, reaching for his sword. Scornful Tristan seemed resigned to a fight, too, but Isolde was grey-faced, and Merlin already struggling, stamping viciously on the toes of the soldiers holding him. The odds were appalling. Tristan raised his sword, and Agravaine signalled to his men.

"Stop!" Arthur heard the cry as though it were somebody else's voice. His uncle, face twisted in a bitter smile, held up his hand.

"I will come with you. Let them go."

He heard Merlin's strangled denial, felt Guinevere freeze at his back, but ignored them both.

"You have nothing left to bargain with, Arthur."

"I will come," he repeated. "Bring me alive to my sister, to dispose with as it pleases her. Or I will force you to kill me here, and I will take as many as I can with me. Perhaps even you, uncle."

"Arthur, this is madness." Merlin had found his voice. "I won't let you do this."

"You will." He was careful not to meet his friend's eyes. "You will take Guinevere and the others away from here and keep them safe. And never return to Camelot."

"Why would I release your accomplices, nephew?" Agravaine's insidious voice cut in.

"They are nothing to you."

"But they are something to you."

"All I have left. But you know my offer is worth taking."

Agravaine leaned back and considered. Both men knew that Morgana would relish the chance to be the author of her brother's destruction. And Agravaine did not doubt that his nephew could make good on his threats.

"Agreed."

Arthur took a step forward, freeing Gwen from where he had pinned her against the wall. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them.

"Arthur." Merlin protested, again. In the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Tristan glaring at him in disbelief, as though he had suddenly presumed to grow a second head.

"Go, Merlin," he insisted, pushing Gwen towards his friend as gently as he could manage with shaking hands.

"I won't leave you," the stubborn servant persisted.

"You would insult me by dying here now!" he spat, his voice breaking. "Get out."

Gwen gave him a tearful, reproachful look, then took Merlin by the arm and pulled him away, past the soldiers and out of sight. Silent, Tristan and Isolde followed. Arthur barely felt the rough hands binding his wrists, or the noose thrown loosely over his neck. His sword and dagger were taken, and his uncle seemed to be still speaking, but he heard nothing. He was yanked and pushed and manhandled over the shale as far as the tree line. Without warning, a fist in his stomach made him double over, followed swiftly by a boot in his ribs which shattered his breath. He wriggled awkwardly upright and met Agravaine's furious gaze.

"I said, mount."

For the first time Arthur became aware of the horse in front of him, and he obeyed laboriously. Agravaine mounted as well, and pulled lightly on the leash, tightening the rope on Arthur's throat. He nudged the horse to follow his uncle's, to spare his lungs from further abuse. The image of his father's disappointment, if only he could see what his heir had been reduced to, haunted him, alongside Gwen's desperate tear-streaked face. But most of all, Merlin's glare of horror and betrayal would not fade. And yet, even if Gwen and Merlin never forgave him for this, at least they would live to cherish their resentment. It was with this hollow comfort that he rode home.

~/~/~/~/~/

"Idiot," Merlin was muttering in her ear. "Bloody noble fool. Moron. Idiot. Of all the bloody stupid..."

"Please stop it Merlin," Gwen said at length. "I can't bear it." They watched the column of horses move off. Gwen's eyes punished her by following every weary line of Arthur's silhouette until he was swallowed by darkness.

"I'll never forgive him for this," Merlin murmured, apparently to himself.

"It was the only thing he could do," Tristan growled unexpectedly. "We would all have been killed."

Merlin's face twisted guiltily. Gwen knew she should be assuring him that it wasn't his fault, promising that they would think of something, but the words were dry in her throat. Horror was roiling in her stomach; it felt unbearable to blame Arthur, and yet she cursed him for his naive selflessness, and Merlin for the failed escape, and every conceivable fate and decision which had brought them here. Arthur's choked cry as a soldier kicked him in the ribs, even from a distance, had torn through her like a spear. Every tree, every shaft of moonlight, even the mountain itself seemed traitors to her, conspirators in Arthur's surrender. Silently, Merlin began the long walk back to Ealdor. Gwen followed automatically.

The night had grown cold.