A/N: Well here we are...the end. Gosh, I never thought I'd actually be doing this (and there've been a few times when I very nearly made sure I wouldn't). But it's been one hell of a journey, and I have learned so much and made some wonderful friends (without whom this would not have been possible). You all know who you are *points finger*. And all I can do - feeble recompense though it is - is to say thank you one more time, from the bottom of my heart, for all the fathomless support and kindness I have received over the months I have been writing this fic. And to anyone who is sitting there, wondering if they should have a go at posting their work on here (as I once did, when there are so many fantastic writers I could never hope to compare with), yes...do! As a wise person once said, our biggest regrets are not for the things we have done but for the things we haven't...

I have added a glossary at the end of this to translate all the spells and other things not written in modern English (because I am conscious that I didn't do so at the end of the relevant chapters, as is de rigueur). Most of these are from the Merlin Wiki spells site, but there are a couple I made up, using an old English translator, so I apologise for any errors in grammar.

Hope this isn't too pants an ending, after yet another long wait (for which I have only poor excuses). So long and thanks for all the fish...

Disclaimer: We all own Merlin, in our hearts, but not in reality

:O)

Epilogue

For the first time in a week, the bright light of a cloudless sky shone down on the white castle towers and hotchpotch roof-tops of the city of Camelot. The break in the seemingly endless curtain of rain had drawn people out in their droves to collect wood from the forest, sweep the mud and still-lingering dead leaves from their porches, and take animals out to the pasture, after having been cooped up in barns for too many days. The cries of stall holders, laughter of children and bartering of their parents (as they bought winter vegetables and thicker clothing in the market) drifted up through the slightly ajar window; mixing with the sun's heatless rays to bathe the man sitting on the floor below it in the affirmation of life. It made the breastplate he held glint and sparkle as he tilted it to all angles; ensuring the oil on his cloth had reached every part.

Merlin paused in his rubbing, closed his eyes and tipped his head to one side; enjoying the feel of the light and the sounds as they caressed his skin and tickled the hairs of his inner ears. After a moment though, his flesh registered the chilly bite to the air and he gave a full body shiver; hunching down further into his jacket. Opening his eyes, Merlin glanced over in the direction of the fire, and seeing it was beginning to die down a little, he looked pointedly at the pile of logs he had brought up the night before - now much depleted - and with a flood of gold to his irises, willed a couple of large pieces to float up in the air and land with a shower of sparks in the grate. A small smile of satisfaction at the soon-to-be warmer room pulled his mouth up, and holding it there, he turned and flicked his gaze up to the window behind him. With another flash of gold, the window shut; the latch falling into place with a gentle click. Turning back to the armour in his lap, the servant resumed his polishing.

He knew that if he used magic to finish the task, he would have more time to spend reading one of the books Arthur had secreted for him in the large chest in his wardrobe, from the library's forbidden collection. But there was something very therapeutic about doing it by hand, and with his lightened load of chores, he had long enough to do the job properly for a change. It was also pleasantly warm in the King's chambers - having an endless supply of fuel for the fire - and since Arthur had insisted that Merlin complete the chore there rather than the freezing cold armoury (where he would normally have done it), the warlock was not going to turn his nose up at the chance of a prolonged spell in the cosy room before he had to go somewhere not so well heated.

And Merlin was no fool. He had not failed to notice that Arthur was reluctant to allow him to work in the armoury since he had returned to full duty, and he knew it wasn't entirely down to the lack of a fireplace or light in the place. If Merlin had no choice but to go down there - to collect or drop off the King's armour and weapons - Arthur made sure that he was accompanied. Too many pointy, hurty things in a room tended to have that effect on the King, where Merlin was concerned. The warlock might have been resentful of his friend's apparent lack of faith in his assurances that he would never go so far again; that he would come to the King first if anything upset him enough to make him question his ability to make sound decisions. That is if he wasn't still so overwhelmed by Arthur's heartfelt pleas to respect his Kingly whims when it came to Merlin's health and safety.

"Don't want you tangling those big, clumsy feet of yours on a weapons rack, and bringing the whole damn lot on top of you. You might scare away the entire staff, once they know I've let 'mishap Merlin' back to work!" Arthur had said, with only a smattering of mockery overlaying the quiver of fear in his tone.

And for once, Merlin had obeyed. For he could not look back over the events of those dark weeks without a fair amount of guilt for what he had put Arthur - and indeed all his friends - through. The marked change in the attitude of every single person he associated with ensured he would not easily be allowed to forget, either. But even if Gaius woke him for the day with a gentle shake and a whispered reminder of the lateness of the hour (giving him sufficient minutes to dress, eat and get Arthur's breakfast to him by the skin of his teeth), instead of shouting at him from the other room (by which time it was too late to do anything but rush out half dressed and deliver an already cold meal to his master)... Or if Sir Leon offered to help carry their King's weapons to the training field (enough times to incite a hint of indignation to Merlin's refusal), rather than letting him struggle alone... Or Elyan insisted on cooking the evening meal and filling Merlin's bowl first, or Percival saw to the horses without even being asked, when they were out on a patrol or hunt... And even when Gwen sought him out - in front of Arthur, and with a gentle smile and nod of approval from him - to take Merlin for a walk to gather herbs, or (Avalon preserve him for the shock!) have the afternoon off... Still, he had his bad days.

Days when the sides of his mouth seemed attached to lead weights, and however brightly the sun shone, it could not defrost the block of ice that lingered in his chest. Or when he found it virtually impossible to speak; and if he did, nothing more than one-word replies would fall from his lips, like rotten teeth. And he could not pass by a knife (left carelessly on a table by someone too distracted to remember the vow they had made to themselves to never do such a foolish thing again) without lingering to thumb its tip; testing its keenness. He couldn't bring himself to admit that he felt the healed cuts cry out to the blade he touched; like chicks calling for succour from a mother bird that had abandoned her nest.

But then he would draw a deep breath, close his eyes and remind himself - as he exhaled long and hard and firmly pushed the knife away from him with a flattened palm - that he didn't need to do that anymore. Then he would rub at the puckered scars on his left wrist and chest, and scare himself with the image of Arthur, Gaius or Gwen – their skin glistening with the kisses of a knife as his had been; knowing that he no more wished to see them in that state than they had him. The voice in his head might still tell him how useless he was when something went wrong, but it had been reduced from a shrill shriek to a whining whisper. He could live with that. And for once, having a conversation with the great dragon had helped.

"Why have you called me?" Merlin asked. He stood in the moonlit clearing before the bronze beast; his shoulders hunched against the cold breeze as his eyes followed the antics of the white blur that was the dragon's charge. Aithusa was dashing around her two elders; snapping at bats and moths as they hurried to gather the last of the insect feasts before their long winter sleep. Merlin frowned and smiled by turn; listening to the babblings the little dragon thrust in his head as she brought him up to date on what appeared to be everything she had seen and done since they'd last met.

"To see if you would come," Kilgharrah replied, with his usual rumbling chuckle and a sly twinkle in his luminescent eyes.

Merlin almost thought he heard the unspoken 'this time' in his head, though it was a little hard to concentrate with all the other 'noise'. Apparently, telling Aithusa to be quiet as adults were talking was only good for about a minute, before she took up the one-sided conversation where she had left off; pausing only long enough to hear Merlin's 'oohs', 'ahs' and 'well dones' before launching into recounting another adventure. But before Merlin could follow up his glower with a retort about not being a messenger pigeon, if Kilgharrah was not a horse, the dragon continued.

"And to see if the shadows you carry still obscure your view."

"My view?"

"Of your destiny, young warlock. You may have lost sight of it for a time, but it has always been there; waiting for you."

Merlin harrumphed and pursed his lips. "Why must my whole life be mapped out? Is it so much to ask that I be given a choice in what I do?"

The dragon sat back on his haunches, growling at his ward to be still or return to the mountains as she attempted to do a back-flip and crashed into a Mountain Ash sapling. The little dragon ignored him and shaking dried leaves and dead twigs from her shoulders , she launched herself up to a thick branch of an old oak, and hunkered down to watch her Lord and guardian from above.

Looking steadily into Merlin's eye, Kilgharrah said, "No-one said you could not choose your path to your destiny, young warlock. It is less of a map and more of a guide."

Merlin sighed heavily and looked away from the fiery eyes that bore into him. "More riddles!" he muttered to himself.

"If I was to tell you what you must do and in the manner that you should do it, then you would not make your choices freely. As you have been doing since the first time I called to you, Merlin. You chose to come to me that night, when you could have easily come another or not at all; just as you chose not to tell Morgana of your magic, when she discovered hers. It was your decision to help the Druid boy to escape and to attempt to heal Uther, rather than leave him to die from a fatal wound. But whatever I advised and whatever you did, matters not...ultimately you will reach the same destination. The prophets do not lie."

"So what you are saying is that I cannot escape my fate?" Merlin drawled and he didn't bother to hide the exasperation from his face or voice. "How is that supposed to make me feel better?!"

"That has never been my purpose," the dragon replied, his expression impassive, though not entirely without pity.

"Then what is?" Merlin snapped bitterly.

"To remind you of yours. This journey you are on is no different from other journeys through life. We are all born fated to die; it is what we choose to fill the time between birth and death with that makes the journey interesting. Taking a shortcut to the finish line – as you would have done – only serves to deprive the journey of meaning."

Merlin sighed, as he had done that night, when the dragon's meaning had finally begun to make sense. He might never be rid of the shadows – the darkness – that dwelled within him, but if Arthur could live with his, then so could he. He knew he had flaws and might not be held together very well in places, but he could still be the wall that stood around his King; guarding his life with every breath of his own. He knew where he had to go; he only had to find his own path to get there. The journey towards his destiny might not be over, but at least he was not travelling it alone; his companions on it had expressed their willingness to share his burdens too many times to be further denied.

And Arthur knew! He knew and had accepted his secrets. More than that, they were still friends, and that - to Merlin - meant more than the satisfaction of achieving his destiny after so many years of waiting.

Arthur had explained to him - with a face and voice filled with such concern and regret that it could not fail to bring Merlin to grasp his friend's shoulder in reassurance and forgiveness - that as much as he wished it, the thinking of Camelot's council and citizens could not be altered overnight. If he was to avoid the anarchy and rebellion that was sure to follow the sudden rescinding of one of their most fundamental laws (that had - on the surface - helped bring peace), then he could not make changes so radically. But they would be amended - in subtle, gentle stages - so as to not startle the herd into bolting. And Merlin, as his secret advisor, would help him. For they agreed that until such time as attitudes towards magic-wielding and peasant-born officials were sufficiently transformed, it was best for Merlin to continue to play the part of the hapless, defenceless servant.

Merlin was content with that. If Albion was a field, then Arthur was the farmer, and by accepting Merlin's magic, he had already ploughed the earth. All that remained was for seeds to be scattered and magic would once again take root and flourish in the land. Then the people would not need convincing that the harvest was good; that their fears of blight, hunger and death were groundless. And then there would be a feast such as no-one had ever seen before. Until then, Merlin would keep washing Arthur's socks.

The sudden sound of three sharp knocks broke Merlin from his musing with a light gasp and - cursing himself for his ability to let his imagination run away with him - he looked up in time to see Gwaine's head poke round the door he had just opened. The knight's long hair came to a swishing stop, a second after his head did, on spotting Merlin's hunched form by the window, and his whiskery face split into a grin.

"Ah, so the Princess can be right sometimes. You are in his chambers...polishing," he said, in a voice that suggested he'd lost a wager.

Merlin scowled at the implication that he might have been trying to hide where he could not be found again. "I thought you were in the same meeting as Arthur," he said, his hands resuming their swirling route along the breastplate, as his gaze flickered between his task and the knight.

Gwaine frowned at him, his eyes following Merlin's hands as he came the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind him. "I was."

"So, it finished early?" Merlin looked up at the knight.

"No, I got bored."

"And Arthur just let you leave?" Merlin couldn't help the touch of disbelief and more than a modicum of envy in his voice, since he had never been granted an early dismissal from such meetings; no matter how many times he yawned, shuffled his feet or made irritating noises.

"Not entirely. My finger-drumming during his oh-so-interesting end of meeting summary might have clinched it, so he sent me on a quest."

Merlin frowned; his polishing cloth paused. "What sort of quest?"

"Um, Merlin, why are you doing that?"

Merlin's brow wrinkled with confusion; his eyes following Gwaine's to his hands. "Because it needs to be done?" His voice rose in pitch at the end of his reply, knowing the knight wasn't after the obvious answer, but unsure what else to offer.

Gwaine's eyes narrowed, as if he thought Merlin was being deliberately obtuse. "No, I mean why aren't you just using your -" he wiggled the fingers of his right hand suggestively towards the piece of armour.

Comprehension cleared Merlin's features and he gave a shy smile; shrugging as his gaze moved back to his lap and the cloth that was back to its rotating parade across metal he would have deemed shiny enough on any other day.

After a moment, Gwaine pulled out a chair from the long table behind him and sat in it; hunching over his knees. "Wouldn't it be quicker?" he asked, clasping his hands together.

"It would."

"But you don't want it to be."

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Well, perhaps I want to prove to myself - as much as to Arthur - that my magic isn't all there is to me; that I can be...'normal'."

"Merlin."

"Mm-hmm?"

"You're weird."

Merlin grinned and let out a huffing chuckle. "You've just figured that out have you?"

Gwaine leaned back in the chair; lacing his fingers behind his head and stretching his feet out in front of him. "Oh no, I had you figured out a long time ago. Pretty much the day you and the Princess walked into that tavern and picked a fight with a thug twice the size of either of you."

Merlin raised his head a little and a single eyebrow a lot; appraising the knight with surprise.

"What I don't understand," Gwaine continued, his grin broadening as he ignored Merlin's scrutiny, "is why a man of your talents limits his power to tossing plates and saving the lives of measly Kings, when there's so much more fun to be had." The gruff man emphasised his point by waggling his eyebrows.

Merlin's surprised expression turned to shock; his eyes widening and mouth dropping open as he digested the knight's words. "Wait a minute," he said, his voice tickling a suddenly-dry throat and making him cough, "You mean you've known...all this time?"

Gwaine pursed his lips; hiding the smirk that was trying to force its way onto them. "We're not all as dumb as princesses, Merlin. And I didn't exactly know as such. Suspected: yes. And now you've just confirmed that it was you throwing crockery and benches that day, so thanks for that."

Merlin glowered at the knight before returning to his task. "So why didn't you say anything?" he said quietly, not taking his eyes off the breastplate.

"We're not all as scared as princesses, either. And besides, I had no reason to, until you gave me one." Merlin looked up; frowning. "And you didn't until you decided to top yourself."

The warlock grimaced and looked away, his cheeks reddening.

"I know it's your life an' all, but I can't say I was too happy about that, mate."

Merlin sighed. He'd had similar versions of this conversation too many times to count over the last couple of months, although Gwaine's was much less formal or honey-coated than the others had been. "Yeah, I know, it was selfish of me," he said monotonously, like he was reciting one of Arthur's speeches. "I should have come and talked to you or gone down the tavern or something along those lines, right?" He raised a sardonic eyebrow at the knight, who returned his gaze with nothing but sincerity in his eyes.

"Hell no, not if you didn't want to. I'm hardly one to preach about keeping secrets, am I?" The knight gave a small but - for once - unplayful smile, which Merlin returned slowly.

"You do take yourself a little too seriously though," Gwaine continued, his voice starting to make its way to the droll side that Merlin was more familiar with. "Even Kings' legendary protectors need to live a little, otherwise what are you fighting for exactly?"

Merlin guffawed. "Hah! When do I have five minutes to spare to enjoy myself?"

"I believe we've already discussed that, mate. And I'm betting that even if you cut a few corners here and there you'd spend whatever time you made with your head in some book; learning how to make yourself into a bigger, better spell-casting machine for her highness."

Merlin dropped his gaze, not wishing to let his friend see how close he was to the truth, but knowing even as he did that he'd failed.

"Yeah, thought so."

"It's my destiny, and I have to be ready," Merlin mumbled, shrugging one-sidedly.

"As do we all. But what good will you be to her highness if you can't magic straight?"

Merlin cocked his head to one side, contemplating his words with his lips pursed.

"Anyway, think about it. But not too hard. Thinking shrivels your nuts to the size of raisins. Ask Leon."

Merlin chuckled, his grin widening and heart feeling a little lighter.

"So you don't want to hear my new idea then for how we can have ourselves some entertainment with you and your little gift?" Gwaine asked teasingly.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Gwaine, if I said 'no' to your last twenty-two ideas for having 'fun', you can take it as read that your latest one will do nothing to keep my magic secret - like Arthur wants - either."

Gwaine made a rude noise. "The Princess has got a marrow stuck up his arse!"

"That would explain why his underwear smells of rotten vegetables," Merlin sniggered.

"Exactly! So all we have to do is start off the evening with a few drinks...loosen him up a little, and -"

"Gwaine-"

"- a few for you too wouldn't hurt, then -"

"Gwaine, NO! Not in a month of Sundays."

Gwaine scowled and muttered loudly about boring magicians and their equally unimaginative royal leash holders.

"Anyway," Merlin firmly broke across the knight's grumbling, "aren't you supposed to be on a quest of some sort?"

Gwaine's face was once more slashed by a wide smile. "That I am: a Merlin-gathering quest. Our Lord and master wants to go on a hunt as soon as the meeting's finished. Which would be ooooh...about now."

Merlin's curious, half-smiling expression fell, along with a groan from his lips. "Now?" He glanced up at the window behind him; judging the hour. "Why can't he give me more notice?" he said, not caring how whiny he sounded. He turned his glare on his scruffy friend and abruptly stood up; allowing the armour piece and cloth to fall to the floor with a clatter. "And why didn't you say so earlier? Do you have any idea how much I have to prepare when Arthur decides that killing animals is the only thing that will relieve his boredom?"

Merlin darted past the knight; heading towards the wardrobe as he mumbled profanities under his breath. Gwaine stood as well, then stooped to pick up the armour and cloth; dumping them in a messy pile on the table behind him, before trailing after Merlin.

"Hey, hey," he said, his arms held out in a calming manner, "don't get your petticoat in a twist, wizard-boy, we've got it all covered." Merlin paused while holding up one of Arthur's spare and - judging by the expression on his face, as he gave it an experimental sniff - not entirely clean undershirts, and frowned at the knight. "I spoke to George on my way here and he's off getting everything we'll need."

Merlin dropped the shirt and Gwaine's eyes automatically traced its descent back to the floor, from where he suspected it had come, as the warlock planted his hands on his hips.

"Food?"

"Enough for a week, knowing Brownie."

"Weapons?"

"Primed, and probably polished at least twice."

"Horses?"

"Being pampered, saddled and loaded as we speak. All we need now is a secret, spell-casting servant who squanders his skills on a spoil-sport King." He made a show of scanning every corner of the room; the side of his hand pressed to his forehead and standing on the tips of his toes to see further afield, while Merlin pouted at him. Gwaine's gaze came to rest on Merlin and his face morphed into the epitome of 'pleasantly surprised'. "Ah, here's one! Off we go then." And with that, he about-turned and strode for the door.

Merlin, giving one last eye-roll and long-suffering sigh, followed.

The secret noble and warlock made a quick detour to the Physician's chambers, so that the latter could gather together his own few supplies; including the much warmer winter coat that had been a surprise gift from Arthur only the week before (though he suspected Gwen's hand in choosing it, given the King's lack of skills when it came to assembling his own attire). Merlin had suggested meeting the knight half an hour later in the courtyard, but Gwaine had insisted on coming to help him. This mostly consisted of the rogue lying on his friend's bed and continuing in his efforts to persuade Merlin to use his magic on the trip to trick his fellow knights (particularly Percival, who only two days previously had played an embarrassing joke on the long-haired knight, involving a pig, a lady's nightdress and rather a lot of mead). Merlin, of course, adamantly refused to give in to the knight's cajolery, but rather than be perturbed, Gwaine cheerfully announced that he would see his warlock friend get up to no good with his magic by the end of the month, or he would spend the following one sober and celibate!

By the time the two men arrived at the stables, the other knights were assembled and attaching last minute necessities to their horses' saddles. Merlin was just about to walk through the large wooden doors to prepare and bring out his and Arthur's horses when George walked out; leading the two beasts with gentle words of encouragement and clicks of his tongue. Unlike Merlin on such occasions, George had not a stalk of straw sticking to his hair, no sweat on his brow, and no manure coating his boots. As far as appearances foretold, he could have just left the servants' quarters to start work for the day, though Merlin guessed George had probably already done thrice the work that he could achieve in the same time.

On spotting Merlin, the other neckerchief-wearing man gave a tight smile and a small, almost imperceptible bow. The warlock blushed and returned the smile with an awkward one of his own. George had been acting so differently towards Merlin since his return to duty, and at times, the warlock found it difficult to know how to respond to him. Gone were the disparaging looks at his lack of servile abilities, grace and decorum, and in their place were respectful nods and smiles, and even the odd 'Good Morning, Merlin'.

On only the second day back at work (when Merlin had forgotten Arthur's sword in his usual mess of thoughts to get everything done for the King on time), all it took was a throwaway comment from Gwaine (that Merlin should take a moment to rest before running up all the stairs) for George to scoot away and return to the training field with the absent weapon in half the time the warlock would have taken. And Merlin was certain it was the brass-obsessed servant who'd been responsible for the basket of sumptuous fruits and pastries he'd found in his room (after returning from the walk outside Gwen had dragged him on, once Gaius declared him strong enough to do so). Though Merlin had not recognised the hand that had written the two simple words "Thank you" on the basket's accompanying note, the fact that every piece of leather and metal in his room had been polished to within an inch of its life pretty much gave the grateful party's identity away.

Merlin was not entirely sure for what reason the other servant had gone to such lengths, but he guessed it must have something to do with what George had witnessed that night in the Physician's chambers. Perhaps his respect of the King went a lot further than the prestige of fulfilling the role of his manservant, and he was thankful for Merlin's part in saving his employer's life? Or maybe his bootlicking attitude was merely an act, and contrary to appearances, George actually despised the job (and was therefore relieved when it was given back to his predecessor)?

Whatever his motives, Merlin was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The man had so far said nothing to anyone about his magic, and for that, Merlin was very much obliged. Granted, it could have a lot to do with a certain long-haired, fiercely protective knight, whom George had recently done his utmost to avoid. But who was Merlin to complain, if it meant he stayed alive long enough for Arthur to lift the ban on magic, and then it wouldn't matter who knew about it.

"Um, thanks," Merlin said, as George handed him the horses' reins. The servant gave him another small bow, to which Merlin shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

George looked up again and caught Gwaine's eye, as he watched the interchange over Merlin's shoulder. The knight narrowed his eyes and raised one side of his upper lip; baring one of his canines in a miniature growl. A look of fear passed over the servant's face and emitting a small whimper, he turned a little too quickly to walk away...and bumped straight into the King.

The next few moments were filled with George's profuse apologies, Arthur's almost embarrassed waiving of the man's blame, and Gwaine's smirks and sniggers; barely contained behind the cover of his hand. Finally, wanting rid of the bootlicking man, the King dismissed him and turned to frown at Gwaine.

"Just what did you do to the man? He's even more insufferable than he was before!"

"Nothing that you wouldn't have done, if you knew what was good for you," Gwaine replied unabashedly.

"And I suppose if I hadn't, you would have used the same method to persuade me as you did George."

"Immediately and without hesitation," came the straight-faced reply, and Merlin had trouble hiding the wide grin behind his hand.

"Great!" Arthur replied, glaring at the knight and turning to spread his displeasure on the warlock as well. "It's so comforting to know I have only the most faithful of knights in my service."

"Loyalty isn't the preserve of royalty. Wouldn't you agree, Princess?" Gwaine was staring at Merlin, who had a sudden desire to give his mare's halter an unnecessary adjustment.

"I would," Arthur said curtly, then grabbed his horse's reins from Merlin and lead the horse to one side, before he could be blessed by the full power of Gwaine's very smug smirk.

After mounting the brown stallion, Arthur looked around to check that the others were doing the same, and received brief nods from Percival, Elyan and Leon; who had been discreetly watching their fellow knight and King's exchange with varying expressions of bemusement and mirth.

"Right, well, let's get going shall we, before Gwaine gets withdrawal symptoms and disappears down the tavern with my Lord Merlin again."

The warlock answered the waggle-browed beam the rogue threw over his shoulder with a mock glare, as they one-by-one urged their mounts to follow the king's.

Two hours later, the party was slowly fanning out from the clearing in the Darkling woods, where they had tied their horses to a fallen tree; making quiet wagers with each other over who would bring back the largest kill.

Merlin took up his customary position behind Arthur; carrying his crossbow, spare sword and waterskin. Contrary to his usual mood on being subjected to the wonders of alleviating small animals of their pitiful existences, the warlock was enjoying the chance for some peace and quiet to think, without the frequent interruptions from his friends; asking if he was getting too tired, cold or hungry. But unlike before, where it had driven him to run away from anyone who so much as looked at him for more than five seconds, now he viewed their attentions with a sort of fond annoyance.

Having seen the joy and relief on the faces of each of his comrades as they had come to visit him during his return to health, he was finally beginning to accept that the role he played in their lives was a lot more significant than his darkness-dwelling mind had allowed him to believe. And it was surprisingly pleasant to be on the receiving end of their praise for a change, for his part in saving Arthur's life; even though his congratulators were mostly unaware of the true extent of his involvement, other than volunteering as a human shield to the King. One day, everyone would know of the sacrifices Merlin had made, and he would publicly receive the accolade he deserved. Or so Arthur had promised, as he clasped Merlin's hand and clung to his eyes, like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam. But for now, the fewer who knew of his secret, the safer it would be. There was still the danger of Morgana finding out who Merlin was. One good thing that had come out of the assassination attempt was that Arthur's natural caution had been reinstated to the possibility of there being spies - right under his very nose - in his own home.

Though he had no evidence to prove his suspicions, Merlin was sure that Agravaine had somehow been involved in the attack on Arthur's life. The noble had visited Merlin - soon after waking from his coma - to offer congratulations for his survival and thanks for saving his nephew's life. There had been a look of disbelief and even a little anger in the Lord's guarded eyes, as he listened to the tale he had asked Merlin to recount of what had occurred when the assassin (supposedly) burst into the Physician's chambers and tried to finish the job he'd started at the feast. Thankfully, Gaius had managed to distract Agravaine from continuing with his intense and awkward questions by asking about the rather prominent bruise he was sporting on his left eye. The dark-haired noble had left soon after, with a forced smile and denial of requirement for Gaius' aid, and Merlin could tell by the raised eyebrow his mentor aimed at him that he also did not believe that Agravaine had tripped over some utensils left in his chambers by the 'useless servant who cleaned them' (and whom the noble was going to speak to the House Master about). Quite apart from the very low regard Merlin had for the veracity of any words that came out of Agravaine's mouth, he had worked with the servant in question - Edwin - for many years, and knew him to be almost as efficient and conscientious as George.

Merlin wished with all his heart that he could share this one last secret - his misgivings about Agravaine - with Arthur, and his fear that it was only a matter of time before the sneaky, detestable man tried again. But as Gaius reminded him, Arthur trusted his Uncle, and they still had no proof of the man's duplicitous nature or true allegiance. Not wishing to rock the King's faith in those close to him further than it already had been of late, Merlin had to content himself with simply keeping an eye on Agravaine. One day, the Lord would make his first mistake, and be caught in the act.

"Merlin!" Arthur's angry whisper broke through his reverie, and with a hum and flinch, the warlock blinked and turned to the King; raising his eyebrows in question.

"Sire?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Back with me are you?"

Merlin gave him one of his sheepish grins and then looked blankly at the hand his friend was thrusting, fingers wide and palm up, in his direction.

Arthur tutted and sighed when Merlin made no further move to interact with the hand - other than look at it - and said tersely, "Crossbow!"

Merlin took a second longer to process the demand (toying briefly with the idea of saying that no, actually, his bow was feeling quite affable at that moment in time, then rejecting it as being certain to win him extra chores for his cheek later on), before handing the weapon over to the now-gesticulating hand.

"Thank you."

Merlin smiled. Thanks to frequent use over the past month or so, the two words no longer sounded so foreign coming from the King's mouth. A feeling of contentment washed over him as he once again received the only reward he had ever desired for the things he did for Arthur. Though Gwaine might disagree, and mock him for stubbornly eschewing fame and fortune (because apparently, only coin and reputation would allow him to collect drinks at the tavern and ladies in his bed), Merlin felt like the richest man in the kingdom to be acknowledged by something better than insults from his best friend.

Merlin watched as Arthur drew back the string and raised the crossbow level with his eye; his right finger resting on the trigger as he stared unblinkingly into the undergrowth where - so Merlin presumed - he had caught sight of prey large enough to win over all the other knights' bets. For once - and maybe in gratitude for the King's determination to show appreciation for Merlin's service - the warlock did his utmost to cause no distractions and rid his friend of his sport. Thus even he noticed that the sounds of footfalls on cool wet leaves did not equate with that of a furry forest dweller, but in fact sounded more like the heavy steps of a human; one not as well trained in stealth as the knights of Camelot. The frown that creased the King's forehead therefore came as no surprise and was echoed by Merlin's own, when he too peered into the thick branches of the yew before them.

Without a word, Arthur thrust the crossbow towards Merlin, and the raven-haired man took it; carefully un-nocking the quarrel as the King quietly withdrew his sword from its scabbard and took a measured step forwards. The snap of a twig broke the silence, and Merlin bit his tongue hard to prevent a gasp escaping his mouth, as he and Arthur edged their way towards their quarry; the warlock's heart beginning to beat faster in his chest.

A roaring cry was all the warning Merlin had to duck his head; leaving only an inch to spare as a sword came sailing over it from behind him. He whirled around to come face to face with a heavy-set, bearded and balding man of middle years, who grimaced at him as he swung his slightly rusting sword around for a second turn at relieving Merlin of his head. Merlin dropped the crossbow and leaned away from the man; motivated to create a distance between them by the ruffian's sweaty, rotten-meat aroma, as much as the weapon he brandished with more skill than the warlock could ever hope to gain. Before the man's sword could get within a foot of Merlin's head again however, it came to a stop with a ringing clang as it hit the three feet of steel that had been placed in its path by a very angry King.

The scruffy, leather-clad man stepped back; his eyes wide as he took in the professional swordsman's stance and steel-eyed glare of the not so easily dispatched prey that had taken the place of the much weaker-looking one he'd chosen to attack first. But an expression that was half-way between a snarl and a sneer almost immediately fell over his features, when with another roar, he rushed forwards; aiming to see if his sword would pass through this still-only-leather-armoured target just as easily as the completely unprotected one. Arthur blocked the man's charge, allowing the energy of his attack to be dispersed in his blade, as the other's slid up his own with a metallic cry, until their hilts barred further momentum.

With an angry grunt and wrinkled nose, when the man's lack of personal hygiene made itself known, Arthur pressed his shoulder down and shoved him away. "Stay back, Merlin!" he cried; readying himself for the next attack.

Not taking his eyes from his opponent, the man raised his lips in a sneer; revealing brown and chipped teeth and the source of part of his smell. "Yeah, Merlin," he said, his voice deep and gravelly, "stay back and I'll see to you in a sec, but you can watch if you like, while I deal with your mate 'ere.

Merlin's snort and guffaw of "I don't think so!" was lost beneath the sounds of feet scuffling on the muddy ground and clank after clank as the bandit launched into an attack that almost took Arthur by surprise at its speed and ferocity. Merlin drew Arthur's spare sword from the scabbard at his waist as he watched the fight avidly; knowing his intervention wouldn't be necessary, but preferring to prepare for the unexpected nevertheless.

It was just as Arthur was able to take advantage of the man stumbling over a tree root to pierce his belly with his sword that Merlin felt a leather-covered, muscular arm wrap itself around his throat and yank him back into a studded jerkin. He dropped his sword in order to bring both hands up to try to prise the meaty limb away from where it pressed hard enough against his windpipe to keep his voice in his throat; his eyes bulging as he gasped in a breath. The next moment, he felt the press of sharp steel below the arm on his throat and Merlin stilled his struggling as the man holding him yelled out, "Drop your sword!"

Arthur spun round from the semi-crouched position he held, as the bandit he'd felled reached the ground with a thump, and his face filled with first horror and then rage at the second threat of the day to his servant. He narrowed his eyes as he took in the tall and wide build of the man who completely dwarfed the skinny warlock, and who could have been Percival's brother, apart from his long, shaggy, black hair and grizzled beard.

"Let. Him. Go!" Arthur said, his voice hissing as if he held a burning coal in his mouth; his eyes flashing dangerously at Merlin's captor.

Merlin only just managed to drag in a sharp breath as the man's muscles flexed; tightening his hold on the warlock's neck while pressing his sword hard enough to cut open the first few layers of skin. Merlin could almost feel the wave of anger wash over him, along with Arthur's retaliatory growl when the King saw the thin line of blood decorate his friend's pale flesh, like a macabre necklace.

"Ain't gonna happen," the bandit replied, and though he couldn't see it, Merlin could hear the smug grin in his tone, as the man brandished what was - to him - the greater advantage over the two men. "Now, drop your sword, or you'll be taking your friend home in two halves."

Arthur's gaze moved down from the ruffian's superior height to Merlin's inferior one, and he caught Merlin's eye. The King lifted one eyebrow pointedly, and the warlock heard the unspoken 'What are you waiting for?' ringing in his ears. He allowed one side of his mouth to rise; welcoming the bait.

Keeping his eyes centred on his friend, as he felt the man shuffle behind him nervously at the lack of response from his challenger, Merlin gently released the hold on his power, and without uttering a word, felt the magic flood through his veins; turning his irises gold. Instantly, heat began to rise from the weapon held just beneath his Adam's Apple, and he didn't need to see it to know that it was already glowing a deep, burnished orange with the force that surged through it. He steadfastly held in the wince that was trying to flee his facial muscles, as the burning sensation on the sword-cut increased; he wouldn't give his captor the satisfaction of knowing that his spell was affecting him in even the slightest way.

Either the bandit needed more convincing that his sword was now too hot to hold, or he was stupidly trying to prove that having a hand on fire would not put a dent in his bravado, but that did not prevent the entire limb from juddering in a matter of seconds. Merlin could also feel the man's respiration quickening, and he heard a couple of pained whimpers escape gritted teeth. It was not until a thin line of smoke issued from the bandit's palm however that his pain receptors finally kicked his pride in the trouser area, allowing common sense to take over, and with a high-pitched yell, the sword was flung to the moist earth.

Immediately, Arthur leapt forwards to kick the dropped weapon out the way in a shower of mulch. He would have grabbed Merlin's arm to yank him out of reach of the bandit, who was now cursing and nursing his blistered palm, if the warlock had not first stomped on the man's foot (increasing the volume and intensity of the expletives) then elbowed him hard in the ribs. The giant of a man fell to the ground and Arthur leaped on him; rolling him onto his stomach and wrenching his arms behind his back. Merlin grimaced at the sight of the ruined flesh on the bandit's hand, as his wrists were forced together, but he knew the King probably wasn't feeling the slightest inkling of remorse for his pain; so overcome was he with indignation for the threat made to one he cared about. Although Merlin regretted the necessity of harming another to save himself, one thing he had gained from his brush with death a few weeks ago was that Arthur's need of his protection provided enough value to his own life to put aside most of the doubts he had about his purpose in preserving it.

"Merlin, you don't happen to have any rope in your pack do you?" Arthur called, and the strain in his voice drew the rest of the warlock's attention to his friend. The King was still sitting atop the bandit's back, struggling to keep the wildly thrashing man subdued.

"Swefe nu!" Merlin chanted, splaying his hand out towards the ruffian, who immediately went limp as consciousness was stolen from him.

Arthur breathed out a loud sigh of relief and puffed a strand of sweat-soaked fringe off his forehead. "Why didn't you just do that earlier?"

Merlin fingered the line on his neck that was no longer bleeding, thanks to his unintentional cauterisation, and winced when one of his calluses caught on a more fragile area of scabbed skin. "Where would be the fun in that?"

Arthur raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. "You've been hanging around with Gwaine too long."

Merlin snorted as he shrugged off his rucksack and rifled through it for the coil of rope he always carried with him for emergencies. When he found it, he handed it to Arthur wordlessly, who, with Merlin's help, dragged the unconscious man to a nearby tree. Merlin smiled when he noticed how the King avoided wrapping the rough rope around the bandit's burnt hand, as he tied him to the tree's trunk. The ruffian didn't deserve the consideration, but that did not stop his conqueror from giving it.

Standing up from his completed task, Arthur brushed off his palms on his trousers and raised his chin towards Merlin, who was picking up the dropped crossbow. "Neat trick," he said, and then frowned as a thought struck him. "Hey, you've never done that to me, have you?"

Merlin furrowed his brow and pursed his lips; rolling the puckered orifice from left to right as he made a play of mulling the question over. But at Arthur's narrowed eyes the warlock broke out into a toothy smile. "Nah, I reserve that one for smelly bandits and lovesick Princesses." At Arthur's look of confusion, Merlin shook his head dismissively. "No, I'm not stealing Gwaine's nicknames, and don't burst your brain thinking about it - I wouldn't want to have to clean that mess out of your tunic!" Arthur continued to glare at him as he sheathed his sword, but Merlin deliberately kept his eyes on anything except the King.

"Right, well, we'd better go and find the others," Arthur said. "These two could have been stragglers from a larger group." He turned and began to jog back the way they had come. Merlin shouldered his bag, hitched the crossbow higher and with a put-upon sigh, followed in his friend's wake.

Any hopes Merlin might have had that Arthur's hunch had been wrong were soon shattered, when the sounds of men shouting and metal hitting metal gradually pervaded the cold air of the rapidly waning afternoon. The two men squinted as they picked up their pace; trying to see ahead for visual confirmation of the apparent battle taking place.

Coming to the top of a slight rise in the trees, they were brought up short behind the negligible cover of two ivy-clad birch trees by the sight in the small valley below. Directly beneath them, Percival was fighting two men simultaneously; somehow managing to dodge the blows of one mace-wielding bandit while clashing swords with the other, equally dirty and ugly-looking man. A few yards in front of him, Elyan was ducking away from the blur that was the spinning ball of the flail his opponent had almost managed to impale the dark-skinned knight with; both only just managing to prevent themselves from tripping over the body of the felled bandit at their feet. A short distance away, near the other side of the clearing, Gwaine and Leon were fighting almost back to back; surrounded by five men, armed with an arsenal of ill-kempt weapons.

Arthur clenched his jaw and unsheathed his sword; preparing to run down into the fray and help his brothers. Beside him, Merlin gripped the trunk of the tree he hid behind; his eyes darting from friend to friend, looking for the signs that his particular mode of intervention might be required and could be applied discreetly. Arthur glanced across at him, noting that he'd made no move to arm himself.

"Well come on then, Merlin, sword out - we haven't got all day!" And flinging a brief smirk over his shoulder, he stood and threw himself down the steep slope in front of them; his sword already raised to swing down and meet the oblivious back of Percival's second attacker.

Merlin drew Arthur's spare sword, feeling nervous as he always did with the unnatural-seeming weight of a cold, hard weapon in his hand, as oppose to the familiar, comforting warmth of his magic sizzling in his palm; waiting to be given shape and purpose. Well aware that his inborn clumsiness would likely find every rock and root doing their best to trip him up, he took the slope a little more gingerly than the King had, as he jogged down to the valley bottom. On reaching it though, he hung back for a second, not really sure where to start and to whom he should give his help first; alternately squeezing and relaxing his hand on the hilt of his sword. The decision was taken away from him, however, when one of the bandits hounding Gwaine and Leon spotted him loitering, and broke off to meet the new threat.

Merlin raised his sword just in time to meet the whirling chain of the flail the short, stocky, mousy-haired man spun; the ball wrapping around Merlin's blade for a second before the bandit roughly yanked it free and began spinning it again. Merlin eyed the whirring, spiked sphere warily; swallowing hard as he was reminded first of the one that only months ago had given him a grievous wound in the chest, and then of the one Arthur had fought him with in the marketplace, during their second meeting. He didn't have very long for the memories to assault him though, as a second later the ruffian thrust the weapon forwards; aiming to give Merlin's skull some ventilation holes. The warlock leaped backwards, straight onto the uneven surface of a large log, over which he promptly fell. The bandit came after him, swinging his weapon, but with a flash of gold from Merlin's eyes, the man tripped and fell on his back; landing in the churned up leaves with a loud 'oomph'.

Merlin wasted no time in grabbing the sword he had dropped in his fall, and was just scrambling to his feet - all the while keeping his eyes on the bandit (who was struggling to regain his equilibrium and a more upright position than his hands and knees) - when he heard a cheerful voice call out to him, "Nice of you to join us, Merlin!"

The warlock looked up to see Gwaine trotting towards him; his sword bloodied from the bandit he had just killed and a grin smeared across his already-bruising cheek. "Would you like me to take care of that for you?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, clunked the dazed man on the back of the head with the pommel of his sword; sending the rest of him the relatively short distance to join his knees on the ground.

"Thanks," Merlin replied with a relieved smile.

The bearded knight clapped him on the shoulder, before turning around to survey whatever fights were still taking place in the clearing. That was when they both spotted the thirty or so unanticipated additions to the bandits' numbers, who were at that second pouring over the sides of the small valley and running towards the hunting party.

The two took a moment to face each other - resignation and a silent message of 'Here we go again!' passing between them - before both yelled out at the tops of their lungs, "ARTHUR!"

The King looked up from the corpse he had just created, and which was at that moment sliding off his blade to the forest floor. The stunned expression that first visited his features was swiftly replaced by determination. "REGROUP!" he shouted, and backed up a couple of yards, so that he was standing at the centre of the clearing.

The others hurried over to him - Elyan limping slightly from a sword cut he'd been unable to block in time - and as a group they huddled in a rough circle; facing out towards the rapidly approaching enemy. Merlin spared a quick glance at Arthur, reassuring himself that his King was unhurt.

Arthur - as if sensing his inspection - turned towards him and gave a brief, grim smile; his eyes conveying the message that he too was relieved that his friend was unharmed, before calling out, "ON ME!" The King sprang forth, without a backwards glance to see if his order was being followed; his sword held aloft to meet the first of the bandits that had just reached them. The others too yelled out their wordless battle cries as they clashed steel on steel with their foes.

The next quarter of an hour was a cacophonic tempest of curses, cries and clangs, as Camelot's best proved themselves worthy of their titles. Their swings, ducks, dives, thrusts, parries and stabs seemed on the surface a well choreographed dance, at which the knights were the experts and the bandits amateurs, at best. To Merlin, the experience passed by in a haze of barely stopped hits and surreptitiously cast spells, as he did all he could to preserve his own as well as his friends' lives, while trying not to get in anyone's way, or be spotted with his eyes in a shade other than blue.

The ground beneath their feet turned into a mire of brown and red, as leafy loam was stamped and kicked into the puddles and streams of blood. Merlin wanted nothing more than to cover his ears and eyes and hide himself away from the bedlam; not because he was the coward that Arthur used to accuse him of being, but because each shriek of pain and angry roar, every snap of bone and slice of flesh made his magic sizzle and hiss in empathised agony. But he endured. For Arthur and destiny he diverted every near-miss and sidestepped each fatal shot that was directed at himself or his companions.

They were heavily outnumbered, but they were making good progress through the swathes of their enemies. The bouts between individual pairs had not remained in the middle of the valley. As each threat was met, the knights had gradually moved away from each other; leaving a trail of dead and severely wounded in their wake. Now and then, Merlin would glance around and check the relative positions of his comrades; noting the numbers each fought and who was close to being overwhelmed, outflanked or taken unawares. He kept an especial eye on his King, never allowing the man to move more than a few yards from his side if he could help it. And Arthur, for his part, reciprocated; sparing a second or two after beating an opponent to find Merlin amongst the chaos, and if possible catch his eye to gauge the man's mental and physical state. Once reassured, he was free to move on to the next engagement.

It was on looking up (having knocked out his most recent assailant with a conveniently overhanging tree branch) that to his horror Merlin saw Arthur separated from the rest of the knights by at least twenty yards, and surrounded by five of the remaining ruffians; all of whom seemed intent on delivering the fatal blow. Whether they had recognised the King - even in his distinctly non-regal hunting attire - or because they had decided to isolate the fearsome warrior and remove the threat of his great skill before moving on to do the same with the next best of the Camelot entourage, was a debate for a less urgent time. In that moment, all Merlin knew was that Arthur - legendary fighter though he was - would not survive without help. And help was too far away.

Nevertheless, Merlin ran; noting as he did so that he was not the only one with wide eyes and fear in their heart for the seemingly inevitable demise of their King. Leon was yelling out his liege's name; frantically trying to overcome the very tall and powerful man he fought and who seemed determined not to grant the knight's wish and succumb. The other knights were either too engaged in their own battles to notice, or were equally unable to free themselves to aid their troubled leader. At about the same time as Leon managed to deal his opponent a severe enough blow to remove him from his path, and began his race towards Arthur, Merlin realised that neither of them would make it in time. The arms of two of Arthur's antagonists were arcing down towards him - one to the front and one to his rear - and the warlock knew that even if he slowed down time to reach his friend and lend his sword arm, it would not be enough against so many, and of far greater strength and ability than him.

And so without squandering another moment to think about the consequences, Merlin skidded to a halt and flung out both his arms. With a roar that contained all his anger, fear, denial and supplication to any God listening (and willing to aid him), he released his magic and thrust it forwards. Less than a heartbeat later, and in one synchronised move, the five men surrounding Arthur were violently flung back, as if an explosion had taken place at the exact point the King stood. Each of the men flew thirty feet to land in a muddy splatter of leaves, and in one case, hard enough against the trunk of a tree to split it with a loud crack. When they came to a stop in their first and only flight, none moved again.

Arthur - who had been swinging his sword down to meet the blade of the bandit that had been standing in front of him - stumbled a couple of steps when all his counterattack met was air, and his weapon clumsily continued in its arc towards the ground. He quickly righted himself and spun on the spot; breathing heavily and his eyes wide with bewilderment. They darted about the space around him as they took in the still forms of the men he had been fighting - now lying on the ground or slumped beside a broken tree - and his brow crinkled until his gaze rose high enough to see the figure who was standing several yards away from him; his arms still raised and his eyes fading from gold to blue.

Merlin swallowed hard, his breath quickening and heart racing as the full impact of what he had just done fell on him like a bucket of manure from a horse with a stomach upset. He took a step back and slowly drew his arms towards himself; staring at his palms as if they had acted of their own accord and without his permission. But he knew they were no guiltier than the rest of him, and would have to face the ramifications of his actions too.

Unless...maybe it was alright? Perhaps no-one else had seen; busy as they were ridding the world of more men who wished to take what was not theirs to own.

Hesitantly, he raised his head, allowing his hands to fall to his sides, and felt the blood drain from his face when he saw that all weapons had been stilled and all eyes in the clearing were trained on him. Percival held two bandits by the collars of their jackets; his arms poised to clash their foreheads together as if he was breaking eggs for breakfast. The men he held however seemed oblivious to this, as they too stared at Merlin with their mouths gaping. Elyan crouched over a man lying on the ground; too mesmerised to unhook his sword, even though the ribs it was inserted between no longer rose and fell. Gwaine and his opponent stood with swords crossed and bodies held in offensive and defensive positions respectively; as if awaiting a signal to continue their violent debate of who would be around to see the next dawn. Leon was frozen mid-stride, a short distance from Arthur. His fist tightly clasped the hilt of his sword; aiming it at Merlin.

All bar two of those watching him bore expressions of fear and shock. In contrast, Gwaine was grinning widely; his eyes sparkling with what Merlin suspected to be a mixture of victory and connivance (and he dreaded to think what kind of trouble the rogue was dreaming up to involve him in, after the events of today). But it was Arthur's eyes that ultimately riveted Merlin, as he tried to convey with his own as much apology and regret as possible in the absence of words. The King looked as if he was torn between the desire to express his gratitude and cuff Merlin on the side of the head, but then both emotions disappeared from his face; replaced by resignation. Arthur straightened his back, sheathed his sword and began walking towards his servant.

"Sire!" Leon's sharp warning broke the concentration of the servant and the stride of his master, and both turned to look at him. It also served to shatter the silence and stillness of the tableau, and those in it started moving again. The two men in Percival's grip squirmed, but before either could extricate their collars from the rock-hard fist, the knight completed the downward movement of his arms. Following the sickening crunch of impact, he released the now unconscious men to the embrace of the valley floor. Before the last bandit standing could draw his weapon back and even think to attack his opponent, Gwaine swung his fist into the side of the man's head, and he too dropped into an unplanned sleep on the ground.

With all brigandish threats eliminated, Arthur was about to close the gap between himself and his servant (who was still stationary and sweating slightly, despite the chill air), when his second in command hurried to stand in front of him. Leon's sword did not waver from its target; his pose tense and wary as he glared at the warlock.

"Careful, Sire," he said, "I saw it with my own eyes: Merlin has magic. He's a sorcerer."

Percival and Elyan too began to draw closer; their swords in their hands, though not held as high as Leon's. Merlin could see from their expressions that they were torn; duty to the laws they'd sworn to uphold warring with memories of wine, ribbing and tales around campfires with the man they had come to view as the youngest brother in their extended family. Merlin took another step back; his hands lifting in a mollifying gesture, until he realised how similar this looked to a mere minute ago when they had been raised to attack, and he quickly whipped the limbs behind his back, where his fingers pulled at each other nervously. He was entirely too aware of how outnumbered he was, by people he would never dream of defending himself against, and how uncomfortably fast his heart was beating in his chest.

A hand suddenly clamped on his shoulder, and the warlock felt as if he jumped a good few inches in the air; his breath catching in his throat loudly.

"Hey, relax, magic man!" Gwaine chuckled in his ear, and a minute amount of the tension in Merlin's frame dissipated. He gave a tiny smile - that could have easily been mistaken for a twitch of pain - in reply.

"Gwaine!" Leon growled, advancing another step, though a large crease of uncertainty had formed across his forehead at the knight's oddly indifferent attitude and Arthur's total lack of response in the face of apparent betrayal.

"Le-on!" Gwaine countered sarcastically.

"Move away from the magic. wielding. servant. Gwaine," the curly-haired knight hissed through gritted teeth.

Merlin felt the hand on his shoulder give him a reassuring clasp before Gwaine removed it to cross his arms and lean up against his friend. "And if I don't?" The scruffy knight's tone was somewhere in the middle of blasé and threatening.

"Alright, that's enough, Sir Gwaine," Arthur suddenly cut in, coming level with his first knight and placing a hand on the man's sword hilt, he gave it a gentle push down. "At ease, Leon," he said calmly.

Leon lowered his weapon a little further, but made no move to put it away; his eyes never leaving Merlin's and the warlock knew a non-verbal warning not to make any sudden moves when he saw one. He lowered his gaze to the forest floor, his cheeks burning despite the huge shiver that wracked the rest of him. He felt rather than saw the King advance towards him, and couldn't bring himself to look up, even when a pair of boots as familiar as his own came into view.

He failed to suppress a flinch when two warm hands were placed at the tops of his biceps, but the hands did not release him after they gave a careful squeeze.

"Merlin?" Arthur's voice was brimming with the concern he would have gone out of his way to deny a scant couple of months ago. "Are you okay?"

Merlin instantly felt his pulse and breathing slow to a less frantic pace, and looked up into the sincere gaze of his friend; forcing a smile onto his lips for a second or two as he nodded. His mouth, however, was still too dry to give a verbal confirmation; no matter how many times he swallowed and pressed his tongue against his palate.

"Are you sure? No cuts, broken bones or headaches you're trying to hide from me? You know I'll think of some way to punish you later if I find you've been lying to me. Those stables have been looking particularly filthy recently..."

"I'm fine, Arthur," Merlin managed to grind out; his voice as crusty as the throat it came from. He gave his 'don't treat me like I'm made of glass' look that was starting to become a little abused of late, and Arthur let his hands fall back down to his sides.

"Yeah, Princess," Gwaine joined in, jostling Merlin's shoulder with his own, "We're not all delicate flowers like you. Merlin can take on a few measly bandits, can't you mate?" He took no notice of Merlin's blush and small shrug, and carried on. "That was pretty amazing, you know; the way you threw those men from all the way over here. All at the same time, without even breaking a sweat. Oh and thanks for making that fat one drop his sword earlier; would have bloody taken my arm off, sneaking up on me like that. Which reminds me, shouldn't you be thanking Merlin about now for saving your life, Princess? You would have been dead twice over, by my reckoning, during the last half hour alone!" He turned and quirked an eyebrow at the King, who was frowning indignantly.

"I did!" he protested; his voice shooting up an octave.

"When? I didn't hear you," Gwaine challenged with narrowed eyes, though they also sparkled humorously.

"Well you might have done if you'd let me get a word in edgeways!" Arthur defended himself; matching the bearded knight's stance by crossing his own arms. "Anyway, I'm not sure Merlin deserves it."

"Doesn't des-" the rest of Gwaine's spluttered sentence was cut off by his throat becoming too choked up by objection to finish it. He unfolded his arms to rest his right one on his sword hilt. "Are you really going to make me throw my glove down at your feet, your highness, or would you like to rephrase that statement?"

Merlin turned so he was facing his two friends; his palms held out. "Hey hey, Gwaine, calm down. Honestly I'm not that bothered."

"Well you might not be, mate, but I am," Gwaine replied, not lifting a finger from his weapon. "It's about bloody time his royalness said thank you for at least one of the times you've kept his head on his ungrateful shoulders."

"Gwaine!" The warning in Arthur's voice was matched by his glare, but the knight was impenitent. "Merlin knows how I feel, so unlike you, I don't need to fawn all over him like some lovesick girl. And besides, I'm a little more concerned about what part of 'Let's keep the magic secret for now' Merlin doesn't understand." He moved his withering gaze onto his servant, who had raised his eyebrows in semi-amused exasperation; his mouth hanging open. "Honestly, Merlin," Arthur continued, shaking his head in disbelief, "it's a wonder you're still alive, when you're so rubbish at keeping secrets!"

"I'll have you know," Merlin replied, the pseudo-hurt expression on his features betrayed by a vacillating smile, "I managed to keep my magic a secret from you for seven years!"

Arthur rolled his eyes and snorted. "Yeah, the Gods only know how, with the terrible excuses you're always giving me."

"That's because I don't keep my brains in my arse," Merlin mumbled, though not particularly quietly. Gwaine sniggered and released his sword hilt at last.

"What's that, Merlin? I didn't quite catch you," Arthur replied, having trouble keeping a straight face himself.

"I rest my case."

The exaggerated clearing of a throat startled the three conversationalists; having completely forgotten that they had company. Leon, Percival and Elyan were standing in a group; their expressions warring between quizzical and alarm, and their swords poised to battle whatever magical force had apparently ensorcelled their friends.

"Um...is someone going to tell us what the hell is going on?" Elyan ventured uncertainly.

Arthur, Gwaine and Merlin turned to look at one another; each hoisting a single eyebrow in silent query of the others' opinions. Gwaine, relinquishing the decision to the two main protagonists, crossed his arms again and with a sly grin, took a step back to enjoy the show.

A smile crept onto Merlin's face; the counter to Arthur's reluctant glower. "So," said the warlock; his tongue pressing on the inside of his cheek, "do you want to tell them, or shall I?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and released a long, slow sigh.

The End

Glossary of Translations

Tolle oculis rana quod appensum est saltem triginta dies = Take the eyes of a frog that has been hung for at least thirty days (Latin, chapter 13)

Ætýne hæftinge = Open lock (old English, chapter 13)

Swefe nu = Sleep now (old English, chapter 13 and Epilogue)

Drýcræft Gebinden = Magic Binders (old English, chapters 17 and 25)

Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare = I heal you thoroughly from your mortal wound (old English, chapter 23)

Gestepe hole! = Heal the injury! (old English, chapter 23)

Þurhhæle! = Heal thoroughly! (old English, chapter 23)

Þurhhæle bræd! = Heal thoroughly the flesh! (old English, chapter 23)

Þurhhæle dolgbenn!= Heal thoroughly the wound! (old English, chapter 23)

Licsar ge staðol nu! = Behold, you support the mortal wound! (old English, chapter 23)

Wel cene hole! = Do good to the perforation! (old English, chapter 23)

Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ!= I heal you thoroughly from your mortal wound with those special powers that are ancient! Oh! (old English, chapter 23)

Ic ábregdan fram þú dæl þín daru. Ic ágiefe æt þú dæl min handmægen. Forþám Þurhhæle bræd pone cyning = I take from you half your hurt. I give to you half my strength. Therefore heal the king's flesh (old English, chapter 23)

Fromum feohgiftum on fæder bearme. Fromum feohgiftum = With splendid gifts in his father's bosom. With splendid gifts (old English, chapter 25)