Before he'd made one his home, Merlin had always had some deep-seated assumptions about caves. Caves were, to his mind, dark, dank, damp and cold. Caves were unfriendly places, places to be avoided, or used as a last resort in a rainstorm, huddling miserably in a corner while run-off soaked your feet.

Caves were not, to his way of thinking, a substitute for four walls and pallet on the floor.

But here he was, sleeping in a cave, only leaving it briefly to gather food and wood for the night. Living in a cave, instead of a castle. Hiding in the forest, most his time spent with his consciousness focused miles and miles away.

He wondered if Arthur realized he was being watched. If he felt Merlin's presence, hovering near him, watching him go about his business. Not that Merlin always found that business very engrossing--Arthur spent a great deal of time in horribly boring pursuits. Merlin would admit--privately--that he enjoyed watching Arthur fight in tournaments, enjoyed seeing him best all comers. But watching him train and practice was another matter.

So was listening in on court business. And watching Arthur flirt with the maidens at his celebration feast had turned his stomach, though he supposed that could be attributed much more to the sumptuous array of food, when he was surviving on stale bread and whatever he could catch from the forest.

But watching Arthur gave him something to do--other than studying the book of magic Gaius had snuck out of his room for him--and let him feel at least a bit as if he still belonged in his old life. As if there would still be a place for him, when he returned.