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The distant figure roves in and out of the sight through the trees, but Gwaine thinks he and his knights in arms are gaining on the sorcerer. His heart pounds with every step as the knights of the patrol speed through the forest, adrenaline and pride and fear pumping through Gwaine with every leap. Pride for being a knight of Camelot, for a job well-done, to get to the bottom of this mystery presented before them of a sorcerer simply appearing and declaring himself. Fear for Gwaine’s love, fear for his Merlin and his magic and what truths they might be forced to face with the newfound nuisance of this sorcerer.
Adrenaline for the thrill of the chase.
From the dwindling distance, Gwaine can see this sorcerer is a man who matches a description they’ve heard of many times before. Great. That either bodes well for the Crown OR for Merlin, but rarely do those two happenings coincide.
Gwaine catches a flash of a red cape going to cut the sorcerer off through the mist and mire, and then a series of quick things happen all at once: the sorcerer slows down to a stumbly stop, and is quickly surrounded by Elyan, Leon, and Percival. Merlin, Mordred, and Arthur have not caught up. Gwaine approaches cautiously; the man’s eyes are darting like a rabbit caught in a snare.
Before Gwaine can even think to be prepared for sudden movements, the man makes a dash directly towards Gwaine. All his instincts scream to reach for his sword, to take care of business and the threat to Arthur (indirectly) and to himself (very directly). However, in recent times, Gwaine has been working to ignore some of his lazier, impulsive instincts and see where other instincts may lead him. The words and advice and practices of a certain all powerful warlock may have something to do with this (his motivational kisses may as well!)
So, instead of reaching out with his sword to deal a blow, Gwaine reaches out with an arm and a whisper: “In the name of the great Emrys, you should stop.”
And stop the sorcerer does, dead in his tracks. Whether from shock or from compliance, Gwaine cannot tell. But beggars can’t be choosers, not in this day and age, and the man has been stopped and has been taken into custody.
“I wish to be taken to see Arthur Pendragon!” the sorcerer barks.
“There is no need for that,” a haughty voice declares behind Gwaine. “I am right here.”
Gwaine whirls his body around, though not as quickly as his heart leaps. There is Arthur, sword drawn. Mordred has his hand on his hilt. Merlin appears to have nothing, but Gwaine is fortunate to know better. Merlin gives Gwaine a quick-lived, bright smile, and then brings his full attention back to the sorcerer in front of them.
“You are Osgar, the sorcerer who killed one of my knights?” Arthur asks, though it is a question they all know the answer to.
Osgar inclines his head. “I am sorry death had to happen. But yes.”
“Why do you demand to see me? What could be so important?”
Osgar reaches out a hand to Arthur. Quick as a slice of steel, Gwaine has the sorcerer's arm in his grasp, forcing him to kneel on the ground, Mordred also draws his sword, and the knights behind leap forward. Osgar gives them all a wry smile at their jumpiness, and turns his hand over, revealing a disc with a strange sigil on it. Gwaine doesn’t need to look at Merlin to know this is something reminiscent of the Old Religion (Gwaine wants to look at Merlin, always, is constantly aware of that pull and that desire, but it's safer not to right now.)
“You have been judged by the Disir, Arthur Pendragon,” Osgar intones from his knees. “And you have been found wanting.”
“And who is this Disir, who would dare to judge a king?”
“They are the mouthpiece of the Triple Goddess. And they will not be ignored. You have turned your back on magic and the old ways in Camelot for far too long, young king. The seeds of her destruction are already being sown. But, if you take heed of us now, it is not too late for redemption.”
Arthur narrows his eyes. Gwaine fears this moment is too close in the aftermath of the death of one of the King's trusted knights for Arthur to be rational.
But all Arthur says is: “What would this redemption look like?”
A hint of a smile brushes across Oscar's face. “Come with me to meet with them, and see for yourself, great king.”
Merlin opens his mouth, but apparently Arthur can sense when an interjection is on the horizon; he raises his hand in a gesture for silence. Gwaine is surprised Merlin actually heeds the command - there will always be things about Arthur and Merlin's relationship that Gwaine will be surprised by, and Gwaine should really stop being surprised by that fact (he won't be able to stop, but it's nice to think it's a possibility. Hope and all that.)
“We will make camp for the night and decide on our course with daylight.”
And they do, setting to work on securing their positions and their tents and a watch schedule to guard the sorcerer right away. Gwaine works alongside Merlin in contemplative silence; if the other knights have ever noticed that Gwaine is the only one that always helps Merlin with his tasks, they never mention it. He’s thankful they don’t. He still takes every opportunity to soak in Merlin’s presence, though these days it’s not scarce from Gwaine’s side (but everyone in Camelot, including Merlin and Gwaine himself, know Gwaine is unashamedly greedy, so…)
When it finally comes time to lie down for rest in his tent, Gwaine’s thoughts go racing away and ahead of him. It is very rare that Merlin will come to him on patrols and outings, but he does spend the night sometimes, safe and warm and enclosed in Gwaine’s arms. It seems highly unlikely that he will tonight - Gwaine suspects he and Arthur will be conspiring into the morning light about their next move - but a man can (and will shamelessly) hope.
He is this close to giving in and closing his eyelids for good when the flap of his tent parts with a hiss and Merlin breezes in, the night wind at his back. Gwaine can’t even feel the cool breeze when his love has chosen to come to him and be with him, so it’s no bother.
Merlin is silent, but he lays down beside Gwaine on his bedroll, curling in towards his chest like an early spring flower not yet ready to unfurl. Gwaine could die now and be a very happy (deceased) man. He reaches down to card his fingers through Merlin’s curls, and the other man hums.
“What did you two decide?” Gwaine murmurs.
“Prat wants to go to the Disir tomorrow.”
“I thought as much.”
Merlin grunts.
“You don’t think it’s a good course of action? Is this Disir dangerous?”
“I don’t know. They will at least be…unrestrained. I’d rather not go without consulting Gaius, but we’re already on the road and armed and with an escort… it could be worse, but I don’t like not knowing what we’re walking into.”
“Merlin, love, do we ever know what we’re walking into?”
Another huff.
“Do you think,” Gwaine whispers, unsure if he should even broach the subject, “that if Arthur is willing to listen to the words and judgement of this Disir, that he might be accepting of magic? Maybe even…of your magic?”
Merlin is silent and still for so long that Gwaine thinks either he has fallen asleep or will leave without another word, but finally he says, “That feels like too much to hope for right now.”
“You know, for most of our acquaintance, you were too much to hope for.” Gwaine plants a soft kiss to the top of Merlin’s head, because he can, and he will take the opportunity at every chance he gets. “Before now.”
Merlin’s laugh rumbles quietly against Gwaine’s chest. “You have a point. Guess I’ll see what tomorrow brings.”
“Guess we’ll see.”
They fall silent, and sleep finally comes. They hold each other through the night, and it is the most restful sleep Gwaine has on the road. Always is, with Merlin.
The first thing Gwaine notices is the warmth of the sun across his face. He tries to screw his eyes tight against the brightness, but moving the tiny muscles of his face is more difficult than it should be. Even that minute movement sends pain ricocheting across his skull.
What…
“Shhhhhh,” a voice croons. Gwaine knows that voice. And he knows the gentle finger tips that brush his hair back from his forehead. It’s this gentle caress, more so than the sun beams, that has Gwaine trying to open his eyes. He has to blink several times, carefully, before the shapes around him resolve into lines that make sense and his whole head isn’t vibrating.
“Hullo, Gwaine,” the same voice murmurs, “Rise and shine.”
Merlin is sitting beside Gwaine on a stool, holding Gwaine’s hand. He’s haloed by the morning sunlight streaming in the window behind him, and it makes him unequivocally the most beautiful thing Gwaine has ever seen. He opens his mouth to tell Merlin so, and to ask what is going on, because it doesn’t make sense for them to be back in Merlin’s chambers (for that is precisely where they are, Gwaine has fond memories of waking up in this bed the first time), but his voice gets caught in the sanding stone that is his throat, so he begins hacking instead. Merlin leaps up with a frenetically eager energy, rushing to the basin by his door and coming back with a cup for Gwaine. He then holds the cup to his mouth while he drinks, and Gwaine really wants to protest this, but he’s so thirsty. And if he moves too much too fast the colours of the room still swim.
Finally, it seems Merlin is satisfied with how much Gwaine has drunk and leans back on his stool.
“Thank you, Merlin,” Gwaine rasps. “I needed that.” He tries to sit up a little higher against the wall at his back, but his body is slow to respond. A dull pain begins to radiate from his chest.
“Careful!” Merlin hisses. “Just because you’re awake doesn’t mean you’re fully healed!” He immediately leaps off the stool to get more pillows, fussing around Gwaine and helping him move to sit up for much longer than Gwaine thinks is necessary.
“Merlin,” he tries, when the other man has finally settled again and Gwaine can get the words out, “what the fuck happened?”
Merlin’s mouth twists. Gwaine notes there are deep bruises around his love’s eyes; he wants to reach up and ease his finger across them, but he suspects that will send Merlin into another frenzy, and he wants answers.
“What do you remember?” Merlin asks, instead of answering outright.
“I remember…We were on patrol, and we found Osgar, and he said something about judgement and the - Disir? So we set out the next day, found their cave, and tried talking to them…” Gwaine’s memories are coming in fits and starts. He despises that, it reminds him of the Lamia or of his time in Ismere with the Diamair. “Did they - it, she, the fucking Disir - did they attack us?”
Merlin nods, slowly, as if his head weighs more than his neck can handle at the moment.
“They launched a spear with some sort of spell at Arthur. Mordred got there before I could, and you went after him to pull him out of the line of fire. And there,” Merlin’s lips tremble, “there were more spears with spells, and one of them caught you here.” He lightly grazes Gwaine’s shoulder nearest to him. Ah. That would explain the flashes of light and panic and heat and the fire of roaring pain that conclude Gwaine’s recent memories. Not that he’s going to tell Merlin about that.
He grunts. “Is everyone else ok? Mordred, Arthur - ?”
“Everyone is fine. The rest of the patrol got out of the cave unscathed, and we got you and Mordred back to Camelot as fast as possible. Osgar disappeared during the fight, but I knew time was of the essence to get you back here to Gaius, so I insisted we let him go and head back.”
“And Arthur listened?”
Merlin narrows his eyes in a way that makes Gwaine think if Arthur hadn’t listened, he would not have been given much of a choice. “Two of his men were injured, of course he agreed.”
Gwaine smirks. “Aw, I knew the princess cared. And then I’m guessing you healed us? As bad as I feel, I just feel regular bad, not struck-with-an-enchanted-spear bad.”
He’s trying to lighten the oppressive air, join forces with the early sunlight and get his Merlin to smile his beloved smile, but Merlin remains staring at his hands. As Gwaine watches, he grips them together so tightly, his knuckles turn ivory white.
“Merlin?”
“Gaius wanted me to heal you both as soon as possible, he said magic was the only way. We got Arthur out of the room, and I tried, but…but I - it didn’t work. Right away. I thought it was maybe because I had tried casting the spell on both of you, so I tried just on you.” Merlin finally looks up at him, still gripping his own hands hard enough Gwaine is sure his nails (that look bitten to the quick) will leave indents. “And still nothing.”
He has a quick thought, then, one that Gwaine is not proud of. A thought that wonders what Merlin would have done with his magic if it were just Mordred who was injured, knowing what Gwaine does about his suspicions towards the young knight. He immediately chastises himself; Merlin said everyone was fine now, surely that includes Mordred!
“Gaius helped me focus my spell on Mordred after that,” Merlin continues. He says this calmly now, but Gwaine can picture the scene of Gaius trying to re-focus Merlin, and it is anything but. “Surprisingly, while it didn’t heal him completely, it seemed to pull him out of immediate danger, stopping the spread and the spell from worsening. That gave us hope for you, but when I turned back to you lying there,” Merlin breaks off, his voice quavering, “you’d - um, you’d - grown worse. Fever. Shakes. And nothing I did, not the same magic I used on Mordred, or anything else Gaius and I could think of, helped. Everything that seemed to stabilize Mordred for the time being only made you worse.”
As Gwaine stares, Merlin’s hands release each other, almost as if they have minds of their own, and grab at the air uselessly. Looking for a soft place to land, a grounding talisman to hold. Gwaine reaches out to his love. Merlin immediately clings to him with a sob, drawing himself in and over Gwaine’s outstretched arm until he ends up sliding off the stool entirely and curling up on the side of the bed.
He chokes out sobs like that for a while, and Gwaine lets him. Whatever else has happened will come out with time. They are both here, and they are both whole, and that is what Gwaine cares about for the moment. The sun shines and rises in the sky. Merlin continues to cry. When Gwaine’s arm begins to go numb, that’s when the sobs peter out, and even then, Merlin does not let go.
“Merlin, my love,” Gwaine whispers, “what else did you do? You must have done something brave and heroic, because here I am.”
“I went to Arthur and demanded we return to see the Disir. He was already packing a bag to go.”
Of course, Gwaine thinks. He didn’t know you’d been trying already to heal us with magic.
Outloud, he says, “I take it you morons went by yourselves?”
“We thought it best not to approach with a show of strength again. Besides, by the time we left, it was clear both your lives were riding on this. Even after all my magic, Mordred was growing worse again, and I couldn’t just endlessly stay by his side to ensure he didn’t perish. Even I don’t have that much magic.”
It’s an easy image to conjure though, Merlin standing by a dying person’s bedside, constantly putting everything he has into a spell to sustain them. A human water wheel, an endlessly churning power source. It makes Gwaine want to draw him even closer, keep him safe from his own martyr instincts. Even though he knows it will be painful, he draws him in and kisses Merlin’s curls.
“What did the Disir say?”
“They told Arthur that the future holds much pain and suffering for him.”
“Ah, that old classic! I swear, every prophetic, mystical being is always saying ‘watch out for the futurrrrrrreeeeeeee’ - ”
Merlin cuts off his silly, spirit-wailing voice with a curt: “And then they told him to embrace the Old Religion if he wanted to save all he holds dear.”
That takes the wind right out of all of Gwaine’s jokes. When he’d mentioned telling Arthur of Merlin’s magic in the tent, it had been under the assumption that things might go well, and for one single sorcerer: Merlin himself. Gwaine hadn’t given any thought about what might have to happen after, with laws and policies and such, to say nothing of the upheaval of embracing everything about the Old Ways immediately!
For once, he has nothing to say.
But it doesn’t matter; this is Merlin’s account of what happened, and Merlin continues on.
“Arthur asked me what I would do, in his place. I told him I was just a lackey, but he told me lackeys could be wise.”
Gwaine only registers that he’s held his breath when his chest starts to grow tight, forcing him to suck in air again. Slowly, Merlin turns around on the edge of his bed that they’re sharing, still holding Gwaine’s hand close to his chest, and looks him right in the eyes.
“Then, I told him.”
Gwaine waits, but it’s Merlin who seems to be holding his breath now. “Told him what?” he asks. “What did you tell him?”
Merlin gives him an incredulous look. “That I have magic,” he says, drawing every word out as if Gwaine is a child. “That I have magic, that I use it to protect him and Camelot every day, that my magic wasn’t enough to save either of you, and that I couldn’t advise him one way or another because I was biased. Am biased. Will always be. Biased. Because I was born with magic. And because your life was on the line.”
Gwaine can only stare. “Merlin!” he sputters. “Merlin, what in the - Merlin! Why, how, what…?”
Merlin looks away again. “He told me to leave him, and I did, but I didn’t go far. When the dawn came, and with it the deadline to make his decision, I followed him back into the Disir’s cave. And he said,” Merlin’s throat bobs. It takes a long time for him to get the rest of the words out. Gwaine waits, even though he has a sneaking suspicion of what Arthur’s answer was, given that he and Mordred are alive today.
“He said that if the Disir would give him time, he would begin to mend Camelot’s relationship with the Old Ways.”
Gwaine gapes. The sun has risen even more over the time of this story; Merlin’s room is hot and bright with its beams, and even they seem to hang about in shocked silence.
“That…” Gwaine tries, “...is surprisingly wise and mature of our princess. You just let him ponder that out in silence, and trust that he would come to the right conclusion? He didn’t lose his shit on you? You didn’t have to say anything else?????”
“Well, I may have also told him that I - ”
“MERLIN!!!!!”
Speak of the Devil! Gwaine’s heart, already racing with all the new information, and a little bit from the near death experience, turns into a galloping horse, frothing at the neck, as Arthur himself can be heard bursting through the door to Gaius’ chambers.
“Merlin! Is the love of your life awake yet? You told me you expected him to wake by morning, and it’s midday! I think I’ve given you more than enough time - ” Arthur storms through the door separating Merlin’s chambers from the rest of Gaius’ space, but freezes on the threshold when he sees Gwaine very much awake and alert, clasping at Merlin as much as his recovering wounds will allow.
“Oh,” he says, panting a little from what was surely a tirade all the way down the hall. “You are awake.”
Gwaine waves. “I’m awake. I hear I have you in part to thank for that.”
Arthur inclines his head. His eyes are warm and bright, but the rest of his face falls into something more regal. Just for a moment, a mere moment, he looks like the king Merlin believes him to be instead of the royal prat Gwaine knows he usually portrays.
“We mostly have Merlin to thank, all of us, many times over.”
Gwaine didn’t think he could be any more surprised by the events of today than he has been, but his jaw drops once more.
Merlin then continues the surprise by spitting at Arthur: “Yes, he’s awake, and yes, you all can thank me for coming clean about magic AND using it to save your asses for years, but I haven’t actually told him that I love him yet, Arthur. Thank you for ruining that. Get the fuck out!”
Arthur may laugh heartily, and Merlin may launch one of the many books lying on the floor at his head with magic, and Arthur may duck out of the way and close the door, but Gwaine can’t be sure of any of that. The minute he hears Merlin say ‘actually told him that I love him’ all of Gwaine’s surroundings lose their meaning. His brain repeats those words, and the words ‘the love of your life’ in Arthur’s familiar, haughty call, over and over and over again.
The door slams. The sun beams still highlight dust motes in the air, but everything comes at Gwaine as if from a distance. Nothing is brighter or louder or more vibrant than Merlin, who still sits in front of Gwaine, and who slowly turns back around to smile sheepishly at him.
Maybe Gwaine has died. Maybe this is Heaven, or Avalon. He’s not very pressed, whatever way, if he gets to live this out.
Merlin begins to crawl closer. His leg brushes against Gwaine’s, covered in the bed sheet, and the minute they touch each other, Gwaine’s world explodes back into colour and feeling. It’s like if ale heightened one’s senses instead of dulling them.
“Merlin,” Gwaine breathes, “my love, am I dreaming? You - you - you?”
“I love you, Gwaine,” Merlin intones. It brings tears to Gwaine’s eyes that immediately spill down his cheeks.
It’s not that he didn’t know Merlin cared for him, the kisses and the bedding and the closeness were all pretty good indications. Fuck, his openess after Gwaine’s confession of love in their corner of the castle was the best thing to ever happen in Gwaine’s life, second maybe only to the way they have grown their relationship since. Yet, Gwaine has never said he loved Merlin after that first inadvertent time, didn’t want the other man to think he was pushing for something Merlin could never deliver on. But here they are.
He’s speechless, and the tears are coming fast now, but Merlin doesn’t seem to care. Gently, oh so very gently, he draws himself up to Gwaine at the top of the bed, magicks up a handkerchief to dry Gwaine’s tears, and leans in to claim Gwaine’s lips with his own. The kiss is as gentle and honey-gold as the sun around them, and lights Gwaine up from the inside even more.
He loses himself, more than he ever has in ale, in the fight, in basking in Merlin’s presence. He never wants to find his way out.
An eternity and a moment later, Merlin draws back. Gwaine leans forward to chase his lips, pushing past the quick lance of pain, but Merlin manages to say, “That was the ‘I love you, too’ kiss, by the way - !” before Gwaine is kissing him again.
And again.
And again.
“MERLIN! Don’t think you can get out of advising me on the new magical laws by canoodling with your paramore!”
“But he’s injured, my lord!” Merlin calls.
“He’s recovering! Get your skinny ass out here, Leon and Gaius and Gwen are waiting!”
Merlin smiles ruefully. “Duty calls.”
Gwaine can only smile dopily back. “You made your bed by telling him about your magic to save me.”
“I told him about my magic so he could have more pieces of the puzzle he was trying to solve,” Merlin says, standing and trying to fix his mussed hair without a mirror (it’s no use, Gwaine is exceptionally proud of his hands’ work.) “I told him I am in love with you to save you.”
“It’s true!” Arthur shouts through the door. “He said you were the love of his life!”
Gwaine laughs, even as more tears prick his eyes and Merlin is getting ready to leave him for a bit.
Before he does, Gwaine catches his hand and kisses it, smiling in a way he knows will make Merlin blush to the tips of his ears.
“I love you, too, Merlin. Always have, always will.”
Merlin grins, and yes, he blushes, and he walks through the door still staring at Gwaine until Arthur (who Gwaine can see now through the open door) whacks him across the head, reminding him that they have important state business to attend to.
Gwaine watches them leave together. For the first time, but, he thinks, probably not the last, he wouldn’t trade places with Arthur for the entire world. And then some.