Title: Fire
A/N: As I write this (at least one week prior to posting, because I'm in Nova Scotia) I have returned from a fire on the beach. Thus fire as a sort of theme. It started with Gwaine around a lonely fire and escalated…though I did try to keep fire as a theme. Success?
Disclaimer: I totes own Merlin. Duuuh. Haven't you heard about BBC being owned by the fifteen year old American? …what do you mean, the men in white coats are here?
Fire sends shadows dancing over Gwaine's face. He's huddled up to it, perhaps closer than is wise, but not close enough to stop the cold from pervading. It's a risk just to have a fire.
But a necessary risk. In the dead of winter, Gwaine would freeze without a fire. His jacket is old and worn, not nearly thick enough to ward off the deep cold of dead winter. Whatever worth the material once had has been worn away by wind and rain. The blanket goes to his horse, who stands farther from the fire than he squats.
The flames are not quite as red as his old cloak. That scarlet cloak would keep him warm on a night like this, when it was a struggle even to find firewood untouched by snow. Gwaine turns his thoughts from the cloak. His fire will do.
After all, there are villages. Peasants. If anyone is coming after him, they likely won't know which fire to track.
If anyone is coming after him. Gwaine doubts it. His ability to vanish when he wills it is unsurpassed, and in his experience, no one looks for him. He fades from the lives of the people he's lived amongst with barely a tremor.
He tosses another piece of wood on the fire. Camelot, he knows, is warm. In his house in the town, the one he shares with Lancelot, he would be in bed, warm. Perhaps even with a drab to share his bed, to light an entirely different fire in his blood.
Gwaine rather doubts that last bit. Lancelot always looks so awkward after realizing that he isn't welcome in Gwaine's room at the moment, and he manages to provoke a bit of guilt in Gwaine. Lancelot isn't the type to stay in a tavern nursing a pint until morning, when the drab leaves. Nor is it in accordance with the knightly code of conduct to have many bed partners.
Knightly code of conducts. Rules. Restrictions. Gwaine thought he left those far behind, then there was Camelot and suddenly, along the way, he's a protector of the people and an upholder of peace, and working for people he never liked, never has, and never will.
Still. Camelot would be warm. He sees the windows in the distance-Camelot towers over the land, reminding any who would doubt that this is the center, the most important piece in the game. That it is the house of Kings and Queens, and it has the power to crush it's enemies.
The mercy to spare them? The integrity to keep it's allies? Gwaine has never trusted crowns, and never will. He trusts his horse. The horse never killed anyone.
Still. Camelot looks inviting on this cold night. A place where he could go to the tavern and hold a tab, and better yet, have the money to pay it. The many bright windows suggest glowing hearths and flicking candles.
Gwaine turns his back. He has his own sputtering fire, that is enough.
"Why did you leave?" Gwaine nearly jumps out of his skin. He is, or was a knight of Camelot, and more importantly a seasoned traveler. No one, let alone Merlin, should have been able to seat themselves across from his fire without him noticing.
Nevertheless, Merlin is there. The fire makes his eyes glow brighter, and sends orange light over pale cheeks. Gwaine relaxes. Merlin he can trust.
"I don't stay in one place." Merlin shrugs. He doesn't look affected by the cold, though his jacket is thinner than Gwaine's, and was never made of good material.
"Yes, but why did you go? Lancelot thought you must've been kidnapped." Gwaine laughs slightly, though it's a sad sound.
"Kidnapped? What, without raising a fuss so loud half of Camelot'd hear?" Merlin smiles too. It's not the smile that puts the sun to shame, but it's warmer than Gwaine's lonely fire.
"You know Lance. He didn't imagine you'd desert." Gwaine doesn't flinch at the word. Other men might, other men might think of public beheadings and loyalty and shame. Gwaine doesn't. He's deserted places in more dire need than Camelot, many a time. "I told him to stay in Camelot in case you showed up. Pointed out that you were a strange one and wouldn't leave without all your possessions."
"I didn't. I've got my horse, the clothing I can carry comfortably, and my sword." Gwaine left the chain mail, a gift of charity from Leon, who managed most of the young knights, and the expensive trappings foisted on him by various nobility. He especially left behind the cape that blazed his identity out to the world.
"Why?" Gwaine feels a hint of frustration at the repetition. This is wise Merlin, the Merlin Arthur fails to see, the Merlin who keeps secrets Gwaine can't hope to understand.
"I told you. I'm a traveler." Gwaine attempts a roguish smile and fails miserably. "I go where the wind blows me."
"Right now, all the wind will blow you to is a snowy grave." Merlin says. "People are going to miss you."
"They'll forget." Gwaine hopes. Merlin shakes his head.
"You're Sir Gwaine. Lancelot at least will never stop looking for you to appear on the winds, and Leon has enough respect for your fighting abilities to keep your place in the knights until you return."
"Did I ask to be Sir Gwaine?" Gwaine demands. "I never wanted to be tied down in one place, or to be crowded amongst people who believe in things like honor and chivalry! I belong to the winds, not to your prince!"
Merlin bears the anger without appearance of hurt. Gwaine is sure he's borne worse from Arthur many a time.
"You never asked to be safe?" Gwaine rolls his eyes.
"Camelot is hardly a safe place." Merlin shrugs.
"Then you should find it interesting there. You liked it well enough the last year and a half." That was truth. Gwaine hadn't at all minded training with the other knights, or being a part of the community. He'd almost felt happy when little old ladies thanked him for bringing supplies.
But then Lancelot congratulated him on being there a year and a half, and it hit him that if he didn't get out then, he might not have the chance.
"I don't like being tied down."
"Not even when you're in the midst of people who care about you?" Gwaine shakes his head.
"Too many restrictions. I don't want to be controlled."
"You didn't have to sign up." Gwaine laughs harshly. As if anyone could say no when Arthur Pendragon had that look on his face, and Merlin was standing at his side like this was the culmination of all his hopes and dreams. Gwaine couldn't say no to Merlin.
"You want me to go back." Gwaine says flatly.
"Of course I do." Merlin sounds like this was obvious. "I didn't tramp out here in the middle of the night just to say goodbye. I'd miss you if you left. So would Lancelot. So would Leon and Percival. Even Arthur would miss having you to complain about."
"I'd end up beheaded for being a deserter." Merlin rolls his eyes. Apparently, Gwaine is thick tonight.
"I didn't tell anyone you were out here. You haven't deserted yet." Gwaine shifts his weight. "If you ask, I still won't tell anyone. People will believe you disappeared, maybe killed, maybe by sorcery, maybe for family."
Those aren't probable. Gwaine could raise hell in a fight. Nor does he have the fear of magic that infests Camelot. After all, he's traveled to places where magic is alive and well. Not many places, but enough for him to reserve judgment on whether a sorcerer would nab a knight for no apparent reason.
"You'd lie?" Merlin's lips twitch up. Gwaine remembers that Merlin probably knows secrets that could topple Camelot. One measly knight isn't much.
Then again, this is one measly friend. One friend who'll have deserted Merlin. Gwaine would feel guilt about abandoning Merlin for his entire life. Merlin is the first person he ever met who took him in without question, cared for him, and kept caring about him. Even tracked him down when he needed someone reliable. It's sort of a nice feeling, being reliable.
"Your choice. You can leave Camelot behind, if being alone is that important to you." Gwaine looks back at Camelot. At least one of those fires would be his own. The innkeeper would give him ale on credit, Leon would wave from across the room and invite him to tell a tale, Lancelot would greet him with open arms.
"They don't expect me to have deserted."
"They expect you to be the Gwaine they all love, regardless of the Sir. And you aren't a deserter." Gwaine bites back a tale he doesn't tell-of entrenched armies and days upon days of gnawing hunger, of him leaving partway through and never even inquiring as to which side won. "Not now."
"Are you trying to say Camelot has tamed me, Merlin?" Gwaine fears being tamed. He's never known a good master.
"I'd like to think it's given you something to care about." Merlin pokes the fire with a stick. It flares up, the flames steadying and the smoke clearing from both their faces. "I'd be surprised if you cared for no one here."
Gwaine thinks of his fellow knights. He thinks of his friends, a word he never had to use before. He wonders if there's a difference between being home and being chained.
"It might be unfair to leave you to his highness the royal ass." Merlin grins. This time it reflects home and light and the warmth Gwaine feels pulling him to Camelot. He stands up and holds out a hand to Gwaine.
"Then come home." Gwaine takes it, and lets Merlin take him back to Camelot, where the cold is kept at bay.
Leon sits in the tavern, nursing a pint. He's a common face there. Leon didn't grow up in Camelot, not at all, but he's been there so long that he scarcely thinks of his home.
The third son of Lord Reaglis of the Fens didn't much need that home. Leon accepted that much, accepted it from birth. He's always believed in working with the situation, not in making vain protests for unchangeable facts. He came to Camelot young, when the Prince who commands him was only a child.
Leon remembers not seeing the Prince. The Prince was always up the in castle, in the drafty halls and stained glass windows through which one sees the world in a jaded light.
It must be a night for reminiscing. Leon rooms above the tavern, so there will be no long walk through dark streets to go home. Leon enjoys his rooms. They're cared for by the tavern master's daughter, a pretty girl. They're at a place where he is always present, to break up a brawl, to feel the mood of the people, to have good food and ale when he wants it.
So he usually stays late nights at the tavern. He can make sure the younger knights get home safely that way, and make this a mostly honest inn. Thanks to his presence, it's also a safe inn.
Leon think it's an even trade. His rent is near to nothing-not that Leon has many things to spend money on. He's a man of modest taste, really no nobleman. Better suited to the life of a knight than some are to their stations.
Leon's mouth twitches up. He's certainly better suited to be a knight than Merlin is to be a manservant. His thoughts strayed to Merlin because the young man was there earlier looking for Gwaine, and because Merlin is, when examined deeply, thought provoking.
That suits Leon. Leon is a thinker. That's why he enjoys this inn so much. It's got a warm hearth, which he can sit in front of and muse upon things for hours on end. Leon treasures the hearth. His place in front of the fire is unquestioned.
The knight stretches out on that chair, letting his thoughts trail down to Merlin. They have been doing that often. First in amusement that the fumbling boy who delivered him salve-with a smile-was to be serving the Prince. Then sympathy when he observed the boy staggering round under loads of armor. And Leon knew how the Prince treated his servants.
But after awhile Merlin was delivering him messages from Arthur, often with commentary and news from the castle. Soon after, Arthur began reprimanding, then severely punishing, the knights who made cruel comments about Merlin.
Never Leon. Leon had seen too many harassed servants spending their little spare wages on liquor in effort to forget their stations. He thought the way many knights acted was detestable, but had neither the authority to pull rank or the recklessness to speak against behavior his lord practiced.
Eventually, Leon realized that Merlin had taken the place of precedence for Arthur. That was about when it occurred to Leon that crossing Merlin could provoke consequences on the same scale as making lewd jokes about Morgana.
Neither is something Leon would do. Leon knows that Merlin is important. Merlin made the Prince into Arthur, stoked up the coals to make a spoiled Prince into a King with fire in his eyes. Merlin, if indirectly, made Leon himself look around more.
If a servant could be hiding the character to do that, who knows what else might go on beneath the surface? It was something to think on in front of his fire.
Now the barmaid is cleaning tables. Leon hears her replace his pint with another, and sees her silhouette as she adds wood to the fire. It won't be banked until the very last patrons leave.
Now, that's only himself and a few men at a central table. They're still discussing the next season's crops. Leon knows it to be only an excuse to dally before going into the cold.
He's grateful for his room above the tavern. Up there is another fireplace, so he never need go to an icy room. The tavern master's daughter is probably banking it now, delaying so she leaves the room as he enters.
Leon is wise to ways like that. He regrets his higher status in such situations. She's a pretty girl-dark hair and blue eyes, hands that may be sooty but are hands of a worker, like himself. Leon would enjoy bedding her, murmuring his thoughts to her as they lay in bed and the morning light replaced the coals of the fire. However, he has duties. His thoughts need not go to a tavern master's daughter, because someday he should probably marry and there's always the possibility of pregnancy.
Children would be nice. For children he would leave his room above the tavern, since children brought their own warmth. A middle class serving girl however, was not a wife Arthur would let him marry. Leon would stay with his hearth and coals.
"Leon! Is Lancelot around?" Gwaine ducks into the tavern. Leon raises a hand in greeting. Gwaine's a good man. His stories never cease to entertain, and his drinking habits have much improved. Leon likes him.
"I believe he's in your house." Gwaine nods and does an about face. Leon is sure he never had that energy. He's steady, not blazing.
"Hey Leon!" The manservant himself. Merlin comes in, shooting him a grin that outdoes the fire for warmth. "Arthur says early morning training tomorrow!"
"I should head to bed then." Merlin is ordering mulled wine. Leon thinks it's for Arthur. Merlin isn't much of a drinker. "Good night, Merlin."
"Night!" Merlin waves and trots into the night. Unlike most, Merlin needs no protection from the night. The knight gets to his feet and nods to the barmaid. She'll be rousting the other patrons as soon as he's gone, no doubt.
Leon goes to bed. It would be warmer with the girl who makes the fires.
Lancelot always keeps a candle lit. In his youth, people laughed and asked why. He told them it was like his dreams-you always had to keep it alive, or you might be left in dark and despair.
One is lit now, in addition to the fire. Lancelot achieved his dreams, for sure, but sometimes that doesn't help. Now he can only sit by his candle and fervently hope that Merlin can find Gwaine.
He's fond of candles. They're dependable, they create a pocket of light which he can stay in. Lancelot would rather have that than be in the dark. He'd be no knight if he feared the dark, but sometimes when he's curled up in bed, he is at least uneasy with it.
Dark brings loss of hope. Dark brings sudden attacks. Dark brings friends disappearing.
In all fairness, dark also brings people together. It was in darkness that Merlin summoned him back to Camelot, and in darkness that Merlin went out to find Gwaine. Merlin is a beacon of light that needs no candle.
Lancelot is no such beacon. He's never met anyone else who was, and there are times when Lancelot knows perfectly well that no one so adept in the dark could not have some of it within them. Yet Merlin is Merlin, and his magic is a power in which Lancelot will always believe.
There is a bang. Lancelot sits upright, his eyes straining to the door. He hears Gwaine's familiar swearing at a bumped head.
Lancelot's vocabulary has expanded significantly since he started living with Gwaine.
"Gwaine! Is that you?" Gwaine comes into sight. He's got his sword on, but that's not much surprise. Gwaine's paranoia is surpassed only by Arthur's. He's also rubbing his head, looking chagrined.
"If anyone else hits their head on that godsdamned door every time they enter a house, I'd be thrilled to meet them. We could hold drinking sessions." Gwaine retorts, stepping into the room. Lancelot watches him shuck the swordbelt and jacket.
Gwaine's boots follow, and he flops into bed in his pants and shirt only. Lancelot lets out an explosive breath when he sees no bloodstains.
"Where were you? I thought you'd been kidnapped!" Gwaine shrugs, looking embarrassed.
"The winds made me want to take a ride. It didn't occur to me that you had such little faith as to assume I'd been stolen without a hell of a fight." Gwaine yawns. "I was glad you had the candle lit. I'd probably have ended up falling into the wrong bed."
Lancelot watches Gwaine wiggle into a more comfortable position, contentment blooming. Gwaine is safe at home. Gwaine, most importantly, wants to be home. There's a happy hum in Gwaine's voice that means he likes being where he is.
That's all the reassurance Lancelot needs to blow out the candle.
The room is cold. That is his first thought upon waking. The blonde haired ruler of Camelot blinks and stretches out a hand, blindly searching for warmth. Nothing.
It appears that the fire went out. Arthur huddles further into his sheets, shivering. Even with no windows open, he is very cold. The blankets on the bed are thick, but in the dead of winter only so much can be done.
The best thing of course, is two bodies in the bed, and a lit fire. That was the state of things when Arthur went to bed. Merlin left during the night.
Arthur scowls. Merlin, without fail, stayed in his bed. Quite apart from the fact that with Gaius he had to sleep wrapped in thin blankets in front of a fire, Merlin likes being in Arthur's bed. He limpets himself around Arthur's torso to suck in heat, and invariably murmurs an "I love you" before dropping off.
Thus far, Arthur hasn't been able to return it. Oh sure, he loves Merlin. He loves Merlin in a way that makes the whole world pale out in comparison. Saying it however, is a different matter.
So he just grunts and turns around to wrap an arm around Merlin and nuzzle his face to Merlin's cheek. Clearly, Merlin needs the extra warmth. Merlin is skinny, doesn't own a scrap of clothing fit for winter, and always smiles a bit, even in his sleep, when Arthur touches him.
Apparently something went wrong. Arthur isn't even planning to get out of bed until morning. It's too damn cold. He put on a nightshirt and pants that evening, because he isn't crazy, and forced some of his clothing on Merlin as well, but that shirt is lying haphazardly on the floor. Arthur focuses a glare on it.
Anyways, he'd be even colder if he got out of bed. Plus, his talent at making and banking fires isn't great. A campfire in the woods, fine. A fireplace? Not his skill set. No other servants will come in and stoke it up for him either, since Arthur's rooms belong to Merlin for all intents and purposes (when the hell had that happened?) and other servants keep clear of it.
Arthur shivers again. He depends on Merlin to an absurd degree, it seems, if just his lover's absence can trap him in bed. Merlin's presence ending up in him not leaving bed for hours was perfectly all right.
But Merlin not being there and him lying around pining? Pathetic. Arthur makes sure the blankets are tight around him and pulls them up to his nose, hoping that the air he breathes will be warmer.
Where was Merlin? No pursuit of heat could distract from the fact that if Merlin was there, he'd have a fire and a warm body. Arthur considers his options.
Gaius could have died. No, Merlin would have woken him up.
Gwen could have died. No, Merlin wouldn't have gotten out of bed.
Lancelot could have died? No, Lancelot was a half decent fighter. And if that had happened, Leon lived closer to Lancelot and Gwaine and therefore would have been the one summoned…Gwaine.
Gwaine. Merlin could have eloped with Gwaine.
For several minutes, Arthur goes over the possibilities stemming from that. Merlin and he could have been killed by bandits in the forest. Or he could have gotten leagues away with Merlin, leaving Arthur in the cold. Oh god, he should have told Merlin how amazing he really was, how important to Arthur, proven better that he was a far better lover than Gwaine, lavished Merlin with gifts so Gwaine was shown to be less able to care for Merlin…
In the corner, there's a spark. Arthur sits bolt upright, paying no mind to the way the cold air hits his chest. "Who's there?"
"Who do you think?" Not if the all the world was in flames could he mistake Merlin's voice. A fire bursts into life in his hearth. It illuminates Merlin, crouching there in his jacket and boots. "It's bloody freezing in here."
"Merlin." Arthur exhales with relief. Merlin did something to the fire-Arthur couldn't see, Merlin's back was to him-and it became a merry blaze. The room abruptly warms. Merlin rises and trots back to bed, shedding clothing as he comes. Arthur watches him put on the thick nightshirt Arthur lent him…no.
The nightshirt Arthur gave him. He really shouldn't pretend that Merlin is anything but a permanent fixture.
"I brought you some wine in case you were awake. Though I didn't think the fire would go out like that." Merlin, who Arthur now realizes is holding a cup, lifts the covers and wriggles into bed. He peers at Arthur's face in concern. "You're pale as the grave, I think you could use it."
Arthur takes it and downs it in one gulp. Merlin watches him with a bit of amusement.
"Miss me?" Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin's chest.
"Where were you?"
"Some business in the lower town." A typical vague answer. Merlin could be annoyingly vague sometimes. Arthur had long since chosen to ignore it.
After all. If people told each other everything, trust would be irrelevant.
"Oh. You should've woken me up." Merlin yawns and cuddles closer to Arthur. Arthur lies down, dragging Merlin with him, and unlocks one arm from Merlin's torso. He uses it to arrange the blankets comfortably around them both. Merlin's hum of pleasure at the rich fabric is well worth the temporary exposure to cold.
"You looked peaceful. I thought you might not fall back asleep once I'd gotten you awake." He can feel Merlin's smile. "And in case you haven't noticed, you're not pleasant when you wake up."
"Hmpf." Arthur sighs and inhales Merlin's scent. No elopement with Gwaine. No unexpected deaths. Just an annoying concern for his welfare that was typical of Merlin. Annoying, or possibly heartwarmingly personal and sweet.
"What did you think?" Merlin's voice is sleep heavy now.
"You…don't want to know. Goodnight Merlin." Merlin makes an agreeable sound into the pillow. His breathing evens out. "I love you."
Once the decision to say them is made, they flow surprisingly easily. Arthur realizes that they sound nice. Almost musical.
If the fire in the corner flares, Arthur doesn't notice.
"Love you too." Merlin's voice suggests he's still half asleep, but there's a smile in it. Arthur closes his eyes, content to be in the warmth.
A/N: I find that for all my thoughts constantly revolve around Merlin, I don't write enough fan fiction for it. Elyan doesn't feature because I'm not fond of him, Percival because I'm not sure if he's even had a line yet, and if there are more knights I can't remember them.
If Merlin/Arthur is my OTP, Lancelot/Gwaine is my crackship. There are hints of Lancelot/Gwaine here, and one day I will bring myself to write a fic that's actually features them as friends with benefits. Someday. In the distant future.