Title: Hunger
Author: Peach
Rating: T
Warnings: Language? Stupid plans, idiots who'll believe anything you tell them, overreactions, minor characters who suddenly decide that they want attention.
Disclaimer: It's after four am. If I owned it, would I really be posting fanfiction at this time in the morning?
Notes: Okay, my loves. I am back. Things are still crazy busy, so it'll be another couple of weeks before I get the next one up, I think. After that, I'm hoping everything will return to schedule. This chapter has been difficult, because despite knowing how I wanted it to end (that last chunk has been months in the making) getting it to do so was less than simple. So, please, my dears, let me know all the effort I've put into getting this one done as soon as I have is worthwhile. Which is to say, review and I shall love you forever. Until next time, Peach.
Hunger - Chapter Nineteen
When Lancelot enters the stables to choose a horse, he finds two things he was not expecting to. The first, the sight of King Arthur waiting for him, is awkward but not inexplicable. The second, Montague, also choosing a horse, a large cloth bag on his shoulder, is both.
"There you are, Sir Lancelot," Arthur says, looking deeply relieved; Lancelot suspects the king has the same difficulty in refraining from punching Montague in the face that he himself occasionally does, and he has already had the joy of doing so once. "I'd begun to worry you'd changed your mind."
"We had a deal, I believe. As long as you keep to your side of it, I will keep to mine, sire." Arthur nods, smiling slightly, while Montague gapes at Lancelot's lack of manners. "I was not expecting you to see me off, Arthur," he continues. Montague looks even more astonished at him calling the king by his given name alone, which is most of the reason why he chose to do so. "I rather thought you had said everything that needed to be said."
"I had. However, there is a slight change of plan I felt the need to inform you of." Arthur moves away from Montague and the stable boys saddling their horses, his expression indicating even more clearly than his words that he expects Lancelot to follow him.
"I take it this change of plans has something to do with why he is here?" Lancelot asks when they stop walking.
"It does. I spoke to Merlin yesterday evening. His potion was already wearing off, and his control was..." Arthur trails off, and Lancelot worries, suddenly and horribly, that he was wrong, that he did not discover the information and present it to Arthur soon enough, that Merlin's magic is now more of a danger than an asset. "He was in control," Arthur says, and Lancelot realises his worry was probably visible. "He was, but it was tenuous. Worryingly so."
"Did something...?" He cannot bring himself to finish the question; truthfully, he cannot even understand that he is asking it, only that he must.
Arthur shakes his head, and Lancelot lets out a relieved breath. "No, nothing happened. It was close, but he kept it together." The king frowns and then continues, "even so, I thought we should probably keep him away from people who don't know. Montague especially; I know Merlin manages to spend time with him without seeming too upset, but the link to his emotions seems pretty strong. There's a chance this friendship is just an act, and I don't want Merlin to have to deal with hurting someone else." Privately, Lancelot disagrees, but he does not say anything. Merlin is too forgiving for his own good, and Lancelot doubts that even with his natural amiability Merlin could have held up a pretence of cordiality for as long as he has. "I don't know how he does it," Arthur adds after a moment. "I know I certainly couldn't."
It is a supremely tactless thing for him to say, particularly since it was only yesterday that he offered to allow Lancelot to miss his wedding; clearly, Arthur knows how Lancelot feels. The tactlessness of his remark does nothing to lessen the surge of guilt that hits Lancelot, because the king is already spending so many of his days in the presence of a man with whom Guinevere has committed infidelity, even if a kiss in a corridor – one kiss, and never anything more – is a far cry from sleeping with her. He tries to ignore it, as he always does, and focuses on the issue at hand. "Are you sure that is wise?" he asks, finding it by far the most subtle way of implying that Arthur has found the only way to make this mad plan even more insane. "It will be hard enough to persuade Gwaine to come back if he does not want to. I hardly think taking Montague as well is going to make matters simpler."
"Gwaine knew he wanted a knighthood. He'll have to see him sooner or later, so it may as well be sooner. And it's best that they not be in Merlin's presence when he does so." Arthur neglects to mention the fact that Gwaine did not know until after he slept with Montague, but then if Gwaine was in such a state two nights before then to get drunk enough to think very vocally – if indistinctly – blaming the then-prince of Camelot for the end of his relationship was a good idea, Lancelot is not entirely sure that knowledge would have made too much of a difference. The rest of Arthur's thought is reasonably sound; Lancelot just has to hope that Gwaine has seen sense in the months since he left, and will be less opposed to the idea of returning than he was to that of staying.
"Of course," Arthur continues, when Lancelot does not say anything, "if you wish to lose him in a snowdrift on the way to Gwaine's home, I'm fairly sure no one will object too much."
Lancelot laughs, although he suspects Arthur was at least a little serious in his suggestion. "If I can..." he replies, not expecting to sound quite as wistful as he does. He will not try it, because the other knights have befriended Montague with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and Merlin is more than just civil with him, regardless of what Arthur has decided is the case; beyond all logic, Merlin actually likes Montague, so even if Lancelot does not he will not actively seek to harm the man. He has learnt that lesson already. "Might I make a suggestion before I go, sire?"
"Montague is leaving, Lancelot," Arthur sighs. "If I had another reason to send him away, do you really think I'd be making you take him with you?"
"I do not suppose you would," Lancelot assents, although he had wondered if Arthur had really thought about how dreadful an idea this was. Seeing as it seems he has, and that his concern for Merlin's well-being has outweighed the stupidity of involving Montague in a mission sent to retrieve Gwaine, Lancelot will not protest it further. "I was actually going to suggest that you did not tell Merlin what I found out about his potion." If anything is likely to knock Merlin's belief in his control it will be the knowledge that he almost lost it entirely. Arthur nods, looking at him approvingly, and Lancelot smiles. "Is that everything, sire?"
"I believe so. Montague should have enough food for the two of you to reach Gwaine's, I think, and there's money in your saddlebags to buy whatever you can for the way back. Good luck, and if he is stubborn remind him of the conditions upon which I granted him permission to leave. He will know what I mean." Frown lines wrinkle Arthur's forehead for a moment, before he visibly forces himself to smile. "I need to go before Merlin wonders why I'm not in my room to shout at him for breakfast being late. Just...bring him back." He claps Lancelot on the back and gives him a gentle shove in the direction of Montague and the horses, saddled and ready to go.
"I will," Lancelot vows, knowing that he will keep his word, regardless of his personal misgivings about the matter. "Look after Merlin until we return."
"Of course," Arthur says. "Of course."
X
Merlin is a little late to the cellar to which training has been temporarily relocated (it might still be horrifically cold down there, and the level of dust is more than a little worrisome, but it isn't covered in half a foot of snow so it definitely trumps the field), but he figures it doesn't matter; Arthur ordered – though he called it a suggestion – him to sit and observe today instead of sparring with Lancelot. Merlin didn't protest too much, because although the terrifying hum of his magic has faded overnight to a slight tingling, he doesn't want to do anything that might make it or his temper flare up, and he invariably gets irritated at how bad he is at training. So he sits quietly, out of the way, trying not to wish he wasn't quite so cold; accidentally setting himself on fire is so not part of his plans for the day.
"You're not joining in today?" Gwen asks, sitting next to him and tugging her cloak tighter around her. Merlin shuffles over a little so that she can rest her back against the column beside him then puts his arm around her shoulder.
"No," he replies as she shuffles in close to him. "Arthur said I shouldn't. And he's probably not wrong."
"Well, your teachers aren't here, and you probably couldn't keep up with the real knights." There is a moment, and Merlin knows what is going to follow. It's not something Gwen does often, not now, but it's still entertaining enough to let her run. "Not that you aren't one of them, I mean. Well, obviously, you aren't one of them, but you're important anyway, and you're getting better at fighting." A second moment, and Merlin is quite glad she's not looking at him, because he can keep himself from laughing out loud but hiding his grin is too much. "Oh, but you weren't bad before. Not that bad. Okay, a little bad, but you're still alive, when a lot of the knights..."
Merlin pats her shoulder when she stops talking, knowing precisely what it is that she means, but glad not to hear it. He's seen Arthur when he and Merlin have been the only ones to make it back to the city alive and mostly unharmed, and he might not have any real fondness for most of the knight but each time one of them dies Arthur blames himself, like it's his responsibility to keep them alive instead of the other way around. "I'm glad to stop," he tells her. "It's not that Lancelot isn't a good teacher, but...I suck, don't I? And it's so much easier to use...you know, to defend myself."
"You have it back?" Gwen pulls out of his arms, turning to look at him, and Merlin hates how wide her eyes are, that his first and for a long time closest friend in the city is scared of him. She wasn't, before he hurt Lancelot, and he hates even more than he probably deserves it. "Is that why Arthur sent Lancelot away?"
"No, I...Arthur sent Lancelot away? Where?" Merlin glances across the cellar at all the knights. All of them together, today, rather than as the older knights and Arthur's; Elyan is somewhere at the front of the group, and Merlin can make out Percival somewhere towards the back. Leon is there too, pacing through the group with Arthur, the pair of them pausing to correct the knights where necessary. Lancelot is not present, and nor, for that matter, is Montague, but then Gwen did say that his teachers – in the plural – were absent.
"I don't know," she says, still wary. "Are you safe to be around, Merlin? Is that why Montague is gone too?"
"I'm fine, Gwen," Merlin tells her, trying not to be upset by her still staying out of arm's reach of him. "I'm not going to hurt anyone. And is there anything Arthur doesn't tell you?"
Gwen frowns at him in such a way that Merlin suspects that if she was standing up her arms would be folded and she'd be tapping her foot in disapproval. "He didn't tell me why you attacked one of your best friends, or an almost total stranger a couple of months later."
Merlin turns his eyes from Gwen to Arthur, wondering why he thinks telling Gwen secrets that could mean Merlin's life if the wrong people hear them is okay but telling her about Merlin's relationship with Gwaine isn't. There is something definitely not right with Arthur's thought processes, although that, of course, is not too much of a discovery. Nor is it the most pressing issue right now. "That's not important," he argues. "It's not going to happen again, ever. I'm not going to let it." He feels his skin prickle as he says it and wills himself to calm down, but Gwen's expression of severe doubt makes something clear that means calmness right now is pretty much impossible; she thinks he did it deliberately. "I would never hurt Lancelot on purpose, Gwen. How can you think that?"
She stands and glares down at him. "Why wouldn't I? What reason would they have to punish you if it was an accident? Arthur isn't unreasonable; he wouldn't blame you if you didn't deserve it!"
"How about to appease your brother?" Merlin says, probably louder than he should, scrambling to his feet as well; he can't have this conversation with her literally looking down on him as well as metaphorically. He might have almost been in agreement with Elyan back then, but by now he knows that while he might have deserved the loss of his magic for a few months, he didn't deserve anything more than that. He was stupid and irresponsible and many other things, none of which meant he ought to be executed.
Gwen sniffs at him. "What does Elyan have to do with anything?"
"He thought I should be executed. Or did he not tell you that in all the conversations you two have had since then?" It is a little spiteful for him to use this against her, because he knows Elyan moved out of their home not a whole lot after that (he's never asked why, and his friendship with Gwen is just another thing he's neglected of late), but she actually thinks he'd use his magic to deliberately nearly kill one of his friends. It's about all he can do to keep his temper in check right now, and the prickling is quickly becoming a bubbling sensation; he cannot possibly imagine his eyes are blue at the moment, paticularly given how large a step Gwen takes away from him.
"Elyan wouldn't," she replies, tilting her chin up defiantly, even with how scared she looks. "Not with what happened to our father. He wouldn't, if you hadn't deserved it."
"Ask him," Merlin states, because if he stays bad things will happen. "I've hurt too many of my friends this year, Gwen, and I'll never forgive myself if I add you to the list. Tell Arthur I'll be in his room if he needs me."
X
"What the fuck is that?" Gareth murmurs as Gwaine stands after putting the finishing touches to the third snowman he's built this morning.
"I'm not the one who told her I was good at these, Gareth," he snaps, possibly with a glare as well. "Let's see you do better after being woken in the middle of the night by an over-excited four year old and then having to sleep surrounded by five hundred stuffed animals."
"Wow, brother. Someone got out of the wrong side of bed today." Gareth laughs, clearly joking, and some tiny part of Gwaine wants to smack the smile right off his face. It isn't fair, because Gareth has no idea of his plans to leave and as a result there is no reason for him to have anticipated Gwaine's mood, or for him to understand it.
"I didn't have a whole lot of choice, given that the other side of my bed was full of small child," he answers angrily, clenching and unclenching his fists, because even if shouting at his brother is unfair it doesn't mean he doesn't want to. "And will you stop filling her head with fairy-tales about me, too? In case you didn't notice, I'm not exactly a hero."
Gareth kneels down, scraping together a large mound of snow, preparing to make his own snowman to add to the row. "So you say," he murmurs, scooping the snow into a ball, then rolling it along the ground so that it grows. "Or so you say today, at least." He looks up, holding Gwaine's gaze, cheeks red from the cold and a grin on his face. "Yesterday evening you were telling us all how you saved Prince Arthur's life a couple of times before you were banished from Camelot. I might not be as smart as Bertram is but I can work that much out, and it sounds kind of heroic to me."
"I made that up," Gwaine lies, loudly, because right now he doesn't feel too much like being honest. Telling his family he's a knight is his precursor to leaving, and seeing as he isn't going anywhere for now he figures he can afford to leave it a little longer before seeing the admiration in their eyes. Admiration that he doesn't deserve, because all the good he did in Camelot was born of a love of drinking and fighting, and all the damage he's done only tips the balance further against him. "I lied, because I'd run out of stories to tell Molly and making shit up was better than telling her that and making her cry."
He makes himself take a breath and lower his voice slightly, slumping to his knees to help Gareth push the ball of snow that will be the body of a fairly sizable snowman across the ground. "And even if I didn't make it up," he adds after a moment, "it doesn't mean I deserve to be praised for it. It doesn't make me a good person, and it doesn't make up for any of the less good things I've done before or since then."
Gareth scoops up a handful of snow and, even knowing what he's about to do, Gwaine isn't quick enough to dodge it (although, of course, dodging loose snow is a lot harder than when it's compacted together). He shakes snow crystals from his hair, blinking as a little melts and trickles into his eyes.
"You're an idiot, Gwaine," Gareth says, collecting together a second handful as he stands. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but I know that much." He takes a step back from Gwaine, then a second, passing his newly built snowball from hand to hand; Gwaine stands, warily, because he knows the rules to this game whether or not he wants to play it, and if he stays where he is Gareth will just keep hitting him until he joins in. "You're an idiot, but you're my brother. I don't need to know a whole lot more than that."
He throws the snow while Gwaine is still staring at him, trying to work out just what the point of this whole conversation was, his own words included, then takes off running, not waiting to see if his snowball hits its target (it does), but glancing back over his shoulder to see if Gwaine is chasing him (he is).
X
They ride in silence for a long time, if by 'they' one means 'Lancelot' and by 'in silence' one means 'silently'. Lancelot is silent, and most contentedly so; Montague seems to suffer from a complete and most irritating inability to shut up. He whines about the cold, wonders what Merlin is going to do at training without Lancelot there to teach him, declares how fortunate they are that it's not currently snowing, asks how far Lancelot thinks they will be able to ride safely while dressed as knights. On and on and on he goes.
It is barely midday when Lancelot begins seriously contemplating the merits of Arthur's suggestion, and only a little after that when he starts searching for snowdrifts deep enough to implement it. Unfortunately, whilst the bare tree branches do nothing to stop the snow reaching the ground, their trunks do much to prevent the wind from blowing it into suitably large drifts, so by mid-afternoon Lancelot has to face the truth; if he wishes for peace on this unpleasant journey that can only end badly, he is going to have to ask for it.
"Sir Montague," he begins, taking a leaf from Arthur's book with the usage of the title as a means of creating distant, and a second from Merlin's with the utter contempt he attempts to imbue it with. "Is there any chance you could cease speaking for the next two weeks or so?"
Montague's irksome prattle stops as he chuckles. "Damn, Sir Lancelot, I was only trying to make conversation. I know you don't like me all that much, but do you think you could pretend not to hate me? Just for however long it takes us to get back from wherever the hell it is we're going, and then you can go back to indirectly trying to get me killed."
Lancelot bites back a remark about how he was planning to try just such a pretence, given how much more mature than that he likes to think he is. There is a more interesting concern, anyway; he reins his horse to a halt and stares. "The king did not tell you where we are going?"
"No," Montague replies, also stopping. "He just told me to be in the stables ready for a long journey this morning, with enough food for two. Given that he hates me just as much as you do, I wasn't exactly going to ask him to explain more than that."
"I do not hate you," Lancelot says, largely as a result of some odd instinctive reaction. If he is truly honest with himself, it is not Montague he hates as much as it is the difficulties he is causing Merlin and Gwaine, but then the line distinguishing a person from his actions has always seemed a remarkably fine one to him. "I merely dislike you quite a lot," he amends, because he is not happy with lying, particularly when he sees no real need to. "Merlin is just about my oldest friend, and Gwaine is...an idiot, mostly, but he is my friend too, and it will be hard enough getting him back to the city without you there in the background reminding him of what he's done since he left."
Montague looks at him for a long moment with a level of focus that makes Lancelot deeply uncomfortable. "Explain one thing to me, Sir Lancelot, and then I'll do my very best not to annoy you further." His tone implies that his attempt will be doomed to failure, but Lancelot decides the possibility makes it worth trying it.
"You want to know why King Arthur is sending you to retrieve Gwaine?" he ventures, it seeming to be the most reasonable thing for Montague to be wondering.
Montague shakes his head and clicks his tongue to get his horse moving again. Lancelot copies him; it is far too cold to sit around stationary for too long. "Well, that's one question," Montague says, and his tone matches Lancelot's when he asked Arthur about it, "but it's not the one I was aiming for, actually. I want to know why I'm the bad guy here."
"Why do you think you are the bad guy?" Lancelot asks, and it sounds appropriately contemptuous. "Merlin is very clearly important to us all, and you hurt him. He may have forgiven you for it, but that does not mean the rest of us have to."
Montague widens his eyes in what is obviously mock surprise. "I had worked that much out for myself, Sir Lancelot. Perhaps a better way of phrasing it would be to ask why I'm the bad guy and Gwaine isn't. Or does Camelot have some new kind of ethics whereby being banished gives a man permission to sleep with other people?"
Ah. That is a different matter, and not something Lancelot has any desire to explain. It is Merlin's business, and Gwaine's, and whilst Montague may have been in such a place at such a time as to find himself involved in it, Lancelot feels no need to give him any information Merlin chose not to. Of course, if the alternative is listening to Montague's inane chatter for the next five days (they should arrive at Gwaine's home shortly before nightfall on the fifth day, Lancelot believes, and he hopes Gwaine's village will have somewhere they can spend the night, given that he is not at all sure that they will be welcome in his home, even assuming there is room for the pair of them) Lancelot can manage to share the basics.
"Gwaine might be an idiot," he says, "but he would not do that. I do not think he has even seriously looked at another person since he and Merlin started their relationship. Not even when Merlin gave him permission." Lancelot is still a little ashamed that his estimation of Gwaine's character was low enough that this came as a surprise to him, although it is perhaps more honest to say that he underestimated the strength of Gwaine's feelings; fidelity is not, he imagines, something that comes easily to people like Gwaine, if only through a lack of experience with it, and he had not imagined that Gwaine's love for Merlin was strong enough that he would maintain it if he was not required to.
Montague lets out a startled noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. "The same Merlin who nearly separated me from my favourite parts gave his lover permission to screw other people?"
"I never said Gwaine was the only idiot involved in this," Lancelot points out, and knows it to be true; the number of stupid things Merlin has done over his months with Gwaine far outweighs that done by Gwaine. "There were circumstances, and Merlin regretted it as soon as he said it. And," he adds, as far too much of an afterthought, "that was an accident."
"Yes," Montague agrees, "so people keep telling me. Repetition isn't going to make me anymore likely to believe it." He smirks at Lancelot like this statement is supposed to make him abandon the lie and confess. It is not the most plausible of untruths, perhaps, but it is a necessary one; honestly here is not an option, even if Lancelot had wanted it to be one, which he does not. "Okay, keep your silence. I'll figure out how he did it soon enough."
"You will not," Lancelot replies, suddenly worried, for Merlin is not exactly spectacular at keeping his secret a secret. "If you value your life at all, you will not even try." He has essentially just confirmed Montague's suspicions, and from his smirk Lancelot guesses that Montague knows that, but then they cannot really have required too much in the way of confirmation; a person would have to be extremely naive to believe Merlin's exceptional ability to wield a knife in that moment was a coincidence. Montague will find out soon enough anyway, once King Arthur lifts the ban on magic, but until then it is best to keep things that could end with Merlin's execution between those few who can be trusted not to share them. "We were talking about Gwaine, anyway," Lancelot says, trying to divert the conversation back to that topic; for all that it is awkward, it is not likely to have fatal consequences for anyone.
"Yes, we were," Montague agrees, chuckling. "This is far more interesting, though. What secrets could innocent little Merlin possibly have that are worth threatening a man's life to keep that way?"
"Ones that you do not need to know," Lancelot states, content with the way the calmness of his voice borders on dangerous, "and will not be hearing from me." Just in case his point is not entirely clear, Lancelot spurs his horse onwards, riding far enough ahead that he can no longer hear Montague's words before slowing down to a more reasonable pace.
X
"Merlin," Arthur says as he enters his room, "could you explain to me why the hallway is full of candles, please?"
Merlin looks up from the candle on the floor in front of him – the only one left in the room – and considers feigning ignorance, just to see the look on Arthur's face if he does so. Of course, Arthur will probably put it down to one of his many idiosyncrasies, the same way he did all the oddities that occurred in Merlin's presence before he knew of his magic, and Merlin would prefer for his king to know how volatile his magic is now instead of being surprised by it later (although if he saw fit to send away Lancelot and Montague, he might already know). "I put them there, sire," he answers, which makes Arthur look just as exasperated as if he'd lied.
"Believe it or not, Merlin, I hadn't thought it the work of a very half-hearted thief. Would you care to tell me why you put them there?"
"I didn't want to light them all," Merlin tells him, returning his attention to the candle and ignoring Arthur when he kneels on the floor opposite him.
The king manages to stay silent for all of half a minute before asking another question and distracting Merlin from his intense contemplation of his task. "Is that actually a risk? Because you don't seem to be doing too well at lighting that one."
"I wished it wasn't quite so dark yesterday evening, not even out loud, and every candle in the room burst into flame." Merlin flicks his eyes upwards, only to look back down almost immediately; Arthur is watching him just as closely as he'd been watching the candle, and Merlin is not at all comfortable with that level of scrutiny. "Do you think you could move back a little? You might be king now, but I reckon your father could probably still have me killed if I set your hair on fire."
Arthur does move away, a little, smoothing a protective hand over his hair, then looking immediately embarrassed when he realises what he is doing. "Well, go on then," he says. "I'm waiting."
"It's not that simple," Merlin snaps. "I haven't used it in months, I can't just wave my hand and expect it to do what I want."
"Have you tried?"
Merlin is about to respond with a very sharp 'no' before launching into an explanation of how magic is a complicated thing and he doesn't expect Arthur to understand any of it, until he realises how much like Gaius he would sound if he did so. And he never really believed it when Gaius has told him that – his magic has always been uncomplicated, doing the simple things he wants it to, and then there was always his book when he needed actual spells – so churning out that speech now would be a little hypocritical. He glares are Arthur instead, because he can't say no without an explanation and he can't explain without sounding obnoxiously superior.
"Merlin," Arthur says kindly, and Merlin can't detect a trace of his usual mannerisms, "I know I don't know much about magic, but Gaius has told me you're spectacularly powerful. The only thing keeping that candle from being lit is you thinking you can't do it."
Merlin has no response to give to this, beyond repetition. "It's not that simple."
"Yes, it is." Arthur seems so absurdly confident as he says this, and Merlin has to wonder how that came to be. He has never really seemed to fear Merlin and his powers, hasn't even been that angry at him for keeping it a secret except for when he first found out, but he has never placed all that much trust in it either. Merlin thinks it's probably because he's never actually seen what he can do, beyond small things, and being told is only so convincing. And yet now, Arthur is acting like Merlin's magic is the only thing he could ever imagine believing in.
It is confidence-inspiring and terrifying in almost equally measures, because Merlin finds that with Arthur looking at him like that there is nothing he can do but try. He thinks light, directing his magic at the candle, focusing it on reaching the wick and going no further, and adds a dramatic wave of his hand for Arthur's benefit.
It turns out that Arthur is right; the candle flares, bright and beautiful, even more so because it was entirely within Merlin's control. Arthur stands, laughing at the expression of surprise Merlin knows he must be wearing. "Told you so, didn't I?" he smirks, patting Merlin on the shoulder. "Now, go get the rest of my candles back, and see what you can do about the mess in here."
Merlin is too pleased to be annoyed, even as the list of chores grows to an absurd length. He obeys, mostly mindlessly, trying to reconcile the Arthur whose belief in him is powerful enough to make him believe in himself with the one who sends Lancelot and Montague from the city in order to keep them safe from him.
X
Lancelot doesn't give Montague the chance to speak to him again until they stop that evening, riding on faster each time he catches up, as many times as it takes for him to learn to stay back.
The first words out of his mouth are, "I'm sorry." Lancelot stops unbuckling his horse's saddle to look at him, examining him for any signs that he is less than sincere; Montague certainly seems honest, and for all his flaws Lancelot has to concede that he is quick to apologise when he knows he has done something wrong. He does not flinch under Lancelot's scrutiny, either, seemingly willing to wait as long as is necessary for Lancelot to make a decision.
Eventually, Lancelot nods, resuming his efforts to remove the saddle. He does not speak to him, and Montague does not say anything further, which is absolutely fine with Lancelot.
X
Over the course of dinner, Gwaine becomes increasingly aware of the looks his family keep sending him, anticipation and wariness fighting for control of their faces. He knows his behaviour hasn't exactly been predictable today, but the only person to actually suffer from his bad mood has been Gareth and his expression falls more on the eager side of things, which leads Gwaine to believe that their looks relate more to his story than his feelings.
Molly, obviously, just likes tales of handsome princes defeating evil, and Gwaine doubts she has worked out that any of his stories are true, much less that the most recent one involves him directly. Bertram knows that he returned to Camelot after being banished, and for all Gwaine knows he might have picked up on clues Gwaine didn't even realise he was dropping about both why he went back and why he left. And Gareth and their ma know that something must have happened between his banishment and his return home, something big enough that he'd rather stay there for months without telling anyone why than leave and have to face it.
They all want to know how his story ends, he thinks, explaining their anticipation, and the wariness...well, maybe they're just waiting for the part of it that ends badly.
Either way, they aren't hearing it tonight, not even when Molly climbs into his lap as they all sit in the living room and looks up at him with big, beseeching eyes. He shakes his head.
"Please," she says, tugging his sleeve gently.
"Not tonight, love," he murmurs, frowning at her when she scrunches up her face, trying to pre-empt her crying fit. "Your Uncle Gwaine is too tired, seeing as someone didn't want to let him sleep last night."
Her I'll cry if I don't get what I want face morphs into one of childish guilt and she presses into his chest, folding her arms around him as much as she can. "Sowwy," he hears, muffled and faint, and he has to hug her back.
"It's okay," Gwaine tells her, and finds himself making a promise that he isn't all that sure about. "I'll see if I can think of another one for tomorrow, love."
Bertram looks at him approvingly, the only one who seems to have noticed the exchange between Gwaine and Molly. "Do you remember the year when we were children," he says to the room as a whole, "and it was almost springtime before it snowed? We'd waiting months for it, so many that we'd almost given up hope..."
He holds Gwaine's eyes as he speaks, the same way Gwaine had held his when he told his story yesterday, and Gwaine understands why Bertram is drawing them all in with a memory decades old. They had all been so young, the three of them, bright and bold and innocent, desperately impatient for something they knew was going to happen but didn't want to have to wait for.
That is Bertram's message, he thinks; they all just need to wait. Winter will not last forever, and the snow starts melting as soon as it lands, but until Gwaine is free to travel on, he is not alone.
X
Elyan corners Merlin after training the following morning, somehow managing to herd him into a corner without Merlin realising what is happening.
"I'm sorry," Merlin says immediately, not because he's worried but because he is. The whole mess was months ago, and he understood where Elyan was coming from; if he hadn't been so mad at Gwen for thinking he'd hurt Lancelot on purpose, he would never even have told her about it.
"Exactly what I was going to say," Elyan replies, not sounding at all like Merlin expected him to.
"What?" Merlin was anticipating being shouted at, or at least threatened in a quiet but still intimidating way (the cellar is still half full of knights, after all, so actual yelling isn't really too much of an option). Being told that Elyan has trapped him in a mildly menacing manner in order to apologise to him is just odd.
Elyan is silent, and Merlin wills the torches closest to them to burn a little brighter, not so much that anyone else should notice, but enough that he can see Elyan's face. He looks, for lack of a better word, sheepish. "I never actually said I was sorry for that," he tells Merlin. "I was wrong. And whatever Gwen thinks, I know you wouldn't hurt any of us on purpose."
"Thanks," Merlin says, finding himself grinning. "You don't need to apologise, though. I didn't mean to accuse you of anything, either. It was just Gwe-" he stops; it being her brother he's talking to, criticising Gwen is not particularly a good idea.
"She's my sister, Merlin. I love her, but...she overreacts sometimes, and I might have exaggerated the thing with Lancelot a bit when I first told her about it." The sheepishness of Elyan's face grows, but there is a seriousness to him that makes Merlin wonder how much he knows. But he can't; Elyan wouldn't let things go if he knew about Lancelot and Gwen. He is too noble, in a way Merlin and Gwaine aren't. "She'll listen if you explain it all to her, though."
"Thanks," Merlin repeats, not mentioning the fact that she isn't the only one who thinks there's something to worry about; Elyan has to have noticed that Lance and Montague are gone, but Merlin isn't going to tell him why if he hasn't already worked it out. "I'll talk to her next time she's here," he grants, not entirely sure what he'll say when he does. Then again, he probably doesn't have to worry until Gwen shows sights of wanting to speak to him at training again, and with the way she ignored him today that looks set to be a while away.
"You're not going to be joining us all anytime soon?" Elyan looks surprised, though Merlin has no idea why.
"I'm not exactly good," he says. "It's a fact, you don't need to pretend otherwise. And with my magic back, I really don't think I'll be a whole lot better at it." Elyan doesn't react to this in any way, so Merlin figures he already knows; presumably, Arthur told them about him having his magic back yesterday after he'd left.
Elyan nods. "Well, if you change your mind, just say so. Although not now; the king looks kind of impatient."
Merlin looks to his left at where Arthur had been standing with a few of the knights when Elyan had said he wanted to talk to Merlin. Now it's just Arthur, leaning in the doorway with a glare on his face. He rolls his eyes, smiles at Elyan, and hurries off to find out what the list of tasks Arthur has for him today looks like.
X
It is a little after dusk on their fourth day of riding when they find somewhere to stop. They have made good time, Lancelot thinks, particularly with the weather being what it is, and should arrive tomorrow, probably mid-afternoon. That will, he hopes, give him enough time to persuade Gwaine to at least consider returning, so that they can be on their way at some point on the following day. Quite how he is going to go about persuading him, Lancelot is not sure, particularly with Montague there as well, but he will.
Only after they have arranged rooms for the night (two of them, and Lancelot has no qualms about using the crowns money for such a purpose; he has no desire whatsoever to share, and he does not think Arthur will disapprove of what others may consider a needless expense) does Lancelot feel the need to break his silence for something beyond the most trivial statements about the time they will be leaving at in the morning or to announce that they are stopping to eat during the day. Just in case Montague is likely to misunderstand his intentions in speaking to him voluntarily, he begins as menacingly as he can (admittedly, not very; menacing is far more the forte of the other knights). "We should get there tomorrow," he announces, "and I wish to make one thing clear before we do. You will not accuse Gwaine of anything, understand?"
"And what, exactly, would I be accusing him of?" Montague asks, making it perfectly apparent that Lancelot's attempt at menacing has both been noted and failed. "Beyond seriously misleading people with regards to his availability, I mean."
Lancelot sighs, resigning himself to having the remainder of the conversation they began on the first day of their journey, despite the fact that they are in a moderately busy tavern in what is very close to the middle of nowhere. They have shed their uniforms, however, with the intention of putting them back on when they arrive at Gwaine's home, and will not be recognisable as anything beyond two men having a mildly hostile discussion; he finds a seat, frowning, and gestures for Montague to do the same.
"Gwaine did not mislead anyone," he states when they are both seated, trying to have this done with as simply as possible. "He was not banished from Camelot; whilst he did tell Arthur about the rationing, he left willingly when Merlin broke up with him. The banishment was a lie created when it appeared that King Uther was going to execute an innocent woman he suspected to have told Arthur."
"Merlin broke up with him?" Incredulity stains Montague's voice as much as it does his face, and Lancelot is not at all pleased to realise he knows him well enough to identify his emotions. "You expect me to believe that because...?"
"There were circumstances," Lancelot tells him, aware that this is the second time he has used that as an explanation. Montague looks set to ask what they were, so he continues before he can. "You do not need to know any of the details if Merlin chose not to tell you." It is not himself he is protecting with that sentence, or not just himself; Merlin's magic, Gwaine's hollow, heartbroken anger, Arthur's blindness to how Merlin felt for him (Lancelot may be slow at times, but the combination of Merlin loves someone else and Gwaine's drunken accusations of blame were enough for him to work that much out). "You need know only that Gwaine was hurt, very hurt, and he left, with promises to come back when he was ready. Merlin forbade Arthur to summon him back before then, and he will not be happy that Arthur is doing so."
"Merlin forbade it," Montague repeats, without a hint of a question to it. Lancelot is fairly sure he hears him add, "and the pair of you wondered why I thought they were sleeping together," under his breath, but he chooses to ignore it. "So you and Merlin tell the king that this isn't a good idea, and he decides the best solution is to send me as well. Remind me again why I wanted to join a group of knights led by this man?"
"Arthur has his reasons," Lancelot says; for all that he may agree with Montague about the utter absurdity that is this plan, he knows his words are true. It just remains to be seen whether the precautions Arthur has taken are necessary, and even then whether they cause more trouble than they avoid. "Regardless, Gwaine was free of any commitment to Merlin when he met you, so do not treat him like he has done something wrong." He pauses for a moment, then amends this sentence, "it would be good if you did not speak to him about Merlin in general, actually."
"Or I could just not speak at all," Montague offers, voice sarcastic and more than a little angry.
Lancelot imitates Gaius' sternness to the best of his ability. "That would certainly be best," he agrees, then returns to pretending he is taking this journey alone.
X
"And then the handsome prince and the beautiful princess lived happily ever after," Gwaine concludes, Mister Bear in one hand and Lady Dolly in the other, making them walk off merrily into a make-believe sunset together. Molly claps, grinning, and shuffles across the living room floor to wrap her arms around his neck. Gwaine, still sitting on the floor, hugs her back, pleased that he can mollify her for the third day in a row with fairy tales involving her favourite toys as characters rather than anything real.
"Why don't all youw stowies end like that?" she asks, taking Lady Dolly from him and combing her fingers through the doll's woollen hair (Gwaine is glad that's not him, because he's really quite fond of his hair, and he wants it to stay attached to his head, thank you very much).
"Because the rest of my stories are true," he tells her, "and real stories don't always end up happily."
She looks him straight in the eyes, suddenly grumpy, and Gwaine thinks that that probably isn't the sort of thing you're supposed to tell four year olds. It's one of the lies that's supposed to be continued as long as possible, until kids grow old enough to realise for themselves that it's not true, and he can only be grateful that none of his family were in the room to hear him (he likes his insides where they are as well). And yet, when Molly speaks, she says only, "maybe they just awen't finished yet."
He laughs, because the alternative is disabusing her of that notion, and maybe some dreams are worth holding on to. Even so, he knows how his story ends, because it already has, and neither he nor Merlin gets to stroll off into the sunset with the one they love like Molly's imaginary prince and princess do.
The door creaks open before Gwaine has to find anything to say back to her, and Gareth pokes his head into the room. "I need to talk to you, Gwaine, now. You'll be okay on your own for a bit, won't you, Molly?"
Molly smiles and nods, so Gwaine stands, ruffling her hair, and joins Gareth in the hallway. "You need to go," his brother says, quiet enough that Molly can't hear them through the slightly open door, but very urgently. "Go get your stuff and leave."
"What?" Gwaine asks, and doesn't know what to follow it up with beyond the most obvious question. "Why?"
Gareth pushes him in the direction of the stairs. "You need to go," he repeats. "I'm serious. There are knights in the kitchen looking for you. Ma's keeping them busy, but she can't do so endlessly, and you need to be far away before they work out what she's doing."
"Knights? Looking for me?" Repeating Gareth's words doesn't make him sound smart, but Gwaine is having difficulty making sense of it. "From Camelot?"
Gareth nods, and the tiny bit of hope that had been in his eyes flees. His tone is one of resignation as he asks, "so you know why they're here, then?"
Gwaine shrugs, because whilst he might not know the specifics he can works out the gist of it; for one reason or another, he is required back in Camelot. He knew that this was a possibility, and because of the agreement he made with Arthur to get permission to leave, he knew that if someone showed up looking for him he'd have to go back with them, but he hadn't thought Arthur would actually do it. That isn't the problem, though, because he is more than willing to leave with whoever is here for him. But things must be bordering on terrible for Arthur to decide Gwaine's presence is necessary enough to make the knights travel through weather like this, and...
Merlin.
That's the best case scenario as a whole, isn't it, even if it's personally one of the worst things Gwaine can think of, that instead of there being something awful going on in Camelot, something awful has happened to Merlin.
Gwaine needs to talk to whoever it is, immediately.
He walks away while Gareth is still talking, heading not towards the stairs as his brother wants but towards the kitchen. It takes Gareth a moment to realise this, and then his words get increasingly concerned even as they get quieter, trailing after Gwaine like an overly protective guard dog. They are mere feet away from the kitchen door when Gareth grabs his arm, hard, and hisses, "what are you doing?"
Gwaine pulls his arm free and mutters, "I just want to see who it is," because he should be able to gauge the severity of the issue by knowing who Arthur has sent after him. He could explain now that Gareth is worrying about nothing, but he'll see that for himself soon enough and the need to know what has happened is too immediate for him to wait.
He opens the door a crack, peering through the gap as he prepares himself to see whoever is there after so many months away, and there is Lance, sitting in his kitchen looking confused and more than a little uncomfortable as Gwaine's ma bustles about making drinks and asking about the journey from Camelot. Gwaine is about to open the door the rest of the way and walk in, despite the fact that Gareth is once again trying very hard to pull him away, when a second red-cloaked person – Gareth had said there were knights to see him, after all, not just the one – moves into his line of sight to take one of the cups from his mother.
Gwaine freezes, trying to suck air into his lungs, but they remain resolutely airless and empty. He stops fighting, letting Gareth haul him away from the room, too busy battling the churning mess that is his stomach as he feels hands on every inch of his skin, hears breathing hot and heavy in his ear.
Gareth lets him go and stares at him, eyes wide with surprise and worry, but all Gwaine can see is other eyes, hundreds of them. Eyes that want him, eyes that hollow him out with their gazes until all that is left is shame and regret and that bitter kernel of self-hate that he cannot shake no matter what he does. The twisted feeling that he lives with, day after day after day, ignorable sometimes but still there, telling him that he will never amount to anything, that he will never mean anything to anyone beyond the brief satisfaction he can give them, that he will never be worth more than the lustful glances of strangers and a few honest victories from battles fought for all the wrong reasons.
He runs.