Hunger Chapter 33, a merlin fanfic

Notes: Not dead, this one. Just sleeping a while :)

Hunger - Chapter Thirty-Three

"He knew about my magic," Merlin says, staring at the ceiling above him, looking for patterns in the shadows cast by the candle Gwaine has yet to let burn out, even if it feels like an eternity since he said goodnight. "He threatened to tell you all if I didn't do what he wanted."

Gwaine doesn't say anything, is too kind to say anything, but Merlin can hear what he's thinking so clearly it might as well be voiced aloud. "I know you know," he continues softly, "I know it wasn't much of a threat, but… It's their wedding. I didn't want changing laws to get in the way of that, and I didn't want him to go to one of you. I didn't want you to have to kill him just because I wouldn't."

Merlin falls silent, stretching his hand out across the sheets, searching for Gwaine's, for someone to hold on to; Gwaine is there almost immediately, his hand warm in Merlin's grip, as familiar as the dawn. "I was going to let him," he says eventually, and he can feel Gwaine's pain like it's his own, like that sharp intake of air is going into his own lungs and not Gwaine's. "I would have, if it wasn't for you. Do you remember, after we were first together, I told you there was almost no one alive who could make me do something I didn't want to? No more than three people, I said, and if you aren't one of them then there's no way in hell he was, either. I stopped cooperating, and that's when he… this." Merlin lifts his free hand, waving it in the general direction of his head and the exceptionally large bump that's growing there.

"I'm glad I killed him," Gwaine says, and there are too many emotions in his voice for Merlin to even begin listing them. "I'm glad, and I'd do it a million times more if that's what it took to keep you safe."

"I'd never ask you to," Merlin says, because as (unsettlingly) comforting as that is to hear, he didn't start telling this to make Gwaine reassure him.

"I know, love," Gwaine says, resolute, a tree bending before a storm but not breaking, never, ever breaking. "I'd do it anyway."

Merlin loses count of how many times he wakes before dawn, but it's a lot. Gwaine is there each time, though, perched on the edge of the chair closest to the bed, his hand not touching Merlin's, but close enough that Merlin could reach out and grab him if he wanted to, and Merlin doesn't know if it's because he's incapable of waking quietly or if Gwaine just isn't sleeping.

It's comforting, though, even if it shouldn't be.

It's safe, as Gwaine will always be.

Since they brought Gwaine back to the city, it is not unusual for Lancelot to hear a rather loud argument as he approaches his door in the morning; Gwaine and Gareth have a tendency to squabble in a way that makes Lancelot deeply grateful never to have had siblings by blood. As such, he would not usually be alarmed to find his journey to Gwaine's room accompanied by raised voices.

Today, however, when Lancelot knows that Gareth is currently somewhere between his own room and the dining hall, it is a little unexpected.

The words are indecipherable through a closed door, but at some point over the past year, Lancelot has lost all qualms he may once have had about interrupting arguments and entering rooms uninvited, at least on occasions when he can be fairly sure the occupants are fully dressed.

"No," Merlin says, as Lancelot walks into the room and clears his throat, possibly a little quieter than he ought to but still loud enough, since Merlin adds, "Morning, Lancelot," before turning back to Gwaine. "I'm not staying here all day, and you are not bringing me meals."

"Merlin," Gwaine says, ignoring Lancelot completely and sounding exasperated in a way that almost certainly means he is not in the right. "Be reasonable, please."

The expression on Merlin's face can only be considered incredulous, and when he speaks it is bordering on shrill. "You're speaking to me about reason, Gwaine? You? Sir It's-All-My-Fault, and never mind how irrational you're being?"

Gwaine rounds on Merlin, his expression wild, raking a hand through his hair over and over again. "It is my fault!" Gwaine as good as shouts, spitting mad, well within Merlin's space, and Lancelot thinks this is probably a good time to intervene.

"That is enough," he says, stepping between the two of them even if there is barely any space to do so. "Back up, both of you."

For a long moment, the two of them just glare at each other, and Lancelot wonders if maybe it is all a little futile, if maybe this will never work, no matter how much the pair of them love each other. They do both concede, though, not giving much but enough. Enough. "Now, if one of you could explain, please, I am sure this can be resolved without an argument loud enough to bring the whole castle running."

The glaring match resumes again, continuing to the point where Lancelot is putting genuine consideration into the merits of a strategic retreat, allowing the pair of them to argue it out without a chaperone, but eventually, Merlin gives.

"Gwaine wants me to stay here," he says, his gaze not moving from Gwaine's the entire time he speaks. "He wants to lock me up in here while he runs around fetching all my meals and taking care of my duties."

Lancelot does not have the chance to ask Gwaine for his side of the explanation, so eager is he to give it. "That's not true, Merlin," Gwaine said, starting out so firm only to end quavering, wavering, unsure. "I only want you safe."

"It's broad daylight," Merlin answers, and without knowing it Lancelot has found himself locked out of the conversation again, the two of them just stepping aside to continue arguing around him. "There're people everywhere. Nothing's going to happen."

"There were people everywhere last night! The tavern was heaving when you left, and the whole lot of us still ended up racing through the city after you!"

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry I interrupted your evening! Next time, I'll make sure to leave you behind!"

Gwaine physically recoils from this; Lancelot thinks he could not actually look any more hurt if Merlin had hit him, and there is long moment where he thinks this may well be it, the two of them over and done with forever, and he does not know what to say to stop it. He does not know how to calm the situation down, how to remind Merlin and Gwaine who they want to be.

Fortunately, they do, since the pair of them stare at each other for a moment, a long moment, only to crumple in on themselves.

"I'm sorry," they both say, almost at once, words tumbling over each other as they try to explain.

"I didn't mean that," Merlin says, while Gwaine launches in there with, "Of course you have to call me."

"I was just-"

"I only meant that-"

"It wasn't-"

"I don't-"

"It's okay," Merlin finishes, and by this point he and Gwaine are back in each other's space again. "I know."

"Right," Lancelot says, when several attempts at clearing his throat have failed miserably at breaking their absurdly tense stare. "So, are we going to breakfast?"

He waits for Merlin to say yes, so certain that he will, but he is wrong; Merlin looks to Gwaine, tilting his head, clearly passing the decision over. After the argument the two of them have just had, it barely makes sense, but then the pair of them never do, do they?

"Come on, then," Gwaine says, offering an exaggerated eye roll before stepping back, away from Merlin and towards the door. "Breakfast it is."

Arthur is pacing when Merlin finally manages to shake his escort long enough to get to where he should be at this time in the morning, the escort that has only grown since he and Gwaine and Lancelot reached the mess hall, the escort that followed him down to see Gaius and stood by awkwardly as Merlin hid himself inside his foster-father's arms and tried not to fall apart again.

Arthur is pacing, there's a shattered plate on the floor by the door, and Merlin sort of wishes he'd let Gwaine come with him like he wanted to.

"Merlin!" Arthur says, rounding on him with terrifying urgency and excessive volume. "About damn time! I've been waiting for- for you for..."

He falters, sounding a whole lot less angry that he did at the start of that sentence, and Merlin doesn't get it until Arthur takes one step towards him, stops dangerously quickly when Merlin retreats, and then suddenly it makes perfect sense.

"Gwaine didn't tell me he saw you last night."

Arthur smiles, dry as dust and just as amused, and steps a little closer. "I assumed as much, yes."

"It was..." Merlin says. "I'm..." he continues, only he doesn't know whether he wants to finish that sentence with okay or sorry, isn't really all that sure if either option is true, and decides that, actually, it's better not to talk of it at all. "I take it you've had breakfast already."

"I have," Arthur answers, managing to look both relieved at Merlin's avoidance of the subject and exasperated by it. "You're not going to tell me why we all ended up in that hallway, are you?"

"I did something stupid," Merlin says, because that about covers it. "It's dealt with."

"Are you quite sure?" Arthur asks. "If you're in any danger, it can be solved."

Merlin smiles, because in the face of Arthur's awkward sincerity, there's little else he can do. He's beautiful, Merlin's king, even when he's being his arrogant and obnoxious self, but this, these horribly stilted moments of humanity that Arthur will shake off with a laugh and an affectionate punch to the shoulder, this is when Merlin loves him best. "Thank you," he says, and likes to think his own sincerity sits a little more natural on him. "Gwaine took care of it, though."

Arthur stares at him, assessing in a way that feels sort of ruthless and sort of just Arthur. "If you're sure," he says eventually. "You will tell me if there's anything I can do. That is not an offer."

"I'll tell you," Merlin agrees, then decides it's time to try for the major subject change again. "Now, how're your vows going, sire?"

It's only due to an awful lot of practice that Merlin manages to duck the goblet hurled towards his head with great force.

In light of what happened the last time they went out, Lancelot opts to stay in his room this evening, fairly sure at least someone will show up there soon enough. He is not expecting it to be Gwaine, of course, because Gwaine has spent most of the day lurking outside whatever room Merlin is currently in, making up half-hearted excuses to explain his presence whenever someone questions him; at the moment, Merlin ought to be with Arthur, which means Gwaine is probably standing in an alcove no more than a few yards away from the king's chambers, pretending to be invisible and glowering at anyone who dares penetrate his cunning disguise.

He is not expecting Gwaine, not for hours, if at all, but Gwaine is who he gets, tapping at the door with uncharacteristic hesitance.

"Where is Merlin?" Lancelot asks, before he can think better of it; if Gwaine is unexpected, Gwaine unaccompanied is nothing short of baffling.

"Arthur sent him off early," Gwaine explains, sitting himself by the fireplace and holding his hands towards the flame. "Walked him down to see Gaius, think he's planning on staying there tonight. Gaius is worried, still."

"He would hardly be the only one," Lancelot says, his tone slightly dryer than he intends it to be, and it is only once he is seated himself that he realises how much like a request for information it sounds. "Sorry," he adds, his gaze on the flames before them. "I do not expect you to tell me what happened."

He senses more than sees Gwaine's headshake, but it is not until Gwaine speaks, voice fierce with regret, that Lancelot turns his head to look at him. "'S'okay," he says, though both hands are balled into fists so tight that his knuckles seem about ready to break through the skin. "It's…the creep Merlin was talking to, first night we got back here, he… He's been following him, I guess, 'cause he knew about the magic, threatened to turn Merlin in if he didn't leave with him yesterday, and Merlin... Merlin went with him, rather than risking buggering up Arthur's special day or letting one of us fix things."

He stops, looking so, so weary, and Lancelot does not think he actually wants to know how this ended, is absolutely certain he cannot fault Gwaine for being so overwhelmingly protective of Merlin this morning (if it was Guinevere, Lancelot cannot imagine being able to let her out of his sight). "Is he...?" he asks, unable to finish the question.

"Montague got there in time," Gwaine tells him, and Lancelot lets himself feel a moment of relief. "Got stabbed in the process, and Merlin was drugged, I think, though that might have just been the bump on the back of his head, but yeah. They're both more-or-less okay, and the bastard responsible has been taken care of."

"Taken care of?" Lancelot echoes, more than half sure he knows what this means but needing to be absolutely certain, needing to know he does not have to ensure Arthur orders a very slow, very painful means of execution for someone whose name Lancelot does not know and whose crimes he would rather not see detailed.

"I killed him," Gwaine admits, the stubborn set of his jaw suggesting there is no way at all he can be persuaded to think this was not the correct course of action; Lancelot does not know what response he expects, but it is probably not the one he gets.

"Good," Lancelot says, pressing his knee against Gwaine's thigh for the tiniest fraction of a moment, knowing absolutely how he feels; whatever the remainder of the week may hold, there is no question that Lancelot would kill to keep Guinevere safe. "Good."

Gwaine flashes him a fierce grin, showing too many teeth and no genuine happiness at all, then produces a wine skin from somewhere about his person. "Drink?"

Merlin walks quickly, his head down, magic flurrying down the corridors ahead of him, dragging behind him like a too-long cloak, searching out anyone who might be close by. There are guards here and there, the odd servant fluttering around trying to complete one final chore before turning in for the night, but for the most part the halls he paces down are empty, and it's easy enough to divert the attention of the few people he has to pass by.

It's not the first time he's paced this route, not even the first time he's done so in the middle of the night, but there's never been this urgency to it before, this desperate need to pass safely, unnoticed, unseen.

The speed with which Gwaine answers his tiny tap on the door is all the proof Merlin could need that he hasn't just woken him, but even so, he's dishevelled, his hair raked back where he's been dragging his hands through it, features drawn with exhaustion, squinting in the torch-lit brightness. He smiles anyway, though, slipping through the door and pulling it nearly but not quite shut behind him. "'Reth's asleep," he explains quietly, his eyes a tiny bit unfocused but still mostly sober, rubbing briskly at his bare arms, and Merlin feels just a tad guilty for drawing him from his nice, warm blankets, even if he was clearly just as awake as Merlin has been for the last few hours. "Is everything okay, Merlin?"

"Yes," Merlin says, not sure if he's shivering from sympathy or because he's cold too. "No, actually. I'm not- I mean, I can't- Can I just…?"

Fortunately, Gwaine manages to decipher this array of incompleteness, nodding easily. "Course," he says, glancing over his shoulder at the darkness of his room. "Just give me a minute to wake Gareth, yeah, and then the bed's all yours."

Merlin shakes his head minutely, his eyes fixed on a point just about level with Gwaine's knees. "The floor's fine," he answers, wanting and not wanting to reach for Gwaine's hand. "I just... Please?"

He feels Gwaine's eyes on him for a long time, assessing but not harsh, not unkind. "Of course," he says again, stepping back and letting Merlin follow him before closing the door, waiting for a permissive nod before turning the key in the lock. "Have the blankets closest to the fire," he adds in a whisper, pressing the key into Merlin's palm. "I've got another load somewhere."

Merlin obeys, even if a little bit of him wants to argue that they can share, and he's asleep before Gwaine has finished laying out a second make-shift bedroll.

Gwaine sets up his temporary bed a careful distance from Merlin's, close enough for Merlin to wake him easily if he needs to, far enough away that they're not touching, that he shouldn't be infringing on whatever level of space Merlin needs right now.

It's a solid plan, perfectly decent, and yet when he wakes up later in the night, the two of them are curled together like a nest of newborn puppies, a tangle of limbs and blankets and warmth. Merlin is still asleep, his back tucked against Gwaine's chest, breathing deep and even, clinging to the arm Gwaine wrapped around him in his sleep. He's still asleep, and Gwaine doesn't know if it's better to run the risk of waking him by trying to extract himself or to stay as they are and face the equally large risk of Merlin panicking if he wakes of his own accord.

Eventually, his tired, tired eyes decide for him, and what they decide is that this is a decision that can wait until the morning; he yawns, rests his forehead against the back of Merlin's neck, and falls asleep again.

The next he knows, the sun is up, a bird is singing somewhere outside his window, and a pair of feet are trying to sneak out of his room without making a sound. They're doing a good job of it, too, least until they reach the door, which rattles in its frame but refuses point blank to open. Gwaine, his face still buried against Merlin's back, doesn't see what happens next, but he can make a reasonable guess: Gareth turns back to check the noise hasn't woken them, stubs his toe against the door jamb, and then proceeds to drop his boots with a loud thud and an equally loud curse, hopping up and down on one leg whilst clutching at his injured foot.

Merlin jolts into consciousness, and Gwaine can feel his heart rabbiting, can sense the pressure of his magic flooding the room, crackling soundlessly like the air before a thunderstorm.

"You're okay," Gwaine says, pulling his arm from Merlin's grasp and sitting up, away. "It's okay, Merlin. It's just me."

"And me," Gareth adds, an automatic petulance to it that doesn't quite manage to cover up his confusion.

"And Gareth," Gwaine amends, rolling his eyes, "but he couldn't hurt a fly, so you don't need to worry about him."

"Oi!"

Gwaine wrenches his gaze from Merlin's, twisting to give his brother a shut up or get out glare (the latter not being an option, 'Reth at least has the good sense to do the former), then turns to Merlin again, trying not to sink back into the ocean staring back at him, an ocean frosted with gold. He fails dismally, because it's Merlin and Gwaine will always be lost where he's concerned, but it doesn't seem to matter too much; Merlin blinks, slower than the creep of ice across a lake, then smiles a halfway smile. "I'm fine," he says, and to Gwaine's surprise it actually rings true.

He relaxes, feeling the pressure in the room drop, then has a moment of unnecessary concern (not panic, it's hardly severe enough to be called that) when Merlin's eyes flare gold again.

"The door's open now, Gareth," Merlin says, smiling slightly, then roots around in their tangled mess of blankets until he finds a key (and Gwaine's thigh, but he's willing to give Merlin the benefit of the doubt and call that an accident). "Here," Merlin adds, flinging the key in Gareth's general direction. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine," Gareth says, his cheeks pink with embarrassment, unlatching the door and backing out of the room. "Sorry I woke you both."

"Not-" a problem, Gwaine starts to say, but his brother has already fled.

Merlin turns to him, a momentary smile on his face that borders on dazzling, scrambling to his feet. "Breakfast," he says, reaching a hand to Gwaine and hauling him upright. "I need to get Arthur his before I can eat."

He has his boots on before Gwaine can realise what he's doing, dragging his arms into his jacket and attempting to smooth some of the wrinkles out of his shirt. "Thank you," he says, darting briefly into Gwaine's space and drawing him into a quick, tight hug. "I haven't slept that well in months."

"Welcome, love," Gwaine says. "Any time."

Merlin grins once more, and then he's gone, leaving Gwaine feeling like this is quite the oddest morning he's had since coming here, and, given some of the places he's woken up in Camelot, that's really saying quite a lot.

It's funny, Merlin thinks, that Arthur looks just as concerned today, when he turns up on time and far less on edge, as he did yesterday, when Merlin barely managed to make it there at all.

Usually, Gwaine hates the bullshit posturing that comes with being one of Arthur's knights, the whole bowing-and-scraping, uniformed-and-standing-in-rank-for-no-real-reason thing. Then again, he usually doesn't have quite so strong a reason to want to keep Merlin in his sight at all times, and if he's standing outside the castle as Arthur and Gwen greet a whole load of poncy, overdressed, entitled gits (and never mind that most of that description fits him right about now), he can see exactly where Merlin is.

Merlin is here, and safe, and the only people even close to being able to touch him are the king and almost-queen, so at least in that much, there is nothing to be concerned about.

Despite the fact that he invited most of these people (or at least had final say in who was invited, because from the reports Gwaine has heard, a lot of people seemed to have a lot of opinions), Arthur seems remarkably disinterested in the proceedings, greeting everyone with a polite smile but very little more than that. He bows when their visitors do, Gwaine and the others imitating him, but barely more than a word is exchanged; Gwaine is relieved, mostly because things seem to be proceeding far quicker than he'd thought, and with nowhere close to the level of ceremonious bullshit that he was expecting.

Gwen, on the other hand, looks absolutely petrified, even with the hours and hours of research she's done for the occasion, and Gwaine aches with sympathy for her (and for Lancelot, who just has to stand and watch her suffering, not even able to offer the comfort of a hand in hers, as Arthur does). Her usually rich skin has ashy undertones, her movements shaky, and when the last of today's guests, a woman with an unruly halo of blonde hair and a travel-worn dress, flings herself from her horse before Arthur and says, "So, this is the woman you chose over me?" Gwaine is surprised Gwen doesn't faint.

"Princess Elena," Arthur says, and changeling, Gwaine thinks, feeling Lance tense beside him, though that's probably more from the princess's words than because he's remembering the same conversation Gwaine is. "Camelot welcomes you."

If that's what a welcoming greeting sounds like, Gwaine would hate to hear a frosty one; however well-raised Arthur may have been, all the kingly manners in the world aren't enough to hide how unimpressed he is.

The princess beams, apparently oblivious to the tension around her, how many men are willing to run her through (or blast her into atoms, in Merlin's case) if she says anything more to hurt Guinevere. "I'm happy to be here," she says, and, contrary to whatever her first sentence suggested, she sounds like she means it. "The world could do with more love in it."

At that, Arthur seems to relax a little, and Gwen lets out a breathless laugh, tiny and full of nerves. "Thank you for coming," she says softly, with a surprisingly steady curtsy. "I know it was feared this marriage might cause tension between our lands, and it gladdens me to see that isn't so."

"My Lady Guinevere," Elena answers, her curtsy just as steady, just as graceful, her voice just as quiet, "I owe your husband a debt of gratitude that is beyond my ability to repay. For as long as I live, our kingdoms shall be allied. In light of that fact," she continues, raising her voice so that even those at the back of the assembled crowds can hear her, "I bring you both a gift. An occasion such as this is no time for fasting."

She waves her hand, and three carts pull forwards, led by horses as fine as the one she rode in on and surrounded by armed men. Each one overflows with barrels and baskets, grains and vegetables and apples, Gwaine is sure he can smell apples.

"Any debt that may once have been between us is more than repaid, my lady," Arthur says, sweeping into a bow so deep Gwaine is surprised he doesn't graze his head on the cobblestones. "Merlin, Sir Gwaine, please show the princess to her chambers. The rest of you, please assist in taking this to the kitchen. It seems we'll be having a feast after all."

Gwaine walks close but not too close, shouldering two of Elena's three large bags, and that's only because Merlin insists on carrying one of them himself; yeah, he's maybe still a tad twitchy, and he's still more than a tad bruised, but he's not an invalid and he won't let them treat him like he is. Princess Elena strides along at his other side, no longer clumsy, but Merlin still wouldn't consider her particularly feminine. Beautiful, yes, and definitely regal, but independent, strong, and clearly just as reluctant to ride in a carriage as she was before.

"I remember you," she says, smiling. "The physician's assistant, yes?"

"Sometimes," Merlin agrees. "When I'm not too busy being Arthur's servant, or training with the knights," or trying to keep everyone alive, he adds silently, or unenchanted, or human, and speaking of which… "How have you been, my lady? Since your last visit, I mean."

"Well, thank you, Merlin," she answers, then seems to hesitate slightly, something close to a frown sliding across her face. "You know, it's strange, but since I left Camelot, I've felt so much better. I used to have the strangest dreams, I slept so badly, and…it's not ladylike to admit it, but I fell such a lot, didn't I? Now, though, it's…It's like my skin fits better, if that makes sense."

"It does," Merlin says, thinking of his magic, how it's felt all those times he's had to cram it inside when it's wanted out, let himself be ridiculed by people he could so easily destroy. "It makes perfect sense, my lady."

"You're very kind to say so, Merlin," Elena says, as Gwaine reaches out and briefly, just briefly, squeezes Merlin's fingers in his own. Then, with forced lightness of the sort Merlin is most accustomed to, she asks, "And how did you come to be here, Sir Gwaine? I don't recognise you from before."

"That," Gwaine says, with a grin that is so very nearly tangible as well as audible, present enough that Merlin's skin prickles with jealousy (surely he should be the only one Gwaine smiles at like that, surely), "is a very long story, my lady, and not at all appropriate for a princess's ears."

"How wonderful," Elena replies, with an eagerness that almost amuses Merlin out of his envy. "Those are the best kind."

They dine in the great hall tonight, knights and nobles and guests alike, Merlin flitting from Gwen to Arthur and back again, a smile on his face that isn't quite real enough for Gwaine's peace of his mind, but then quite a few of the smiles around him aren't real. Montague is a peculiar shade of grey, having spent the day walking around when he should probably have been resting; Elyan still looks a little like he wants to kill Princess Elena for being unkind to his sister; Lancelot…Lancelot looks like someone just drowned his puppy, and who could really blame him.

"'S not too late to leave," Gwaine mutters under his breath, not sure if he's talking about the meal or the city. "I'll come with you, and maybe 'Reth and Merlin and some of the others, too. All you have to do is ask."

"Answer me honestly," Lancelot says, looking up from his food for the first time all evening and meeting Gwaine's gaze, holding it like whatever truth he's asking for is there for the whole world to see. "Does leaving make it any easier?"

Gwaine thinks about it for a long moment, remembering the shame and the lies and the desperate desire to be back in Camelot, back home. He remembers the almost-peace brought on by distance, the time taken to realise this is a wound that will never fully heal, and the great, big, wrenching pit inside that was both the fear of coming back and the fear of never returning. He remembers, and he is honest.

"Not even a little bit," he says, then leans across Leon to grab the wine jug just a little bit too far down the table to be in easy reach. "'Nother?"

"Please," Lance says, sliding his goblet towards Gwaine.