AUTHOR'S NOTE: I started writing a hypothetical Third Series during the break between Series Two and Three (and I don't like to think about how long ago that was). Obviously, the show itself went in a completely different direction that what I was doing. And I was having fun (still am), so I continued with my Third Series AU. I treat everything in Series One and Two as canon, and pretty much ignore anything afterward. However, I really really like Gwaine, from the Third Series. I wanted him in my AU, and I wanted to make it clear that he is indeed the show's Gwaine, unlike Percival, Tristan, Isolde, etc., who are very much not the same characters as on the show. To that end, I use the show's spelling of Gwaine, but I also use the basic introductory scene (tweaked, to fit into my world), and the villains, Dagr and Ebor. I also tweak Gwaine's backstory, again, to fit into what I'm doing in my AU. Thanks & enjoy!
3.11 To All Appearances
Drying sweat prickled Merlin's skin, and his horse snorted against the reins as he and Arthur emerged from the woods, the sun sharp against their eyes. Miraculously, the temperature was the same as in the shade. Merlin watched Arthur, hoping, can we go home now?
But Arthur was in a good mood. Hunting, to Merlin's perpetual consternation, always put Arthur in a good mood, even if he didn't catch anything. Like today.
"You know what you need after a hard day's hunt?" Arthur asked, staring down the hill at a hamlet in the glade.
"Sleep?" Merlin requested. He had no idea where they were, but Arthur surely did. Arthur usually did—were Merlin feeling more generous, he'd admit that Arthur had an impressive mastery of maps. But Merlin was not feeling generous.
"A nice tankard of mead," Arthur said.
No.
"Mead?" Merlin did not want mead. He did not want Arthur's musings. He did not want to visit this blot of a human settlement that Arthur was eyeing with pride—granted, it was similar to his own childhood village—but that was home, this was not.
"There's no better place to measure the mood of the people than the local tavern," Arthur said as their horses meandered down the slope.
How would you know, Merlin thought. In the three years he'd been Arthur's servant, not once had he seen the Prince visit a tavern to 'measure the mood of the people.'
They drew no notice from the few locals milling about. At a post that might also have been the town square, given its placement, Arthur dismounted and Merlin had to accept that there was no turning back.
"This is one of those moments where I tell you something isn't a good idea and you ignore me, isn't it?" he remarked as he dismounted.
"Afraid one of us might learn something?" Arthur said. He concentrated on knotting the rope, but the challenge in his voice was sharp, fleeting, and unmistakable.
Merlin secured his horse without comment, unsure what had suddenly piqued Arthur—they were hunting, after all.
"Now remember," Arthur said, his tone now mellowed, but firm, "in here you're not my servant—I'm just a simple peasant like everyone else."
"Simple part's right," Merlin muttered behind Arthur's back.
"What?" Arthur glanced at Merlin.
"I said, the sun is very bright."
"Riiight."
Inside, the tavern was louder than Merlin would have thought. Perhaps the hamlet was hiding a village—or maybe it stood along a major trade road. If Merlin hadn't wanted so badly to return to Camelot, he might have asked.
They grabbed an abandoned table, and as soon as they sat down, a plump, ruddy-cheeked woman approached.
"Afternoon," she said. She wore a threadbare, faded yellow dress, and though not tall, she still towered. Curly brown hair framed her round face. She picked up the two deserted mugs with one hand, her muscled forearms bespeaking a life of labor.
"What'll it be?" she asked, glancing at each as her free hand wiped the table with a well-used cloth. "You're an handsome fellow," she added.
"You wouldn't be the first to say it," Arthur replied approvingly.
"Oh," the woman said awkwardly. "No—sorry—I was talking about your friend here."
"Thank you," Merlin smiled, both at the compliment and at Arthur's befuddlement.
"Two tankards of mead, please," Arthur said. The tavern lady left, with a parting twinkle in her eye for Merlin.
"I was wrong," Merlin said. "Coming here was a great idea." Maybe Arthur would want to leave soon—he was no longer as jovial as when they were on the hill, though Merlin couldn't say exactly what had dampened his mood.
Yet when the mead arrived, Merlin found himself relaxing. Without princely pretensions, Arthur almost blended in—and it was always more fun to be Arthur's friend than his servant. They could watch people—normal people—or listen, or both, or just sit until they didn't want to anymore. Merlin had to admit—as a large, burly man stomped through the door—this was one of Arthur's better ideas.
Not that he was going to say so aloud.
Meanwhile, the large, burly man smacked the hands of a small, red-clad, fair-skinned woman, sending the dishes she was carrying crashing to the floor—and provoking Arthur's immediate attention.
Merlin side-eyed Arthur as the man marched up to the woman who'd greeted them—she now stood behind a long, high wooden table. Only half the room watched, and no one seemed surprised.
"Mary," the man said.
"Dagr," Mary said, wiping the table between them.
"Business looks good."
"We have our better days," Mary said, daring to meet Dagr's eye.
"I don't suppose you'd begrudge me my share, then." A threat, all in good fun.
Mary tossed several coins on the table.
"And the rest?" Dagr said.
"That's all we got."
Merlin took another sip of mead. He swore he'd heard a note of defiance in Mary's tone, which Dagr didn't like. Arthur had left his seat.
Dagr yanked Mary forward by her shirt, pressing a knife tip to her throat.
"I'll not ask again," Dagr said.
"Take your hands off her," Arthur ordered impatiently, standing behind Dagr.
Dagr turned, as though Arthur were a loud puppy. He swung at Arthur, and Arthur effortlessly threw Dagr into a nearby shelf.
"I'm gonna make you pay for that," Dagr said, scrambling to his feet. Arthur watched, unimpressed.
Merlin chuckled into his tankard. "I'd like to see you try," he said.
Dagr put two fingers to his mouth—challenge accepted—and released a piercing whistle. A dozen men, all large, burly—and surly—entered the tavern, blocking the door.
"You had to open your big mouth, didn't you, Merlin?" Arthur said.
"You two have got yourselves into a bit of a pickle, haven't you?" said a man now standing beside Arthur. As tall as Arthur, he spoke with a northern accent, had brown hair almost to his shoulders, light skin, and he seemed only half-interested in this calm-before-the-fight. He took a drink from the mug in his hands.
"You should get out of here while you have the chance," Arthur said, sizing up Dagr's men.
"You're probably right," the man agreed. He took one last swig from his mug, handed it to Dagr, and—before Dagr could fully comprehend what was in his hand and why—punched Dagr in the face.
Dagr's men did not take kindly to that.
In the ensuing fight, Merlin tried to keep track of Arthur, but chaos reigned. At one point, he heard his name in Arthur's voice, but two oncoming attackers demanded his attention—with a spell, he threw a bench at them, trusting that no one in such a brawl would notice a little errant magic.
He dodged an airborne chair; he maneuvered around someone's fist; he slid under Mary's counter and jumped to standing on the other side, the tall wood table between him and the larger room. Behind him, Mary tried desperately to protect her wares. One of Dagr's men lunged after Merlin; Merlin grabbed a clay jug and broke it over the man's head, but that only disoriented him—Mary rammed a second jug against his skull, and down he went, falling among the clay shards.
Mary quickly began rummaging through her supplies for another convenient blunt object—more of Dagr's men were approaching. Her back turned, Merlin volleyed an entire stack of plates at the men, one by one—his magic more rapid-fire than any arm could have been. A broken nose, a punched gut—Merlin hadn't cared to aim—one even unconscious—Dagr's men retreated in humiliated surprise.
The brown-haired man who'd thrown the first punch at Dagr scuffled up to Merlin, clenching one of Dagr's men in a headlock—he knocked Dagr's man out by banging the guy's head against the counter. Then he addressed Merlin:
"Pass the jug, eh?"
Curious, Merlin handed him a full jug, which the man immediately brought to his lips. Another of Dagr's men made to avenge his comrade, but before Merlin could shout a warning, the brown-haired man lowered the jug and punched the presumptive attacker—a fierce, unerring blow, and Merlin couldn't help but marvel at the confidence and grace of the movement.
"What do they call you, then?" the man asked after another swig from the jug.
"Merlin."
"Gwaine," the man said, offering his free hand. "Pleasure to meet you."
As if they weren't in the middle of a brawl. Merlin stared—Gwaine's entire attitude was unaccountable—and as he stared, he realized that Gwaine looked good. Handsome, yes, but more than that: although dusty, Gwaine's hair was combed, his skin unblemished by constant daily sun, and his clothes well-mended—not tattered or worn or threadbare. Also, he wore a polished charm around his neck—an upside-down crescent.
Gwaine whirled, smashing the jug against his earlier attacker's face, rendering him unconscious this time. Liquid spilled along with the shattered jug. Dagr's men had hard heads.
"Such a waste, heh?" Gwaine said, his hand sopping.
Merlin suppressed an urge to ask Gwaine if he was drunk—or insane—and if either was contagious, for somehow, the fight suddenly seemed fun. Utterly ridiculous, in fact. Requiring music. How Arthur would hate such irreverence,
And Dagr, heretofore unchallenged, could feel his petty little empire slipping from his grasp, all because of an upstart whelp. As Arthur defeated the last of his men, Dagr withdrew a small, concealed knife.
Before Arthur could turn—before Merlin could shout a warning—Gwaine had thrown himself upon Dagr, heaving them both to the floor. The scuffle was brief. When they rolled apart, Dagr had blood on his knife, and Gwaine had a hole in his thigh.
An outcome that confused and delighted Gwaine. He rose shakily, only to stumble, knocking his head against a table and falling unconscious back to the floor.
Unable to deny defeat, Dagr dropped his knife and glowered up from the floor—neutered and neutralized—at the tavern-flies surrounding him. Arthur knelt at Gwaine's side, and Merlin wrapped the wound with cloth torn from the shirt of one of Dagr's nearby men.
"How is he?" Arthur asked.
"Not good," Merlin said. "He's losing a lot of blood." He tightened the bandage, already bloody.
"We'll take him to Gaius," Arthur said. He stood. He studied Dagr, still on the floor, and asked Mary whether the town had stocks, his verdict thus rendered. A wave of glee swept through the tavern. The people dragged Dagr out to the stocks, where more townsfolk gathered, the news swift in its promulgation.
Merlin empathized. It was rare that men like Dagr suffered consequences for their cruelty, especially in places like this, that kings considered just blotches of peasantry. He swelled with pride.
But Arthur was more concerned with Gwaine, personally carrying him out of the tavern. Merlin helped drape Gwaine over the front of Arthur's saddle—extra weight that the horse took in stride. And all the while, Arthur oversaw Dagr's punishment, maintaining a commanding presence, even with Gwaine over his shoulder, which everyone accepted and followed.
Do you have to practice that posing? Merlin thought fondly.
Arthur mounted his horse, careful not to dislodge Gwaine. Merlin followed suit, and Dagr seethed as the townsfolk pelted him with rotten food, of which there seemed a sudden abundance.
"If this man ever troubles you again," Arthur addressed the people, "word is to be sent to Camelot. Soldiers will be here within a day."
"How can you make a promise like that?" Mary asked.
"Because I'm the King's son, Prince Arthur."
As they rode away, they could hear the exclamations of the townspeople behind them. Prince Arthur? Prince Arthur in my tavern? Amazement and awe—a tale to tell for the next five years—and underneath, an underpinning that only Merlin recognized, being a peasant himself: relief.
Belief.
They were finally returning to Camelot, but maybe hunting wasn't so bad after all.