Chapter 11: Gwaine (part 2)
The stir of the crowd seated in the stands around the tournament lists alerted him – excited murmurs, a scattering of applause. One of Gawant's knights swore aloud, and Gwaine dropped his gaze from the distant heavens to see – her.
Elena, an ethereal vision in silver and white, thick blonde hair curled over her forehead and down on the fur covering her shoulders, entered the royal box on the arm of a man with iron-gray hair and a hard-lined face – and a leather breastplate embossed with a large gray snarling wolfs-head.
Behind them, Lord Godwyn followed unsteadily, head bowed beneath his circlet, good humor absent, shoulders hunched under his velvet cloak; another elderly-looking man in a cleric's brown robes accompanied him. Elena glanced over her shoulder as Godwyn sank to a seat behind the two high-backed chairs at the front and center of the royal box – but her hand remained at Odin's elbow as he lifted his other hand ostentatiously for attention and silence.
"People of Gawant. My lords and ladies. I thank you for your attendance on this momentous occasion, especially on such short notice."
I hate kings, Gwaine thought to himself. If you know one, you know 'em all. Arthur being the sole exception. He hoped Elena was okay; he hated to think of her frightened and hopeless. She looked pale, but composed; it could have been his imagination that her eyes found him in the group of knights, and stayed – but if it wasn't, he grinned on purpose to reassure her. They weren't beaten yet.
"We have gathered here today to witness a competition of the highest order – twenty knights willing and eager to prove their skill and resolve. And only one! the last and best, will be rewarded with the greatest prize Gawant has to offer – by Lord Godwyn's decree and Her Highness' consent – the victor may claim the princess Elena as his bride!"
Roaring approval from the gathered knights wearing maroon livery. Hesitant cheers from the spectators filling the stands, as if they'd all been taken aback at the announcement, and weren't certain they were supposed to recover.
"Damn," Gwaine said calmly, because it was all clear now, what Odin's game was. Some of the others, knights of Gawant, injured and mistreated so the field was nowhere near fair – said worse things. Out loud, and despairingly.
As things stood at the moment, Arthur with an army would be welcomed, hailed as rescuer and savior of Gawant. But with Godwyn's blessing – however secretly coerced – on the tournament, one of Odin's knights victor, and a marriage performed, Odin would own Gawant through that knight, the princess' husband. Gwaine had no doubt she'd speak the words, when any resistance would put her father in danger. And when Arthur arrived to oppose Odin, he'd be the invader in the eyes of every other kingdom, and that would not be without repercussions.
Elena was seating herself in one of the two central chairs in the royal box, gripping the arm rests. Odin raised a white handkerchief.
"When I drop this…" he declared.
Gwaine shoved his way through Gawant's knights, ignoring the pain of his body in an angry sort of way. "You get behind us," he said, pointing out the four weakest of them, then yanking the steadiest-looking one to his side. "The rest of you, form up on me."
"And the last man standing…" Odin called out.
"Make them come to us," Gwaine ordered, as the others shuffled into place. He drew his sword, and balanced his helm in his left palm. "It's likely they'll use a wedge formation, try to split us up – don't let it happen. Make them flatten with their rush and spread to the flanks – and let our lines bend to the rear, so we're fighting back to back. As long as we've got a man able to stand, Odin hasn't won."
The handkerchief dropped.
The troop of Odin's knights formed and thundered toward them, yelling.
Gwaine took a deep breath, settling his helm on his head, knocking the visor down. Gripping the hilt of his sword – bracing…
Come on and damn you to hell, you sons-of-
His intent was to catch the foremost knight's falling blow on his own appointed practice blade, crouching and catching him at the bottom of his breastbone with the other hand, and use his own momentum to catapult him up in the air, over their heads. Any luck, he'd black out on the landing – or one of the weaker knights behind Gwaine could knock him out.
It didn't happen like that. Gwaine was driven two steps back, appalled at the effect the whipping had on his strength and abilities.
Two steps back meant no elbow room as the rest of Odin's knights smashed into their line in a rush. Gwaine defended furiously, but it was nothing like standing between Arthur and Bors as the rest of their comrades in Camelot proved the king's appointment of common-born knights justified. The steadiest-seeming knight at Gwaine's left fell almost instantly – and the backswing of the maroon-favored enemy opened Gwaine's forearm below the chainmail sleeve.
Damn it all, Odin's men had sharp blades.
It wasn't about the pride of the kingdom – nor its freedom, with marriage to the princess at stake. This was life and death, now, which meant the strategy he'd just counseled, had to be abandoned. Gwaine saw a hole and drove through it, wildly knocking aside the blades that countered his, achieved open ground and spun.
Only one enemy had followed his charge, but Gwaine didn't hesitate, attacking hard and vicious – now hammering, now feinting, now giving the joined blades an extra swift sling, a move that had never yet failed to work. His enemy's blade twisted free in the air; Gwaine snatched it and slammed it through the knight's chest, left-handed.
One down.
Gwaine discarded his dulled blade, switched the new sharp one to his right hand as his enemy slid off the end of it to the sand – and stabbed a second knight deep in the side as he noticed and turned, just too late.
Two of Odin's were fighting each other; the promise of a princess and a partly-independent province just a little too much for the sort of loyalty Odin's men bore. But five of Gawant's unmarked knights were down already – permanently, Gwaine suspected. And most of the tactics he'd learned in Camelot would do him no good here.
So he reverted to his mercenary past. Every man for himself; no holds barred. And if that drew the attention of the other half-dozen of Odin's knights away from those of Gawant left standing – if it meant one of them would be the last and best promised Elena –
He fought.
The noise of the crowd was a dull roar like a stormy seaside. His skin stung and his muscles throbbed, and if he paused he knew he'd stumble in the loose sand and go down under the waves, and that would be the end. And not only of him – that was the unbearable part.
His entire being was burning too brightly and too fast. Surrounded, he slashed and spun and ducked – body heaving for breath, blade heavy and pulling at his wrist – parried and bent and skipped and stabbed.
Punched and kicked. Melee rules, hadn't they said? He didn't remember.
Arching away from a sudden pain in his lower back on his left side, he swung round and his attacker fell back, down to the sands of the list floor.
The world kept spinning. Tilting, as he turned – and turned – no one else near, he let the tip of his blade fall. It wasn't his sword; he didn't mind the minor damage caused by leaning on it. Fighting now to catch his breath, to slow the thunder of blood in his ears.
Gwaine finally focused on the single knight left upright, who was twisting in place as though making sure of his status also. The rest were down – more of them moving than lifeless, Gwaine thought as he staggered away from any who might recover enough to re-enter the fray before its conclusion.
The other knight did the same, facing Gwaine. His steps seemed uncertain and unsteady also, though that might have been the effect of Gwaine's own missing balance. He almost sympathized with the other – til he saw the ribbon of maroon cloth knotted at the side of the knight's sword arm.
He lifted his blade once again, determined with an implacable sort of fury, to put this man down also.
His opponent staggered another step forward, then reached to tip his visor up, and shove his helmet off. That gave Gwaine pause, more than recognition of the other as the curly-haired young man – Sir Isdern? yes, that was right – who'd first captured himself and Elena. It was what Arthur had done, when they'd faced each other across the melee field in Camelot. Honor, and gallantry, and all that.
Gwaine did the same, dragging the helm from his head. The sudden cool of the breeze lifting his hair contrasted with the heat of the rest of him inside the armor to give him the odd sensation of his head drifting away from his body. The helm dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers, and Gwaine let it. Unimportant. And if he bent to retrieve it, he was pretty sure he'd pass out; he could feel moisture trickling down his back, but didn't know if it was sweat or blood.
Isdern took three more of those careful, unsteady steps, til their swords could cross if they lifted them. His hair looked as sweaty as Gwaine's felt, his face blotchy like he'd be pale if not for the exertion. Gwaine couldn't tell if he'd been wounded.
"I would…" Isdern's voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat, making an abortive gesture at the royal box behind Gwaine, like he also felt his sword was too heavy, at the moment. "I would treat her well. I would respect your knights, and protect your people. I give you my word."
The young knight was asking, Gwaine realized, for his surrender. Which he couldn't give in any event, but maybe it meant Isdern was further gone than he let on. A quick glance told Gwaine, none of the other eighteen were even trying to get up; the smell of blood and battle was thick and he was sure that more than a couple of the motionless bodies were dead already.
Distantly he could hear Odin roaring above the questioning murmur of the crowd – shouting orders to his knight probably.
"No," he told Isdern. "You cannot have Gawant. This, is what Odin does – and you will always be his creature."
The young knight closed his eyes briefly, as a look of inexplicable bitter regret and longing crossed his face. Gwaine had a moment to wonder at that, before Isdern launched into a frenzied attack.
Initially pushing Gwaine back. Exhaustion plucked at his limbs as though he fought in deep water, and pain was his reward for successful defense. But Isdern's blows never landed except on Gwaine's blade – and then he ducked a swing – and side-stepped another, wasted energy on his opponent's part… The young man had reverted to the very basic moves taught at the beginning of a knight-hopeful's training.
Gwaine parried – waited through three more attacks – then twisted his blade suddenly around Isdern's. Two and a quarter rotation, the impetus giving him momentary and tenuous control over both weapons –
This time he didn't try to catch the blade as he disarmed his opponent.
Surprise… fear… resignation. Isdern lifted empty hands as Gwaine took one step closer to menace him with his blade in obvious victory.
"I yield," the young knight said, in a clear voice that carried. "The field is yours."
The princess as well. Gwaine decided he trusted Isdern enough to turn his back on the younger man, as the crowd erupted in cheers that sounded and felt genuine this time, and approached the royal box. His legs didn't seem to want to cooperate, now locking, now dragging, now buckling – but force of will carried him along and upright. It was a good thing they weren't that far away from the stands.
Elena perched at the edge of her seat. He couldn't see her expression, as one hand covered her heart, and the other her mouth. Odin, however, was seething. He'd wanted this spectacle public – and he'd gotten it.
"Your Majesty," Gwaine called, and didn't bother stretching for any respect to cover his tone. "By Lord Godwyn's decree and Her Highness' consent. I claim my bride."
The brown-robed cleric at Lord Godwyn's side stepped forward. "Sire, do you wish me to –"
"Not now, you idiot!" Odin hissed – and turned to show a pleasant grimace to Gwaine and those in the crowd near enough to see. "You have our congratulations on your victory, Sir Knight. Perhaps you require a physician – let us also prepare a feast in your honor, and certainly a night's rest before –"
The hell he did. Require multiple opportunities for Odin to make sure he died of his wounds, and marry Elena to Sir Isdern – who looked as though he'd like to collapse and be carried out by the list attendants, already doing their job to clear the field, unobtrusively but with pricked ears and avid glances toward the royal box. No, the public scene was one of the few weapons Gwaine had left.
"Not at all," he returned. The people in the stands were scooting closer, packing tighter, as the whispered word spread around the lists. "You planned on conducting the ceremony immediately, didn't you? There need be no change of plans on my account."
Lord Godwyn was on his feet. "It is a bit impetuous, but by no means unanticipated. Sentys, the words of the ceremony come readily to mind, do they not?"
The cleric gave an agreeable half-bow. "Of course, my lord."
Elena rose to her feet, letting her hands fall to her sides to show her expression composed once again. She glanced up at her father – then her eyes sought his. "Gwaine?"
He was weakening, he knew it; he knew it showed. But he didn't trust the set of Odin's shoulders or the way he fingered the hilt of his sword in its sheath. Gwaine shoved his appropriated sword through his belt and gripped the list-wall a moment for balance. Muffling his groan as best he could, he swung one leg over and inside the royal box, then dragged the other over the wall also.
Elena reached for him, as dirty and sweaty as he was; he decided that after all, he probably should be on his feet for this, and allowed her to pull him upright. She kept his hand in hers though he couldn't feel much more than tense pressure through the gauntlet, and regretted that a bit.
The cleric began much as Odin had – "My lords and ladies, and people of Gawant. We are privileged this day to bear witness to the vows of Princess Elena and Sir – ah…"
"Sir Gwaine," Elena and her father said at the same time, forestalling his belated self-introduction.
"Princess Elena and Sir Gwaine of Gawant in the bond of wedlock –"
He wondered if it would be legally binding if they hadn't said, Sir Gwaine of Camelot. Then again, this was starting to feel a bit like his knighting ceremony this spring – unexpected, surreal, frighteningly right, and his only second thoughts were for his own unworthiness – and that was binding though no one but Merlin knew he'd been born of noble blood.
"…To honor and cherish her as your bride, to protect and provide for her to the best of your abilities and resources to the end of her natural life?"
Dizzily he wondered if the ceremony was fluid enough to include or exclude the detail of love, as it had bearing on the specific union performed. He wasn't sure he could, in all honesty, promise his feelings – could anyone? – but his actions were his own choice, and he was glad the wording allowed him to make the vow with a clear conscience. "I so swear."
"And do you, Elena, promise your husband your full respect and absolute fidelity…"
He could not help a faint but very deep tremor. Hadn't he said just days ago, and to this very woman, I will never wed… Just as he'd sworn never to be counted among the nobility, or to serve another king…
"I do," Elena said softly beside him.
"Then by the power vested in me by the lord and ruler of Gawant, I proclaim and present Gwaine and Elena, husband and wife."
Meeting her gaze brought a moment of clarity and a breath of peace. She was still fearful – he couldn't imagine what mental and emotional horrors she'd suffered since they'd parted company – but there was gratitude and relief and trust in her eyes.
Gwaine considered options that hadn't seemed to occur to her, as she waited for his move, and gently lifted her hand to kiss, rather than attempting any more personal seal of their union. He was aware that she was a princess and probably had very little experience with any form of intimacy – and that his physical state was more than a bit repulsive to feminine sensibilities, at the moment.
The crowds lifted a cheer on the waves of applause again, bringing him back to the reality of the situation.
Odin said, "Please allow my knights to escort you and your fair bride to chambers, Sir Gwaine, where you can –"
"Lord Gwaine," Godwyn interjected, firmly establishing the authority of the new husband of the princess.
Gwaine felt it might be a relief to pass out. "King Odin. I believe you and your men have overstayed your welcome and begin to trespass too much on Gawant's hospitality. Inside half of an hour I expect you all to be on the road with your noses pointed toward the comfort of your own castle and homes. If you require any assistance I am sure our people will be pleased to speed your departure."
It was mostly bluster, and they both knew it. Odin had wanted his conquest of Gawant to become legal at least, and polite on the public face of it, but -
The king turned to look out at the lists, at Sir Isdern lingering near enough the royal box to overhear. The young knight turned to the stands, giving a shrill whistle and a series of hand signals that brought maroon-clad soldiers spilling down the seating tiers of the stands, over the walls into the lists.
Forty at least, fifty maybe – Odin was inside his sword's reach, but Gwaine was only one man and not steady on his feet. Actually, he seemed to be leaning quite heavily on Elena's grip of his arm, so how was he going to… sacrifice his own life, by killing Odin. And hope that Godwyn could fill the void of authority, rather than one of Odin's seniors.
Was it even within his ability anymore? Maybe it didn't matter, because nothing else was.
Gwaine reached for the sword-hilt at his hip, the edges of his vision blurring at the agonizing pull of damaged flesh across his back as he drew his weapon.
Odin didn't even notice. A disturbance at one corner of the lists behind him caught the rippling attention of the people – and the knights gathered in the lists. Some of whom drew sword – some glanced to Odin for his reaction or orders – some few stood from checking on a fallen comrade that hadn't been carried out yet.
It was a moment before Gwaine could focus on the stream of people – men – entering the sandy grounds. He'd gotten as far as knights of Gawant, when Elena spoke in disbelief.
"Is that Gilli?" she said.
Gwaine couldn't tell for sure, but the possibility fired in him a new surge of energy and fierce hope. If the young sorcerer had recovered sufficiently from his head wound, and found the courage to act, and free his comrades –
"How in the hell did they –" Odin interrupted himself, pointing and bellowing, "Stand where you are – you are all under arrest –"
"The hell they are," Gwaine countered, almost light-headed with relief.
Twenty-five men, give or take, if he could trust his eyes and judgment right now. The odds were still against them, two-to-one, but the newly-freed knights of Gawant were armed and most wore at least chain-mail, and that wasn't insignificant.
"Leave now," he ordered Odin, in a low hard voice. "Take the horses you brought and the men who rode them and go peacefully – and if every weapon remains sheathed, we'll let you go with no retaliation." He paused, then put every ounce of his resolve into the warning, "This time."
Odin stared at him, and Gwaine could fairly hear the calculations clicking through the old king's consideration. The advantage of numbers – the cost of the campaign – the loss of credibility among his men if they left now… No. He wouldn't.
The ring of Odin drawing his sword covered whatever words formed his battle cry, echoed immediately and chaotically by his men on the arena ground. Shrieks from the startled crowd made Gwaine's head spin – but Odin didn't move to attack him. There was no room in the royal box for fighting, and Elena and Godwyn and Sentys the elderly cleric were present; Odin was only making sure Gwaine stayed put. Almost neighborly of the enemy king, Gwaine thought – if he attempted to reach the sand, there was every chance he'd fall flat on his face and stay there.
"Oh, they can't possibly-" Elena gave a soft cry in his ear. "Gilli has magic?"
He saw what she saw. The sort of chaos unusual to a melee like this – swords yanked away from owners, men sent flying singly or in pairs. Gilli was probably as good as ten men, by himself, but –
It would be moments, only, til Odin's men realized that, and converged on the young sorcerer and he couldn't fight so many for long. He'd be killed, and would it even the odds enough for Gawant to snatch a victory?
"Stop this, Odin," Gwaine growled. "You're losing men, and you won't win."
Odin's body faced him, ready to defend if Gwaine was foolish enough to provoke swordplay – but he turned his head from watching the field to sneer. Whatever he might have said, however, was lost in Elena's next exclamation.
"Oh, look, Gwaine! Camelot's men – Arthur!"
From the opposite corner. The inward corner, which puzzled Gwaine til he realized, they'd come up through the siege-tunnel again. He had to grin at the thought of them creeping warily – and then finding the palace deserted on account of Odin's spectacle, and Gilli's mass prison escape.
He couldn't see clearly, but the two in the lead were Arthur and Merlin, of course. His king shone in the late afternoon sunlight, chainmail and a singular bared sword that drew the eye, and Merlin his faithful shadow. So it worked. The magic to escape, the recovery of the sword – and Merlin hadn't been clobbered too hard to keep up.
Gwaine was overwhelmed with relief. His sacrificed life and body did not have to stretch to cover every eventuality. His legs did not have to carry him to an impossible victory anymore – so they didn't. He collapsed down onto the seat Elena had used to watch the match, and the sudden jar of pain shooting through dull stiff ache served to clear his focus. Elena knelt beside him with a worried look, and he almost laughed because now they were all safe.
More knights streamed into the lists behind Arthur and Merlin – a handful wearing Camelot's red, and twice as many others, those who'd escaped the palace uncaught – fanning out to take the burden of defense off their beleaguered brethren. And Odin's knights were now outnumbered, and unsure, and fell back as Arthur strode straight toward the royal box.
"Kill him!" Odin yelled, a note of hysteria entering his voice. "Arthur Pendragon! My kingdom and crown to the man who kills him!"
Some stumbled. Some made to leap to the attack before inexplicably changing their minds to spin away with startled yelps, leaving an open avenue between Arthur and Odin. Merlin made no sign of magic, and he was too far for Gwaine to be sure of any telltale gleam in his eyes, but. Yeah, probably magic.
"Odin, you are finished!" Arthur called out, raising that eye-catching sword to point at the enemy king. "Surrender, and you live."
"Never!" Odin spat, though all over the field, one by one, his men were dispatched or disarmed or simply defeated sufficiently to cease fighting. "You killed my son!"
"And you killed my father!" Arthur shot back, his voice trembling with passion – but it was controlled. "Where will it end, Odin?"
"With your death!" The king, apparently incensed that none of his knights ventured to attack Arthur anymore, vaulted over the wall into the lists himself, sword in hand.
"And my men will kill you," Arthur countered, lowering himself into a readied stance, balancing as Odin approached. "And neither of us has an heir, so our kingdoms will be torn apart and the blood will not stop."
"I do not care," Odin said, circling Arthur but not attacking yet. Merlin moved also, keeping Arthur between them, remaining silent at his king's back. "You are a cheat, a liar and a hypocrite and unworthy of even your father's throne. Oh, I see you, sorcerer, always fighting your master's battles, always seeing to it that he wins, whether he deserves it or not. Whether he's the better man or not. When your puppet-prince is dead, I will enjoy killing you also."
Merlin stopped, and Arthur straightened slightly, and Gwaine could see Odin's habitual sneer even at the distance.
"Yes, I heard about your pet, and his secrets, breaking your father's laws to your own advantage," Odin continued. "Of course I realized what really happened, all those years ago. You could not have defeated my son on your own."
Arthur began to argue in a puzzled tone. "You're wrong - I didn't even know Merlin when I fought –"
And in that moment, Odin struck.
His attack was every bit as frenzied as Isdern's had been, only slower. He was putting all his strength into each swing of his blade, with almost blind hope that it would work. Arthur defended as he'd done against Prince Wolfrick of Mercia, backing and circling – and when Odin retreated a pace for a breather, the younger king spared a glance for Merlin, pointing to emphasize the quiet command that still carried, at least to the royal box.
"You stay out of this. No matter what."
Merlin nodded, but Gwaine knew his agreement would last only to the point of a near-fatal wounding. He wouldn't allow Arthur to die, and Arthur couldn't really order him to, and they both probably knew it.
Gwaine didn't think there was much danger of that. Arthur was the best swordsman he'd ever seen, and even knowing Merlin, he doubted there was much truth to Odin's claim that Arthur's victories were due to a surreptitious cheating with magic.
But as Odin attacked again, it seemed faster, somehow. Gwaine couldn't follow all the moves – was slightly mollified at the fact that Arthur apparently could – and both figures kept blurring together. He was vaguely aware that the rest of the arena had gone quiet; no one was fighting anymore but Odin and Arthur, and Elena still gripped his hand as she watched the duel between the kings.
Bright red – dark red. Gold – gray. Flash of sunlight off a blade-edge – a cry of pain and a stagger.
Gwaine leaned forward reflexively, the skin of his back stretching and breaking and oozing pain.
"Arthur," Merlin said, but he was still keeping his distance.
The darker figure straightened and closed with the lighter in a sudden charge. Gwaine could hear the clanging of their swords; the sky dimmed slowly, slightly. He squinted worriedly as another cry of pain rang out.
Golden-haired Arthur in bright crimson stood over his crumpled opponent a moment, then knelt beside him. Merlin stepped closer, watching the fallen man, but remained on his feet, hands loose at his sides.
Gwaine didn't need anyone to tell him it was over. He sighed and finally released the last of his stubborn energy to let himself slump in the seat – landed clumsily on the arm-rest and arched away from the flare of pain. He was slipping to the floor of the royal box before he knew it.
"Merlin!" Elena shouted, and there was tension in her voice.
"Oh, good heavens," someone else said, above and behind her – Godwyn, maybe. "Is he –"
Merlin leaned over the wall above him, breathless and frowning in concern. Gwaine managed to grin up at him. "I was never so glad to see you, my friend, you have impeccable timing."
"Well done yourself, Gwaine," Merlin answered, reaching for the blood-smeared fabric of his ruined gambeson, split over the cut in his forearm.
"And you…"
"Merlin, there's a lot of blood back here," Elena said with quiet desperation.
"Let me see." Merlin vaulted into the box to kneel beside him.
Gwaine realized that he was lying in her lap, as filthy and uncomfortable as he must have been in his armor. He obeyed their prodding, twisting around to see her face, pale and worried, haloed with soft golden curls – and her hand stained with liquid red as she shifted her grip on him. Probably her dress ruined, too; it was a beautiful gown, and white.
"Sorry," he tried to say.
But the pain in his back was like a heated hammock spread beneath him, rocking as he relaxed into it, swaying him away into darkness that was surprisingly soft and pleasantly numb.
A/N: A day early for this update, b/c I'm going away for the weekend – but next week's should be Friday as usual… Thanks to everyone who's been reading and reviewing!