"I'm freezing my balls off," Gwaine managed from between clenched teeth. "Is this bloody storm ever going to end?"
If the other knights heard him, they were either too cold or too weary to respond. Five figures sat huddled together under a barely sheltered alcove as thick snow whirled just beyond their reach, hunching forward in a futile effort to absorb the meager warmth provided by their tiny fire.
It had been more than three weeks since Arthur had sent his men north, in pursuit of yet another rumor that Morgana had indeed survived the defeat of her immortal army and was gathering new forces to strike back against the kingdom that had driven her out. And that was understandable, really... even the slightest chance of preventing the sorceress from returning and wreaking havoc upon Camelot's innocent citizens all over again was worth a little discomfort.
But sometimes it was hard for the newly made knight to remember the reason behind these miserable patrols. He'd been expecting... well, it was hard to say what he'd believed service to Arthur might entail. After having spent most of his lifetime turning his nose up at the institution, Gwaine had to admit to himself that he'd had very little idea of what a knight actually did outside of battle. True, his own father had been a knight, but all Gwaine's memories were based around a time of constant warfare. Beyond that, he was clueless.
Trying to resist the urge to cuddle up to Elyan for additional warmth, he thought back to the legends he'd read as a child. Menacing beasts to be conquered, and fair damsels in distress... glorious tournaments with prizes of golden riches and precious jewels, always followed by a sumptuous banquet, trestle tables overflowing with the best the kingdom had to offer in food and wine.
He scoffed at himself, realizing that at least subconsciously, he'd never stopped believing those things to be true. What a fool he'd been, only three months before when he'd knelt at Arthur's feet, determined to win the battle ahead and enjoy the spoils of victory. Spoils? There had been no wealth, no glory, no beautiful women begging for his favors... only the exhausting efforts of reconstruction and countless patrols filled with terrible weather and meager supplies. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd slept in a comfortable bed, or had eaten anything other than dried meat and hard cheese.
Arthur was firm in the belief that as many rations as possible should be distributed among the poorer citizens of the kingdom, whose already limited food stores had been devastated by the invading army. And Gwaine agreed with that, too, really... but he couldn't keep himself from longing for a steaming hot platter of venison, along with a thick loaf of fresh baked bread with creamy butter.
Gods, he was hungry... famished and cold, and so very tired. It wasn't that he begrudged his new life, but it would be nice to have a bit of a break once in a while.
"N-need more firewood," Elyan stuttered out, poking at the embers in a futile attempt to generate more heat.
"I'll get it," Lancelot said automatically, grimacing as he struggled to rise.
Gwaine frowned. As much as he longed to rest after the seemingly endless day of trudging through the snow, he couldn't ignore the fact that Lancelot worked harder than the others, always the first to volunteer himself for any chore that might arise. He studied the other man closely, noticing the dark circles of fatigue beneath his eyes, then rose himself, placing a restraining hand on Lancelot's shoulder.
"No," he said firmly. "Allow me."
It was a testament to how weary Lancelot actually was when he offered no protest.
"Firewood," Gwaine muttered to himself as he stepped out into the blinding whiteness. "Where to find firewood?"
It seemed like a hopeless endeavor; as far as the eye could see, everything was blanketed in white. But he had to find wood somehow, if for no other reason than they would all surely freeze to death before morning if he did not. And so he changed direction, pushing his way through the drifts toward a cluster of barren trees in the distance. The feeling of defeat became stronger as he drew closer, unable to see any low-lying branches or fallen limbs that might serve as kindling for the swiftly waning fire.
But as he stepped inside the little vale, the temperature itself seemed to shift. Sheltered from the snow and wind, it felt warmer somehow, indescribably inviting as he passed beneath the trees. For the first time in days, he could hear something other than the relentless whistle of frigid air, relishing in the blessed relief of... silence.
Gwaine forgot all about his mission as he pressed deeper into the wood, the stillness gradually replaced by the low, pleasant tinkle of running water. Frowning to himself, he squeezed through a narrow opening between two towering trunks, then gasped aloud as his eyes fell upon the last thing he'd have expected to see in the middle of such a barren wasteland.
Closely surrounded by what seemed like an almost unnaturally thick cluster of trees lay a small stream, babbling merrily as it flowed freely, inexplicably not iced over like every other body of water to be found this far north in the middle of winter. But even more curious was the vegetation on either side, lush and green, impervious to the destructive touch of icy winds. Just a bit further lay a little spring, crystal-clear and flowing over a bed of smooth rocks; Gwaine hurried forward and knelt down to graze his fingers across the surface, surprised to find that the water was actually warm.
As a matter of fact, the feeling extended beyond his fingertips; he didn't feel cold at all anymore. The steam rising from the surface wrapped around him like a cozy blanket, urging him to stretch out on the thick green grass and extend his cupped hands, bringing the water to his lips.
But no... he stopped himself just before he drank, suddenly remembering the four comrades that were still barely sheltered from the driving snow, depending on him to supply what meager warmth he could in such miserable conditions. Reluctantly, he rose to his feet, his conscience not allowing him to luxuriate in the warm little grove any longer without the men he'd come to care for deeply... far more deeply than he'd realized until that moment.
And so it was back out into the cold, into the biting sting of the icy wind that whipped at his skin like a thousand tiny lashes. Back across the frozen field to the huddled figures gathered around the smoldering ashes of a fire which had dwindled down to nothing. Four pairs of eyes glanced sharply upward, the hope within them dying as surely as their little blaze had sputtered out as they noticed his empty arms.
"Nothing?" Percival said dully. "I guess we're done for."
Gwaine treated each of them to a wide grin. "No we're not. Come with me."
Elyan groaned aloud. "I'm hardly in the mood for one of your jokes, Gwaine. Can't you just let us freeze to death in peace?"
"On your feet, dammit. I've found better shelter."
Grumbling to themselves, the knights rose stiffly, leaning against one another as they stamped the feeling back into their frozen feet. It was a testament to the unspoken trust between them that they followed Gwaine without further question, dragging themselves through the heavy drifts until they reached the glade that from outward appearances, seemed every bit as desolate as the landscape they'd left behind.
But then Gwaine watched their expressions transform as the warmth gradually wrapped around them all, pinched faces relaxing into expressions of wonder as they squeezed through the tiny opening between the tree trunks and emerged into the verdant thicket.
"What is this place?" Lancelot breathed in quiet awe.
"I don't know," he replied thoughtfully. "But I'm sure as hell glad I found it."
The other knights murmured their agreement as they investigated further, Sir Leon letting out a spontaneous exclamation of delight as he pointed to a nearby tree, leafy and heavily laden with ripe apples. The men rushed forward, stuffing their pockets with fruit before sinking down beside the spring, murmuring their joy and disbelief as they filled their empty bellies.
"This is impossible," Elyan muttered, even as he sank his teeth into a large red apple with a loud crunch. "It's the middle of winter!"
"Perhaps," Lancelot said softly. "Perhaps not. There's magic in the air. I can feel it."
The other men glanced about nervously.
"Should we leave?" Elyan whispered.
Lancelot should his head, but it was Sir Leon who spoke. "Not all magic is evil. I know what the king believes, and what he has raised Prince Arthur to believe as well. And of course, we are all bound to defend those beliefs, but..."
"You don't agree?" Percival inquired. "I guess... I never thought about it much. But Morgana..."
Sir Leon sighed. "Yes, it certainly has the capacity to be used for evil. We all know that. But I don't think it always is. Just before the battle we fought, my life was saved by magic. The Druids healed me, asking nothing in return. Surely that's not evil?"
Lancelot smiled. "Indeed it isn't. I, too, have been lucky enough to witness the more positive side of magic. It can be a blessing, as much as it can be a curse."
The others waited for him to elaborate further; when he didn't, the subject was dropped as they returned to their impromptu feast. Lazing about on the grass, they talked and laughed among themselves at first, and then each grew drowsy after they'd slaked their thirst from the shimmering pool beside them. One by one, they drifted off to sleep, murmuring in contentment as the warm mist from the steaming water carried them into the land of dreams.
Lying peacefully on his back with his head cradled in a fragrant bed of ferns, Sir Lancelot dreamed of a soft touch and a gentle smile, the essence of a woman he'd loved for what seemed like a lifetime.
Sprawled on his stomach with one hand trailing in the water, Sir Elyan dreamed of glory through tireless service to the future king, an honorable redemption to wipe away all past regrets.
Curled up on his side with a half eaten apple in his open palm, Sir Leon dreamed of a smiling wife and a brood of children with honey colored curls, welcoming him home after a long patrol.
Propped up against a nearby tree trunk, Sir Percival dreamed of his fallen family, smiling at him in gratitude and approval for his choice to devote his life to ensuring that similar tragedies wouldn't befall other innocent people.
But instead of riches and jewels, beautiful women and sumptuous feasts, Sir Gwaine lay with his head resting on Percival's lap, dreaming of the friends who surrounded him, a swirl of mishmashed images which all revolved around a profound sense of companionship he could've never hoped to find throughout all his long years of aimless wandering.
The knights would never remember these dreams, nor the little spring which had guided them to the unconscious enjoyment of their deepest desires. But they would all be struck with a similar realization as they awoke in the morning to find that spring had fallen across the land – the shared epiphany that despite all their losses, their disappointments and regrets, no matter how discouraging or even downright miserable their lives might be at times, they would always have one another from this moment forward.
Deeper than friendship, more closely bonded than words or vows could ever express, it was a simple truth that would remain with them throughout the rest of their lives.
One man's choice to delay his own comfort in an effort to bring solace to his friends was the very essence of what it meant to be a Knight of Camelot.
~ The End ~