Gaius was distressed, though not exactly surprised, to learn of the hunting accident.

The problem was, when you put six 18-30 year olds out in the woods, and had them going after one of the most dangerous wild beasts in existence, as a game, things were bound to go wrong.

He just hadn't expected things to go this wrong.

The snowstorm was early in the season, for one thing. It was beginning to melt in the sunshine, but still clung to shaded areas, and at any rate made the roads slick with mud.

And when one horse, not five rode through Camelot's gates, Gaius feared the worst.

Gwen met her brother on the steps of Camelot. "Elyan, where are the others? Has something happened?"

"It's Gwaine," Elyan said. "I need to speak to Gaius. Gaius!" he called as the old man tottered down the steps. "Sir Gwaine was injured by the boar we were hunting. We need you to come quickly. The King told me to bring a cart."

The court physician pressed his lips together. "Yes, we better had. We can't start out tonight, however: it's dark. We'll leave at first light. I'll make the necessary preparations."

"I'll get some men together," Elyan said.

"And get a full night's rest, Sir Elyan," Gaius ordered sternly. Elyan waved and nodded as he ran off.

Gwen clung to his cloak. "What can I do?"

"Continue to look after Camelot, my lady."

If he didn't know any better, Gaius might have said that Gwen looked like she was pouting. "I feel so helpless here."

"Helpless? Only running a kingdom by yourself?" he teased, but took her hand. "If you would like to help me in my apothecary, there are some items I need to collect in preparation for tomorrow."

Her eyes lit up. Gwen dismissed her maids and followed him to the physician's quarters.

Gwen immediately started in making bandages—she appeared to enjoy the rare moments when she had the chance to perform manual tasks—while Gaius got his kit together. Since he would most likely be treating Gwaine in the field, Gaius brought most of his potions along with: something for infection (boar tusks were among the worst), something to help blood coagulation (although if that was a problem by the time he got there, Gwaine probably wouldn't be in need of his aid any longer), something to dull the pain, and, just to be safe, something to knock him out completely. The few times he had ever treated Gwaine for injuries, he had not been impressed by the young man's disdain for doctor's orders as much as for any other kind of orders.

"Do you think he'll be all right, Gaius?" Gwen asked, startling him out of his thoughts so that he upset a few tiny bottles. "Oh! Sorry!"

"It's quite all right." Gaius said, righting the bottles. "I'm sure Sir Gwaine is…well, I haven't gotten a great deal to go on, but it's just as likely any wounds are insignificant, only preventing him from riding."

"And…if it's not?"

"Then we shall see," Gaius finished noncommittally.

"I wish I could do with you," Gwen whispered.

"As do I, my dear, but I fear you are far more necessary here."

She pursed her lips. "Perhaps I could leave my brother in charge instead?"

The sound of their laughter echoed loudly in the tiny workshop.

…

When Leon roused him from sleep, Merlin wasted no time in bolting to Gwaine's side.

The first thing Merlin noticed was the fever. Though Gwaine was very warm to the touch, he was shivering since Percival had left his side to help with striking camp. He looked even more pale than he had been last night, his skin bordering on a gray pallor.

Arthur stood behind him, silent for a long time. "Should we wake him for breakfast?"

Merlin shook his head. "I…think sleep's the best thing for him now." Merlin lifted the blankets tentatively, but Gwaine groaned and shifted, and he dropped the blankets back. But he didn't actually need to see the wound to be sure. "The wound's gotten infected," he breathed, the curse on himself going unspoken. "There's nothing more I can do for him, Arthur," he said, quietly desperate, looking up at his king with wet eyes.

Arthur set his jaw and put his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "You've done admirably, Merlin. It's up to us now, to get him to Gaius. And," he added after a moment, "it's up to him," he said, nodding at the sleeping knight.

Right on cue, as if he knew he was being talked about, Gwaine stirred and blinked. His eyes had trouble focusing, but eventually they found his king and his friend. He gave a salutatory grunt.

"Morning, sunshine," Merlin forced himself to sound cheerful. "You with us, Gwaine?" Because as much as he knew Gwaine needed the rest, Merlin would give anything to hear the knight's inane babbling if it meant he was still okay.

Gwaine nodded lethargically, grumpy at himself that he couldn't focus. Then again, Gwaine didn't usually do mornings well, so they were still okay. He tried moving. He wasn't sure what he tried moving, but it didn't work. At all. Why was he so tired?

"Thirsty," he croaked.

Before he could convince his body it would be cool to sit up and drink, a hand was cradling the back of his head and water was at his lips. Glorious, clean-tasting water, so heavenly that Gwaine forgot about taking the water with his own hands of his own volition. He choked a bit when he realized, and, "Easy!" Merlin said, taking the water away.

The jolt of the cough was nauseating, so Gwaine lay back, focusing his energy on not throwing up again. He was too warm. And too cold, at the same time. So unfair.

The silence was deafening, though, and that was definitely the worst part.

"There better be a really good party at the other end of this hangover," he said. It wasn't much, but it was an effort. "What'd I miss?"

"Aside from Arthur snoring?" Merlin grinned, also making an effort.

"I do not snore!" Arthur insisted.

Gwaine chuckled while the other knights guffawed, though he also winced, and before the end he had quite forgotten what had been so funny. Christ, he was tired. And now his stomach really hurt. Gwaine raised a heavy hand to his own forehead, but Merlin recaptured it and put it back down. Gwaine didn't fight him. Was he really that out of it? He'd have to try harder, or they'd get suspicious.

As it happened, Gwaine slept most of the day.

Problem whatever-the-hell-number-he-was-on-now was that Gwaine was an all-or-nothing kind of guy. He was a lover and a fighter. He either loved unconditionally or hated completely. He was either laid-back and carefree, or neurotic and restless.

And he was either totally fine and doing well and joking and laughing and putting on his famous act, or he was flat on his arse with hardly the strength to breathe.

Gwaine tried. Really he did. But he couldn't stay awake long, and he didn't make sense when he was awake. Gwaine didn't give up, though. Never give up. No, he was still trying—trying so hard to keep it together, just to remain conscious for five minutes at a stretch and answer the occasional question, crack the odd joke—and was simply failing. That was worse than giving up.

And it had the others worried sick.