Chapter Four

Already, Gwaine was working up a sweat, and he'd only just begun his first day on the job. He swiped his wrist across his forehead, collecting the drops already settling there.

"How long until a break, do you think?" Gwaine asked, a bit more winded than he wanted to admit.

Elyan guffawed, as if Gwaine had just made a hilarious joke. Gwaine didn't think it was particularly funny.

So... maybe blacksmithing was not for him. It didn't mean he was willing to give up just yet. He still wouldn't mind a break, though.

He'd wandered over to Elyan's place that morning, expecting to hit things hard with a hammer. But apparently there was a lot more to it than that. He really shouldn't have been surprised.

"There are three methods for working iron," Elyan had said. "I call them the Three Hs: Heating, Holding, and Hitting."He'd proceeded to show Gwaine all the tools they would be working with. Gwaine concluded them as: the thing that heats the work, the things that hold the work, the thing that goes under the work, and the things that apply force to the work.

"This is the forge," Elyan had told him, gesturing, once they'd finished with the pleasantries. "You'll be working this baby for today. We'll work you up to the more difficult stuff, until you're doing what I do." He'd winked after he said this. Gwaine noticed he did that a lot.

"What are these?" he had asked, referring to some metal tools on a rack. He picked one up curiously, and spun it around his fingers.

Elyan grinned as he tied up his leather bib apron. He snatched the tool from Gwaine's clever manipulations, and held them pointedly at Gwaine's head. "These are tongs," he said matter-of-factly. He arched an eyebrow, "If you can't hold it, you can't hit it."

Gwaine thought he rather had a point.

After he'd returned the tongs to their proper place, he explained the uses of vises and clamps as well. He then showed Gwaine the anvil and, in Gwaine's opinion, the most important tool in the entire smithy - the hammer.

"I know you're going to want to show off how powerful you are," Elyan said as he gripped one of the hammers tightly in his fist - and Gwaine really didn't know where he'd gotten that idea - "... but blacksmithing isn't so much about strength as it is control."

He'd later learn just how right the other man was.

Elyan left off with one piece of advice before they got to work, which Gwaine had paid attention to more than anything else.

"There are no mistakes," he'd stressed. "And there are second chances - both in metal, and in men."

When the sun peaked in the sky that spring afternoon, Elyan finally deemed it a good time to stop for a lunch break. Gwaine didn't even bother to hide his huff of relief, as he was exhausted and wet with his own perspiration. And he'd only been working the forge.

Fortunately, the dark-skinned man wasn't one to judge.

"I'm meeting up with my sister," Elyan said, finishing wiping his face with what once might have been a white cloth. "Care to join us?"

Gwaine nodded his assent as he sipped at a cup of water he'd gotten for himself and thought, what the hell, dumping the rest over his head, through his hair and over the back of his neck. He shivered at the coolness of it contrasting with the heat of his skin.

When Gwaine followed Elyan to The Rising Sun after they had finished putting things away, he couldn't hold back an ironic smile. And, to his surprise, it appeared they would not be dining with just the three of them. As Elyan led him to a table in the back of the tavern, where it was reasonably darker and quieter, he noticed two men already sitting there, chatting with Gwen.

After a closer look, Gwaine realized that they were the two blokes he had met the other day - the chivalrous one and his incredibly tall friend. The more the merrier, as he always thought, and he loved to impress a crowd.

Elyan had reached their table by the time the group had looked up collectively, and Gwaine stood a polite distance behind as brother and sister kissed one another on the cheek and the men clapped each other on the back warmly in greeting.

Then Elyan was turning to him, and saying, "This here's Gwaine." He looked back at Gwen, "I told you he was working with me at the forge now."

"Oh yes, I remember," she replied, grinning and nodding to Gwaine.

"I do believe we've met," said the man to the right of Gwen, and his smile practically lit up his warm brown eyes. "Briefly, in any case. I'm Lancelot."

He held out his hand, which Gwaine shook firmly, relaxing into the comfortable atmosphere the small group was pervading. "Lovely to see you again," he said, smiling confidently. He moved his gaze to the blond, brawny man, and his breath very briefly caught in his throat when he saw light blue gazing right back at him. Shaking himself mentally, he thrust his hand out to him, "And what about you?"

The man's hand - calloused, warm, and larger than Gwaine thought possible - grasped Gwaine's in a grip so tight, he rather thought his bones might crush to dust under his skin. He swallowed thickly.

"Percival," was all he said.

"Percival's not a man of many words," Lancelot put in helpfully. "But when he does have something to say, it would do good to listen." He winked knowingly at Gwaine, which confused Gwaine slightly in turn. He quickly shook it off, however, and sat in the last empty seat next to Percival, as Elyan already claimed the one on the other side of his sister.

"So, what brings you to Camelot, Gwaine?" Lancelot asked once they were all settled had ordered themselves a flagon of mead and their respective meals.

"The prince and his manservant, as it happens," Gwaine smirked.

His statement was met with various looks of intrigue, and Lancelot raised a brow questioningly. "I sense a story."

Gwaine settled as comfortably as physically possible on his chosen wooden bench, and proceeded to tell them of his and Arthur and Merlin's acquaintance and how it came to be so. He conveniently left out the part where he'd been stabbed in the leg by a slimy bastard and subsequently fainted like a dainty maiden girl. Instead, he said that he'd decided to tag along with them back to Camelot, as he hadn't been for some time - read, never - and found himself in a position he had never been in before.

"Thought I'd stay a while," he finished. "I'll probably work with Elyan here," he nodded to the dark-skinned man who was nursing one of the tankards of mead someone had brought them during Gwaine's retelling, "until I decide to do something else. I don't tend to stay in one place very long."

"I think you'll like it in Camelot," Gwen chimed in once he'd finished. "You'll probably want to stay longer than you think." Her eyes slid to Lancelot at this, Gwaine noticed with interest, and Lancelot was smiling softly.

"She's right," he said.

Gwaine hid his doubt with a grin. "We'll see."

"It's true," said Elyan. "I used to be just like you, Gwaine. Living without a plan and without a care in the world can be thrilling, sure. Freeing, even. But it's nice to have some place to call home." He looked to Gwen.

Gwaine gulped down what liquid remained in his cup, his thoughts flashing back to his own home. Not that he had ever really considered it terribly homely.

His 'running away' might have seemed like cowardice to some, but he didn't like to think of it that way. He'd hated it there, hated being the middle child, hated the way he was always treated by his own blood. They didn't need him anyway. He wasn't the one with a massive weight on his shoulders. His older brother was a pompous ass, but could handle pressure just fine. The man was born the type to run a kingdom. And he'd do it just fine without Gwaine.

He almost choked on his tongue when Percival moved at his side and cleared his throat quietly. He'd almost forgotten the man was even there, he was so quiet. He probably would've entirely if the man was any smaller than he was.

Suddenly the group went absolutely silent, and he thought Elyan might've even looked a little guilty. Gwaine, interested in this sudden twist in the, until now, relaxed air of these four friends, turned to Percival curiously.

The large man caught his eye briefly, then looked away. He cleared his throat once more, louder this time. "I used to live in a small village southeast of here, on the border between Nemeth and Essetir," he began to explain quietly. "We were a poor village, mostly ignored, devoted neither to Rodor nor Lot." He lowered his head, "I was out hunting for a day, something I did a lot, when Lot's men raided our village."

Gwaine swallowed thickly when he heard this.

"When I came back, it was to houses on fire. Smoke filled the air so thickly, I could hardly see or breathe. Women and children were captured, men slaughtered like animals. They took what they found useful and burnt the rest. My mother, father, and two sisters were killed that day."

Gwaine was frozen where he sat, ill to his stomach. Lot. King Lot. King Lot his... father.

His father had had his men murder Percival's entire family. Because of his father, the man no longer had a home.

He thought he was going to be sick, and for the first time ever he did not want to drink anymore.

When he had left his home, and his family, he'd spared no thought for what exactly he was leaving behind. During his time as son to a king, he was (admittedly) probably a bit of a brat, at least in his younger years. And now that he truly thought about it, he couldn't remember any specific occasions when he thought about someone other than himself.

He'd left because he didn't like living there. Not even the thought of the one person he actually cared about could get him to stay. Gwaine had left his brother to save himself from the wolves, because he couldn't do it anymore.

How many other people had succumbed to the fate of his father's brutality? Had he really left what were essentially his subjects to the deeds of a cruel king, and not even think twice about it? He had. He'd left, and kept on leaving every single place he went. Kept on running away.

So they could never find him and drag him back, kick and scream though he might.

He gripped his necklace tight, feeling guiltier about his decision to leave than he had ever allowed himself to feel before.

"I cannot remember much after that," Percival said, snapping Gwaine's attention back to him. "All I know was that I was enraged. I went on a rampage - I swear all I could see, think was red. Once I'd calmed down, I was kneeling in a puddle of blood, numb." His eyes went glassy for a moment, "I had never killed anybody before that."

Lancelot coughed, and his voice was low when he said, "I found him there. I was journeying to Camelot when I saw the smoke." Gwen squeezed his arm, almost as if to bring him comfort. His hand found hers. "I convinced him to come with me."

Lancelot and Percival shared a look - a look between brothers. Gwaine looked away, feeling like he was intruding on something intimate. He had never had any kind of relationship like the ones these people obviously shared with each other. He didn't think he had ever felt more like an outsider in his life than he did now. Not even his first sixteen years spent with his dysfunctional and abominable family.

He licked his lips and forced himself to look back. "What happened when you got here?"

Lancelot and Percival turned back to him, and the pain and suffering swept off their faces as one. Percival looked amused and Lancelot smirked.

"We met Merlin."

Gwaine's whole body relaxed from its tense position that it had taken on at some point during the conversation.

"Of course you did."