15. Magical Healing
("Healing Focus" from Torr Badon)
Merlin blinked in the dim bleary torchlight of the torr's cave, shining in a halo through the golden hair of his king, bending over him.
"Merlin! Hell's teeth – are you with me, now?" Arthur demanded. "Can you hear me?"
He willed his eyes to focus, and they obeyed. Sort of. It didn't matter, as Arthur had slipped to the side, and his vision was a bit slow to follow.
Arthur's hands were gentle – but hurt – as they raised him and supported him. "Why didn't you tell me you'd been shot?"
"I forgot?" he said thickly. It hurt to breathe, to move, and he wished neither exercise was necessary.
The king ducked under Merlin's left arm; his right hand around Merlin's ribs pulled skin and muscle against the arrow shaft buried in his flesh and he instinctively pushed with his feet to move away from that touch. Pushed against Arthur, who pushed back and they ended up more or less on their feet, as Merlin hissed a lungful of breath between his teeth. Out and out and out – and up.
"While you were stopping arrows with your magic," Arthur grunted, adjusting the fit of their bodies to bear Merlin's weight comfortably and effectively for as long as it took – and Merlin only wanted to be knocked out and dragged by one foot, maybe. "You decided it would be all right to stop one with your liver, is that it?"
"Kidney," Merlin corrected, obeying Arthur's insistent prodding to shuffle to the passage leading outside. "I think. Th' blood is… dark."
They emerged on the hilltop and the sun spun round, blinding him, heating him, unbalancing him, making him loose the trail of any thought in his head.
"Come on now, Merlin," Arthur said in his ear.
"Are you sure this is–" he panted, and one of them whined; he decided forever after he'd blame it on Arthur – "really necessary?"
"Whatever keeps you awake," Arthur growled. Then bellowed, "Hello, the camp! Healer, now!"
"My ear," Merlin grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut too against the glare.
Until they stumbled, and Arthur spat out an obscenity, and pain flared through Merlin's right side as the king caught him, leaving him gasping. He blinked past the dark spots of pain in his vision, at white-peaked tents and spring-fed green grass, and men rushing about industriously. His legs and feet resisted him, and he opened his mouth to apologize to Arthur for their behavior.
The ground trembled, and filled his ears with low, pervasive, indiscriminate noise. He felt Arthur twist around and halt, and he hung off his friend's shoulder content to gaze at the sloping dusty track beneath his sloping, dusty boots.
Someone called the king's name. From far away, it seemed to him.
Arthur said, "He's been shot – he's got an arrow in his gut, but Alator or Gilli ought to be able to use magic to-"
Interruption. More voices, that didn't belong to his king, so he didn't bother trying to understand what was being said. Footsteps shuffled around them; he saw the boots that made the noises without identifying their owners beyond friends.
"Merlin," Arthur said, gently but with the strain of supporting Merlin's weight in his voice, "Percival's going to carry you the rest of the way, all right?"
The world swerved. Next to Arthur's blue eyes and golden beard, Percival's close-cropped head and square jaw set in concern.
"Right." He tried to make it sound cheerful, not exactly sure why that mattered.
His uncooperative lower limbs managed to keep him from falling as Arthur relinquished his place to Percival, until the biggest knight bent to gather them up as well.
Merlin heard someone moan – and Arthur said sharply, "Be careful!"
And Percival said apologetically, "He isn't light."
He agreed. He certainly felt very heavy, suddenly. There were hands below his head, supporting him so he didn't just dangle over Percival's elbow; it eased the muscles of his neck and he was grateful. He felt the jolt of each step the bigger man took, but could see that Percival was holding the injured middle part of his body securely stable, and appreciated that, too.
"Y'all ri'?" he slurred. "All of… you?"
Percival grinned but kept his eyes on the track. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face, stubble to stubble.
"He'll be fine, Arthur," someone said behind them. "If he's worried about us."
Someone else chuckled shortly, just behind Merlin's head, and he recognized Arthur. "That's our Merlin," the king said.
More steps. More trying to breathe, around the sounds of pain. More jolting interrupted his desire and inclination to drift, seemingly weightless and above his body… he blinked against the brightness of the sky and felt moisture slip from his eyes.
Someone said his name. "How are you doing?"
He grunted around lips bitten shut, and closed his eyes on another set of involuntary tears.
"Almost there – hold on. Leon, go fetch Alator, if you would?"
Merlin heard Arthur shouting, more voices, more noise, and the sense of urgency hurt. He didn't want to feel that anymore, didn't want to feel anything anymore…
"Put him here. Yes, right here – carefully."
He managed to keep his gasp mostly soundless, and opened his eyes to see tent fabric above him, Percival arranging his legs, Arthur's shoulder as he bundled a blanket under Merlin's head.
The king looked up to address someone Merlin couldn't see. "Where's Alator? No offense, Gilli, but–"
"No, of course not." If Arthur hadn't said the name, Merlin doubted he would have recognized his friend's voice. "He's with someone else – a head wound, it'll be fatal if Alator doesn't–"
"Fine." Worry always made Arthur brusque. "Can you help him, then?"
Bodies shifting beside him, close and quick, made him feel dizzy, though he lay unmoving on the ground. Then his friend said his name, and he opened his eyes.
Gilli's eyes were wide with something like shock; Merlin could feel the healer's fingers low on his left side, and his body tried to curl away from the contact. "My lord, I –" Gilli's face was white as he turned it upward and to the side – where Arthur waited, likely. "I don't think I have the power, for something as bad as–"
"You have to!" Fear made Arthur snarl just so. "Don't tell me that, you have to–"
"Gilli," Merlin said. Trying to take small, slow breaths. "Give me your hand. No, the – other one."
Blood or sweat slipped between their fingers before their grasp held.
That ring. Fustrendel, the rune said. A focus, a… reservoir. Merlin concentrated – pouring a thimbleful from a bucket, fill the conduit from the reserves of his own magic – Gilli gasped.
"Are you ready?" Arthur's voice demanded. No one answered; he went on anyway. "I'm going to pull the arrow, are you ready?"
Oh hells oh hells oh–
He grunted as his side exploded with pain, red stars burst against the backs of his eyelids.
Gilli spoke; Merlin vaguely recognized the spell – belatedly began to protest, Not that one–
Fire was his element.
Didn't mean he would never get burned. Didn't mean it wouldn't hurt like the seven circles of hell let loose at once, when he did.
Merlin screamed.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin really didn't look that bad.
Arthur told himself.
They were all filthy and exhausted and most blood-smeared from some scratch or cut or scrape, and he'd obviously done battle with his magic in some way on top of being captured and held. Arthur had seen him half a dozen times like this and after a good night's sleep his shy impish grin was sure to re-emerge.
Of course, Arthur had never seen his friend with this sort of battle wound, before.
Merlin sounded, just a bit worse. Half-conscious, by the way he didn't always respond, to Percival carrying him, or Arthur supporting his head, or Leon behind them leading the returning cavalry. Over the track, down the hill to the healers' tents.
Arthur spared a brief vague pang of sympathy for Alator and Gilli, who had their work cut out for them, now.
Worth it though, right? Today was a triumph, a victory. Wasn't it.
But he watched Gilli's hands hover over Merlin's side, gently moving shirt and over-tunic, watched his friend flinch in wordless pain from even that light touch. And measured with his eyes, the length of the shaft embedded in the sorcerer's bloody flank, estimating how deeply it might have penetrated.
And when the druid looked up at him with panic widening his light blue eyes, Arthur's heart hurtled down to the soles of his boots so fast it left him breathless. And Merlin's magic, while it might preserve his life and speed the process of recovery, could not heal him.
"Gilli," Merlin gasped, his lips white, his eyes sightless, his feet moving on the blanket they'd spread on the ground for him in the corner of an as-yet unoccupied tent.
Arthur went down on his knees next to the sorcerer. Next to both sorcerers.
"Give me your hand…" Gilli reached to obey, but Merlin brushed out of his grasp. "No, the – other one."
Gilli shifted to give both his hands to Merlin, whose eyes glowed golden toward the sloping billowy roof of the tent. The druid healer gasped, and Arthur leaned forward to see that the ring on the man's finger glowed the same hue as Merlin's eyes.
"Is it burning you?" he demanded; behind them, the knights' boots shuffled.
"No, he's – lending me – his magic…"
"You can do this," he said to the young druid, a question and a commanding encouragement.
Gilli lifted his hand as Merlin's flopped lifelessly down, gazed blindly at the glowing ring, then met Arthur's eyes and nodded.
"Are you ready?" Arthur said to him. He leaned forward to place one hand on Merlin's ribs – shudder and gasp and cringe – the other poised to grasp the arrow. It occurred to him to ask Leon to count to three – no time for jokes – "I'm going to pull the arrow, are you ready?"
Gilli nodded. Merlin's hand found the wrist of the hand he was bracing with, his chin tipped up. Arthur took that as a yes from him as well.
And yanked.
Despising the resistance of the arrow within the flesh of his friend, the strength necessary to free it, the pain he was causing.
Almost he fell back, when the arrow loosened and tore out of Merlin's clothing, and his friend released the breath he'd been holding with an involuntary exclamation of pain. Gilli flung up the tunic and shirt to show thick dark blood oozing down Merlin's pale skin to soak into the blanket beneath him; other bruising was visible, but not a current concern.
Gilli spoke, and laid the glowing ring to Merlin's side in a gesture that was very nearly a slap. A blinding light flared suddenly, and Merlin screamed, arching right up off the ground.
Arthur scrambled to catch him, support him, hold him down, whatever was necessary - Smoke puffed out from under Gilli's hand.
More than one voice behind him swore, shocked.
"What the hell–"
Merlin sucked in a ragged breath, then tumbled back down, limply unconscious, as Gilli retreated. But the wound was closed. Angry red, a bit swollen, the point of puncture still clear, but the only blood was already smeared on his skin, not pouring out of the wound any longer.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Gilli babbled, as Arthur checked Merlin's pulse and breathing – rapid and somewhat erratic, but definitely there, and strong. "I'm nowhere near as good as he probably is, I didn't know anything that would be faster or more complete…"
"But you've healed him?" Arthur interrupted. "He'll live?" Merlin's side was almost painfully hot to his touch; he dared not press to gauge his friend's response to even minimally-increased pain.
"Yes. It's crude, but it works. You heat the skin to coagulate the blood, and it cauterizes the wound. Only… there's no way of telling how long before he regains consciousness I'm sorry."
Someone swore again behind them in disbelief. He and Gilli both turned to see that Percival and Leon had been joined by Lancelot and Lord Lionel.
"Is he–"
"He'll be fine," Arthur said brusquely. He turned back to brush his fingers through Merlin's hair, matted with dust and damp with sweat, his own fingers trembling and sticky with blood. "He'll be fine."
You hear me, Merlin? No disobedience, not this time.
"Gilli," Arthur went on, pushing to his feet. "Find me a knight or soldier who needs to rest but is capable of keeping an eye on another, to sit with Merlin. Then the rest of us–" He noticed that the healer was still much absorbed with his ring… which was still glowing. "You still have access to Merlin's magic?" he asked.
"He gave me… a lot more than that spell needed," Gilli answered, with difficulty.
"Good," Arthur said. "Get to healing then, and use it. There's sure to be plenty who need it, after this morning."
15. Part 2: Magical Healing
(from "The Day in Crystal")
I had seen the whole day in the crystals of the cave. I had seen what would happen, and I was determined that this future, this prophecy, I would change.
I couldn't change the when, couldn't get to Camlann any faster, it seemed, now that I was actually doing it, instead of just seeing it. My heart thundered in my chest and in my ears – now it was real.
I couldn't change the where. The sounds of battle reached my ears even as I leaped from my horse, heedless of whether it stayed or ran. The best vantage point over the narrow pass of Camlann was where I'd seen myself stand, when I watched in the crystals.
I couldn't even, it seemed, change how. The staff in my hand undeniably made directing the lightning a task easier, more accurate, and the dozen Saxons who surrounded Arthur fell back at the strike.
He looked up at me.
"Emrys!" Morgana shrieked.
I called the lightning. Not at the ledge, the niche where she watched the battle and had already intervened on Mordred's behalf.
What happened, Gaius had said, months ago, to the young boy who came into my chambers just a few years ago?
He grew up. He learned the meaning of duty.
I could still hear the echo of Morgana's voice quite clearly, until the wolves gorge on your carcass and bathe in your blood.
So I flung the lightning at her. A single stroke from the top of her head to the sole of her foot. A judgment, for the choices she'd made, continued to make even after so many chances to turn away. A judgment for the blood on her hands, the innocent lives, those who had suffered at the hands of her soldiers, those of our own kin with magic who had believed her lies.
In response to her fall, Aithusa swooped down.
But I was ready, and bellowed out, "Nun de ge dei s'eikein kai emois epe'essin hepesthai! Weas!"
The white dragon paused midflight, then wheeled to flap across the dark sky. Aithusa had breathed no fire. That was different, than the visions I had seen while trapped in the Crystal Cave . It might not be enough, but it gave me such a great hope – if even the smallest of details could be changed…
Saxons, Morgana, Aithusa – Mordred. I scanned the pass – I couldn't see Mordred.
"For the love of Camelot!" I heard Arthur cry, and he charged forward, out of my sight.
"No!" I shouted, but no one seemed to hear me as the battle continued. "No, no no!" I mumbled to myself, and cursed as I slipped and skidded and leaped down the cliff. MORDRED! I hollered mentally, making it a warning and a threat. He'd hear me, I was sure of it. But he wouldn't listen.
Somehow I came to the sandy, gritty ground of the pass not far from Morgana. She stirred feebly and I paused.
"Help me, Emrys," she whispered, reaching her hand to me.
I wanted to kill her. Wanted to snap her neck or smother her breath, anything to make sure she would never touch Gwaine to torture vital information about our route to Avalon from him, never track Arthur down, never scare away horses we might need… But I needed to find Arthur, needed to be with him. I wished the lightning had killed her outright.
"Is this really what you wanted, Morgana?" I demanded, gesturing at the carnage and death around us, the red of Camelot and the black of the Saxon intermingled.
She slumped back, not answering.
I turned to see several of the knights beginning to make their way through the battlefield of the pass, too far for me to recognize – though the big one might be Percival, which meant the dark-headed one next to him might be Gwaine. I hailed them as heartily as I could in my old man's croaky voice, and pointed downward.
"Morgana!" I shouted in explanation, but didn't stay to find out what they might want to do with me. They knew this form, after all, they would recognize this old man and would not take me for an ally, not at first.
I didn't waste time searching for Arthur. I knew where he'd be, unless somehow I had prevented - I saw him, facedown on the ground, only about a yard from Mordred's body.
My heart stopped, but somehow my feet kept going. And when I came around him to the side where his face was turned, I saw that his eyes were open. He was conscious.
That's different, I told myself. Fallen, but not dead.
I let the staff fall from my hand as I reached for him, and he had enough strength to push himself up to his knees, to hold onto my arms as I raised him to his feet, eased him back to the outcropping where I had seen him rest, before. I turned my attention to his lower left side, where I expected to see the wound from Mordred's sword.
"Don't touch me again, sorcerer," Arthur's voice wasn't strong, but it was steady, and cold. And of course he'd also recognize the old sorcerer that had killed his father.
"Are you injured?" I said.
Damn that chainmail, it was always so hard to see where he was hurt and how badly. Mere exhaustion would not keep him lying in the dust, reclining on the rock like this, not with Saxons still running from their loss and knights following to press their advantage. Not with wounded to check and men to reassure and encourage.
"Why do you care," he took a breath, "if I live or die?"
"I care," I said shortly, reaching to move his arm away from his body. If he was bleeding badly, it would begin to show, to seep through the links of his armor. "We can talk later, Arthur, just–" he weakly tried to push my hands away, and I blazed at him, "let me help you!"
"Help me." Arthur chuckled bitterly, and it became a cough. "You killed my father, what does it matter if I die, too?"
"You just saw me defending you from the Saxons!" I said incredulously.
"How do I know," Arthur responded deliberately, "that you weren't aiming for me, and just happened to miss?"
I laughed.
If he had recognized me for Merlin, the often-clumsy manservant, he couldn't have offered a more appropriate accusation. You missed the target, Merlin, and took down a dozen other men standing around. Butif he had recognized me for Merlin, he'd never believe I could be aiming for him. I laughed until the tears came, and recognized it an outlet for the turmoil of emotions fighting to pour out of my heart.
He watched me doubtfully, probably sure that I was mad.
Then I pushed his hand down to his side, gently but firmly, and it hurt that I was able to – Arthur's physical strength had always exceeded mine. And always would, I vowed.
There was a smear of blood on his left side, high up toward his shoulder. I twisted about, searching, found Mordred's damned blade – and there was the nick in the edge, the piece that had broken. There were differences from what I had seen – but what if it wasn't enough?
"I'm sorry," I managed to say. He looked at me with weary suspicion, as I returned to his side. There was no way I could convince him, and no time. I spoke the spell, "Efencume, aetgaedre eala gastas craeftige, gestricie pis lic forod." I spoke slowly and clearly, and I could see a dawning comprehension in his eyes as he recognized the spell I had used, so long ago it seemed, trying to heal Uther Pendragon.
He flinched from my fingers and tried to glare at me, but at least it was obvious that he wasn't dying as his father had.
What concerned me was that the wound seemed no better, either. "Roughly translated," I said tiredly, "It means something like, o spirits assemble together your skill, mend this broken body."
He shifted, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. "You're rubbish at healing, then," he said.
I nodded and chuckled, and felt tears roll down my face. I scrubbed at them quickly with the sleeve of the red robe. "It does seem that way sometimes," I admitted, and reached to try to lift him.
"No," he said. "Just – just – just let me rest a moment."
"I'm sorry," I said again, leaning against the rock face beside him. "I did my best to heal your father, Arthur, but in my eagerness to show you that magic can be used for good, I did not notice the amulet that had been placed on his body, bearing a spell that would both reverse and magnify the magic I used – in that, I am to blame for your father's death."
Because I was still mostly standing and he was seated nearly levelly, I could see only the top of his head. "An enchanted amulet," he said. "That's a lousy excuse."
I snapped, "Why do you always believe the lousy excuse, but never the truth?"
He raised his head and looked at me, and I couldn't hold his eyes. "And who would have used such a thing against my father?" he said.
I sighed. "Can you think of no one in your household at the time who might have betrayed you so?" I said.
"Agravaine," he breathed, and his eyes shut.
"I'm sorry." I couldn't help touching his shoulder, trying two other healing spells that I knew, though neither did any good other than easing the pain, providing some comfort. He didn't react at all. "The Saxons," I said. "The dragon, Morgana – I knew it was Mordred I must protect you from."
"You knew." Arthur voice was brittle. "About Agravaine. And Mordred. Merlin knew…. Did everyone know that I was to be betrayed again by someone I'd trusted?"
Arthur's bane was himself. That trust. And I, if I was to take this second chance, to appease the Disir, if Arthur was to survive, I must betray that trust also. I slid down to a crouch next to him.
"I was checking the wounded," he mused. "For survivors, for any who needed medical care. Merlin said–" he glanced at me, and then away, but I knew exactly what he'd heard from his manservant in his dream; I'd given the warning, even if he didn't recognize me as an eighty-year-old man – "I had a warning that Mordred would attack me from behind, so – I heard him coming. At first, I couldn't believe it. He'd stabbed Morgana in the back to save my life in Ismere. I'd given him a place among my knights, trusted him. He risked his life for me in the Grove of Breneved. I granted his request that the girl he loved – the girl who tried to kill me – be given a second chance."
As Arthur shook his head, it wobbled a little unsteadily, and I reached for the hand that hung limply between us, reached to press my fingers against his wrist to gauge the rate and strength of his heartbeat. He looked at me with surprise.
"He will seek you out to kill you, if he can," he repeated my own words back to me. "I hesitated, just enough, and he wounded me," he gestured to his shoulder, "before I killed him." He shook his head again, his eyes dropping closed, his chin sinking toward his chest.
I leaned forward to retrieve both dragon-breathed blades, Mordred's and Arthur's, gripping them awkwardly in one hand, then encouraged my king to put a rather floppy arm around my neck. I snugged his body against mine with my other arm, and stood for both of us.
Arthur leaned heavily on me as we shuffled through the pass.
But I wasn't carrying his unconscious body, and I wouldn't be hiding him in the forest.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
"Halt!" It was Leon's voice, Leon's sword extended very definitely toward my middle as I made for the king's tent.
"Not now, Leon!" I snapped, tossing the blade aside with a thought.
Percival said from behind me, with the touch of his own blade at my ribs, through Gaius' robe that I had borrowed to complete my disguise, "That is our king you are holding, sorcerer."
It didn't really surprise me that we had been discovered. Of course the knights would be on the lookout for Arthur, and our going was slow and clumsy.
"And that is a sword you're holding!" I croaked impatiently. "And it is still sharp, Percival!"
"The last we saw of you, you threatened to kill Arthur." I didn't have to peer past Arthur to know that it was Gwaine approaching from the other side.
"And now I am trying to save him, yes, life is complicated," I growled. "Now, your king is heavy, and if you really want me to walk over you again, I can oblige, but if not, stand aside that I may take him to his tent! And someone go for Gaius!"
Arthur was still supporting some of his weight, but his head was bowed all the way forward, his eyes were closed, and he didn't respond to any of our voices.
Someone called to us, and Leon, the only knight I could see right now, turned.
"Gaius, you are needed!" he responded.
"Arthur!" Gaius exclaimed a moment later, astonished. I knew he'd have questions for me later, but the physician in him took over. "Bring him in here – do lower your swords, Percival and Gwaine, you are not helping. Leon, if you would please let Gwen know that he has been found." Gaius held the tent flap aside, and Arthur and I shuffled into the tent.
I led him hobbling to the bed, where we turned and sat together, before I ducked out from under his arm. Gwaine was right behind us, and reached to unbuckle Arthur's armor, but I shrugged him away, pushing the two dragon-forged blades in my fist at his chest.
"You take care of these," I told him, "and let me take care of Arthur." I began to remove Arthur's chainmail as quickly as I could, the ease and familiarity of years hindered only slightly by aged and arthritic fingers.
Gwaine backed away to place both swords on a rack close to one wall of the tent, and didn't say anything.
"I think it's only the left shoulder we need to worry about," I said to Gaius, as my mentor helped me ease off the jacket Arthur wore under his armor. Our king stayed unsteadily upright, but he wasn't fully conscious. "I don't think he's hurt anywhere else. Mordred's blade was dragon-forged by Aithusa. A small piece–" I held up thumb and forefinger to show him the approximate size, and Gwaine bent to examine the sword in the rack – "lodged in the wound."
Both of Gaius' eyebrows rose. "How do you know–"
"I saw it all in the crystals, in the cave," I rasped. "Knife." I snapped my fingers, and a dagger from a stand on the opposite side of the bed darted into my grasp.
I was aware that Gwaine had partially drawn his weapon behind me, but I ignored him and cut Arthur's shirt away from the wound, the thin white material stained and sodden with blood. Thick red liquid still oozed from the mark, too close to Arthur's heart for my comfort, but as I examined it gently, I could see that the blade had opened the wound in an upward direction, probably striking the inside of his shoulder blade before stopping. I checked – there was no wound on his back.
"I attempted to draw the piece of metal," I said, as Gaius hovered.
"If the blade was forged in a dragon's breath," Gaius began, "Its fatal power–"
"Yes, yes, I know," I said impatiently, "its fatal power will not be easily denied." But it resided in muscle tissue, not any of Arthur's organs. "We'll have to make another cut to remove the shard." Arthur's head rolled toward me on his pillow and his eyes focused briefly.
"Such a fragment," Gaius said slowly, "would resist removal."
"We can't leave it," I snapped. "It'll kill him."
Gaius pushed more insistently, and I backed up to let him conduct his own examination. Gwaine moved silently where he could see all three of us. Arthur grunted, and my mentor murmured soothingly. Then Gaius relinquished his place to me again, and I continued to slice the king's shirt for a temporary bandage as he wiped his hands on his blood-stained apron.
"The metal is lodged on the outer curve of the second rib," Gaius said. "I believe you could use your magic to fuse the metal and bone. The shard will stay in place…"
"And then?" I said.
"Then – we'll see." He patted my shoulder. "I will return with proper bandaging materials, water for washing. I have comfrey–"
"Any yarrow?" I said. "Lady's mantle? Sticklewort?"
"I brought all I had in Camelot," Gaius said. "It's been used."
"And the hills are crawling with Saxons," I sighed. "Maybe I can get some later. Gaius, just – send the supplies. There must be dozens who need you. I'll stay with Arthur."
Gaius nodded and turned to leave. "Come, Sir Gwaine, I am in need of your services."
For a moment, Gwaine stood in Gaius' way in the entrance of the tent. "You trust him enough to leave him alone with Arthur?"
I pretended I didn't hear, keeping my back to them as I pressed gently against the wound.
"He has watched over and protected Arthur for many years, Gwaine," Gaius said, his voice at once gentle and stern. "There is no one better suited to care for him."
"I can think of someone," Gwaine muttered rebelliously, and I had to smile, because he couldn't see me. Little did he know… I sighed. "Arthur," Gwaine continued stubbornly, "needs a physician, not a sorcerer."
"What about a man who is both?" Gaius said.
I heard a rustling of cloth, and then silence. Arthur's eyes opened drowsily, but showed no alarm at seeing me, if he even realized who I was – or at least, who I looked like. I took a deep breath. Even if he didn't know me as myself, this was going to be strange.
I began to speak the words of the spell. Even through my concentration I was aware that his expression was one of reluctant fascination, and that his eyes never left my face.