I'm back – happy 2024!
My new year's resolution is to finish this story…. wish me luck!
In other news, I'm terribly conscious that the pacing of this has become too slow. I'm desperate to get to the action but every time I try to move on, I think of something else that I want to include. Unfortunately, and after many long and tedious battles, I have surrendered to my own waffle, so here's a ridiculously enormous chapter of filler (some is relevant to the plot… I think).
I'm pretty sure Merlin will get back home next chapter, unless I decide to veer even more drastically off course… let's see!
I love any and all reviews so do let me know what you think. To the lovely person who has requested a Merlin/Naruto fic with a "Juubi… and harem.." I have absolutely no idea what that means or who Naruto is. Considering, too, that it has taken me over a decade to make any progress with a story containing characters I do know, I think I'll have to politely decline your request, as it's unlikely to be fulfilled whilst we're all still living.
I do not own Merlin. All rights belong to the BBC.
-/-/-/-/-/-/-
Camelot is packed, the streets heaving with chaos. It takes Gwaine what feels like hours to tackle his way through the swarming crowds to get to the keep. The knight is running on adrenaline, having not stopped to catch his breath since breaking through Morgana's front line at dawn the day before. He knows that once he stops his body will fail him, and so he keeps pushing determinedly through the mass of people, his mind focused only on getting to the king.
Everything had gone south after Aethel received word about Morgana's position. Having spent a day scouting their options, the two of them had agreed to try and break through the enemy line at night, using the darkness to their advantage. There had been a gap in the camp where the soldiers had been storing wagons and resting their horses. It was risky, but the wagons would provide useful cover for them to make a run for it, and it was the best option they had if they were to reach Camelot in time to warn the king. At Aethel's insistence Gwaine had gone first, so that she could better defend him from behind. The knight had dashed through and safely managed to slip down the nearby river bank and take cover. Looking back, he had silently waited for Aethel to appear, noiselessly gasping in the night air to catch his breath. She had been so close, almost at the edge of the camp, when a young man had spotted her. He hadn't even been armed; probably a trainee recruit who'd drawn the short straw of tending to the horses' evening feed. He had been trouble enough, though, and his alarm call brought everyone within an arrow's shot of them to their location. Aethel had looked at him then, and silently mouthed at him to run. Distressed, Gwaine had made to run back, determined not to leave her. Almost immediately, the druid had flung her arm out and an invisible force had shoved the knight backwards and tumbling into the frigid river. Once Gwaine had emerged, spluttering, all hell had broken lose. Almost all of the wagons were in flames, and Aethel was putting up the fight of her life. She had been desperately outnumbered, however, and before long the men had her in chains. Distraught, Gwaine had watched them drag her struggling figure back into the camp. It wasn't until they began searching the area for accomplices that he finally ran, more determined than ever to complete his mission after the sacrifice that his companion had made.
Her face is at the forefront of the knight's mind as he stumbles through the castle entrance, leaning against the walls for support as he doggedly navigates the corridors towards the throne room. Gwaine doesn't even knock before crashing through the large wooden doors, seeing the shocked faces of his fellow knights turning to him, along with the king's.
"Gwaine!" Leon shouts, moving towards him hurriedly. Concern creases the blonde man's brow as he sees the state that his friend is in. Arthur is striding over to them swiftly, calling to a servant as he goes.
"You there! Fetch us wine, and food." A young girl bobs her head and scurries through the door to the kitchens.
"Come, Gwaine" he orders gently, "you should sit."
Catching his breath, Gwaine nods, and slumps into the nearest chair. Someone passes him a goblet of water and he gulps it greedily, trickles of liquid dripping into his beard.
A firm hand lands on his shoulder and the knight looks up into the worried eyes of his king.
"Tell us everything, Gwaine".
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-
The morning had dragged on, a constant barrage of people coming and going. Between the arrivals of new refugees and incoming scout reports, Arthur scarcely knew where to begin. The throne room was a mess of maps and battle plans; lists of names and housing assignments. Leon had been a stalwart presence by the king's side, helping him to sort through the mass of information and delegating to Arthur's increasingly flustered advisors. Someone had just suggested opening up the palace's servant quarters to allow for extra housing when Gwaine had startled them all by bursting through the doors.
The knight was a mess; hair dishevelled, and mud streaked across his clothes and face. A cut smeared with dried blood was crusted over his left eyebrow, and the poor man looked dead on his feet. The king watches worriedly as Gwaine drains his cup like a man dying of thirst, anxious to hear his news. Finally, when the knight seems to have regained some of his strength, he speaks.
"Morgana is almost upon us" the Irishman croaks out, his voice wavering with his urgency to impart the news. "I passed through her lines the night before last. She will be at our door before the week's end."
A weight settles heavily in Arthur's gut. They had known that this was coming for weeks, but it does not soothe the apprehension he feels at having it confirmed. War was imminent.
"Arthur", Gwaine is looking at him now, eyes a little desperate. "Her numbers are huge, far more than our own. They will completely surround us."
The king's frown deepens as he studies his friend's face. Behind him he can hear the other knights muttering restlessly at the news.
"She has magic too, on her side." Gwaine is still watching him, gauging his reaction. "I do not know, or even understand, the full extent of it" the knight continues, "but it is powerful magic, and dangerous."
Arthur nods as Gwaine's words. "The weapon that Gaius mentioned?" he asks, already knowing what the answer will be.
Gwaine nods firmly. From behind him the serving girl returns, carrying a pitcher of wine and a plate of cold cuts and bread. The knight eagerly takes the offering with a smile of thanks, eyeing up the meal.
Leon, still standing at Arthur's side, speaks up. "How many, Gwaine? How many men would you estimate that she has?"
Swallowing his wine, Gwaine considers. "Cenred is a useful ally to her, and she will have all of his men at her disposal. Engerd's armies are mighty, and I don't doubt that many more have been recruited these past weeks in their raids."
Beside him Leon nods gravely. "Thousands, then" the blonde man says.
"Many thousands" Gwaine confirms, expression grim.
The men around them fall silent at the revelation. Arthur inhales sharply through his nose, and takes a step backwards to fall into one of the empty chairs at the great table. His mind is racing. How can they possibly win against such numbers? Against sorcerers. The king can feel panic beginning to rise in him at the prospect of what they have to face, at the prospect of what they will likely lose. So many dead; so many innocents relying on him to keep them safe.
I am just one man, what can I do?
He is pulled from his spiralling thoughts when Gwaine addresses him again directly.
"Arthur" he begins, pushing his food away from him and leaning towards the king earnestly. "There is more".
Arthur lifts his head.
"Merlin is coming."
The king's racing thoughts halt immediately.
Merlin.
He manages to croak out a response. "You have seen him?"
Something in Gwaine's expression is hopeful as he nods. "Aye. He is well, and as we speak is making haste to reach us before Morgana attacks. He is bringing warriors with him, to aid Camelot in her fight."
Around them Arthur's men are murmuring again. Many of the knights are jubilant at hearing that Merlin is alive. The king cringes guiltily at having kept them in the dark about the servant's whereabouts. He knows that they care for him, and they deserved better than to have been left with no explanation because of his bitterness.
The rest of Arthur's attention can only focus on one thing.
He is well.
Merlin is alive. Merlin is well. Merlin is coming back to Camelot.
The enormity of his relief is unexpected. The king had not truly acknowledged how much concern he had been carrying regarding the manservant's wellbeing. Despite everything that has transpired, it seems his heart has not forgotten quite so easily how much he cares.
Again, it is Leon that takes the lead in asking the questions that Arthur's distracted mind is failing to conjure.
"Warriors? What do you mean he is bringing warriors?"
Gwaine looks at Arthur again, searchingly, as though asking for permission before replying. Arthur freezes for a moment, feeling somehow caught in the act. But time is not on their side, and he can see now that there is no longer any need for secrets. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he nods his consent to Gwaine. The knight bobs his head back and gathers himself, clearing his throat awkwardly before lifting his chin to address his brothers-in-arms head-on.
"Merlin is a sorcerer" he declares firmly.
There is a long beat of shocked silence, and then the room erupts.
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-
Gwaine has never been gladder of a hot bath in his life. Emerging, refreshed, from the wash-houses, he feels some of the stress of the past days leaving him.
The rest of the day had been a wearisome re-telling of the events of the last several weeks, starting with his sighting of Merlin at the burning of Ealdor. At hearing the news that the manservant had magic, the knights had naturally demanded answers. Arthur had sat quietly and sheepishly across from him, and allowed Gwaine to relay most of the details.
Gwaine had not missed, however, how keenly the king had hung on his every word about Merlin in Dyrne, and how the blonde man's face had lifted in hope at the news of his servant's return.
The knight is so lost in thought as he picks his way across the courtyard that he almost misses his name being called. Turning to find the source of the call, he spots Gwen heading towards him eagerly. As their eyes meet, a smile blooms across her face, and Gwaine finds himself immediately drawn in by her beauty.
Gods but I've missed that smile…
"You're back!" the servant exclaims as she reaches his side, her eyes scanning him over for sign of any injuries, lingering for a moment at the cut on his brow.
"And not too worse for the wear" she concludes, happy with her assessment of him.
Gwaine grins in the face of her concern. "You should have seen me before the bath" he jests warmly. "Elyan threatened me with a fine for all of the nose pegs they'd need for everyone at court this morning."
Gwen giggles affectionately at her brother's antics. "Well, I consider myself lucky then that I only found you now, and not earlier. I'm not sure my poor nose could withstand a peg for that long!"
Gwaine chuckles along with her warmly at her teasing, "aye, 'tis probably for the best" he agrees in his soft Irish drawl. He points out a finger to tap gently at the maid's nose. "Pretty, delicate thing that it is."
A blush blooms across Gwen's face at the knight's words. She ducks her head down, huffing a little in embarrassment.
Realising what he had just done, Gwaine clumsily recoils his hand, clearing his throat awkwardly and looking around.
Gods, keep it together, man…
The knight's mortification only increases as he realises that he can't think of anything to say to fill the stretching silence. Nothing sensible at any rate. All that his unhelpful mind was supplying him with was about how much he had missed Gwen, and whether she had missed him. Had she gotten his note? Luckily for Gwaine, Gwen seems to recover far better than he does, and beats him to it before he can make the situation worse.
"I got your note" she begins, "you mentioned that you went looking for someone. Did you find them?"
Ah, she did get the note then.
"Yes" he replies, nodding, "It took a fair few weeks, but I did, aye."
Gwen hums at his response and offers a small smile, before looking at her feet.
She deserves to know… Gwaine realises as he watches her. Merlin was not only his friend, he was friends to all of them, and as close as family for Gwen. The knight feels guilty that he hadn't even asked her how she had been coping with the manservant's absence. It has likely been very hard for her.
Resolving himself to having the day's conversations repeated, yet again, Gwaine continues speaking.
"Come and have a drink with me, Gwen. There's something I need to tell you."
,./,./,.
Despite the hum and bustle of the tavern around them, things are quiet at the small table that Gwaine had managed to claim for them by the door.
Gwen sits, still and pensive, as she digests everything that the knight has just told her.
Gwaine does not want to hurry her, he knows that it is a lot of information to take in. Instead, he leans back against the wall behind him, soaking up the merriment around them and sipping at his ale. Every few seconds his gaze flickers back to the maid, trying to gauge how she is feeling.
Absent-mindedly, Gwen brings her own drink to her lips, and takes a long gulp. The beaker thuds against the table as she places it back down, and the servant finally lifts her head to look at Gwaine.
"Well," she begins. "That certainly explains a lot of things."
Gwaine snorts a little at her understatement.
"Aye" he agrees, "I don't doubt that it does."
"And he is coming back?" She asks, expression hopeful.
"He'll be here within a day or two" Gwaine confirms.
Gwen nods at his words, almost as though she were reassuring herself that her friend was fine. She pauses for a moment, lost in thought.
"You know" she starts up again, "I don't think that I mind really – that he has magic". The maid shrugs her shoulders as she tries to find the right words to continue. Gwaine just watches her, admiration swelling in his chest.
"It just…. makes sense...?" Gwen supplies uncertainly, looking over to the knight a little apprehensively, as though worried she was saying the wrong thing. She keeps rambling nervously, trying to justify her words.
"I mean, he's still Merlin, isn't he? And he's never done anything to try to hurt us, and all he's ever done is try to keep Arthur safe. So, there's that isn't there? And… Well… it just doesn't make sense for him to be evil – not like Morgana. And he hates Morgana, so that must count for something mustn't it? And… I…- Why are you smiling at me like that?"
Gwaine hadn't even realised that he was, but now that he's aware of it he can feel the huge grin that has crept across his face. He can't help himself, it seems, when faced with the goodness that is Gwen; the trust and compassion that she has for everyone, especially her friends.
He realises he has said as much when the maid blushes, the colour deep and warm against her skin in the candlelight of the tavern. The knight finds himself a little breathless at the sight of her.
Clearing his throat, he acknowledges what Gwen had been saying. "If it helps, I don't mind that Merlin has magic either. Growing up as I did, sorcery was far more commonplace than it is here. It didn't take me long to realise that people can be just as evil with or without magic in their veins"
He shrugs nonchalantly and sips his drink, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he swallows.
Gwen nods vaguely at his words, deep in thought again.
"It can't be true that every person with magic is evil" she concedes. "After all – as you say – not every person without magic is good."
Gwaine hums in agreement, listening.
"And it can't be right to simply execute anyone that you suspect on that basis" the maid continues.
"Uther's regime…" She stops to look around, checking to see if anyone was listening. Her voice is a hushed as she continues. "His regime wasn't right. There could have been so many who were innocent of what they were accused of."
She glances up to meet Gwaine's eyes, her expression shifting to one of sorrow.
"My father…" she falters and breaks off, voice catching. Gwaine can see tears gathering in her eyes and feels a surge of compassion for her. Tom had been the best and kindest of men. Uther's paranoia had ended his life long before his time.
The tears have fallen from Gwen's eyes now, leaving glistening trails on her soft cheeks. Gwaine wishes he could lean over and kiss them away, but settles instead for reaching in to grasp at her hand gently. She squeezes his back delicately and shoots him a grateful glance, sniffing softly.
"There are many things that need righting in the world" Gwaine says sympathetically, "The crown's stance on magic being one of them."
The knight continues to hold Gwen's hand as he speaks, noticing absently how small it is compared to his own and how well her fingers fit in his palm.
"I think – I hope – that Merlin might be the push that Arthur needs to put an end to his father's legacy. To claim back justice for his people, and for those who have been wronged by Uther's laws – for your father."
Gwen's bottom lip trembles with emotion at Gwaine's words. She does not speak, but nods quickly and squeezes his hand harder.
After taking a moment to compose herself, the maid takes in a deep breath and exhales unsteadily through her nose.
"I would like that" she whispers, voice trembling. She offers Gwaine a shaky smile.
He smiles back at her, putting his tankard down to reach his other hand across the table. They sit like that for some time, the knight cradling Gwen's small hand between his own much larger ones. Ever so gently, he brushes his thumb back and forth over the maid's knuckles. Gwaine is acutely aware of every point at which their skin is touching, and he can feel nervousness and excitement bubbling in his chest at the contact, despite its innocence.
At once, Gwaine is struck with an even more fervent desire to survive the upcoming war; if only to have the chance to sit with Gwen like this again, and feel the warmth of her touch against his. The knight's brown eyes dance across the maid's face, drinking in the sight of her.
She must see something in his gaze, because she blushes again, the colour blooming beneath the tear tracks on her cheeks.
"Gwen" he murmurs softly. She looks up at him through damp lashes.
"After we have won this war, and it's all over. Will you have another drink with me?"
A smile spreads across the maid's face and she instantly brightens, like the sun breaking through dark clouds after a storm. Gwaine cannot help the responding grin that grows on his own face, warmth blooming in his chest.
"Is that a, yes?" he asks jubilantly. Gwen's smile is beaming now as she nods in response.
"Yes" she says, giggling warmly as Gwaine proceeds to pull her hand to his face and make a dramatic show of kissing it.
It was the best evening that Gwaine can remember ever spending at the tavern.
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-
Aethel shivers weakly, the cold from the ground seeping into her legs and making them ache. The chains around her wrists chafe where they shackle her, painfully tight, to a horse post between the tents. The meagre offering of food that had been left for her, cruelly out of reach, is now dusted over with a layer of frost, the water in the chipped beaker long since frozen over. Not that she could have eaten it anyway; the druid sniffs and puffs out a clouded breath around the gag in her mouth, the air shaking from her as she trembles with the cold. She buries her head into the crook of her arms, trying to regain some warmth in her frozen cheeks.
It is dark, apart from the soft glow of a brazier several metres away from her. Aethel stares at the fire longingly, wishing she were close enough to feel it's heat. The flames cast sharp shadows on the wall of tents surrounding her, crackling softly in the quiet. From across the camp, she can hear soldiers singing, deep in their cups; relishing in the chance to enjoy themselves before the fighting.
Curling in on herself to keep warm, the scrier hisses at the sting as the skin on her back stretches, still tender from Morgana's interrogations. Aethel knows that she must be a sight, beaten and dirty as she is. But she can still hold her head up with pride, for she had not broken in the face of the would-be-queen's rage. She has not betrayed Emrys, or her people. No matter what Morgana chooses to do with her, she cannot take that from her. The druid knows that her message managed to reach Emrys and his group in time, and that because of it they can choose a more careful path. The eyes of her birds had also tracked the knight, Gwaine, as he moved towards Camelot. With luck he should reach the castle by morning.
Morgana had been ruthless – almost possessed – in her determination to gain information about Emrys and his whereabouts. The sorceress' eyes had lit up with glee when she had first seen Aethel in her men's clutches, recognising her at once for what she was. That glee had been replaced with fury, however, at realising Aethel's unwavering loyalty in the face of her torture spells. In the end, the usurper had resorted to physical blows, becoming increasingly desperate for the woman to talk.
Eventually Morgana had stopped, simmering with manic rage at seeing that her efforts had been wasted. She had ordered that Aethel be tied up in the area of camp reserved for the magic users, as a lesson to them of what happens to those who side with Arthur.
Knowing that unless she does something she will freeze to death, Aethel tries to summon the energy to warm herself. She casts weakly, but without her words to direct her magic the attempt does very little, and leaves her feeling even more drained. The druid blinks back tears in the soft light, willing her emotions into control. It would not to do panic. If this is to be her last night, then at least the death will be a gentle one; the cold will take her gradually once she sleeps. Longingly, she thinks of Eoghan, and the warmth of his arms. She prays to the gods that they will watch over him, and give him strength that he might survive the battle to come.
There is movement behind her, and the scrier's blue eyes jolt open - she had not realised that she had closed them. Craning her neck sharply, she peers into the darkness, searching for the danger. Soft footfalls crunch in the frost, getting closer, before a figure is revealed to her in the low light. Aethel breathes out in awe and gratitude at the sight before her; not of a person, but a large wolf. It's black coat shimmers softly in the low light as it pads over to her, dipping its big head down to nuzzle at her cheeks gently. Aethel hums softly in joy at the sight of her friend. The young male had split from his pack the year before when the alpha pushed him out. Aethel had found him at his weakest, starving from the harsh winter, and had offered him food and kindness. They had scried together many times, relishing in the joy of their connection as his long legs had carried them through the forests and up the slopes of the mountains. Eoghan had jokingly named the wolf Wulf, after his brother, saying that they both had the same dark hair and dark scowl. Wulf had scowled at that, and rolled his eyes, but not before Aethel had noticed the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Despite her brother-in-law's protestations, the name had stuck, and Wulf the wolf had found himself a new pack. He had clearly been following his pack, too, as it had marched towards Camelot. And now here he was, drawn to the feeling of Aethel's magic as she sat, prisoner, in the hands of the enemy.
Whining softly, Wulf sniffs at the manacles around the scrier's wrists and attempts to bite at them, but to no avail. Aethel watches him, her gaze drowsy as the cold continues to seep into her. She shivers again, and the wolf's intelligent eyes flick over to watch her, assessing. Using the last of her energy, Aethel meets his silver gaze, pushing into his mind.
Leave... she tells him. Not safe…
The druid knows that the wolf can do nothing to free her, and it isn't safe for him to stay. As much as she wishes not to die alone, she knows she can't afford to be selfish, not with his life.
Wulf whines again, nudging against her. Aethel takes a moment to indulge in the warmth of his fur against her face, breathing in the musky scent. Pulling back, she looks at him again, willing him to leave. Instead, the wolf shuffles closer to her and lies down. Aethel at once finds herself with a lap full of fur as Wulf slumps against her, his big head resting against her shoulder. Too tired and too weak to push him away, the druid's head nods forwards into the thick pelt, exhaustion finally claiming her.
,./,./,.
She jolts awake sometime later to a loud gasp, and the shock of cold air as something warm moves from on top of her. Aethel opens her eyes blearily to the sight of Wulf standing in front of her, hackles raised. Infront of them and standing close to the fire, is a young man with dark hair. He is staring at Wulf in fear, his right hand gripping tightly to the handle of a sword at his hip.
She must have slept for some time, Aethel realises, noting the soft glow of the approaching dawn. Kneeling up onto her feet, the scrier watches the man apprehensively, frantically shouting out an alert in her mind for Wulf to run. The wolf's ears twitch reflexively at feeling her connection, his head turning back towards her slightly, but he does not move.
Aethel notices, belatedly, that under the man's other arm is a blanket, and what looks like bandages. He sees her glancing at them and shuffles awkwardly, eyes darting between her and the large wolf.
"I…" he begins, voice cracking a little in the quiet. His attempt to speak trails off, and he looks down at the parcel in his arms uneasily.
Aethel suddenly realises that she recognises this man. He had been there, the day before, when Morgana had chained her to the post. The sorceress had even addressed him personally, warning him against harbouring loyalties like hers.
What had his name been – Osmund? No... Osgood… Her mind supplied. Yes, Osgood, she thinks. That's right. She had grown up with a boy called Osgood; a small, buck-wild, freckled thing.
This Osgood, she could recall, had looked uncomfortable – appalled, even – at the sight of her, and had slinked away meekly after nodding at his Queen's words, eyes cast down. It seems his conscience had gotten the better of him and driven him out into the cold to help the prisoner. At least, that is what Aethel was hoping.
The silence stretched on as the druid continued to watch the man curiously. The camp was eerily quiet, save for the soft warning growls rumbling through Wulf.
Slowly, Osgood moves to draw his sword, the metal whispering as it pulls from the scabbard. Never breaking eye contact with Aethel, the man crouches to place his weapon on the floor, holding his hand out in supplication once it's empty, palm towards her. As he moves to stand the fire catches his face more clearly, and the scrier can see just how young this man is.
"I won't harm you" he utters softly across the space between them.
Aethel is not convinced, but Wulf has other ideas, the snarl relaxing from his muzzle as he softens his stance.
Osgood seems to recognise the temporary truce, and cautiously steps forwards until he is in touching distance of the both of them. He holds out his offering in both hands. There are bandages, as well as the blanket and a small parcel of what looks like food. Aethel's pale eyes dart up to the man hesitantly.
"I-…" he begins haltingly, before steeling himself. "I saw your wounds, earlier. And I…" he pauses again, apparently searching for the right words.
"I thought it would be best to treat them" he finally gets out. "If you are as important a prisoner as my lady Morgana seems to think, then it would not do for you to perish overnight." The man finishes his short speech with a sharp nod, as though he were trying to persuade himself of this conviction, and not the woman in front of him. He looks hopeful as he waits for a response, his round brown eyes flickering to-and-from Wulf reflexively.
Seeing that this might be her only opportunity for aid, Aethel makes a decision, nudging at Wulf with her foot to let the man come closer. Huffing slightly, the wolf shifts to her other side and sits, keeping his gaze on the stranger.
Osgood kneels in front of Aethel, immediately unfolding the blanket and draping it over her lap. He seems less nervous now that he is down to the task, and she watches him silently as he begins to unpack the bundle of bandages and ointment. He pauses then, looking at her awkwardly and gesturing to her back.
"I will need to lift your shirt" he explains, bashfully.
Despite the bolt of fear that fizzes through her at the thought of this stranger undressing her, Aethel reminds herself to stay calm.
Wulf is here… she tells herself. He will not let us be harmed…
She takes a breath through her nose and nods sharply, twisting so that the man has access to her back. She senses him moving behind her, and then gentle hands pull at the material, exposing her skin to the cold air. She shivers.
Aethel hears the man whistle out a low hiss at the sight of her injuries. There is clinking then, as he fumbles to open the bottle of salve.
"I only have feverfew and chickweed" he admits, "but it should help with keeping away infection."
Ever-so-gently, the young man begins to dab at her wounds. Aethel sucks in a breath, wincing at the pain and burying her face into Wulf's fur. The wolf's chest rumbles as he hums out a soft grunt, trying to comfort her.
"My name is Osgood". The man's voice breaks the silence as he works. "I am one of Lady Morgana's chosen fighters."
There is a tinge of pride in his voice at the declaration. Aethel shows no sign of acknowledgement, keeping her face pressed into Wulf's neck. Osgood continues talking, he is starting to pack the bandages now, wrapping them around the woman carefully.
"She recruited me herself, and has been training me to help her fight with Emrys against the tyrant Arthur."
This catches Aethel's attention.
With Emrys…?
"Together we will fight with him to end the laws against magic, and free our people. With Morgana as our queen, there will be no more hiding."
The words sound practised, rehearsed even. They have clearly been impressed upon him more than once since joining Morgana's forces.
Osgood is pulling Aethel's tunic back down now delicately, and shuffling back to give her space. Pulling herself up she turns back to regard him curiously.
"Do you have any other wounds that need bandaging?" he asks her.
She shakes her head, only magic can help with her curse injuries. She will have to endure the pain until they can be properly healed.
Seemingly satisfied, Osgood picks up the food that he brought, and offers it to her expectantly in a folded cloth.
Aethel merely looks from the food back up to him, waiting for the realisation to sink in.
There's a beat of awkward silence, and then the young man jolts forwards.
"Oh!" he exclaims, rushing to untie the knot at the back of Aethel's head. The gag in her mouth loosens, and she is able to spit it out. She opens and closes her mouth gingerly, trying to ease out the ache in her jaw.
Osgood is blushing now, his cheeks a deep pink in the dim early light.
"I'd forgotten…" he stutters out, words dying in his throat as he gestures with embarrassment at the now discarded gag. He takes up the food again and holds it out to her.
"You should eat" he encourages.
Aethel isn't even remotely hungry. Between the cold biting in her bones and the constant sting and ache of her injuries, she only feels nauseous. She jerks her head towards Wulf.
"Give it to him" she croaks out, feeling her bottom lip crack at the movement. Her tongue sweeps out to swipe at it, trying to soothe the sting.
Osgood looks taken aback. He is still holding the food out to her awkwardly, eyes darting between her and the large black wolf. Over her shoulder Aethel can hear Wulf's nose snuffling interestedly at the offering. Nudging at their mind link, she encourages him to take it.
Wulf gets to his feet and leans into the space between the man and woman, muzzle twitching as he examines his meal. Osgood sits as still as stone as the wolf grips the bundle delicately between gleaming teeth, before moving back to Aethel's side. The young man stares in awe as Wulf proceeds to nudge the cloth aside with his nose, revealing his prize.
Wulf's crunching begins to fill the silence between them, and Aethel's eye's Osgood's surprise with quiet amusement.
He is still watching the wolf when the scrier addresses him, voice hushed.
"Do you have water?"
The young man's gaze blinks back to her, and he springs into action clumsily.
"Oh, yes!" he says quickly, moving to unbuckle a waterskin from his belt. Aethel reaches her hands towards them, wincing at the tug on her wrists as she forces her palms apart to grip the bottle.
The water is heavenly, and she gulps it greedily as it washes away the taste of the filthy rag that had been in her mouth. After draining it, she offers it back to Osgood, slumping down to lean against the tie post. Her hands grab at her new blanket, clumsy from the cold, and pull it up and around her shoulders. Wulf, now finished with his meal, moves to press up behind her, his head perched lightly on top of hers as the pair observe their unlikely new ally.
Osgood looks back at them self-consciously, clearly unsure of what to do or say next. His fingers start fidgeting with a red pendant at his neck.
Aethel feels sad for the boy. He is so young, and clearly of a gentle nature. Whatever stories Morgana is feeding him are lies, and the poor creature is marching into war under the banner of a false crusade.
Resolved to repay his kindness with some of her own, Aethel decides to try and warn him.
"You are wrong, you know" she begins. Osgood's fingers still in their twitching as he looks over to her.
"What do you mean?" he asks back.
"About Emrys" Aethel continues. The man frowns in confusion.
"Emrys is not on your side."
The statement hangs in the air for a moment as her words sink in. Osgood's face lifts in shock, before he huffs out a breath-like laugh, looking at her incredulously.
"Of course, he is!" he retorts back. "He is on the side of magic. Why on earth would he join forces with someone who would see us all burned at the stake?"
"Why would he join forces with someone who will do whatever it takes to feed her lust for power, even if it means killing her own?" Aethel replies calmly.
Osgood's mouth opens silently, not expecting her retort. Aethel continues before he can reply.
"Morgana's agenda is not to free her magical brothers and sisters. Her agenda – her only agenda, is to sit on the throne of Camelot. Her greed for power is relentless, and without conscience."
The man is still struck dumb by her words, his expression one of disbelief.
"Emrys is the only thing standing between her and victory. He is a true ally to the king, Arthur; a man who is capable of undoing the laws of his father - the laws that bind us. The destruction wreaked by her armies; her slow procession towards the city, has all been an attempt to flush Emrys out, and kill him."
The young man's head is shaking now in denial.
"No" he interjects. "No, she was sweeping the villages to find loyal followers to join the cause. That's how she found me. She is helping me with my magic, she understands what it's like to-"
"She understands" Aethel interrupts him, her voice gentle but firm. "How to manipulate. Her words resonate because she knows what you want most to hear. You are useful to her, a puppet to manoeuvre to her advantage. Trust me when I say she would have no hesitation in killing you if it meant getting her closer to her goal."
Osgood is outraged now, standing abruptly to glare down at her. The jewel at his neck swings as he leans into her space, glittering in the low light.
"You're wrong" he whispers at her harshly. "We are fighting for freedom, for the chance to exist without fear. She will lead us into the fight, and Emrys will join us."
"Emrys will kill you, if he must." Aethel replies back, gravely.
"Consider" she continues. "I am of magic. I have met Emrys; I have broken bread with him and invited him into my home. I have marched on his orders, and vowed to stand by his side. I am loyal only to him, and all that he stands for. So why has your queen-" the title sneers out of her mouth as she speaks, "- deemed it necessary to torture me the way that she has; to beat me?"
Osgood's mouth opens and closes.
"Do you want to know what she was demanding of me?" Aethel continues, goading the man a little now, the rage and shame at her treatment seeping out of her.
"She wants to know where my lord is. Where Emrys is. And not so that they can join forces. So that she can kill him."
"Your lying!" Osgood finally manages to spit out. "You are a traitor. You would say anything to convince me otherwise – you and your menacing mutt."
Stooping the man grabs at the discarded gag on the ground, lurching forwards to shove it back in Aethel's mouth. From behind her, Wulf growls threateningly, and Osgood hesitates.
Calm… she communicates to the wolf, who quietens, but stands to loom above her, watching the man closely.
Her jaw cracks as the dirty cloth is shoved back in. Despite his anger however, Osgood ties the knot carefully behind her head, and not as tightly as before.
"You will not persuade me to betray my Queen" the man whispers as he steps away from her, eyes hard. He turns and moves away to retrieve his discarded sword, gliding it back into its sheath.
"Tell your mutt to leave" he mutters as he turns away from her and heads towards the tents, "before someone shoots it."
Aethel slumps back down to lean against the post, eyes welling up with anger and frustration. She should not have provoked him like that. She wipes her tears in Wulf's soft fur, relishing in this last chance of warmth.
Go… she says to him, nudging him away with her head. His large grey eyes gleam down at her and he whines, a warm tongue darting out to lick at her cheek.
The druid huffs out a small chuckle, nuzzling the wolf back. Eventually he steps back and pads away back through the tents, turning his head to look at her one last time, before melting into the retreating darkness.
The sun has almost risen now, and with it the birds. They will soon tell Aethel of Gwaine's progress. She can only hope that her sacrifice has not been in vain.