Summary
Gwaine researches Yaminah's culture and beliefs before challenging an old ally over chosen paths.
Chapter 77 The Scholar's Sword
The sturdy oak chair creaked beneath Gwaine as he hunched over the massive table in the royal library's eastern wing. Scarcely an hour since leaving the training field, he'd traded the reassuring heft of his sword for unfamiliar territory—ancient scrolls and leather-bound volumes fanned before him like uncharted terrain. His calloused fingers, more accustomed to steel than scholarly texts, carefully turned pages filled with accounts of Alexandria and the Coptic traditions.
Gwaine had barely expressed his need to research the Zahir's past before Geoffrey directed him to writings about the Sabbath. The text spoke of divine rest, of prayers that marked time like heartbeats through the day and night. He paused, his finger tracing a passage about the day of preparation that preceded the Sabbath.
"The twenty-four hours before sunset marks a sacred time of readying both home and spirit," he read, each detail uncovering layers of meaning he'd never considered—how the preparation of food before sunset carried symbolic weight. How even the smallest tasks became acts of devotion. Suddenly, Yaminah's dismissal carried new meaning – she hadn't rejected his presence but had honored her people's most holy preparations. What he'd perceived as a door closing between them was actually the threshold of a rituals older than Camelot itself.
"The Sabbath begins at sunset on Saturday," he murmured, committing the words to memory. "A time of peace, of contemplation." His hand turned the page describing how families gathered to break bread together, how communities united in prayer, customs that had sustained Yaminah's people through centuries of upheaval.
"You might find these of particular interest, Sir Gwaine." The rustle of robes announced Geoffrey before he emerged from between the shelves, head bowed over a slim leather folio. "These are the diplomatic codices chronicling Alexandria's transition to Arab governance in the year of our Lord, 646. The Zahir lineage served as principal stewards of the grain annona under Byzantine imperial authority—most esteemed positions within the Eastern domains."
Gwaine straightened, his attention snagged by the mention of Yaminah's lineage, though his brow furrowed at "annona" until the context made its meaning clear enough—the grain supply that had sustained empires. He reached for the folio, his pulse quickening with the awareness that within these official pages lay keys to unraveling the woman who had consumed his mind and heart. The documents inside bore imperial seals and Arabic annotations, marking them as official correspondence between Byzantine officials and the new Arab authorities. As he began to read, the library's peaceful atmosphere receded, replaced by the chronicles of Yaminah's ancestral roots.
The first letter, bearing the seal of the Byzantine governor, detailed the Zahir family's administration of Alexandria's vital grain supply. Their compound near the harbor had overseen the measurement, storage, and distribution of grain that fed both the city and Rome itself. Additional correspondence disclosed their substantial wealth and influence—a private fleet of ships and connections to imperial nobility.
"Note the cartouche here," Geoffrey said, pointing to the emblem with a thick finger. "Such heraldic devices were granted only to families of considerable standing within the imperial registries. The crossed sigillum indicates their authority was recognized across both ecclesiastical and civil domains—a rare distinction indeed."
Gwaine nodded, though "cartouche" meant nothing to him—it was clearly a seal of nobility. He stared at the impression in the wax—a stylized cross surrounded by stalks of wheat—recognition dawning as he recalled the same emblem emblazoned on silverware and tapestries in Yaminah's chambers. The symbol of a dynasty many dismissed as merely foreign now conveyed centuries of power and influence. He found himself imagining Badawi Zahir as a young boy running through those grand halls, inheriting centuries of cultural rituals before circumstances forced their migration northward.
He shifted on the hard chair, absorbed by each discovery. Another historical record chronicled the long conflict—years of Arab armies pressing against Byzantine defenses, the siege of Alexandria, and the gradual crumbling of resistance. After the city finally fell in 646, the diplomatic records described the ultimatum presented to prominent Coptic families – convert to Islam, maintain their positions while paying the faith tax for practicing Christianity, or abandon their homeland.
"The jizya," Gwaine read aloud, his finger tracing the foreign word. "Or exile." The choice pierced Gwaine with its simplicity and its cruelty. Faith or home—an impossible decision that exposed his own untested convictions. Nothing in his wandering life had demanded such sacrifice.
A faded Alexandrian port authority letter chronicled how many administrative families, refusing to pay tribute for practicing their Christianity, joined the exodus northwest. The Zahir family was listed among the displaced, taking much of their portable wealth with them, though their fleet of ships was not listed as an asset.
"They chose their faith," Gwaine whispered, a newfound respect warming his chest. For Yaminah's family, Geoffrey's collection revealed, their expertise in grain management became the family's greatest asset. The documents tracked their journey—imperial letters of introduction that opened doors in Constantinople first, then royal decrees granting them administrative positions in other Christian kingdoms as they gradually moved toward the northern territories.
The parchment felt momentous in his hands as he set it down. Here lay the roots of her fierce devotion – her ancestors had sacrificed everything – their authority over the granaries that fed thousands, their political influence, their ancestral compound with its marble-columned courtyard – rather than abandon their beliefs.
Gwaine rose from his chair, stretching cramped muscles as he stepped into a shaft of light from the nearby window, his mind still half-caught in the harbors of Alexandria. The illumination fell across the documents, highlighting truths he'd never considered before, when a more recent document with the Camelot seal caught his eye. He picked it up, scanning it as he paced the library.
It was barely three decades old and recorded the appointment of Al-Sayyid Iskander Zahir, Yaminah's grandfather, as administrator of the Northern Plains by King Uther, citing the family's long history of overseeing grain distribution across multiple kingdoms. Gwaine raked his fingers through his hair, his breath stolen. This parchment explained the authority she now wielded over Camelot's crucial food supply—a responsibility inherited through generations of expertise.
He returned to his seat and lifted a quill, intent on capturing these revelations. As he wrote, he reflected that each generation of Zahirs had passed down not just their wealth and positions, but their knowledge of sustaining communities through times of plenty and want. For the Zahirs, this experience had earned them the trust of Camelot's crown – and the responsibility for one of the kingdom's most crucial granaries.
The quill stopped mid-stroke as a thought occurred, a dark bead of ink swelling and then seeping into the parchment as realization pierced through his concentrated study. The governance in the Northern Plains now rested with Yaminah and her future bloodline—children who would carry forward this centuries-old tradition. Gwaine stared at his unfinished sentence, the quill forgotten in his grip, suddenly aware of his potential role—or absence—in this unfolding legacy. What could a wandering knight—a Catholic who'd abandoned his faith, no less—be placed in a dynasty built on unwavering religious devotion and ancient ceremony? He found himself measuring the distance between their worlds not in leagues, but in generations of diverging beliefs.
The soft shuffle of leather-soled shoes announced Geoffrey's return—how long ago had Gwaine heard that cadence? "Still at it, Sir Gwaine? The hour grows late, though I must say, your dedication to Lady Yaminah's heritage is commendable."
Gwaine rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked up, his mind still entangled in questions about his uncertain future. "Could explain why my stomach feels hollow—as a war drum." Gwaine's throat constricted as he spoke, voice emerging with a rasp, his mouth as dry as a tavern flagon. "An ale or three sounds about right too."
"A scholar's pursuit often neglects the mortal vessel," Geoffrey remarked with a chuckle, adjusting several scrolls on the table. "The ancients believed that true illumination of the texts requires both bodily abstinence and mental fortitude." Gwaine quirked an eyebrow, translating in his mind: So scholars forget to eat because they're too busy reading. That explains a few things about Merlin.
Gwaine laid a hand on the historical documents respectfully. "Some truths endure longer than stone walls, don't they?" He closed the folio with careful hands. "Thank you for your guidance, Geoffrey. I'm learning what truly matters, though I confess, each revelation leads to more questions."
"As it should. True insight rarely comes quickly." Geoffrey's eyes crinkled with approval. "Your interest in historical records is refreshing, Sir Gwaine. We see too few knights in these halls."
"If we're not patrolling," he offered with a fleeting smile, his eyes wandering over his research, fingers continuing to turn several pages, "knights divide their hours between family duties, binding wounds, or claiming tavern benches. Academic pursuits seldom find a place among a warrior's obligations."
Geoffrey's chuckle rumbled in his chest, an almost paternal air that softened the scholarly reserve about him. "Taverns brew gossip as readily as ale, I fear, and whispers travel like autumn leaves on the wind, Sir Gwaine. The disturbances from Lord Merlin's chambers these past days have turned Lady Yaminah's condition into a matter of rather intense speculation, you must know."
Gwaine's hand stilled mid-turn on the brittle parchment, seizing like a bowstring at full draw. Of course the castle would talk – two days of arcane disturbances from the Court Sorcerer's chambers could hardly go unnoticed. He lifted his eyes to Geoffrey, measuring the librarian's expression while guarding his own.
"I imagine she finds solace in these sacred observations," Geoffrey continued, his weathered hand brushing the texts about the Sabbath with the reverence of one who recognized the power of preserved wisdom. "Such practices often steady us when life turns uncertain."
"You speak as one who understands such matters," Gwaine said quietly, noting how the librarian's words carried no judgment, only consideration.
"I've spent my life studying how people and societies weather change. Those who endure do so by embracing it rather than fearing it." Geoffrey moved to the shelves, returning several volumes to their proper places. Gwaine worried the inside of his lip, the librarian's perception striking parallels between Yaminah's situation with her magic and Gwaine's own struggle with their cultural differences. "Might I suggest you continue your scholarly pilgrimage on the morrow? The royal chartulary contains numerous ecclesiastical chronicles and canonical treatises on the Coptic observances that would greatly illuminate your understanding. Most edifying material, particularly the theological disputations from the Council of Chalcedon, held nearly two and a half centuries past."
Tomorrow. Geoffrey's elaborate invitation to simply come back settled in Gwaine's chest like an untested blade against armor. Sunday's sun would set, marking the end of Yaminah's sacred observance, but until then these texts would be his only connection to her, his only glimpse into the traditions that now claimed her hours.
"I would," he answered, beginning to organize his notes with particular attention to passages about the Sabbath. "Since it's necessary to..." The words faltered as the memory of Yaminah's chamber door closing between them surfaced, her earnest appeal for sacred space for two days.
"Honor her request for these holy hours," Geoffrey finished gently. "These manuscripts shall remain in their appointed repository until your return, Sir Gwaine. True sagacity, not unlike the finest distillation of the vintner's craft, requires proper temperance and contemplation to reveal its divine essence. The monastic scribes who preserved these texts understood that wisdom cannot be hastily extracted from the parchment."
As the historian shuffled away between the shelves, Gwaine dragged calloused fingers across his stubbled jawline, then kneaded the tight cords at the back of his neck where hours of reading had left them knotted. The sun had shifted, he noticed, dark shadows from shelving now spilling across his research materials. Beyond the castle's windows, evening heralded another Sabbath's arrival, and Yaminah would be preparing for her prayers, rituals her family had preserved through exile and loss.
His fingers again found the flowing script describing the fall of Alexandria. The Zahirs had faced impossible choices then – accept subjugation or abandon their ancestral home. Now, after five decades, Yaminah confronted her own crucible. Would her people accept these supernatural powers in their Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila? Would they see it as divine gift or corruption? The questions branched outward like tributaries from a river, each current pulling his thoughts toward deeper waters he couldn't yet navigate.
Where do I fit? The question surfaced unbidden. What place could a knight who'd forsaken his noble heritage—however favored by Arthur—claim beside a woman whose decisions affected Camelot's very survival? Her family's control of the northern granaries made her position more vital to the kingdom than many titled nobles.
Gwaine leaned back stiffly in his chair, his eyes burning from hours of reading. A flagon of ale would ease the ache in body and heart, he thought, though Geoffrey's scrolls would demand clearer wits than most tavern visits left him with.
The library's hushed atmosphere closed in around him. Rising from the table, Gwaine gathered his notes, his thoughts returning to Yaminah's current trials. What elements of her faith might help her navigate these uncharted waters? But he stopped himself, recognizing the arrogance in the thought. Was it his place to speak on such matters with her? Did a few hours with scrolls qualify him expert on matters her family had managed for centuries? Learning of her customs was one thing; advising a noble administrator on diplomatic and economic affairs was quite another, no matter how sincere his intentions.
With notes in hand, Gwaine navigated through the castle's corridors, his newfound knowledge shifting his perspective and respect for Yaminah with each step. Yet with each passing hallway, the atmosphere chilled, a tightness coiling around his ribs as whispers followed in his wake. News of the disturbances from Merlin's chambers had indeed spread quickly. Knights, servants, and courtiers alike nodded respectfully as he passed, though several conversations hushed as he approached, only to resume in hurried murmurs as he continued on. The words "sorcery" and "the Zahir woman" reached his ears more than once, reminders that despite her family's generations of service to Camelot, many still viewed Yaminah through the lens of her Egyptian ancestry.
These whispers ignited fresh concerns as Gwaine's historical findings collided with present reality. If Camelot's people already gossiped about Yaminah's mystical abilities, how would her own community in the Northern Plains respond? His research suggested Coptic Christians had survived by adapting to change while preserving their essential beliefs. Even now, her personal household continued their sacred Sabbath preparations despite the magical disturbances, yet uncertainty lingered. Accepting unholy powers in their midst—particularly in their Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila—presented a test unlike any they'd faced before. Would observances that had endured exile and persecution bend far enough to embrace a leader whose very nature challenged their fundamental understanding of divine order?
Gwaine paused at the grand staircase, his gaze drawn upward to where Yaminah's chambers lay several floors above. In the two days he'd sat beside her bed, her awakened gifts had forged something between them that transcended ordinary bonds – each surge of power that passed through their joined hands had left an invisible mark, a connection that made this enforced separation ache in his chest. Now, reality more painful, he wondered if that connection only meant he was uniquely suited to withstand her power, not to share her life.
Gwaine realized his teeth were grinding, his jaws tense. Tomorrow evening, the sun would set on her sacred observations. Until then, he decided, he'd continue his studies, building bridges piece by piece, because loving Yaminah meant more than accepting her transformed nature. It meant honoring the boundaries that had shaped her long before power sparked beneath her skin.
Even if honoring those boundaries ultimately meant stepping back from them.
Turning away, Gwaine headed toward the knights' quarters, his empty stomach reminding him the common hall would have evening fare by now. Sunday would bring its own challenges, including speculation about her sorcery, their relationship, and his place in her life spreading through the castle. He would respect her sacred hours, adding knowledge to his devotion, seeking paths across the spaces between their worlds. Yet even as he walked, the doubts no longer whispered but spoke clearly – some gulfs of faith, tradition, and duty might prove impossible to cross.
As twilight fell, mist clung to Camelot's stones in the square as Gwaine descended the steps, his thoughts churning like a tempest. The day's revelations had stripped away the illusions, leaving him with a clarity that felt both liberating and devastating. Every stride across the cobblestones carried him further from the man who had stood guard outside Yaminah's chambers yesterday—that man, convinced of love's simple power, now seemed naïve. Yesterday, he was a different man.
After leaving Yaminah last night, he'd found himself outside Percival's office, drawn there by instinct while his mind still grappled with her unexpected dismissal, despite his body screaming for rest. His discourse with his friend had remained focused on Arthur, Gwen, and how much else had changed in two weeks' time – new appointments, shifting alliances, and dangers both internal and external that risked fracturing Camelot's peace. Each update had landed like another stone in his stomach, particularly the revelation about Elyan's seditious activities against them. Such devastating news, combined with four days without ale—a rare stretch of sobriety brought on by his vigil at Yaminah's side—had left a hollow craving in his throat that matched the void in his chest.
Again in Percival's office—a short detour Gwaine had decided to make before returning to his quarters—their discourse circled with unspoken questions about Yaminah's magic, neither man willing to voice what they both knew was at stake. Gwaine shared with him instead of his whereabouts today, and even Percival, for all his fairness, couldn't fully hide his unease about Gwaine's devotion to a noblewoman whose newfound powers challenged the beliefs many knights still privately harbored.
Seated across from him, Gwaine lifted an unfinished leg of lamb from Percival's half-empty plate, the savory meat awakening hunger he'd ignored since morning.
"You look starved," Percival said, pushing his plate toward Gwaine before uncorking a flask from his desk drawer. "When did you last eat?"
Gwaine had merely shrugged, fingers already reaching for bread while Percival called for a squire. "Bring Sir Gwaine a proper meal," he'd ordered, pouring wine into a goblet and sliding it across the desk. "Strong enough for two days of little rest."
Taking a healthy swallow, Gwaine recognize that Percival's stance regarding Yaminah at least had been direct. From the beginning when Gwaine had first noticed her during Gwen's coronation feast, Percival had warned against such an… entanglement, yet left Gwaine to make his own choices—and mistakes. And then yesterday outside Yaminah's chambers, granting him seven days' leave to be with her despite his obvious disapproval. That cautious support, given against his commander's better judgment from the start, made Gwaine's jaw slack knowing the truth of his friend's words.
With statuses updated and his stomach satisfied, Gwaine rose and nodded his thanks to Percival before departing. He returned to his quarters, securing his research notes before restlessness drove him toward the lower town. The day's revelations demanded solitude and reflection, yet the ache of Yaminah's absence—and the widening gulf between their worlds—tightened his shoulders and quickened his pace.
The Rising Sun's warm glow beckoned through the gathering dark, promising a few hours' respite from his thoughts. But as he approached, familiar voices spilled from the doorway, bringing to mind the brief encounters in the castle and barracks since last night. His fellow knights' reactions had been clear since his return—awkward silences, sidelong glances, the subtle shifting away when he passed—all speaking of judgments unvoiced but plain to see.
Gwaine's hand settled on the tavern door, torn between desire for the numbing embrace of ale and the certainty that crossing this threshold meant confronting brothers-in-arms whose whispers about Yaminah had grown less guarded with ale and loose tongues. His fingers tightened on the handle, red haze filling his vision, battle-readiness building in his chest. Let them speak their minds openly if they dared, rather than hide behind murmurs and averted eyes.
One hand on the hilt of his sword, Gwaine pushed the tavern door open, but froze as a shifting shadow near merchant carts caught his eye – someone using the evening crowd's patterns too deliberately, timing their movements with the calculation Gwaine recognized from years of training. Even without armor, he knew Elyan's distinctive gait. The former knight wove through clusters of townspeople, checking over his shoulder as he navigated the quieter paths of the lower town.
Thirst forgotten, anger redirected, Gwaine followed, keeping to the shadows cast by the stalls and people as the pieces aligned in his mind: Elyan's desertion of his post, then the inflammatory leaflets throughout the city in the days that followed. He'd confessed to his actions, Percival had said, yet Gwen allowed him to remain free—a strategic decision to prevent his followers from acting more boldly. But now, watching Elyan skulk through the streets like a common criminal, fury coursed through Gwaine, eclipsing even the persistent call of soothing ale.
When his mark turned down a narrow alley near the tanner's district, Gwaine seized his opportunity. Three quick strides closed the distance. "Bit far from your usual haunts, isn't it?" he called.
Elyan spun, hand going to the sword at his hip.
Gwaine emerged into the light, face hardening. "Thought you favored the Red Lion these days."
Recognition flickered across Elyan's features, followed by wariness as he inserted the scroll in his other hand into inside pocket of his jacket. "Gwaine."
"That's 'Sir Gwaine' to you now, isn't it?" Gwaine advanced with deliberate intent, noting how Elyan tensed. "Since you gave up the right to that title yourself."
"I gave up nothing." Elyan's chin lifted, eyes flashing. "I stood by my principles while the rest of you bent to accommodate abomination."
"Abomination?" The word scraped through Gwaine's throat as he closed the distance between them. "Is that what you see when you look at your king? At Merlin? These men who've saved your life more times than you can count?"
"You know of whom I speak." Elyan's mouth twisted. "But why not include them too. Magic corrupts. You've seen it yourself – how it twists people, changes them."
Gwaine's jaw tightened. Yes. He knew Elyan's insult was aimed at Yaminah, only the thought of Arthur still missing stayed his hand, though his protectiveness toward her simmered just beneath the surface. "Not all—you know this." He advanced forward, forcing Elyan closer to the rough stone wall. "I've seen fear corrupt. Prejudice twist. Ignorance that changes good men into cowards." He gestured toward the scroll. "You're so busy defending what you think is right, you've forgotten to look at who you're hurting. These are our friends."
"Like your new friend? That witch from the Northern Plains?" Elyan said, revulsion tinging his voice. "The whole castle's talking about the chaos from Merlin's chambers. Another noble corrupted by—"
Before conscious thought intervened, Gwaine's fist connected with Elyan's jaw with a sharp crack that echoed in the narrow alley. Elyan stumbled back, his shoulder striking the wall as he caught himself.
"Her name is Yaminah," Gwaine rasped, clenching Elyan's tunic and pressing his weight into him. "And she's shown more courage facing her magic than you've shown confronting your own fear." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "You want to talk about corruption? Look how it's hollowed you out. Made you desert your post. Betray your sister. Spread poison through the streets against people who've done nothing but exist."
"You've been bewitched," Elyan muttered through clenched teeth.
Gwaine released him with a violent shove. "Bewitched? Yeah, I suppose I am taken by her. Her strength of will. Her righteous heart. Her beauty." His voice softened momentarily. "Right now, Yaminah observes her Sabbath in prayer, seeking to reconcile her faith with abilities she never asked for. She faces what terrifies her while you spread lies from the shadows." He withdrew to arm's length, studying the man who'd once been his brother-in-arms. "Your leaflets, your whispers – they're not about protecting anyone. They're about justifying your own cowardice."
Elyan straightened against the wall, defiance masking something raw beneath. "And what of your cowardice, Gwaine? Following that woman rather than joining the search for Arthur?"
Elyan's words against his character were just as effective as a hammer hitting its mark, Gwaine recoiling in shock. For a moment, he could only stare, his fists curling as Elyan pressed his advantage.
"A shadow of restraint, yet still quick to anger," Elyan continued, a bitter smile twisting his features. "At least some things haven't changed much."
Gwaine inhaled deeply, forcing several paces between them. "Yaminah Zahir holds my heart and my sword," he declared, the words stripped of pretense. "Percival has the entire knights' corps searching. My absence won't decide Arthur's fate. My duty lies elsewhere."
"Duty?" Elyan's laugh held no humor. "Is that what you're calling it? Hours in her chambers? Alone with her for days unchaperoned while in Merlin's quarters?"
"That's a lie." The words ground between Gwaine's teeth, the insinuation against Yaminah's virtue cutting deeper than any insult to himself.
Elyan's eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction in the dim light. As they stood measuring each other, Gwaine's anger receded, that look thrusting his memory further back into their shared history—beyond the vehemence behind the leaflets, the desertion after Arthur freed magic, Morgana and the nathair. All of it traced back to one defining loss that he'd learned of from Elyan himself and the people who had been there.
"This isn't just about Yaminah or our friends, is it?" Gwaine said quietly, his voice shifting from condemnation to insight. "I think you're lashing out because of your father, and how sorcery cost him his life."
Elyan's face contorted, grief flashing raw before his fist shot out, but Gwaine caught the punch mid-swing, using momentum to spin Elyan against the wall. "That's it, isn't it?"
"Release me," Elyan grunted, straining against Gwaine's grip.
"You need to hear this." Gwaine pinned him firmly, his gaze catching on two distinct puncture marks at Elyan's neck—the nathair's signature—revealed as the man struggled against his hold. The sight briefly softened his grip, memories of their shared captivity surfacing. "Your father sought a sorcerer to better Gwen's life even knowing the risks. That was one man's betrayal – and now you condemn everyone with these abilities?"
"One man's betrayal?" Elyan's voice cracked with bitterness. "That sorcerer led him down a path that killed him. I wasn't there—to… try and talk reason to him." Naked pain broke through his anger. "Do you know what it was like, finding out how your father was killed? That because of sorcery and his attempt to escape, that he died with dishonor? To learn your sister was in love with one of his killers? I guess deep down, I've never really forgiven her for that."
"And now she serves a king who wields magic himself." Gwaine released him slowly, understanding seeping into place. "Must burn, that. Seeing her stand beside Arthur, accepting the very thing that took your father from you."
"How dare you speak of my grief—" Elyan began, chest heaving.
Gwaine pressed his finger into Elyan's chest, cutting him off. "Grief? Like what you're doing with those leaflets you're spreading? They don't just hurt strangers. They wound people we know. People we've fought beside." His voice vibrated conviction. "People we love."
"You're truly blinded, Gwaine," Elyan whispered, voice caught between accusation and disappointment. "When your lady turns dark, what will you do then? When it corrupts her like that sorcerer who led my father to his death?"
A slow breath escaped Gwaine, relaxing the tension that had coiled his muscles like rope. "Magic doesn't corrupt, Elyan. People are responsible for that." He spoke quietly but firmly. "Your father reached for a solution out of love for his family. But that's not about the mystics – not really. It's about human nature. Master Thomas died trying to provide for Gwen, for a better future. Uther executed him believing he was protecting the kingdom, though we know now his fear blinded him to true justice." Gwaine shifted his stance, though he remained alert. "Your father's association with sorcery doesn't erase his love, Elyan. Just like Arthur's magic doesn't diminish his loyalty to Camelot. Or Merlin's power doesn't change his friendship. Or Yaminah's abilities altering her faith."
Elyan's laugh rang harsh in the night air. "What does a man like you know of faith?"
Confidence steadied Gwaine's reply. "More than I did yesterday," he replied, drawing on memories of aged scrolls and weathered texts, chronicles of a people's endurance. "I've spent today learning that you can survive persecution, exile, loss if you hold fast to your beliefs and adapt to change, not fight it." He met Elyan's gaze. "Real faith bends, brother. It doesn't break."
"Don't call me brother." The heat had drained from Elyan's words, leaving only hollow resignation. "You've chosen your side."
"There shouldn't be sides. That's what you're not seeing." Gwaine gestured to the scroll hidden beneath Elyan's cloak. "Every person you condemn with that – they're someone's sister, someone's father, someone's child. They're individuals wrestling with gifts they didn't choose, fighting to remain true to themselves despite powers they never asked for."
Between them lay an absence of words that neither man hurried to bridge, while life continued its evening cadence beyond their conflict. Finally, Elyan spoke, his voice roughened with something deeper than mere anger.
"And what of Gwen? Has she sent you to drag me back to the castle?"
"Your sister grieves for you." Gwaine softened his tone. "Not because you question the law, but because you've let fear turn you into someone she doesn't recognize. Someone your father wouldn't recognize."
Gwaine's mention of Thomas continued to pierced Elyan's defenses, steel melting to water as his shoulders stiffened then collapsed inward. "My father trusted too easily," he said quietly. "Always believed the best of people, even when they proved him wrong."
"Like Gwen does?" Gwaine kept his voice neutral, though the parallel was meant to cut deep. "She sees the best in people – in Arthur, in Merlin, in you. Even now."
"She's blinded by love, too." Elyan's fingers brushed unconsciously against his sword hilt, a warrior's habit when unsure. "Arthur's magic—it's changed everything. The laws, the kingdom, everything our father taught us to believe—"
"Your father taught you to care for others. To help those in need." Gwaine raked his fingers through his hair, a habit that surfaced whenever his patience wore thin. "Tell me, how do those leaflets of yours help anyone? How does spreading fear protect the innocent?"
"It's not that simple," Elyan insisted, his words carrying the sharp edge of betrayal..
"It is," Gwaine countered with conviction. "Look at what your fear is building – division, suspicion, hatred. Is that what your father would want? Is that what Gwen deserves from her brother?"
Elyan's jaw worked silently before he replied, the moonlight revealing a muscle twitching near his temple. "My father believed in protecting people, Gwaine. He made tools and armor, remember? That's what I'm doing with a different kind of tool – arming people before more families are destroyed by sorcery's influence."
"Even if those warnings destroy your own family?" Gwaine watched a shadow flicker across Elyan's features – not quite doubt, but perhaps memory. "Gwen needs her brother, not another voice feeding the city's fears."
"Gwen made her choice." Elyan's words landed with cold finality. "She chose to stand beside a king who embraces what killed our father. Arthur chose to change laws that kept us safe for decades." His hand drifted to his tunic where the scroll lay concealed, fingers pressing against it as if drawing strength. "Someone has to speak for those who remember why those laws existed."
"Your leaflets don't speak truth, Elyan. They speak vengeance."
"That is so." Elyan straightened, his expression hardening with renewed conviction. "I haven't forgotten who I am. What I believe. Some lines need to be crossed." He moved to pass Gwaine, pausing just beside him. "Tell my sister I'm beyond her prayers. And your lady? Even her precious faith won't shield her evil forever."
In a blink, Gwaine gripped Elyan's arm, applying pressure meant to be noticed. "Threaten Al-Sayyidah Zahir again," he said, his voice pitched low, "and brother knight or not, we'll have more than words between us."
For a moment, they stood frozen in the moonlight, the ghost of their former brotherhood hanging between them like mist. Gwaine's duty as a knight demanded action despite Gwen's decree. His threat against a high-ranking noble warranted arrest, potentially threatening the kingdom's very sustenance in these already unstable times. The patrol route would bring guards through the lower street within minutes. His sword arm could easily subdue Elyan before they arrived.
But memories surfaced without warning – Elyan steadfast beside him in battle, sharing victory's wine, guiding young squires' hands on sword hilts. Brotherhood, once forged, left marks too deep for even betrayal to erase completely.
Elyan pulled free, melting into the lower town's shadows. Gwaine watched him go, failure coating his tongue like old copper. Perhaps this too was a kind of cowardice – allowing sentiment to override duty, just as he'd accused Elyan of letting fear override honor. Yet as he stood in the quiet alley, he questioned whether some bonds, even when broken, deserved one last mercy.
Gwaine retreated and made his way toward the Rising Sun, the tug of ale and temporary solace returning to his senses. But he turned away, his steps leading him back toward the castle. Elyan's warnings had carried truth beneath their hatred – some lines couldn't be uncrossed. Some beliefs ran too deep for reason to touch.
The question shadowed his return to the castle – which beliefs would endure: those born of fear, or those forged in love?