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No sooner was he in his cell then the guards were taking him from it, jostling his injured shoulder enough to make him gasp in pain. The wound on his leg also ached and for a moment the limb trembled beneath him, exhaustion compounding his overall ill health and casting a sheen of chilled sweat over his skin.
The combined effect made him dizzy, the world spinning for a moment as he was jerked harshly into the small corridor beyond the cell door. Sharp words came, but the rushing in his ears made them too muffled for Gwaine to understand. He did not, however, think they were directed at him.
Gwaine closed his eyes in an effort to right his equilibrium, drawing in several deep breaths through his teeth. More words were spoken and the hands holding Gwaine grew gentler, now supporting more than restraining him. The man loosed an inaudible breath of relief.
“Gwaine?”
The prisoner opened his eyes, finding himself staring at the source of the voice. It was a curly haired knight, the same one who had arrested him the first time in the rooms of those thuggish knights. Gwaine straightened as much as his aching body would allow. Chin held high, he met the other man’s gaze unflinchingly, determined to face his fate as he liked to think his father had.
If this were to be his end, he would not go a coward.
“Are you well?” the knight asked.
Gwaine blinked. Then he sneered, biting his tongue lest it should give the noble the rudeness he no doubt sought as an excuse. His body ached too much for him to invite a beating.
The other man frowned, eyes flicking to the bloody cloth on Gwaine’s right shoulder and the uneven stance that spoke of a wounded leg.
“This will go easier if you cooperate,” the knight told him, “Your wounds are to be treated on the orders of Prince Arthur and the King.”
Gwaine blinked again.
He was not unaware of what awaited him for breaking his banishment, had made his choice knowing well what it would entail. The man had been in similar situations before – though the details may have differed – where prisoners were left to rot in their cells, for few saw the point of wasting precious medical supplies on criminals and rabble-rousers.
He had also been in kinder places and kinder cells, had seen kinder jailers in his misadventures. Kindness was not rare, but it was often uncommon in kingdoms like Camelot. The vagabond looked into the knight’s eyes and, though the other’s face was stern, he found no maliciousness there. Instead, a strange acknowledgement shone in their depths. If the look were directed at another, Gwaine might have named it respect. Yet, it was not, and he was who he was, a vagabond and a poor inebriate, and such looks were never meant for him.
“If I remove your bonds, will you promise to conduct yourself in a respectable and honourable manner?” the knight asked.
The older man was already half reaching for the shackles before he finished speaking, hand pausing in mid-air as his eyes searched for some form of agreement. Gwaine found himself drawn to those beseeching eyes. For a moment he stood, mind empty of everything but the steady, unjudgmental calm that gaze showed. Then all his memories of bastard kings returned, his memories of Lords that took what they pleased and Ladies that spat on the poor, and Gwaine’s jaw clenched tightly.
The moment passed and it became clear the younger man would give no answer. The knight sighed and withdrew, turning and gesturing for his men to follow him.
Gwaine exhaled and let himself be led away.
The shackles remained, and the guards with them, but it was the mention of Arthur that ensured his peaceful compliance. Gwaine was not a blind man, nor a deaf one. He could read people well enough and Arthur’s expression and the hitch in his voice had spoken multitudes during their brief re-encounter on the tournament field. It was likely this small mercy was all the Prince could do.
Gwaine found he did not begrudge Arthur for it. Though a noble and a royal, the man had done more for him than most others in Gwaine’s life ever had. For what amounted to a stranger, no less.
This thought curved his lips ever so slightly upwards.
The pace set by Gwaine’s jailers was brisk, though considerate. They gave no cause for him to stumble but ushered him along as fast as he was able, urged on by their leader knight who had continued to eye the bloody cloth at Gwaine’s shoulder which had no armour to hide it. It had mostly dried now, staunched by the shirt and Gwaine when he had been able to, but the movement had torn some of it open again. Perhaps this too was a reason for the man’s compliance.
There was also the wall of red that had grown around him, several more knights joining the procession to the physician’s quarters. What their purpose was, Gwaine did not know. He did not believe himself to be of such skill – or to have displayed it in the melee – that any should think he required numerous guards of a higher quality to watch him. It was disconcerting, but there nothing much to be done about it. At the very least they offered a shield between him and the curious eyes of the castle’s regular inhabitants. He kept his head high, but it was a relief not to be subject to such stares and the subsequent humiliation at being marched chained and injured through the corridors.
Once he did stumble on uneven stones, brushing against the broader shoulders of a taller man before the guards could right him. The knight glanced down, eyes shadowed by a stern brow. Those dark eyes glinted in the light that bounced off the dark skin of a bald head. The expression in them was inscrutable. The world seemed to pause as the knight regarded the prisoner. Then he inclined his head ever so slightly then turned to face forward once more. Gwaine blinked, then pushed the strange happening aside.
Sometimes it was best not to think about such things.
Gwaine’s strength was well and truly flagging by the time they reached their destination. The group entered the room without much preamble, some of the guards and knights peeling off to attend other duties. The guards’ leader announced them all to Gaius who stood ready with his various implements at hand.
Gwaine was halted before the old man who raised his eyebrows at the shackles still round his wrists. Gaius looked towards the curly-haired knight and the man stepped forward smoothly. Gwaine held his breath, unsure what to expect, but the knight merely palmed a key from a pocket amongst his clothes and undid the shackles. Gwaine’s breath caught in his throat.
The metal dropped into the knight’s waiting hand.
Gwaine rubbed his wrists semi-consciously. Shackles never brought the fondest of memories and he was glad to be free of them.
“Thank you, Sir Leon,” Gaius said from somewhere that seemed a distant place.
Sir Leon responded with a nod, inquiring if the physician had everything he needed and, when Gaius confirmed he did, advising him to ask should he require anything else. The knight turned back to Gwaine, making an abortive gesture with his hand. The nobleman sighed once more and gave the younger man a small smile as he passed by.
“You fought well.”
The words hung in the air even after Sir Leon and the other guards had left. Their meaning saw Gwaine wrongfooted yet again, and he found himself standing awkwardly in the rooms he had once shared.
It was a cheery place, though humble, and the shadow of death hung over it like the invisible noose set round Gwaine’s neck.
“Sit, please.” Gaius indicated the table’s bench. Gwaine silently obeyed.
Suddenly the room seemed to press in on him, too crowded by half though only he and the old man remained. Something scrapped outside the door and Gwaine could have laughed a desperate, hopeless thing. Of course the guards would wait outside lest he should make a run for it to save his own doomed head.
The man exhaled a little shakily, pushing down the fear that threatened to rise. He had chosen this.
“Let me see your shoulder.” The words were gently said, Gaius’ eyes kind and a kind of safe Gwaine had long forgotten existed. “I’ll do you no harm here.”
Gwaine did laugh then, short and sharp. He raised, pasted on a smirk and said, “Are you just to heal me to ensure I can stand well enough for my execution? No harm there at all.”
“I do not believe you will be executed,” Gaius calmly replied. “The Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan that you slayed were revealed to be the criminals that you, Arthur and Merlin encountered in that village. They had used sorcery to enchant themselves so they might seek vengeance for their humiliation at Arthur’s hand.”
“Dead men told you this, did they?”
“Common sense did, once their true faces were revealed.” Gaius tutted at finding the shirt’s cloth stuck to Gwaine’s wound and helped the man out of it, graciously ignoring the other’s quiet gasps. “The King knows you saved Arthur’s life once again.”
When Gwaine steadied himself, he shook his head. “So you say,” he said, “Yet kings are feckless and arrogant men, at least all the ones I’ve had the displeasure to meet.”
Gaius said nothing, though his lips thinned as he probed the wound in Gwaine’s shoulder. The younger man winced, gritting his teeth when the physician poured liquid on to clean it. The smell of alcohol drifted to him, not so pleasant in the circumstances, and Gwaine fought against his instinct to pull himself away from the pain.
“Ah.” The sound came in an exhale of breath, soft and jilted. Gaius patted him reassuringly on the leg.
A while passed as he sat through the old man’s ministrations, answering questions on his health lightly when they were directed at him and following Gaius’ finger with his eyes as the other muttered about the dangers of melees and broken heads.
“You seemed to have escaped with your senses still attached,” the physician said at last, pleased with his patient’s responses.
“Luck has a twisted sense of humour then,” Gwaine replied. “It saves my head from one injury and damns it to another.”
Fingers came to grip his good shoulder, wiry and strong despite how frail they looked.
“Come now, think with not with such bitterness,” Gaius urged. “There is every reason you will live for years to come.”
Gwaine snorted. “Even if Uther agreed those thugs weren’t knights and so my actions towards them weren’t in breach of your status bound codes, I am still banished and the penalty for returning is death. That point was made quite clear the first time he sentenced me. Besides, Uther likely wants to hang me for joining his grand melee as well. A no-name taking part in a noble’s tournament and then daring to emerge among the victors? Oh, he is every bit the bastard king who would curse and rage, made stupid by the fury that a commoner proved better than his lofty notions of nobility and blood.”
“You would do well not to voice that opinion in the hearing of my father or his guards.”
Arthur entered through the doorway after his words, inclining his head respectfully towards Gaius before fixing his gaze on the man who had saved his life twice in almost as many days.
“I should call you a fool for returning to Camelot,” he said, “But I cannot pretend I am not grateful that you did. It seems I owe you my life once more.”
Gwaine shrugged then winced, regretting the movement. “A debt you won’t have to worry about for long if your executioner is any good at his work.”
A pained expression crossed the Prince’s face. He did not speak for a moment, simply watching as Gaius continued to go about tending the other’s wounded shoulder.
“I am sorry for your harsh treatment here,” Arthur said at last.
Gwaine did not look at him. “I have been treated worse. Though the tender attentions of your healers could rival some of the harsher I’ve known.”
“I would thank you for your flattery, Gwaine, if I weren’t half sure I should be offended by it.” Gaius smiled at the man to show he indeed took no offence, before looking around himself in search of something, only for his eyes to alight upon the jar Arthur had retrieved and held out in his hand.
“Honey?” the Prince asked.
Gaius smiled in a way that signaled some sort of unspoken conversation had passed between the two. The old man gave his thanks and turned back to his patient, scooping up some of the jar’s sticky contents to apply to Gwaine’s wound.
“How is your leg?” the physician asked as he did so. “Your fall from a horse and the fighting cannot have done it any good.”
“Well enough,” Gwaine replied, though his answer did not seem to fool the other.
Gaius tutted. “I will look at it, nonetheless. And you, Arthur, how is your arm?”
“It hardly hurts after that potion you gave to Merlin for me,” the Prince replied.
“Good, good…”
The old man cleaned his hands and took up a need and thread. Arthur tensed in sympathy as Gwaine braced himself for further pain. Neither flinched as the first stitch went in, and it was only after its completion that either spoke again.
“I do not regret what I have done, only that it may end so grimly. I had hoped to live a while longer yet, if only to see some of the wonderous sights I’ve heard tell of in my travels.”
“Your conviction does you great service,” Arthur answered, “And it speaks well of your heart and its virtue. There are few men I have known who have shown such selfless honour as you have in the brief time I have known you. There are few men who could claim such goodness bereft of murky intention. If you would accept it, I would give you a reward.”
Gwaine laughed, both amused and not. “And what are the chances of your father granting leniency so you might keep any promise you make?”
Arthur did not reply and Gwaine shook his head, eyes flitting to the door as Merlin entered through it carrying the satchel Gwaine had stowed away in the stables for safekeeping. The servant caught his gaze and offered a tentative smile, face haggard by concern. Gwaine looked away.
“Worry not,” he said to Arthur, sighing as he did. “I would seek no reward from you, even if these were happier circumstances.”
“Gwaine-”
The man shook his head again, brows furrowing, and when he spoke, his tone was sharper than any present had yet heard it be. “I will not grovel before your king. I did what was right and if death is the consequence, then so be it.”
Arthur inhaled sharply, Merlin and Gaius exchanging a look off to the side. The Prince stepped forward, coming to kneel before the other man and grasping the forearm of his uninjured side. Arthur’s blue eyes shone with a potent earnestness that kept Gwaine pinned to its gaze.
“You will not be executed,” the blonde man said, “I give you my word as one man to another. I will grovel myself, if need be, to ensure it, but my father is not so cruel a man as you think.”
Gwaine swallowed, unable to think of a worthy reply.
“Your actions were justified,” Arthur continued, “And this he knows as well as I. What is more, you saved the life of his son. No father takes that lightly, or so it goes in my experience. I cannot promise you what the outcome may be, nor if you will be punished for taking part in the melee under the guise of a knight, but I can promise I will try to see justice done and the banishment lifted.”
Thank you, Gwaine’s mind said, but his lips would not move to voice it. Somewhere in the back of his mind there lingered the thought that such a thanks should not be needed.
Arthur sighed and rose, clapping Gwaine once on his good shoulder before making to leave. “You have the freedom to roam the castle, so long as Gaius approves you fit to do so, and you do not leave the castle walls before the final judgment has been decided. Merlin can keep you company until then.”
Gwaine’s gangly friend smiled at him as Arthur spoke his parting words. When the door closed, the servant sat by his side, striking up a half-hearted conversation as Gaius finished with his stitching.
Gwaine closed his eyes. There were times that he regretted alighting in places, and there were times that he did not. Between the still invisible noose and Arthur’s promise, and the space between filled in by Merlin’s friendly words, the wanderer did not know which time this was.