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“This is your last chance, sorcerer.” The village leader spat. “Confess your sin before God, and perhaps he may spare your soul when you depart from this world!”
Slowly, Gwaine lifted his head, his hair hanging in his face as he looked over at the man. “Go to hell.” He muttered, glaring at the man. He shifted to lean his head back against the post he was tied to, looking up at the sky. “I have nothing to say to you.”
The man bristled. “Light the pyre!” He shouted, lifting a hand to signal the torchbearers.
Gwaine closed his eyes, refusing to watch the wood catch fire, though the soft crackling and the scent of smoke lifting into the air made it impossible to escape the reality of the situation.
He wanted to rage against it, to scream that they had the wrong person, that he wasn’t a sorcerer. But they hadn’t listened to him when he tried that, and for that, he was thankful. For if they had listened to him, if they had believed him, then the suspicion would be turned to someone else, and the only other person that had been near the scene was Merlin.
He couldn’t let them think Merlin was the sorcerer.
He was, of course, but Gwaine wouldn’t let them kill Merlin for it. No, he would rather die in place of his friend. So he kept his mouth shut, listening with dread as the fire crept closer to him, licking through the wood at a steady pace.
It started as a warmth that chased away the morning chill, but the heat quickly grew in strength and intensity. Sweat dripped down Gwaine’s face, patterned his shirt in wet patches on his chest, and soaked into his hair. Next came the smoke that made his eyes water and his throat tighten.
His chest started to ache, and the hot, ash-filled air scraped through his throat like rough sawdust. The sweat on his skin dried, evaporated by the intense heat. It was quickly replaced by a torrid dryness of his skin that felt as though it was cracking.
His head started to throb, his vision completely blacked out by the soot in his eyes, and his chest hardly able to get a breath in as he just kept inhaling smoke. The fire was close to reaching him, merely inches away, and flaring closer every second.
Just as Gwaine started to think he was going to pass out due to the lack of oxygen, a strong wind blew through the village square, carrying the smoke away and allowing Gwaine to finally breathe.
As he gulped in breath after grateful breath, he became aware of the raindrops hitting his face. The rain washed away the soot from his skin as it slowly put out the fire, bringing a refreshing wave of cold with it.
Thunder rang out, and Gwaine weakly flinched as lightning struck closeby. He still couldn’t see anything, but after a few moments, he felt the ropes binding him fall away. Unable to hold himself up, he pitched forward. A pair of waiting hands caught him as he lost consciousness.
**-**-**-**-**-**
Arthur stood next to Gwaine protectively, his sword drawn as he glared threateningly at the villagers. “When we get back to the castle, I expect a full explanation, Merlin.”
“You’ll get it, Arthur,” Merlin said as he tended to the unconscious knight. He wasn’t worried about Arthur being upset with him. The king had, after all, just supported Merlin’s stormy tirade against the hostile villagers.
However, he was worried about Gwaine, and he wouldn’t rest easy until he knew he’d be alright.