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“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Gwaine’s eyes pinch in pain, but his word is true. If this is what keeps Merlin safe, whatever this may be, then he can only be glad of it. The truth of what exactly Merlin is here for—what he can’t or won’t say—is not his to pry at. He pins his winding thoughts, like loose threads, securely back into place.
Gwaine is no longer needed; and though that old, familiar pang of longing twinges in his chest, he cannot help but be grateful at the dismissal, for it means his friend is safe once more. He hasn’t failed him in his time of need.
He takes in Merlin’s bright, playful smile, those eyes that gleam with something not of this world, and prays it won’t be the last time. He no longer has to fear for Merlin’s life, but his own—war is upon them, and the way home is full of peril.
His hand feels empty where he held onto Merlin moments before. Though Merlin’s body runs colder than his, Gwaine is left feeling bereft of all warmth without the younger man’s touch. It’s a struggle, to resist the part of himself that longs to reach out and touch him, to stay by his side. But that’s not what Merlin needs, not anymore, and so Gwaine must summon the strength to let him go.
Merlin offers him one last quiet smile before he turns tentatively to the path ahead. His shoulders leave their usual slouch as he stands to his full height, yet he carries still a fragile hope, visible to Gwaine even without the cues of his face.
His bravery masks the fear well, but not from his loyal knight. Perhaps Merlin isn’t quite as certain as he promised, Gwaine thinks, and not for the first time he wishes that he could see deeper into his friend’s mind.
But Merlin is already making his way to the gaping maw of the cave. He fixes his grip on the pommel of Gwaine’s sword, who in turn is pleased to see his friend’s stance relax in the face of this unknown terror. Merlin may be on his own from here, but Gwaine hasn’t left him without protection. His hand feels a little less empty at the sight of his sword in Merlin’s grasp. He hopes it will serve well in his stead.
Stooping low to the ground, Merlin takes up an old abandoned torch with his free hand. He tilts his head as if to study his find, before apparently deeming it suitable. He crouches down so that his knees touch the ground and releases the torch to fish around in his pocket. Taking out what looks to be a flint, he brings it down on the flat of Gwaine’s sword, and sparks fly from it like falling stars.
It’s not long before he’s rewarded for his endeavor. A precarious flame starts up on the torch head, and Merlin carefully nurtures it into a strong fire. It offers Gwaine a sense of relief to see Merlin’s cleverness in action. He can take care of himself. Gwaine’s done all that he can for him. It has to be enough.
Merlin steps forward, and Gwaine takes this final moment to admire his body bathed in torchlight before the shadows devour it. And then Gwaine is alone once more, skin like ice under the crushing weight of the sun.
_________________________________________
As Gwaine discovers, it’s easier to find the road home than it is to take it. Though he refuses to put words to the feeling, he knows now that he belongs by Merlin’s side, even as his duties draw him away from his friend. But Merlin doesn’t need his protection anymore. Arthur does. It’s as simple as that.
Except, it really isn’t. Every step back to Camelot drags on as if he treads through a bogland, with boots cast in lead. It’s a simple dirt path, and his boots are their typical leather, yet he’s making half the pace he did when Merlin was there to follow.
And anyway, he hasn’t had time to get very far to begin with. The sun is still in the same spot as it was when they parted ways. It can’t have been more than a handful of minutes, yet to Gwaine, each passing second lasts a lifetime.
He sighs, palming absently at his empty sheath. He’s not entirely weaponless, but he’s unsure if the small daggers in his boots will be enough to ward off a pack of bandits, especially in the event of an ambush. He’s faced straits more dire than this but, in the end, he decides that it’s best to keep from the main path to minimize any unwanted encounters.
It’s as he’s creeping through the thick foliage lining the road that he hears the distant pounding of hoofbeats. He crouches behind the nearest tree and waits for what can only be a crowd of ruffians to pass, but he turns inquisitive when no others join the first. What could a lone rider be doing out in the Valley of the Fallen Kings?
Peeking out from behind the great trunk, he understands why in startling clarity.
With not a moment of hesitation, Gwaine turns back the way he came. Whatever protection Merlin thinks he has is as good as gone up against the likes of Morgana.
He’s back to where he started in less than half the time he’s been away, only just catching sight of the High Priestess as she enters the cave. She disappears into the shadows, the outline of her figure dissolving into her surroundings with unnatural ease. When he reaches the cave mouth, there’s not a single sign that she was there, though she can’t have gone far… Not by any natural means, anyway. But he’s seen sorceresses who can disappear into thin air before, and he doubts that Morgana is an exception.
Without light or sound to guide him, he’s left fumbling at the crusted walls in the pitch dark, but the cavern seems to lead straight on. It’s odd, how this path takes him to his destination as sure as any map. The cave—lively thing that it is—seems to favor him, or so he fancies, but dispels the thought as quick as it comes. He may very well die if he doesn’t find Merlin, and he definitely will when he finds Morgana. This is no time for childish whims.
He hopes he hasn’t missed any offshooting tunnels, but when his hand brushes a familiar scrap of cloth, he knows he’s on the right path. He recalls the story of how Merlin and Gwen left a trail of Gwen’s shredded tunic when he and the knights were enchanted by Lamia, though he shudders at the implication that he was what his friends needed saving from. In any case, Merlin surely left this so he could find his own way back, which means that once again—even if incidentally—Gwaine has him to thank for his life.
A wisp of a laugh escapes him at the first signs that he’s nearing Merlin, but just as the flickering torchlight comes into view, it goes out. The heat is leached from the marrow of Gwaine’s bones, a shudder traveling up his spine as gooseflesh rises on his arms. A few cracks in the cave ceiling provide a cold light to see by, but little else. With great trepidation, he circles closer to where he thinks Merlin is, and is met by his familiar, muffled voice.
“Face me!”
It’s little more than a whisper, but Gwaine hears the subdued threat behind it. He frowns. Brave, sweet, naïve Merlin, challenging a vengeful High Priestess, all while she has the upper hand. Instinctively, he reaches for his sword, remembering a second too late whose hands it’s in.
“…But you cannot help your king now, you cannot even help yourself!”
Gwaine stills, frozen in place by Morgana’s words. Her voice sounds from every hidden crook and crevice of the cave, assaulting him from all sides. He spares a brief moment to ponder whether they face a mere sorceress or one of the goddesses of old.
“Then why do you hide?” Merlin goads. “Still afraid of me?”
Gwaine raises his brows at the cockiness his friend displays, but continues to creep forward all the same. At the very least, this taunting back-and-forth is buying them some much-needed time.
“I fear no one. Least of all you.”
A sword rings out, and Gwaine’s breath catches in his throat until the sound of Morgana’s pained shout hits his ears. Seems Merlin knows to use the sharp end after all. Relief flows swiftly through him at Merlin’s small victory, but he knows that the power of the High Priestess is an equal match for only the most skilled of swordsmen. And Merlin is… not that.
Rounding one last corner, Gwaine finally comes upon the pair, and his heart quavers at the sight. Morgana stands in a narrow pathway with her back to him, blocking his way to Merlin, all the while chuckling insidiously at her cornered foe. But Merlin presses his advantage, leveling Gwaine’s sword at her throat. His hand trembles violently, but his chin is raised in defiance. Oh, Merlin. Sword or no, Gwaine isn’t going to give Morgana the chance to harm the person he cares for most in this world.
Merlin notices him before Morgana does. His face journeys from blunt confusion to a stony visage. Carefully, he redirects his eyes back to the sorceress before him, but his small slip-up is more than enough.
As Gwaine readies to spring his attack, Morgana turns on her heel, throwing her hand out at him. An invisible force strikes his chest, as if she’s truly hit him despite their distance, and the last thing he sees is her eyes blazing gold before his body slams back into the cave wall.
“Gwaine!” Merlin shouts, and though Gwaine’s eyes cannot focus, in his mind he sees clearly the worried crease to Merlin’s brow, how his mouth drops open and stays locked like that, the intensity of those wide doe-eyes on him. For a time, it overwhelms the agonizing sensations spreading throughout his body. But even Merlin cannot keep the pain at bay for good.
He groans, a hand coming to palm at the back of his head, and winces when he finds that his hair is slick with blood, as are his knuckles now from brushing against the wall where it met his head.
Gwaine’s double vision rejoins into one, just in time to witness Merlin take another swipe at Morgana.
She laughs cruelly at him when he misses, stumbling clumsily forward, but he catches himself with an enraged growl. Admittedly, Gwaine’s caught off guard at the pure protectiveness of the gesture. But his heart sinks once more as the motion sets loose a tear that had been glistening precariously on Merlin’s bottom lid, his lip beginning to wobble in time with Gwaine’s sword in his hand. He doesn’t try again, but looks to Morgana beseechingly. What mercy Merlin expects to find within her, Gwaine doesn’t know, but he’s not going to wait to find out.
As Gwaine attempts to push himself back to his feet, Morgana speaks again, a wicked glee lacing her every word.
“You have defied me for the last time, Emrys.”
…Emrys? Gwaine barely has time to wonder at the strange name before Morgana speaks again, voice ringing with power.
“Stanas ahreosath!”
By the time Gwaine realizes what she’s done, it’s too late. “Merlin!” he shouts, desperate to reach him even as the rocks begin to fall. The last thing he sees is Merlin’s terrified face as the collapse steals him away.
Pain forgotten, Gwaine fumbles through the cloud of dust and dirt, ramming his shoulder into the still-shuddering wall of debris. “Merlin!” he cries out as the unclean air invades and suffocates him, the sharp grit tearing rapidly into the inner lining of his throat.
No answer. He has no way of knowing whether it’s even possible to hear through the mound of stone—so much like a grave, he tries not to think—or if Merlin’s unable to call back to him at all. He fears the truth more than anything.
With Merlin just beyond his reach, Gwaine can do nothing but bang his fists uselessly against the stone dividing them, praying to any god listening that he hasn’t been harmed in the avalanche.
One second passes the next, and eventually, the dust begins to settle. Distantly, Gwaine notes the irritation to his eyes, but his tears aren’t from the grit invading them. He hears more than feels the sobs escaping him, doesn’t bother holding them back when he doesn’t even know if Merlin is still alive, all alone in there…
At his back, the high priestess laughs, and Gwaine’s entire body goes rigid, every line and crease of his face hardening into a steel edge as the rage takes him.
“Let him go, Morgana!”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Merlin’s always been a thorn in my side, but he won’t be causing much trouble under all that rock.”
Something in Gwaine breaks. He pulls the daggers from his boots and runs headlong at her, a battle cry leaving his lips, only to be pinned by that invisible force again, to the very rockfall that Merlin is trapped behind—not under, he prays, anything but that, something he can fix, please.
He struggles vehemently, but Morgana’s magic holds him fast, arms restrained at his sides, as if the air around his wrists has solidified into manacles. She strides confidently up to him and, in a mockery of comfort, caresses his bristled cheek. He tries to cringe back, but only succeeds in pressing himself further into her hand.
“Brave, loyal, handsome Sir Gwaine, undone by a few little rocks. If I knew it would be this easy to break you, I’d have done it sooner.”
“Release him,” he responds in a snarl.
But Morgana only hums in lieu of the condescending taunt he expects. “You plead for his life, but not your own. Why?”
Gwaine can feel the tendons in his neck straining against his skin as he fights her hold, but it’s no use. “He’s my friend,” he tells her honestly.
“And you love your friend?”
That’s a word he’s been avoiding for years, but he hasn’t the heart to deny it now. In truth, his heart is trapped behind that rockfall right beside Merlin.
“Then I’m sorry,” she says. “It must be hard, knowing that you’ll never be nearly as important to him as he is to you. I should know, I’ve been in your place before.”
His body slackens in his confusion. “Wh-what?”
“Oh, you poor dear. He’d betray you in a heartbeat as long as it would save his precious king.”
“It would never come to that,” he insists, defensive now on Merlin’s behalf. “Merlin only wants what’s best for Camelot, and I’m not a threat to that, am I? And pardon my rudeness, but between you and Arthur, the current ruler’s a bit less tyrannical, isn’t he?”
Glowering, she steps away from him, and Gwaine is relieved at the loss of her touch.
“We’re not as different as he’d like you to believe. At least I don’t deny what I’ve become.”
“Yes, I’m sure the people love that about you,” he jibes just as she cuts off the air from his lungs, an oily tendril of magic closing about his throat.
“Enough. You don’t know our dear Merlin half as well as you think you do.” She releases the pressure from around his throat, allowing him to catch his breath, but apparently it’s not his turn to speak just yet. “You claim he’s worthy of your love,” she says, “but did he ever even tell you his secret?”
Gwaine tries to disguise the liquid heat rising behind his eyes, but he can hide nothing from Morgana’s knowing gaze.
“Oh, it’s alright, brave knight,” she coos, coming close again to pet his hair. “He didn’t tell me, either. Not that I particularly blame him. He wanted to take his secret to the grave so badly, and now he will.”
Terror picks at Gwaine’s heart, stripping it bare like a vulture on a corpse. He can do nothing as the depths of his soul are exposed.
“Your king is going to die by Mordred’s hand,” she sneers, grasping his chin between her spindly fingers. “And in a few days, Merlin will follow, though his death is going to be drawn out much longer than Arthur’s, if he’s not dead already. And perhaps you’ll die down here, too, unwilling to leave his side even in death. I suppose I’ve ruined you either way, haven’t I?”
Gwaine’s breath quickens, his struggles renewed, but Morgana’s hand on his jaw keeps his mouth shut.
“And do you know what the best part is? I don’t even have to hold you captive this time. You can walk out whenever you please, but you won’t. You know there’s no one close enough to save him. They’d never get him out in time, and that’s if he hasn’t already been crushed under the rockfall. At best, they’ll recover a broken corpse.”
He bites his lip to smother the cry that escapes him, forcing his eyes closed against the onslaught of tears that threatens to flood over. With his eyes shut, he’s assaulted by the image of Merlin’s body, bloody and broken beneath the avalanche, half-dead already with no hope of survival—or maybe he does hope, even when there is none, and Gwaine’s heart bleeds at the thought of him dying with an unanswered plea on his lips.
Gwaine can’t fail him. But deep down he knows he already has. “Please, let me join him at least,” he tries. At least Merlin won’t have to die alone then.
“Oh, no, Sir Knight, I’m not going to kill you. You’ll do that part well enough yourself. It’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it, the lengths you’ll go just to be with him again?” she states, though a thick scrutiny colors her voice in place of the teasing threat Gwaine has grown used to.
He staunchly ignores her. “Let him go, I beg of you.”
Morgana shakes her head, heavy as if in resignation. “Goodbye, Sir Gwaine.”
With one final incantation, she disappears in a funnel of dust and wind, swift and treacherous as a desert storm.
Gwaine falls to the ground, free from her magic at last, but he doesn’t make to leave the tunnels.
“Merlin!” he shouts, hammering his fists against the wall dividing them. “Merlin!”
It’s no use. The rocks are packed firmly in place, as if bound together by mortar. There’s no hope of retrieving him. Even so, he can’t leave. Morgana was right. As long as Merlin remains in these caves, Gwaine is trapped here with him.
“Merlin…”
He collapses against the wall in exhaustion, cheek pressed to the cool stone dividing them. Merlin always catches cold so easily. He wonders if there’s any warmth back there, or if it’s colder than it is on Gwaine’s side. Merlin may very well be trapped under debris too heavy to so much as curl in on himself, unable to find any comfort in his final moments. Gwaine tries not to wonder if his friend’s skin has already begun to cool in death, and fails.
“Can you hear me?” he whispers into the rock, as if it might pass the message along to the one it imprisons.
The cave is eerily silent once his echoes have ceased. It’s as though he’s the one who’s been buried alive in this place. He wishes he had been. He’d give anything to be on the other side of that rockfall, to take Merlin into his arms in the way he’s only ever brave enough to do when his dear friend is unconscious. He wants only to keep Merlin warm and make sure he knows he’s loved when he goes. He longs to press kisses and apologies into that soft, dark hair atop his head, to tell him all he’s feared to say. Maybe Merlin would’ve told him his secrets, too, though Gwaine’s sure they’re of a different merit than his own. Or he’d have kept his secrets even in death, just as Morgana said.
Shaking the thought from his head, he attempts to pry anything he can from the wall that divides them, but only succeeds in scraping his palms and knuckles. He gets to his knees, scrambling in the dirt for the daggers he dropped when Morgana overcame him the second time, and manages to get his hands on one. Desperately, he jams it between two rocks in an attempt to loosen them.
But for all his strength, the rocks won’t budge. The blade bends where it meets the hilt, and it’s clear that he’s not going to make any leeway like this. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he attempts the same in another spot, and is met with the same result. A tight heat rises in his chest and, in a burst of anger, he hurls the dagger at the wall of rock with a piercing scream. It falls to the ground, having not made so much as a dent in the solid barrier keeping him from Merlin. He falls back to his knees beside it, head in his hands. All his efforts have amounted to nothing. Leaning into the mound of stone, he listens for any sign of movement, but all is quiet.
He should get back to the horses before some bandit takes them, but he’s rooted into the cracks between the rocks like a weed, as close as he can get to where Merlin resides. The horses will be fine, tied off by a grassy stream and close enough to the path that someone will find them. The same can’t be said for Merlin. If his injuries haven’t gotten to him yet, thirst and starvation will, or the air itself will run thin before something else can take him. The memory of being suffocated is recent enough in Gwaine’s memory that he can imagine very well what Merlin might be going through.
…And there’s nothing he can do.
“I failed,” he says, though he knows Merlin can’t hear him. “I promised to protect you. I’m sorry.”
The silence surrounds him like a shroud. He longs only to hear Merlin’s voice, combating his own words of dismay. You didn’t fail, he’d say. There’s nothing you could’ve done. But Merlin’s not here to say it, so Gwaine has no reason to believe it.
“You promised me you’d be safe. Guess that makes us even, eh?”
Silence greets him once more.
“Merlin, please, if you can figure a way out of this…”
He hasn’t even got Merlin’s ghost to answer him. Desperation takes him again, so he clings to his own side of Merlin’s burial mound—for what else could this be?—and presses his ear to the stone. There’s not a single sound.
Quiet as the dead, he thinks, and fears that he’s right.
He knows he should leave; Merlin asked him to, after all. But he can’t bear the thought of Merlin dying alone, or leaving his body at all. Gwaine’s own body feels weak, and his heart begs to remain by Merlin’s side. He’s of no use to Arthur like this. Not to Merlin, either, but he can’t move from where he’s pressed flush to the wall of rock.
If he travels with no weapon through the Valley, he will more than likely die. At Camlann, he will die in battle, he’s sure. And though he’s always guessed that he would die at the hands of brigands, fighting with justice and honor, he cannot choose either path. It’s Merlin he follows, not Arthur, and he doesn’t want to be separated from his love now, even in death. He’d rather share this grave with Merlin than be buried elsewhere without him.
He will die beside Merlin. He knows it in a sick combination of fear and acceptance. He won’t leave him, but he hopes that Merlin thought- thinks better of him. He hopes that when Merlin dies, it’s with the belief that Gwaine kept Arthur safe at Camlann. Merlin would never be at peace if he knew that Gwaine stayed behind for him—that he died for nothing but the ghost of Merlin’s touch.
Gwaine is willing to die for much less than that.
Hours pass, or so he thinks. The light that crept into the cracks of the cave’s ceiling is duller now, so it must be night. But he thinks he hears something, some impact against the other side of the barrier between them. He perks up, breath catching in his throat; it must be Merlin, trying his damndest to escape, and so Gwaine pounds his fists into the rocks again, calling his name, begging him to answer.
Settling against the wall again, he waits for some other sign that Merlin lives, but he hears nothing else. Perhaps it was only a cruel trick of the mind. A hopeless sob builds up within him, and he does nothing to suppress it, allowing himself to cry for his loss, and for Merlin’s own loss of life. Merlin doesn’t deserve this. It’s not fair, none of this is fair.
He’s not sure how much more time has passed. Hours, minutes, days, it matters little. They’re going to die here anyway, Merlin thinking he’s alone as he passes to the other side, and Gwaine’s own death a futile attempt to comfort him.
The tears stopped coming long ago, the pain purged from his soul, leaving nothing but a broken husk behind. There’s nothing left for him but to wait.
So wait he does, for either hope or death. No other sound comes from the rock between them, and so he waits for the latter to come and claim him. He waits, until something begins to change.
The ground beneath Gwaine seems suddenly abuzz with life. For a moment, he thinks that death has come for him early in an act of divine mercy. He looks up through the dried tears that tangle his lashes, following the slow, steady ascent of the dust and grit that should be littering the ground yet floats freely. It’s as though the air is as thick as water, fragments of rock and debris rising up to the surface, but Gwaine can breathe perfectly fine—as fine as one can be expected to breathe in this stale cave air, anyway.
Magic. It must be. There’s no other possible explanation. He looks around for Morgana, but finds no one.
Perhaps this is what Merlin came looking for, a sorcerer who could aid them in the battle. It would explain why Merlin refused to tell him the truth, not to mention why a sorcerer would try to help Merlin.
That’s when it hits him: whatever magic is at work is rescuing Merlin.
Merlin is going to live. He’s going to live, and Gwaine is going to see him and hug him and hear his voice again.
Shakily, he stands to his feet, steadying himself as his legs threaten to topple under his weight, and watches in awe as the very rocks Gwaine was incapable of dislodging earlier now break apart with grace, parting like curtains around the pathway as it’s cleared of debris.
From the depths of the gentle swarm of stone steps Merlin, eyes alight with gold.
Gwaine is too relieved at seeing him again to care. “Merlin,” he breathes like a prayer. It seems fitting, for Merlin appears divine in his power.
Merlin eyes him curiously, but his voice is pleased. “You stayed. I thought I heard you, but I couldn’t be sure.”
Absently, Gwaine nods. “You’re- you’re alright?” he asks, reaching out to grasp his friend’s shoulder. His feet falter under his own weight, but Merlin manages to steady him in time.
“I am now,” he says, clasping Gwaine’s arm tightly.
He looks into Merlin’s eyes again, now their usual blue. It’s far too good to be true. “Are you dead?” he asks. “Are we dead?”
“No, Gwaine,” he tells him gently. “We’re safe now. I found what I was looking for.”
The sorrow gives way to a warm-hearted joy he never thought he’d feel again. “Can you tell me now?” he asks, voice shaking as hard as the rest of him.
Merlin smiles back at him, flexing his fingers as if trying them out for the first time. “Myself.”
Gwaine cocks his head at him, doing nothing to hide his confusion, and Merlin takes pity.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but Gwaine, I…”
It’s hard for him to say this, Gwaine can tell, but he’s seen the eyes, and how the rockfall cleared itself. He understands now what Merlin could never tell him before.
“You have magic.”
Merlin tenses at the word, eyes snapping up to meet his, but whatever he sees in Gwaine’s eyes seems to relieve him of his fears. “I am magic.”
Gwaine squints at him. “…What?”
“My magic is as much a part of me as my very soul is. But Morgana drained me of my powers. That’s why I came here, to restore my magic. And I needed you because I… I couldn’t protect myself without it, and you’re the only one I could trust. I am so, so sorry for dragging you into this. I never thought she would find me here…”
Gwaine stares at him openly. “You have magic.”
“I was born with it.” His voice is so soft as he says it, with a measure of awe as if it’s a new revelation for him, too. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but right now, we need to get to Camlann. Morgana has plans to outflank Arthur. The battle will be lost if I’m not there to stop her.”
“With magic?” he ventures.
Merlin nods, a hint of shame returning to his eyes, and Gwaine is disheartened to see the familiarity in it. “I don’t have a choice.”
“You’re going to use magic to defeat Morgana? In front of Camelot’s entire army? In front of Arthur?”
“He’ll die if I don’t. They all will.”
Gwaine nods in understanding. He knows that Merlin won’t be persuaded, but at least he’ll be safe with his magic to protect him. “It’ll be alright, Merlin. We can disguise you. Here, take my cloak,” he insists, shrugging it off to clasp about Merlin’s shoulders before he can decline the offer.
“I can take care of myself.” He shoves Gwaine off, but he can’t quite keep the smile off his face.
“I can see that,” Gwaine says, brushing the dirt off of Merlin’s clothes. “But you still need someone to have your back.”
Merlin’s eyes soften, and the corners of his lips tilt upward. “Lucky thing I have you then, isn’t it?”
“You’ll always have me,” he promises. “But Merlin… Don’t push me away again.”
“I won’t. I promise, I won’t. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. I didn’t exactly give you any reason to be forthcoming about it, did I?” he asks, ruffling the hair on the back of his head self-consciously.
“Stop doing that, you’ll mess it up!” Merlin chastises, grabbing his knight by the wrist.
Gwaine swallows at the sensation of Merlin’s hand on his own, forcing his gaze away. “Didn’t realize it matters so much to you.”
“It-” He huffs, exasperated. “You have nice hair, alright?”
Gwaine absolutely does not blush. He doesn’t.
“Now come on, we have to get back to the horses.”
“As you wish,” Gwaine says, allowing Merlin to pull him off by their joined hands.
As he gets astride his horse, he can’t help the way his eyes trace every feature upon Merlin’s face. Merlin is alive and well, and Gwaine thinks that maybe they’ve both found what they were looking for.
Now that Gwaine has him, he’s never letting him go.