Chapter Text
There was no telling how long he sat there on the shore, staring unseeingly at the misty waters of the lake which had embraced the body of his friend and king. For the past couple of days, time had been all he could think of, inexorably running out as he made what haste he could to bring Arthur to Avalon, but he had lost the battle against it and now it seemed to him that it had lost all meaning.
He should probably be doing something instead of just sitting here. Use magic to clean his muddied feet and breeches, maybe. Try to find his way back to the horses Morgana had scared off, probably. Return to Camelot to share the ill tidings, definitely.
Yet he remained there, slumped over and blindly staring, staring, staring at the isle in the lake that could have been their salvation, his eyes still stinging—no longer from crying but from a lack of blinking as his tears had long since run dry.
“Merlin?”
The voice hardly registered at first, nor did the hoofbeats accompanying it. Not until something—or someone—blocked out the sun that mocked him with its brightness did Merlin become properly aware that he had company, yet he still could not bring himself to tear his eyes from the water.
“Where’s Arthur?”
“I failed…” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “We were too late.”
There was a moment’s silence before his companion knelt by his side, laying a large hand on his shoulder. “But where is he?” Percival—yes, he finally recognised him as Percival—asked again, quietly this time.
Merlin exerted himself to swallow down the lump that had made its home in his throat ever since he found Arthur on the battlefield. “I sent him to rest. His body is in the care of Avalon until the time comes for him to rise again.”
“Rise again?”
“He is the Once and Future King,” Merlin replied simply.
He was relieved when Percival did not ask him to expound on that, for he was not all that sure what that meant himself. He could not begin to guess when the time of Albion’s greatest need might come if not right now.
It was very possible that Percival thought he had gone absolutely barking mad, for his voice was unbearably gentle as he said, “Come on, let’s get you home,” and held out his hand.
Finally looking away from the lake, Merlin blinked and took the proffered hand despite feeling like his limbs were made of lead, allowing Percival to drag him to his feet. He must have wavered, because suddenly there was a hand at his elbow, steadying him.
“I’ve no horse,” he mumbled.
“That’s all right, I…I have a spare.”
There was something in the way Percival said this that made Merlin look at him properly for the first time. His face was drawn in grief and he gave the impression of a man only barely holding on to his motivation to be up and moving instead of curling up in a ball. It was a feeling Merlin was intimately acquainted with.
A slight crease formed in his brow as he looked between the knight and the two horses whose reins were tied to a branch a little ways off. He knew those horses: Percival’s own palfrey and—
“That’s Gringolet,” he said, his frown growing more pronounced. “Is Gwaine here?”
The sorrow in Percival’s expression deepened. “Merlin, Gwaine was… I couldn’t…” He trailed off, tears gleaming in his eyes.
Had Percival not still held onto him, Merlin would have collapsed as his knees buckled beneath his weight.
“No…” he breathed. “No, he can’t— How? What happened? Percival, where is Gwaine?!”
“We went after Morgana. Alone.” Percival shook his head, eyes screwed tightly shut. “God, we were so foolish. She captured us, and he…he was tortured for information on your destination—or at least I think so. I could hear his screams, but when I finally broke free and reached him, there was not a scratch on him save for a small wound on his neck, yet he just…faded away.”
Merlin felt light-headed as he processed this information, defeatist despair mingling with grief-laden denial in his heavy heart. It was the latter emotion that had him grasping for straws in search of something that might prove that this was just a terrible misunderstanding, and to his desperate relief there was one detail which stood out enough for him to latch on to.
“The wound, could it have been a snake bite?” he asked, frantically clutching at Percival’s arm.
“I suppose. Why?”
“Is it possible he was tortured with a nathair?”
“A what?”
“The snake Elyan was tortured with; he must have told you the story. Come on, think!”
“I— Maybe?”
“Then he might still be alive.”
Merlin was striding off towards the horses before he even finished the sentence, his sluggish mind and body fuelled by a renewed purpose. He recognised the flicker of hope smouldering in his chest as a dangerous thing, but he simply could not accept losing another dear friend today. Especially not Gwaine.
“Alive?” Percival asked, trailing after him.
“The nathair inflicts pain upon the souls of its victims, not their bodies. They’re left exhausted, but if they’re strong there is every possibility they can survive the ordeal, and Gwaine is Strength itself.”
“Merlin.” Percival halted him with a hand on his shoulder. “I wish you were right, but he is dead. His heart stopped; I checked.”
Merlin shook off his hand impatiently and kept on walking. “The most seasoned physician may have trouble finding a pulse if it is sufficiently weakened.” Upon reaching the horses, he started untying Gringolet’s reins from the branch. “What did you do with him? You didn’t bury him, did you?”
“There was no time. I just wrapped him in our cloaks. I had to find Morgana before she found you, but it was growing dark and I lost her tracks.”
He swung himself into the saddle without bothering to even adjust the stirrups, though they were a tad short for him. “Then there is hope.”
Percival looked up at him with wide eyes. “You really think he could still be alive?”
“I do.”
He must be.
“God, and I just left him…”
“Where is he?”
Percival shook himself out of his guilty stupor and started unhitching his own horse. “I’ll take you to him.”
“Where is he?” Merlin insisted.
“The Grove of Brineved, by the—”
Merlin was already galloping away.
Mile after mile flew by underneath Gringolet’s hooves at a pace which should not have been sustainable, but the palfrey was a fine one and Merlin had loosened the restraints around his magic, allowing it to guide and strengthen his mount past mortal speed and endurance. The ground itself seemed to flatten before them, paving way for their breakneck race for Brineved.
If only he could have kept this pace with Arthur. Perhaps he ought to have simply tied him to the saddle and forced him to press on despite the excruciating pain it caused him. Perhaps he should not have bothered with horses at all and called Kilgharrah earlier. Perhaps—
He clenched his hands painfully tightly around the reins and forced himself to stop thinking along those lines, at least for the moment being. There would be time to dwell on his mistakes later. In this moment, all that mattered was that he did not fail again. He couldn’t. He mustn’t.
Thanks to his magic, he reached Brineved before nightfall while Percival was left in the dust, presumably following at a much more natural pace. Upon nearing the grove, he let his magic scout ahead, scanning the terrain for any sign of Gwaine.
There!
A flash of red caught his inner eye and he returned to himself and spurred Gringolet on in the right direction. Within minutes, he reached a part of the woods where the trees grew sparser and as he spotted the figure wrapped up in an impromptu shroud of Camelot cloaks he leapt from his horse before it had even come to a full stop.
He almost fell over as he landed on the leaf-strewn forest floor, but managed to scramble over to Gwaine before sinking to his knees and skidding to a stop beside him. His hands shook as he reached for the cloaks to pull the fabric aside, dreading what he would find underneath. Even if Gwaine had survived the torture, it was possible that he would have succumbed to exposure after having been left outdoors almost a full night and day with no food nor water nor heat to help him recuperate from the ordeal.
Gwaine did not stir when Merlin pulled the wool from his face. It was impossible to tell from sight alone whether he was alive, for he was pale and still as death. With trembling fingers, Merlin reached out and touched his cheek, his heart skipping a beat when he felt how cold the skin was.
His hands slipped lower to find the pulse point on his throat. He drew a sharp breath when he realised that the skin felt slightly warmer there, and though he could not quite tell if what he felt as he pressed his fingers against the stubbled flesh was a very weak pulse or the tremors of his own tightly-wound body, his hope grew.
Acting on instinct, he placed his right hand over Gwaine’s heart while his left rested on his cool forehead, then he closed his eyes and let his magic seep into his friend’s body, suffusing it with warmth and seeking out signs of life.
A strangled sob of relief burst from his lips when he found what he was looking for: a tiny spark of life still burning within Gwaine, desperately trying to keep the cold at bay and his heart beating. It flared brighter as Merlin brushed against it and when he started feeding it magic it grew rapidly.
He had tried to do the same with Arthur after getting him off the battlefield, but in that case he had only managed to postpone the inevitable as his magic had not been able to remove the dragon-forged shard creeping ever nearer his heart. With Gwaine, however, there was no lingering magic working against him; it was merely a question of restoring the warmth and energy his body needed to maintain itself and heal what physical damage the exposure and insufficient blood flow might have resulted in. It could be done.
Almost dizzy with relief, he opened his eyes and looked Gwaine over, trying to think of what he could do to aid the magic he kept steadily channelling. The armour would have to go, for a start. Not only was it cooling Gwaine down, it was also weighing on his chest, making his already shallow breathing unnecessarily arduous.
Merlin started tugging at the straps of the armour, but his fingers were still clumsy with fear and adrenaline and they fumbled inefficiently with the buckles. Growing impatient, he resorted to simply spelling it away—plate and mail and all—making it reappear in an untidy heap some paces away and leaving only the gambeson on Gwaine’s person in the hope that its padding would help stave off the chill as dusk slowly settled around them.
With the armour off, it was a little easier to manoeuvre Gwaine’s limp body, and he managed to drag him into a half-sitting position so he could recline against Merlin’s chest and share in his body heat.
They sat like this for a little while as Merlin considered what to do next, his arms wrapped tightly around Gwaine’s waist and covering his cool hands with his own beneath one of the cloaks which he had draped over them both.
Should he bother lighting a fire and try to find something for Gwaine to eat while he waited for Percival to catch up, or was that time that would be better spent riding for Camelot? Come to think of it, he had no equipment with which to make a broth or any other easily digested food, and Gwaine needed nourishment if he was to recuperate. Only if they returned to civilisation could he get the care he needed.
Thus decided, Merlin looked to Gringolet, who had found a patch of grass to munch on a little distance away. Thankfully, he was impeccably trained and when Merlin whistled for him he tore himself from his dinner and started walking over to them, albeit with obvious reluctance.
Merlin moved to extricate himself from his position as a human chair but froze when he heard a soft noise from Gwaine.
“Gwaine?”
“P’rcy?” Gwaine breathed, barely audibly.
“No, it’s Merlin. I’m here.”
Gwaine’s head lolled to the side where it rested against Merlin’s shoulder, bringing their faces close enough together that his nose brushed against Merlin’s cheek. He did not open his eyes or make any other movement besides mumbling, “S’ there is a heav’n…”
“You’re not dead if that’s what you’re worried about.” There was no answer—no elucidation of that enigmatic remark. “Gwaine?”
The only thing he got in the way of a reply was the sound of deep breathing that indicated that Gwaine had slipped into an easier sleep than his previous state of unconsciousness. Hopefully, this was a good sign.
“Rest,” Merlin murmured. He allowed himself to tip their brows together and revel in the slight warmth that had returned to Gwaine’s skin. “Rest and regain your strength. I’m not letting you go just yet. There’s too much I want to tell you.”
Gringolet broke the wistful moment by nuzzling into Merlin’s hair as if it were the lush grass he had been so cruelly parted from.
“All right, all right. Let’s get him home.”