aight here it is. warning, it is kinda long and also theres some mild gore
Gwaine tried not to remember his childhood. Frankly, everything before meeting Merlin was better left as a vague, drunken haze. But every once in a while, despite his best efforts to pretend certain events didnât exist, little hints and glimpses would slip out.
For example, the time he walked in on his mother, sitting by the fire and sobbing as she clenched a letter between her knobby fists. With small hands he reached out, perhaps to comfort her, perhaps to be comforted (to this day he didnât recall which), but she flinched away. She scrunched up the letter, threw it into the fire, and ignored the way its sparks glittered onto the hem of her dress.
He called out to her, he could remember calling out to her. He could remember clumsily petting the side of her leg, as high as his then tiny body could reach, and telling her that it would be alright. Telling her not to be sad. Telling her not to cry.
Merlin was crying too, now. It was hard to tell much of anything else, but he could tell that much for certain. Gwaine couldnât focus his eyes long enough to see where he was, or ground himself inside his own skin long enough to feel what was keeping him from moving, but he could hear that much. Ringing out through the dark mist clouding around his head, a star to guide him out of his unconsciousness, was Merlin.
But while Merlinâs voice was usually a gift to hear, this time it only brought a vague, confused shame. Merlin was crying, and it was almost assuredly Gwaineâs fault.
Merlin crying in and of itself wasnât such a strange thing. He was sensitive. He had emotions worth tuning into. A heart worth baring out for the world to see. Feelings that couldnât stay trapped within the fleshy confines of his chest.
(Gwaine had long since given up hope that there was any room for him within said chest, but he wasnât going to stay maudlin about it forever. Hopefully.)
âNo! You let him go, you bastards!â cried Merlinâs wobbly yet determined voice. âLeave him out of this!â
Lifting his eyelids was harder than blocking one of Percivalâs punches, and just as weighty, but he did so nonetheless. Bright, incomprehensible flashes tore into his vision, and he squinted - but amidst the haze, shapes took form.
A group of figures, twelve at least. Leather armour. Chipped, rusty swords. Smelled like rot.
Oh, right. Bandits. Just another harmless patrol, Arthur had said. What were the odds theyâd get attacked by bandits for the third time in as many months, heâd said.
But what were they doing? Just...just standing in a cluster, it looked like. Hovering around a wooden cart that had been jury-rigged into a pedestal of some kind. And tethered to the pedestal was -
No, no, no, how dare those bastards string him up like - like meat in a butcher shop or - or -
Gwaine tamped down on the bile in his throat that had arisen from such a vivid image. Merlin wasnât meat and they werenât going to butcher him, and above all Gwaine wasnât going to let that happen.
Gwaineâs muscles burned with the urge to run forward and pull Merlin far, far away, but chains were wrapped around his body and binding him to...a tree?
One bandit brandished a dagger at Merlinâs chest, shirt sliced into ragged ribbons at either side of him and flesh driven into with superficial yet bloody ravines.
Good. It was just superficial. The axe the other two bandits were holding seemed to hint that it wouldnât stay superficial - but Gwaine would rather tear his arms off with his own teeth than let them go that far.
âYou hurt him and itâll be the last thing you do, you bastard!â Gwaine cried out. And dammit, he knew it was pointless to break out of such tightly wound iron chains, but Merlin was bleeding and they had knives and axes and -
And one of the bandits were coming for Gwaine now instead of pestering Merlin. Good. This was good. Gwaine could take the hits. Gwaine deserved -
The bandit, tall and beady-eyed, clocked a solid fist into his face.
A bony impact coursed through Gwaineâs jaw, rattling his teeth and staining his flesh with visceral soreness, and his head rocked backwards from the sheer force of it.
âWhat honourable men you lot are,â he rasped, trying to keep his voice assuring and confident - and failing, from the terrified look in Merlinâs eyes. âPicking on a servant and all. But me, I could show you a real fight.â
Before the bandits could even consider Gwaineâs offer, Merlin shouted out to them once again. âI said to leave him alone!â He tried to turn his head and see Gwaine, but the posture at which theyâd strung him out left him largely immobile.
The bandits all laughed. âAh, and why would we do that?â asked the tallest one, the one still holding that knife too damn close to Merlinâs collarbone. His face was pocked and stubbled, and his hair was greasy enough to give even Agravaine a run for his money. âWe didnât just bring along your friend here for kicks and giggles, yâknow.â
Before Merlin could get in another word in edgewise, the tall one dug the knife into his skin. Merlin let out another cry, before gritting his teeth and forcing his pain to vent through his tears instead.
âHey! Hey! Hey!â Gwaine shouted - no, screamed, because that was the only word to describe what sort of primal fear had torn through his throat. The bandits all turned to him. âKeep your hands off him you -!â
The one with the knife snickered, and the rest of his cronies did much the same. âOh, but I am keeping my hands off him. Arenât I, boys?â He drove his knife in deeper, and Merlin bit his lip so hard that it too had begun to bleed. Gwaine fought the chains, he strained his arms and he kicked his legs and he pushed his back away from the tree, but it all amounted to nothing. Even in something as small as this, Gwaine failed his friend.
It was beginning to be a recurring theme with him, wasnât it?
âSee?â the knife-wielding bandit teased. âDidnât lay a finger on him. But a sharp edge, on the other handâŠâ He poised his blade once more against Merlinâs frantically tuttering lungs, but was interrupted by the introduction of a new voice.
âThatâs enough, Allard,â said the voice. It was deep and careful, meting out each word with a near ominous level of precision. âWe donât torture people for no reason. Weâre not animals.â
The bandits all stepped back, heads bowed like children who had been scolded. A few murmured apologies hovered through the crowd.
âSorry, Mr. Terrowin,â Allard muttered.
It wasnât enough. It wouldnât be enough. Every raindrop in the sky could be another apology and it still wouldnât forgive what those monsters had done Merlin.
Though every part of Gwaine wished this newcomer would be the one to let them go, he had long since learned to give up on wishing for good things.
The newcomer - Terrowin, apparently - strode forward. His long leather coat flapped behind him, bottom hem irreparably scratched and collar upturned. Pointy features, silver hair, clean-shaven, one glass eye. In his firm, leather-bound hand was a dagger that was far more elegant and sculpted than those of his dirtbag minions.
He turned his hands, rotated the blade, allowed its shiny edges to catch and glint in the twilight. An errant spark shimmered off the metal and into Gwaineâs eyes, and his blood turned to snow.
Terrowin was walking with purpose. Walking towards Merlin. Merlin, who was pulling and struggling against his bonds, who kept sending the most heart-wrenching glances in Gwaineâs direction.
Gwaine shouted. He pounded his heels against the tree and the roots and the grass, far enough that chips of bark sprayed outward from his struggle. He thrashed from side to side, forward and backward, until the chains strained against him so intensely that his joints crackled and his skin scraped.
The bandit cronies chuckled amongst themselves at his misery, all of them watching Merlin suffer with attentive eyes.
âNo,â Merlin said, and he probably intended for that to sound a lot less desperate. âNo. No, you canât -â
Terrowin held up his dagger appraisingly. âAh, so you know what this is then. Good. Which means you must also know why Iâm doing this. And why I brought your friend to watch.â
âYou get that thing away from him you -!â Before he could roar out a litany of curses, Gwaine was kicked in the gut.
âGag him,â said Terrowin. Short, brief, terse.
A bandit, a reedy yet broadly built one, surged forward and held up his belt to Gwaineâs mouth. Gwaine locked his jaw tight, turned his head to the side.
Never give them an inch, his mother had always said. Those people hanging their power above you, squashing you down like a bug under their boot, never give them an inch.
âOpen your mouth, Sir Knight,â Terrowin commanded. And hell no, like hell heâd listen to anything that this bastard - âDo it or I let Allard have some more fun.â
Never give an inch, said his mother.
âItâs okay, Gwaine,â said Merlin. Tears streamed down his face no matter how resolutely he may have tried to keep them in. Merlin was never very good at locking up and hiding his emotions. Not like Gwaine.
You liven up the place, said Merlin, back in a lifetime before bandits and daggers and all this damnable chaos.
Arthurâs lucky to have us.
Iâve searched every tavern from here to Nemeth.
âGwaine!â And there Merlin was, saying his name and looking at him in just the right way to make Gwaineâs heart melt. Make it liquefy into absolutely nothing, clinging stickily to broken ribs and slithering through his veins in the form of a viscous ooze, rendering him incapable of moving or feeling or thinking about anything but Merlin Merlin Merlin.
âGwaine,â Merlin said again. âItâs alright. Donât give them the satisfaction. Iâll be fine.â
Itâs alright means you tried. And you tried means you failed.
Gwaine unlocked his jaw, shame devouring his cheeks in the form of unshed tears. The bandit shoved the belt into his now open mouth, then looped it around his head and fastened it at the base of his skull. He kept his focus resolutely trained on anything except Merlinâs pained, sorrowful gaze.
The cronies shuffled ever farther back as their leader marched up to the side of the cart, grip careless as he leaned in to speak to Merlin. The taste of leather and sweat sliced into Gwaineâs tongue, cutting deeper with every resistant struggle.
âYou can let him go,â Merlin said, begged. âYou donât need him.â
Terrowin gave a squinty, empty smirk and shook his head. âIâm afraid I canât. Heâs a knight of Camelot, after all. And we both know that as long as heâs right there, awake and watching your every move, you wonât lift a finger to stop me from hurting you. Canât risk him finding out what you really are, now can you?â
Merlinâs whole face sunk. Shame ebbed from his eyes like pus from a festering wound, cloudy and infected and ill. He chanced a glance at Gwaine, but couldnât bring himself to hold it for longer than a moment.
The shifty eyes, the self-loathful fidgeting, the trembling lips.
Merlin was hiding something. Merlin was lying about something. There was something he wasnât telling Gwaine.
A part of him registered that he should feel infuriated by that. That after all the times heâd bared his heart out for Merlin, told him his past and his secrets, that Merlin hadnât deigned to return the favour.
The majority of him, though, merely nodded and accepted it. Gwaine hadnât done much to deserve Merlinâs secrets. Hadnât done much to deserve Merlinâs kindness and friendship, either, really - but he just took and took and took, like a greedy sponge that kept soaking up water even when it was already overflowing.
âIâll go quietly,â Merlin insisted. âLet him go and I wonât put up a fight.â
Gwaine tried to say, âMerlin, donât,â or something just as desperate, but the gag kept him from doing anything except moan pitifully.
The bandit leader met eyes with Gwaine, but merely shrugged in the face of his fury. Gwaine thrashed pointedly at him, but he was little more than one of those pinned butterflies. Decorative but utterly useless.
âI must admit Iâm intrigued,â said Terrowin, gaze casually roving past Gwaine and over to Merlin. His smirk was sinister and lecherous. He twirled the blade between his scarred hands, and only by sheer miracle did it not slice his fingertips. âI was told that the great and powerful Emrys -â Merlin flinched weakly at the sound of this word â- would put up more of a fight.â
Wait. What did he just call Merlin? Emrys? What was that? A double life? A title? Was Merlin secretly a foreign noble of some kind, or something?
His gut sank. Was Emrys his real name this whole time, but he never told Gwaine? Why? Was Gwaine truly not trustworthy enough to gain access to that information?
Ignorant to Gwaineâs inner turmoil, Terrowin continued. âEven with a knight of Camelot watching, I canât imagine someone of your...caliber...would take too kindly to being killed.â
âMaybe itâs because you wonât actually kill me,â Merlin spat.
âRather cocky, arenât you, Emrys?â The dagger pressed against Merlinâs sternum, and from what Gwaine could tell it seemed like every ounce of his energy was divested into not panicking. Ribs heaving, face stern. Like someone had turned his head into stone but neglected the rest of him.
Blood slipped out of the wound. Superficial but copious.
Terrowin paused in his slicing. âI truly donât understand you. Not even remotely fighting back?â
âTrust me, you wouldnât be so eager to fight me if you knew what I could do to you.â
He spread out his arms. âThen do it! Come on, Emrys. If youâre so big and special, why not smite me down right where I stand? Itâd be so easy, wouldnât it?â
Merlin gritted his teeth, looked away. A slight breeze rustled his blood-slick hair, the tattered remains of his shirt, rippled the blood steadily trickling down his skinny abdomen. He shivered.
Perhaps they were hit with different breezes, because the one brushing against Gwaineâs face was soft and gentle, almost cruel in its kindness - if the world had the ability to be so soft, then why wasnât a single meter of that extended out to Merlin?
The longer Merlinâs - Emrysâs? - silence dragged on, the more his tormentorâs face knitted up into a look of understanding. And, somehow, even the tiniest sliver of pity. âI think I know whatâs happening here.â
âItâs due to the presence of your friend here,â Terrowin surmised knowingly, and the universe must have been mocking him because Gwaine could have sworn the banditâs voice sounded sympathetic. âYou canât bear to let him see even the slightest fraction of what youâre capable of. Yes, we captured him for that express reason, to keep you afraid and keep you in line...but to tell you the truth, frankly I had assumed youâd just kill us and then kill him too, if only to prevent him from blabbing to that pet king of yours.â
Gwaine had to physically restrain himself from snorting and rolling his eyes melodramatically. They clearly didnât know Merlin as well as they thought they did. He wouldnât so much as hurt a bug. One time he refused to come to work for three days in a row until Arthur apologized for swatting a spider instead of escorting it out the window. Even if he could kill all of these people, he wouldnât - least of all Gwaine.
âBut I can see it in your eyes,â Terrowin continued. âYou care for him, donât you? Youâd choose death over his rejection. So you subject yourself to all this suffering, knowing full well the purpose this knife was crafted to fulfill, even though youâve got all the power you need to set you free just under your skin.â
Just as he had tensed at the word âEmrysâ, Merlin also tensed at the word âpowerâ.
Now, contrary to what Arthur said - contrary to what Gwaine himself liked to pretend - he wasnât an idiot. He wasnât a genius either, per se (âGot to let the rest of us be good at something,â Merlin would always joke), but he could at least put two and two together.
Power. Weird knives with specific purposes. This whole ritual. Assertions that Merlin could somehow smite them all down if his whim so fancied it.
Emrys. That sounded...druidic, almost.
No. No, Merlin would have told him if he had magic. He would have known that Gwaine would fall off the edge of the world if Merlin wished it, that Gwaine would skin himself alive and let Merlin wear it as a coat to keep him warm, and above all that Gwaine didnât care about something like magic. That Merlin could be a demon straight from Hell and Gwaine would still love him dearly. Right?
It didnât matter to him that Merlin had magic. Never had, probably never would. Gwaine didnât care about titles and names and whatnot, just actions. It doesnât matter what you are, just what you do, and all that. And what Merlin had done -
Sneaking wine from Arthurâs room down to the knightâs commons, teaching everyone all the drinking songs he knew; tutting softly as he bandaged Gwaineâs sprained wrist; humming to himself as he mopped the floor, so absentminded that he didnât realize he was actually making the floor even messier than it already was; defending Gwaineâs honour against any stuffy noble who insisted his (alleged) lack of nobility invalidated his knighthood; inviting Gwaine into his room and laughing, just the two of them, long into the night.
- proved him to be a very good person indeed.
But of course, what had Gwaineâs actions proven? He was a knight of Camelot, and a knight of Arthur Pendragon no less. The very people who sought, hunted, and killed those with magic. Who condemned its practice.
Though Merlin neither confirmed nor denied his accusations, Terrowin kept talking. âIâm right, arenât I? You care for him, but deep down you know heâd think youâre a monster.â
All of Gwaineâs worst fears were confirmed with the ashamed reddening of Merlinâs face. With the wet downturn of his gaze.
He truly felt that way, then. He truly...he feared Gwaine.
Gwaine had instilled fear in him. Gwaine had failed to earn his trust. Failed to make him happy.
In a perfect world, Gwaine would have pried open his mouth and shouted to the high heavens that he didnât care about magic or murder or anything, that the only thing that mattered was Merlinâs happiness. Heâd scream for all the world to hear that he loved Merlin with his whole heart, magic and all, and Merlin would snap out of his fear and strike all these bastards down with lightning right where they stood.
But it wasnât a perfect world. And Gwaine had a belt in his mouth, placed there to save Merlin from pain, and in the end thatâs exactly what it would cause.
âYouâre right to think it,â the bastard in chief murmured. He sat on the cart, and stroked Merlinâs tethered hand in a condescending imitation of comfort. âHeâs a knight of Camelot. He chose to become one willingly.â
âHeâs wrong,â Gwaine wished he could say. âNo amount of knights and kings and laws could ever make me hate you.â But for all his wishing and wanting, his words remained in leather chains.
Gwaine had long since learned to give up on wishes.
âOf course,â Terrowin continued, speaking lies where Gwaine should have been speaking truth. âHeâs right to think it, too. You are a monster, Emrys. Youâre scarcely human, if at all.â
He rose back to his full height, tightened his fist around the blade. âI canât fault you for it, though. Youâre just as much a victim as anyone else. You didnât ask to be born.â Terrowin reared his arm back, blade pointed down, body poised to strike.
No no no no this canât be happening -
âYour mother should have put you to sleep when you were a babe.â
Gwaine kicked and screamed as loudly as the gag would let him. Pulled his arms taut against the chains. Yanked at them and tore at them and begged them to set him free. He opened his eyes wide and he didnât hide the tears that streamed down his cheeks, and he stared and stared and stared at Merlinâs frightfully trembling body. He shook his shoulders and he dislocated his limbs and he gnashed his teeth against the gag and he fought fought fought -
A little boy, unable to dry his motherâs tears.
âDonât worry, Emrys,â Terrowin whispered, so hideously soft and gentle as he placed a hand in Merlinâs grimy hair and smiled. âWith this blade you can finally be put out of your misery. Thatâs what you want, isnât it?â
Instead of pleading for his life, instead of using some of that damn magic of his to get out of this mess, he simply lolled his head to the side. Looked at Gwaine. Looked him in the eyes.
They were too far apart for Gwaine to hear his rattled, breathy words, but he could read lips well enough.
Flesh squelched and bones cracked and Merlin screeched out in blood-curdling agony as metal pierced through.
A woman, sitting by the fire, her sonâs best efforts to comfort her only making her cry even more.
Gwaineâs thrashings had become to aggressive for the banditsâ taste. Two gathered at either side of him and pinned him in place. Held him down. And all that rage, that pain, that desperation, that fear had nowhere to go, no acts of violence through which to exert themselves. So they bottled up inside of him instead - a twitching, festering infection of boils and pus-filled buboes; a knot of frenetic, maggot-eaten nerves all twisting and untwisting and clenching and unclenching until -
Merlin wasnât crying anymore.
The cart was slick with blood. It oozed through the cracks in the paneling and onto the grass below.
Splotches of red covered Terrowin and the other bandits - murderers - lingering in his shadow. He continued to chisel his dagger into Merlinâs chest. Cutting something out. Gwaineâs vision was too blurry with tears for him to tell what it was.
The dead bodyâs fingers twitched. Its gaping eyes and unhinged jaw were frozen in a look of undiluted horror.
It wasnât Merlin. Merlin wasnât dead. That body wasnât his. It couldnât be his.
Gwaineâs mouth tasted of bile, maybe. And maybe his hands were shaking. Perhaps his blood had turned to snow and his skin had turned to leather. He could no longer tell whether he himself was still alive, or dead like - well, if he was alive or dead. His body was so far removed from him, so distant, that he could not comprehend anything beyond the grief devouring his entire being in the way a beast rips its prey to shreds.
In some sick parody of compassion, Terrowin reached forward a scarlet hand and slid his victimâs eyes shut. He said something, but Gwaine couldnât hear it over the rushing of blood in his ears.
If it had been anyone else gutted out on that cart, Gwaine would have screamed and roared, âHow dare you touch him! Get away from him!â
But it was Merlin - no, it couldnât be, his eyes were playing tricks on him - who had fallen limp and lifeless. So any attempt at speech would have unraveled the thread of nausea lodged in his throat, would have caused the bitter, soul-biting reality of the situation to rip him apart at the nails. So Gwaine said nothing, did nothing but stare at the body - not Merlinâs, never Merlinâs - through wet, trembling eyes.
Next to the body, a pile of flesh chunks steadily grew. Bit by bit, handful by handful, Terrowin excavated slabs of meat from Mer- from the victimâs chest, undeterred by the sheer volume of blood and gore slicking every nearby surface.
âShoulda worn gloves for this, sir,â one of the cronies teased. Terrowin shot him a harsh, reprimanding look.
Gwaineâs soul came crashing back into his body, knocking him by the knees till they gave out, just in time to see what Terrowin was pulling out of his victimâs chest.
Standing at the edge of the parapets with a bucket of water, waiting for Arthur to pass under, the two of them laughing like idiots.
Sitting by the campfire while everyone else was asleep, sharing meaningful looks in place of words.
That was Merlinâs flesh.
Making silly faces at each other during Round Table meetings when no one else was looking, and feigning innocence when Leon got too suspicious.
That was Merlinâs blood.
Tending to each otherâs wounds with jokes and worried eyes after a gruesome battle.
Not Arthur, not Elyan, not some random stranger. Merlin.
If Gwaine let out a sob horrible enough to shatter glass, then he had no control over the matter.
âI truly am sorry it had to come to this, Sir Knight,â said Terrowin, and how dare that bastard mock him with sincerity. He stepped around the cart and up to Gwaineâs face. âI can tell the two of you were very close. If there was any other wayâŠâ He shook his head. â...but unfortunately, there is something I must do, and I require the heart of Emrys to accomplish it.â
There was no strength, no passion, no vigor left in his bones to so much as glare hatefully at Terrowin, no matter how much he may have wished to.
âCammon.â Terrowin beckoned to the reedy bandit from before, the one who had gagged him. âRemove your belt. Let the man have his final words.â
âWeâre killing him then, sir?â asked Allard, the one who had been torturing Merlin back when Gwaine first woke up, and his voice lifted with far too much eagerness.
Terrowin nodded. âDo you see the look in his eyes, Allard? Give him a few days, and heâll be hunting us down. And if that servant was as close to his master as rumors tell, then the entire Round Table will come after our heads in a manner of days. Heâs seen our faces, heard our names - if we let him live, itâll be that much easier for the king to track us down.â An appraising glance. âAnd besides, it seems death will be a needed mercy for him.â
Merlinâs hands continued to twitch post-mortem. His face slackened. His ribs remained cracked open and ajar, like a door with its hinges blasted off.
The bandit whoâd gagged Gwaine all those fatal millennia ago, Cammon, once more reached for his face, this time to unlatch the belt and remove it from his jaws.
âFeel free to speak your final words,â Terrowin said, chest puffed and face drawn as though he were somehow noble, somehow gracious, for bestowing this honour upon an undeserving Gwaine. And he may have been onto something with the undeserving part, but that didnât make this an honour.
He would die here, miserably, chained to a tree, with Merlinâs ravaged body the last thing heâd ever see. Never would he avenge Merlin, never would Terrowin earn his comeuppance at the karmic hands of justice.
Merlin died as he had lived: suffering the short end of some cosmic tragedy.
Gwaine would die as he lived too: failing the people he loved.
The taste of leather lingered in his saliva. He spat it into Terrowinâs face. Though he couldnât strike Terrowin through the heart and put Merlinâs back into his chest, he could make this process as difficult as possible. He could pray Arthur pulled his head out of his arse long enough to grant these bandits merciless vengeance.
Would Arthur give his knight and servant public funerals in the courtyard, like heâd done with Lancelot? Would Gwen weep at their pyres? Merlin, sure. He was liked. He was loved. Everyone in the castle knew his name, for better or worse. But would anyone care about a drunk, shoddy excuse for a knight? He was inclined to think not. The only person who even remotely liked him had just been gored out through the chest, after all.
Grimacing, Terrowin staggered backwards, wiped the spit off his face - now stained red as it mingled with splotches of blood - and flicked it into the grass. A few flecks splattered onto Gwaineâs boots. âMake it quick, Allard.â
Allard stepped forward, brandished his dagger. The same dagger he had used to cut up Merlinâs chest, the same dagger still crusted with half-dry blood. âWith pleasure,â he said, smiling wolfishly. Allard reared back his arm and prepared to strike.
But before Gwaine could gather his remaining stamina for one final struggle, a raspy breath rattled the air. â...n-noâŠâ
That voice - it was - but no - it couldnât be -
There, on the cart, limbs still bound and chest still gaping, was none other than Merlin. And his eyes were open.
If Gwaine wasnât so preoccupied with the morbid relief swelling like air in his lungs, he would have noticed Terrowinâs face turn pale and gaunt.
Those pained, raspy breaths - Merlinâs breaths - continued to tussle the breeze around them, humidifying the very air with their desperate agony. âL...l-leave...h...him...alon-ne.â
His lips were moving. His eyes were frantically unfocused as they locked gaze with Gwaine. His chest, torn as it was, sputtered like a dying flame.
He was alive. In immeasurable pain, but alive. Gwaine didnât even bother asking how it was possible, for fear that his doubt might prevent it from being real.
The bandits, however, did not share this sentiment.
âH-howâŠ?â Allard didnât have his usual sadistic, cocky smirk anymore. That alone almost made everything worth it.
Terrowin spoke over him, took a few hesitant steps away from Merlinâs reanimated corpse. âI knew the legends, but didnât think they were true. That...that Emrys is...immortal. It sounded like an old druid myth. It couldnât be true. But...â
Momentarily snapping out of his spooked trance, Allard reached a hasty knife in Gwaineâs direction. âThen letâs make this quick and get out of here, boss.â
But the knife never struck Gwaine. It never even came close. Before Gwaine could even register that Allard was about to kill him in the first place, a cacophony of grotesque snapping noises rent the air.
In unison, all the banditsâ heads flipped backwards in an unnatural, sickly manner, and their now glassy-eyed bodies all crumpled to the ground at once.
Merlin - who was still alive, or recently back from the dead, Gwaine didnât care beyond the fact that he wasnât dead - had his hand stretched taut against his leather binding, hand straining to maintain a tight, angry fist.
And his eyes. Oh lord, his eyes.
Gwaine had seen sorcerers before. Heâd seen all manner of magic and monster, and had grown accustomed to that familiar swirl of gold whenever a spell was cast. He had long since trained himself to recognize it as a sign of impending danger - because sorcerers always seemed to be targeting Camelot for some reason or other - but when Merlinâs eyes flared to life so magnificently as a glittering sunrise, Gwaine felt nothing of that usual threat.
No. Vision swimming with the hues of Merlinâs auspice eyes, Gwaineâs frazzled nerves were awash with nothing but peace. Love. Hope.
This. This. This, right here, consuming his bones and pricking at the deadened parts of his soul with all the compassionate warmth the world had to offer, was Merlin. Pure, undiluted Merlin.
But just as his heart, his skin, his very bones craved for more, more, more of that wondrous feeling, it receded under Merlinâs drooping eyelids.
âNo no no no,â Gwaine cried out, voice too hoarse to manage any tangible volume. He tugged more at the chains, but they still refused to budge. And why was it that Merlin always helped him, but he was useless in returning the favour in a way that mattered?
His eyes were closed, but he wasnât dead. His chest was gaping open, but he wasnât dead. His ribs, though they frothed crimson with every wheezing breath, were still expanding and contracting. Gwaine had to hold onto that. Had to let the reality of the situation ground him.
Merlin just got his heart scooped out with a presumably enchanted dagger. Merlin died for a bit, but came back to life for unknown reasons, possibly relating to immortality. Merlin used magic to kill their captors before they could kill Gwaine too. For some reason, Merlin didnât use this same powerful magic to free himself before they could cut out his heart.
(Gwaine tried not to think about Merlinâs resigned, almost hopeful acceptance when Terrowin said the words, âWith this blade you can finally be put out of your misery. Thatâs what you want, isnât it?â)
But above all, Merlin was alive. That was the part that mattered. And if he truly was immortal like Terrowin had claimed, then he would stay that way.
Gwaine took in a deep breath, dug his nails into his palm. Arthur and Leonâs snappish voices rang out in his mind in tandem. âA knight must always remain calm, especially in the face of danger.â âIf youâre captured, do everything you can to escape.â âNever trust a sorcerer.â
Well that last bit of advice was rancid, but the rest of it was fairly solid. Mainly, the first bit. Remain calm.
First order of business - get out of these chains. Then - get Merlin out of his chains. After that - figure out how to stuff Merlinâs heart back into his chest and stitch him up. Lastly - get Merlin far away from Camelot and magic-hating knights. Maybe take him to some distant land where sorcerers werenât hated and killed. Start a new life for themselves. Maybe fall in lo-
Chains. Start with chains.
Well, he didnât have the keys on him, and there werenât any within his immediate sight, which meant heâd have to improvise. Think, think, think...aha.
Gwaine edged his splattered boot near one of the corpses, nudged his heel against the knife laying uselessly at its side, pinned the knife to the ground, and dragged it towards him.
âJust wait a moment, Merlin,â Gwaine husked, gaze flitting back and forth between the knife and the sorcerer. âThen weâll fix you up like brand new, how does that sound?â
He couldâve sworn Merlin whimpered in lieu of a reply, but he could have just as easily been hearing things. He kept dragging the knife towards him.
When the knife ran into a tree, he tried to lean down and pick it up - but to dismay, the chains had him bound too tightly to allow such an action. So, gingerly, Gwaine pressed the knife against the base of the tree and began the ever so careful endeavour of dragging up the side of the trunk. All the while, rasping out weary-throated assurances and half-hearted jokes to Merlin. If Merlin even heard them, he would never know.
After too long, too damn long, the knife entered his reach, and he gripped his fingers around it judiciously. And then began the hard part: using his newly acquired knife to pick away at the bark rubbing into his back. The logic being with less bark, the chains would have less volume pulling them taut, and would therefore loosen up a bit - hopefully giving him just enough leeway to squeeze out.
By the time Gwaine chipped away enough tree gunk to start shimmying the chains down his torso, the sky had streaks of sunset the exact same near-black shade as the gaping maw Merlin called a chest.
Merlin himself didnât speak much during that long hour, mostly just coughed up a few sprays of blood onto his already bloody lips, and maybe wheezed out the occasional platitude if he was feeling particularly energetic.
Well, when he wasnât so busy apologizing, that is. To Gwaine, of all people. And how backwards was that, for Merlin to apologize to the one person who should have been apologizing to him? After all, it was Gwaineâs fault they were stuck in this situation. His fault for not protecting Merlin better.
A mother, being comforted by her child, who broke everything he touched.
His skin practically groaned in relief when those harsh metal chains no longer pressured into him. But as much as he would have liked to stretch his arms and pop his shoulders and run a quick victory lap around the field of twisted necks, he couldnât.
Merlin, though inexplicably immortal, was still in pain. That much was obvious from his many gasps and wheezes and unintelligible half-murmurs. So lessening his pain was first on the itinerary.
Gingerly Gwaine stepped out of the chains, tried not to cringe as their harsh iron rattling grated on his ears, tried not to let his wobbly legs collapse, and hurried to Merlinâs side.
And promptly vomited all over the grass.
The blood was everywhere. On the cart, in Merlinâs hair, in the grass, in the goddamn air if he breathed it in for too long. Merlin himself was barely discernible in the mess, just a half-clotted silhouette of trembling limbs tied to the cart, stretching his not-corpse into a disparate star. Beside Merlin, a pile of flesh. Merlinâs flesh, skived out of his body like fat from a ham. And like a scab torn open, at the center of all this chaotic redness was a deep, raw chasm. But unlike a scab, this chasm had blood-slick ribs protruding from either side of it, and if he looked close enough he could see two hyperventilating lungs framing a grotesque vacancy between them.
And what did that vacancy belong to but the fistful of congealed muscle lying haphazardly beside Terrowinâs body, having tumbled out of his hands when he fell.
Merlinâs voice came out as tuft of wind. â...Gwaine? ..whatâŠâre...y-you...doingâŠ?â
Gwaine wiped bile from his lips, forcing his hands away from his shaking knees, shoving the burn of acid down his throat. Focus. Focus. Merlin needed him to focus, dammit.
âHey, Merlin,â Gwaine said. He clenched his fingers to keep them steady as they momentarily stroked down Merlinâs scarlet-spattered cheek. âIâm here. Iâm here, Merlin. Youâll be alright. Iâll fix you up just fine, donât you worry. You hear me, Merlin?â
Merlinâs head just limped from side to side. Whatever emotion he was trying to express, he was far too weak to do so.
With his own arms free from the chains, Gwaine was able to steal a knife from one of the bandits and use it to break the bindings around his friendâs ankles and wrists. Merlinâs limbs curled into his body out of relief from the strain, but aside from that and a weak moan he remained unresponsive.
It was hard to move Merlin without jostling his exposed ribs, and ultimately Gwaineâs attempts were met with failure, but he still had to try. If he couldnât eliminate Merlinâs pain, he could at least minimize it.
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