[fic] The Ivy Crown, 2a/9
Aug. 20th, 2011 05:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
da_ya_riThe Journey
On the morning they set out to ride north, Gwaine had a headache.
It was probably because of those seventh and eighth casks of ale he'd drunk last night; but it wasn't his fault the Rising Sun purchased their drinks from the best brewers in the land. And given the fact that he still didn't know exactly where they were headed and why, it might be a long time until they came across the next half-decent tavern, and so he had figured that it'd be best to get drunk while he still had the chance.
The morning sunlight hurt his eyes when he walked out into the courtyard, but he still tilted back his head to look up at the clear blue sky—they'd had more and more sunny days during the past month, and the sunlight got progressively warmer as spring spread all over the land. A good day for hunting, and an even better day for traveling—ideal conditions, since they were setting out to do both.
All around him, the courtyard was bustling with activity. Horses were led to the far wall, some of them already saddled, and Gwaine spotted Llamrei, Arthur's favorite chestnut mare. She kept tossing her head in excitement, obviously thrilled at being away from the stables, and a harried-looking servant was doing his best to steady her while another boy hefted saddle bags onto her back.
Arthur himself wasn't there yet, but Leon caught his eye from the other side of the courtyard and gave him a nod. Gwaine waved back in greeting, noticing that Leon was talking to Merlin, next to what was most likely one of the two packhorses they were going to take with them. It seemed like they were debating the ideal position of a lumpy bag on the horse's back. He also recognized some of the other knights' horses, with saddlebags and bedrolls already on their backs—Gwaine had woken up to find many of his clothes mysteriously gone from the small cupboard he kept them in, and belatedly realized that a servant had probably done the packing for him. That thought felt wrong somehow, because he'd never had anyone doing things like that for him since he'd been a child, but he figured that it was just one of the numerous things that a knight of Camelot had to get used to.
And apparently, going on strange quests was another of those things. When the first rumors had begun to trickle in a month ago, shortly after that disastrous feast which that odd visitor had barged into, Gwaine hadn't thought much of them. Merchants from the north had been the first to talk of strange occurrences that were taking place in the area near the coast, but although the king had developed the habit of summoning the army to the citadel even at the most insubstantial rumors about magic, he had done nothing this time.
But two weeks ago, messengers from the Northern Plains had arrived, asking for an audience. Leon had overseen their daily training that day because Arthur was shut up in the dusty council chamber discussing whatever news they had brought. Puzzled, Gwaine and Percival had gone to the tavern that night with the intention of plying the messengers with enough wine to get them to rely their news to them, but it had taken barely a bit of poking and prodding to get them to talk. Camelot had few vassals and potential allies in the Northern Plains, which made them all the more valuable, and apparently, some of them had ended up mysteriously dead.
There was something more to it, Gwaine was sure—the look of ingrained, exhausted fear in the messengers' eyes had told him as much. He'd exchanged a meaningful look with Percival, who had been busy fending off the advances of two busty barmaids who seemed very impressed with his muscly bulk and bright blue eyes, if their tittering and the smoldering, seductive gazes were anything to go by. But Gwaine just bought the messengers another round of drinks in the hopes of making them forget whatever was troubling them, and left Percival to ward off the two women, studiously ignoring the wordless plea for help in his eyes. They had been staying at Camelot for the better part of four months, and in Gwaine's opinion it had been high time that Percival gave in to the numerous advances that the female population had made towards him since he'd arrived.
And now they were setting out into the Northern Plains, on the king's orders, although Arthur had argued long and hard that he, at least, should be staying at Camelot and leave the knights to investigate the noblemen's deaths on their own. The prince had gotten quite good at persuasion since Cenred's attack on Camelot, and Gwaine knew that he had often dissuaded his father from rash actions, such as sending his army barging into Mercia because King Bayard's latest letter seemed to contain veiled designs on his kingdom. But as surprisingly willing as Uther had been to listen to his son in the past few months, he had been stubborn in this, and so Arthur was coming along with them despite his protests.
"Sir Gwaine?" somebody suddenly said from behind him, startling him out of his thoughts, and Gwaine turned around with an amicable grin—hearing that 'sir' attached to his name never got old.
A stablehand was walking towards him, leading a blindingly white stallion that violently objected to being led at all—it kept prancing to the side and tossing its head, and the boy was hanging on to the bridle with both hands, trying to direct its meandering steps in Gwaine's general direction. It was already saddled and bridled, and sure enough, Gwaine recognized folds of his missing clothes peeking out between the neat folds of a bedroll.
He stared at the horse. The horse stared back. He recognized it well enough now—it had been a gift from a visiting lord who had come to stick his nose into Camelot's business while they'd still been busy repairing the most superficial of the damage that Lady Morgana's reign had done. Gwaine had never seen it ridden so far, mostly because whoever dared to mount the white stallion found themselves lying in the dirt a few seconds later, with a bruised ego and an even more bruised backside.
"This is Gryngolet, sir," the boy said, stroking a hand over the horse's nose. Gryngolet promptly bumped his head into the stablehand's chest, nearly toppling him backwards. "The prince says you're to ride him."
"Great, thanks," Gwaine replied, although he felt the grin slip from his features. It was anything but great, but it wasn't the stablehand's fault that Arthur had chosen to finally take his revenge on Gwaine for nearly besting him in the training grounds a week ago. He knew that many noblemen would simply order the boy to fetch him another horse, probably not without mocking the way he was now clinging to Gryngolet's reins in an attempt to keep him still. But Gwaine hadn't really been too keen on being a nobleman since his father's death, and so he just took a deep breath and gave the boy a nod, intent on facing this challenge that Arthur had provided him with.
Across the courtyard, Merlin was securing the straps that kept their baggage on the packhorse's back. Sure enough, that horse never batted an eye, snuffling along the hem of Merlin's shirt in search of treats and standing as still as stone. It wasn't all that weighed down anyway, since none of the knights were going to take along their armor—they wore the sturdy clothes that they usually put on for hunting. Rumor had it that the prince and the king had had a lengthy argument about that, one of the first since the battle against Cenred, and it seemed to Gwaine that Arthur had argued his point more vigorously than normal, although he was probably just glad that his father even focused his attention for long enough to quarrel with him. The king had relented at last, and agreed to let them ride with only the protection of the vambraces they normally wore for hunting. Arthur wanted to keep a low profile, in case spies from Mercia were just as curious about the sudden, seemingly systematic deaths of Camelot's potential northern vassals.
He passed a swift look around the busy courtyard, but Arthur wasn't there yet, and it seemed that his headache was receding a little, alleviated by what little food he'd hastily choked down this morning. Perfect. "Hold him steady for a moment," he told the stablehand, stepping forward to take a hold of Gryngolet's saddle. The stallion took a step to the side, snorting dangerously, but Gwaine just moved with him, and, deciding to take his steed by surprise, swung himself up into the saddle with a fluid movement.
Gryngolet snorted again, but this time it sounded disdainful. He was larger than he'd looked from the ground, and Gwaine had just enough time to think that he'd make a fine warhorse if someone trained him properly. Then Gryngolet reared up, pulling out of the stablehand's precarious hold on his bridle, and before Gwaine could so much as make a grab for the reins, he found himself toppling off the stallion's back, his backside colliding with the cobblestone with a dull thump.
He remained sitting on the ground for a moment, staring up at the horse and the boy in slightly stunned silence; the stablehand wisely said nothing, but turned away to readjust the saddlebags. Getting up with a pained groan, Gwaine patted the dust off of his trousers, ignoring the painful throb in his hip—he'd be damned if he didn't manage to get on that horse before Arthur arrived.
"If that's how you want it, the game is on," he told the stallion, who stood demurely still as the stablehand once more grabbed hold of the reins, but Gwaine could see the devious glint in the one eye that was turned towards him. He found himself beginning to grin, despite the ache in his butt—Gryngolet would make a fine warhorse indeed. He wasn't skittish, he wouldn't shy from a band of brigands coming at his rider and roaring for blood. Gwaine just had to convince him to actually follow his lead.
The stablehand gave him a doubtful look when Gwaine gripped the saddle once more, briefly brushing his other hand along the horse's flank. He hadn't been mistaken—Gryngolet's head might be bowed low, but Gwaine could feel the tension thrumming through his muscles, waiting to explode once more. His first fall had drawn the attention of various onlookers, and he could see Elyan watching him warily from where he was securing his bedroll to his own horse's back.
With a grin towards his fellow knight, Gwaine mounted the horse again, shoving his foot into the other stirrup even as he took up the reins and nodded at the stablehand. The boy stepped back, looking torn between relief and concern—it couldn't have been easy to care for such a temperamental horse, especially when no one actually took it out for a good run once in a while to let it blow off some steam. Just settling down in the saddle felt like perching precariously on a volcano; Gryngolet was trembling beneath Gwaine's weight, as though he was thoroughly enraged at the audacity of his rider having mounted him a second time.
This time, though, Gwaine was ready, and closed his legs tightly around the stallion's bulk when Gryngolet started to buck. He grabbed fistfuls of the flying white mane in front of him, well aware how painful the bit of the bridle would pull at the horse's mouth if he tried to rein him in now, and just held on for dear life. Gryngolet pranced a few steps to the side, his loud, indignant whinny bouncing off the walls of the courtyard when he reared up onto his hind legs. Gwaine gritted his teeth, squeezing his knees around the horse's shoulders when his hooves came back down on the cobblestone with a clatter.
But the stallion hadn't reared up very high, as though the solid bulk of Gwaine's weight already told him that this was a rider he couldn't dislodge that easily. He snorted and tossed his large head, effectively yanking his mane out of Gwaine's grasp, but Gwaine tugged on the reins—not hard, merely in warning—and the horse jumped beneath him as if startled. Gwaine thought briefly that nobody had stayed in Gryngolet's saddle for long enough to admonish him, and he leaned forward to pat the white neck in reassurance. That startled the stallion even more, and he came to a complete stand-still, his ears moving nervously as though trying to assess what his new rider would do next.
Gwaine grinned appreciatively—it was only a small victory, and he was sure he'd fight many more battles with the horse until he eventually managed to gain its trust. But it was a start, and when Arthur chose that exact moment to emerge from the castle, he mentally patted himself on the back for having dealt with his supposed revenge.
The prince strode down the stairs, his assessing gaze traveling across the courtyard. He didn't quite pause when he saw Gwaine mounted safely on his still perplexed steed, but Gwaine could see the surprise in his eyes even from this far away, and it widened his grin. Leon approached him, probably to tell him that the packhorses were ready and they were all set to ride out; Gwaine's eyes briefly sought and found Merlin, who was slipping what looked like a lump of sugar between one of the packhorse's soft lips.
Elyan had already mounted his horse, as well as the two squires they'd be taking with them. Arthur had explained their route to them a week ago, but the details were a bit fuzzy in Gwaine's memory—he'd been nursing a hangover at the time. All he remembered was that they were going to split up when they reached the Northern Plains; Elyan, Percival and the squires were to ride east to check on the nobles there, while Arthur and the rest of them would head further north. After a long trek through hilly marshland, the two groups were set to meet up again near the Mercian border.
Arthur walked over to Llamrei, briefly touching her nose in greeting before he bent to check the fit of the saddlebags. There was a clatter of noise to Gwaine's right, and he turned just in time to see Percival hurry into the courtyard, looking annoyed and decidedly flustered, like he'd overslept. Gwaine recalled the smoldering gaze that the barmaid had fixed on his fellow knight last night at the tavern, and got the feeling that he knew why. Percival wasted no time in climbing on his horse, though, a black steed that was even larger than Gryngolet, but rather docile in nature.
Gwaine risked a quick glance up at the windows, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sunlight—the glass was reflecting the light, and he couldn't tell if he'd caught sight of movement in the king's chambers or if he'd just imagined it. At any rate, Uther wasn't coming down into the courtyard to wish his son a safe journey. Gwaine hadn't expected him to, but he could tell that Arthur had, if the way his eyes kept straying towards his father's window were any indication.
He looked over to the wooden door at the top of the stairs on the far side of the courtyard, just in time to see Lancelot step out of the corridor, blinking against the sunlight. He held the door open and Gwen emerged as well, wearing a troubled expression—she put her hand on Lancelot's arm to hold him back, and he turned to her again. Gwaine couldn't hear their conversation over the general din of clattering hooves and the chatter of servants' voices in the courtyard, but Gwen looked worried and entreating at once; her hand was still on Lancelot's arm, and Gwaine guessed that she was telling him to return safely.
Their heads bent close to one another for a moment, and Gwaine saw Lancelot's hand come up to cover Gwen's fingers in reassurance. Then he bowed to her, and even from this distance, Gwaine could see the faint flush staining Gwen's cheeks even as her features broke out into a reluctant smile—trust Lancelot's courtly manners to fluster her enough to dispel her anxiety for the moment.
Lancelot walked down the steps, looking like he was doing his best to refocus his thoughts, and Gwen's eyes remained on him for a moment longer before she turned her searching gaze to the courtyard. She stepped forward as though to move down the steps as well, her expression going tight and slightly guilty, and Gwaine wasn't surprised when his eyes landed on Arthur's strategically turned back when he followed her gaze.
It seemed like Arthur was just checking the fit of Llamrei's saddle, one hand braced on her neck, but his shoulders seemed a little too tense, his stance a bit too stiff to be genuine. Gwaine sighed, and gently urged Gryngolet forward when Arthur abruptly swung himself up onto his mare's back. The stallion obeyed without much fussing, although he did toss his head imperiously, as though to say that even if he was behaving right now, more insubordination was in store for Gwaine soon.
Merlin was hurriedly climbing atop his horse as well, grunting with the effort of lifting himself up into the saddle unaided—he usually perched on a random footstool, and the display of utterly graceless horsemanship made Gwaine smile again.
"All set?" he asked as Merlin tied the packhorse's reins to his saddle—as the only servant on their quest, it would be his duty to look after their share of the supplies. One of the squires was already leading the other packhorse to the drawbridge. The servants hadn't packed much, just a bag with emergency field rations and another with salves and remedies for sprained muscles by the court physician. They were held in place by bundles of sturdy cloth that they would put up between tree branches to ward off eventual rain at night—a tent would have been too heavy, and they wanted to keep a low profile anyway. And as far as Gwaine recalled the map Arthur had shown them, they'd pass through a couple of villages on their way—as long as they didn't dally, they weren't going to run out of taverns to sleep in.
"Sure," Merlin replied, although his gaze returned to the packhorse and stayed there, like he was mentally reviewing everything he'd bound to its back to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. At the same time, Arthur rode past them on Gwaine's other side, the clatter of Llamrei's hooves echoing off the walls enclosing the courtyard. Merlin took a deep breath when Arthur had passed them, urging his horse to follow, although just a second ago he'd studiously avoided meeting the prince's eyes at all.
Gwaine sighed again. He might be relatively new to Camelot, but the increase in avoided eye contact and quickly-hidden glances among his friends and fellow knights hadn't passed him by. Gwen was alternating between avoiding Arthur and trying to seek him out, causing Lancelot to speak to his prince with even more careful deference than usual. Merlin seemed to stubbornly stick to Arthur's side like a burr most of the time although the prince lately didn't seem to appreciate his presence all that much. And Arthur was doing his best to avoid all three of them. At this rate, the journey would provide some welcome relief from being shut up inside the castle walls with a bunch of people who had spent the past month tiptoeing around each other.
As if he'd heard Gwaine's thoughts, Arthur called for them to ride out, and Gwaine urged Gryngolet into motion, barely managing to keep his seat when the stallion jumped forward. He seemed just as glad that they were finally starting their journey, and so Gwaine didn't try to slow his quick trot when his hooves thundered across the wooden drawbridge.
Percival rode up to his side as they quickly made their way through the lower town, shooting him a morose glare of betrayed trust. Gwaine just grinned back, recalling how he'd once more left his fellow knight at the barmaid's mercy the night before—but well, it had been that or breaking a rib trying not to laugh at how helpless Percival had seemed in the face of the woman's attentions. The way he saw it, Gwaine had left merely to preserve Percival's pride.
His amusement must have been plainly written across his features, because Percival rolled his eyes and looked away, clearly still cross with him, although Gwaine knew he'd been forgiven.
He shortened the reins a little to keep Gryngolet from barging into Lancelot's horse in his excitement at being outside. It was still early, and although it was market day, the people in the lower town had barely begun to set up their stands so that no flocks of tarrying customers hindered their way. Gwaine spared a brief look at the outlying fields when they passed the city walls, at the sprawling grass that was just waiting to be grazed by sheep. The forest was looming just beyond, the bright green of new leaves already changing into the darker hue that came with much sunlight and rain, a sure sign that spring was well under way. Even this early, the sun was already warm on his back, the previous headache almost forgotten, and Arthur led them on the road leading north.
They didn't stop to rest until the sun was high in the sky, and even then, Arthur barely allowed them enough of a break to wolf down some field rations. Gwaine didn't mind, though—they had reached the Darkling Woods already, with the horses well-rested and eager after the long winter mostly spent in the stables. It was nice to sit in the shade under the oaks and eat, but even nicer to wrestle his weight back up onto Gryngolet and move on.
Morning mist was still hovering beneath the trees, a last remnant of early spring, but although he had pushed them to a rather quick pace in the morning, Arthur now allowed them to slow down; Gwaine guessed that he wanted them to stay in the woods until the sun had passed its zenith. Summer was not increasing the sun's warmth to sweltering heat just yet, with Beltane still several weeks away, but even in the shady forest, it got quite warm. Gwaine eventually took off his coat and draped it over Gryngolet's left saddlebag, and the horse retaliated by pulling the reins through his hands. He thought he heard a quickly-smothered chuckle somewhere from his left, but when Gwaine looked to the side, still rubbing his sore palms, Elyan was studiously looking straight ahead.
It felt good to be on the road again—as comfortable as life was in Camelot, it was odd to wake up in the same bed each morning. Come to think of it, it was odd to wake up in a bed at all. Gwaine figured that that was what people meant when they talked about home, and the steady routine of getting up in time for drills each morning did make him feel safe and sheltered in a way. But after a while it had begun to chafe just slightly, a restless itch building under his skin as the last of the snow melted and the sun began to coax the countryside back to hesitant green life. He simply wasn't used to staying in the same place for so long, he'd never been the type to settle down, and now he was just glad to be doing something, to leave the oppressive city walls for the sprawling meadows of late spring.
But all in all, Gwaine was rather surprised by how much he enjoyed being a knight of Camelot, and it wasn't just the Rising Sun's connections to the kingdom's best breweries that made him stay. Arthur had turned out to be quite a nice chap as well, if one looked past his ego and at the steady, unflinching bravery beneath. Nobility was still not something Gwaine would ever bow to, but courage was something he understood and respected—not that he'd ever tell the prince. And besides, it was fun to brush up his swordsmanship with the other knights, tease Percival about how many interested female gazes came to rest on him during an average day, or watch Lancelot flush and sputter a decline when Gwaine invited him for a drink and some fun with the barmaids.
And so Gwaine had figured he'd stick around for a while, if only because Merlin seemed to like his company—and for some reason, Merlin had been walking around with a face like a thundercloud these past two months. Well, Arthur had been walking around with a face like a thundercloud—Merlin's was more like a raincloud, come to think of it. A raincloud that the sun kept trying to break through in bouts of forced cheer that fooled no one whenever Gwaine asked him what was wrong.
His eyes came to rest on Merlin on its own accord, and he frowned despite himself. Merlin was riding right behind Arthur, the packhorse trudging along next to him, but it was his expression that caught Gwaine's eye. His gaze was so intensely focused on Arthur's back that Gwaine half expected the prince's coat to catch fire any second, his features drawn tight with nervousness, as though he was hoping for Arthur to call him to his side.
But Merlin wasn't the best of riders, and his horse kept starting forward on occasion, urged on by the clumsy press of his heels to its flanks. From the various hunts the knights had been on during the past few months, Gwaine knew Llamrei to be an exceptionally patient mare, but she still shied slightly whenever Merlin's horse nearly bumped into her, tossing her head in obvious indignation when Arthur reined her back in.
It was fairly odd to watch, the back-and-forth change between Merlin's tries to get his horse as close to Llamrei as possible and his contrite expression whenever she darted forward. Gwaine could see Arthur's hands tighten progressively on the reins when they rounded a bend in the forest trail; a muscle in his cheek twitched, the only sign of mounting irritation in his otherwise stony expression. But for a long while, he didn't say anything, as if he wanted to give Merlin the chance to stop urging his horse forward by himself.
Finally, though, Llamrei jumped forward like she'd had enough, breaking into a brief trot before Arthur slowed her back down. "Back off, Merlin, would you," he snapped, without so much as turning to look over his shoulder; his tone struck Gwaine as unreasonably harsh, something more than mere irritation hidden beneath the words.
"Yes, sire," Merlin said, subdued, and Gwaine caught sight of his expression as he fell back a little to give Arthur more room. It was just a brief glimpse, but it was enough to see the guilt in Merlin's eyes, too sharp and pained to just be the result of a little too enthusiastic riding.
Gwaine shook his head, frowning, barely noticing that next to him, Elyan's confused gaze was traveling back and forth between Merlin and Arthur as well. Gryngolet snorted in protest when Gwaine's heels met his flanks, but he quickened his pace with minimal fussing, although Gwaine had to hold on to the saddle when his steed jumped forward. He quickly ducked to avoid low-hanging branches as he directed Gryngolet's trot past Merlin, who gave him a quizzical look, and finally let him fall in step with Llamrei.
"Good day for a quest," he remarked airily, ignoring the wary look Arthur shot him. The surge of anger hadn't quite left the prince's eyes yet, but it was withdrawing like a wave receding from a shore.
Gwaine just gave him a sunny smile, leaning forward and out of the way of another branch—Gryngolet seemed to be doing it on purpose, keeping mostly to the side of the trail to let his rider fend off the scrape of twigs through his hair. Distraction worked best to cool inexplicably worked up tempers, Gwaine reminded himself, straightening up once more. And well, he could do that.
"Not that I object to this lovely ride," he began, carefully steering Gryngolet closer to Llamrei and away from the trees, "but I still don't understand what we're supposed to do. Some nobles kicked the bucket, fine—they weren't even in Camelot. Why should their deaths matter to us at all?"
Arthur rolled his eyes, and Gwaine suppressed a smile, feeling fairly triumphant that his strategy was already working so well. Somehow, he had an inkling that whatever had made Arthur snap at Merlin was the same thing that had been locking him into an irritable, brooding silence for the past few months. And frankly, if he were Arthur, he'd have gotten heartily sick of giving himself premature wrinkles with that constant frown he wore, and Gwaine felt honor-bound to help him turn that frown upside down, if only for a short while.
"Well, they were still potential allies, and it does matter if Camelot's future northern vassals die one by one," Arthur replied, with the sort of patience that Gwaine had heard him use in the training grounds whenever a young knight was being particularly dense. "Besides, the Northern Plains are a strategically valuable region, with their coast lines and mountainous terrain. We've been building those alliances for years."
Gwaine frowned, not quite seeing what Arthur was getting at. He just wasn't good at understanding this whole diplomacy thing. "But Camelot just won a war, King Cenred is dead and I know that you've been sending out patrols to push the border further into Escetia," he pointed out. "Even without those vassals, I don't think there's any king who'd be stupid enough to attack you now."
"Don't be so sure," Arthur said, his face darkening again. "We're not the only ones who've been securing what used to be Cenred's lands for ourselves. Mercia is doing the same—actually, some of our patrols came back reporting skirmishes with Bayard's forces. He's just as eager to extend his kingdom."
Maybe it was unconscious, born of years of habit, but Arthur was talking loudly enough for Merlin, who was riding along behind them, to understand every word. From the corner of his eye, Gwaine could see that Merlin was listening intently, unconsciously pushing his horse forward and dangerously close to Llamrei's swishing tail again. Arthur still looked troubled, but Gwaine thought he didn't seem as snappish and irritated anymore, and so he counted it as a victory anyway.
"My father thinks that it's Bayard who's killing off those nobles to weaken our northern flank, or maybe just to distract us so we'll leave Escetia to him," Arthur said after a pause. Suddenly, Gwaine became acutely aware of the utter silence behind them, broken only by the dull thumps of the horses' hooves on the ground and the creaking of leather when someone shifted in their saddle. It seemed like the rest of the knights were listening too, intent on finding out more about their quest as well.
"That's why we're being stealthy, riding without armor and all," Gwaine concluded, feeling a few of the tumbling puzzle pieces in his head fall into place. "So that even if Bayard sent spies into the Northern Plains, they won't know Camelot is investigating the vassals' deaths."
"Exactly," Arthur replied, but it sounded absent, like he was still mulling over something else he had said. Gwaine thought of the argument that the king and the prince had had about the thing with the armor, and got the feeling that maybe it hadn't been the only time Arthur and his father had quarreled over the past few months.
"And what do you think?" Gwaine pressed; he wasn't going to let him off the hook this quickly. "What's going on with those dead people?"
Arthur sighed, and suddenly, the inexplicably cross expression from before was back, as though Gwaine had never taken his mind off of whatever Merlin must have done to irritate him. "I don't know," he said, glaring straight ahead into the forest as if it was the trees' fault. His voice was quieter when he continued, though, and Gwaine thought that for some reason he sounded reluctant, like he knew that everyone was listening to their conversation and didn't really want to divulge this piece of information just yet. "The locals have reported strange, probably magical occurrences in connection with the vassals' deaths. The messengers didn't state it outright, but—"
"They didn't want the whole army to come swooping down on their heads," Gwaine finished for him when Arthur paused for too long, nodding, and pretended not to notice the way Arthur's hands tightened on the reins. He wisely said nothing more, well aware that even away from the confines of the castle, the king's recent affinity for rash decisions—and Arthur's struggle to stay his hand—was a subject that was best not talked about.
Merlin was ominously silent behind them. Well, he'd been silent all along, but the hush seemed strained now, like he wanted to say something but barely managed to hold his tongue. His eyes were fixed on Arthur's back when Gwaine risked another glance in his direction, almost as though he was silently asking Arthur why he hadn't told him about that yet.
Gwaine cleared his throat. "Well, my sovereign liege," he said, in as solemn a tone as he could manage while doing his best to bow to Arthur while sitting in a saddle, "lead the way to Sir Whatshisface's abode, and I shall loyally follow—"
"Sir Ricbert, if you please" Arthur interrupted, but the stern look he'd schooled his face into was undermined by the minute twitching of his mouth. Someone snorted behind them, and Arthur rolled his eyes.
Gwaine just shrugged amicably, though, and tightened his hold on Gryngolet's reins to get him to slow down again. The stallion retaliated by stepping viciously into a large, muddy puddle of late spring rain that had collected on the trail, and Gwaine sighed, well aware that he'd have to brush the brown spots of mud from the horse's coat by the end of the day. He'd probably get kicked a lot for his efforts, too.
But when he'd fallen back into his earlier position at Elyan's side, Arthur's back didn't seem quite as ramrod straight anymore. Moreover, his shoulders looked outright relaxed as opposed to their earlier tightness, and Gwaine grinned, congratulating himself on a job well done.
All in all, Merlin figured that the spectacular tumble he took from his horse's back must have looked pretty funny, and so he didn't feel all too miffed at the quickly-smothered chuckle from behind him.
He groaned and rolled over onto his back, gingerly moving his arms and legs, but nothing seemed to be broken or even particularly bruised. Sitting up slowly, he saw that he'd conveniently fallen onto a patch of grass, and that his horse was looking at him with what he thought seemed like an apologetic expression. He'd just meant to dismount, but somehow his foot had gotten caught in the stirrup and he'd overbalanced and slid out of the saddle to land in a sprawl of limbs.
"All right?" somebody inquired from above, and Merlin squinted upwards to see Leon standing next to him, looking just as apologetic as the horse—it was probably him who'd let that single chuff of laughter escape before getting a hold on himself.
"Yeah," Merlin said, and took Leon's hand to let himself be hauled back up into a standing position. He smiled at him as he dusted off his trousers. "No harm done."
Leon smiled back, obviously relieved that Merlin wasn't holding his amusement against him. He handed him the packhorse's reins, and Merlin was once again grateful to have been assigned to care for two such peaceful, complacent animals—the stablehand who'd chosen them obviously knew that he wasn't that good a rider. He'd gotten far better ever since he'd arrived at Camelot, though, especially once Arthur had actually taken the time to instruct him when he'd realized that Merlin didn't keep falling off of horses just to spite him.
He could still see it, the way the sunlight had glinted on Arthur's hair where he'd stood in the middle of one of the fields, with Merlin bouncing around awkwardly on Llamrei's back as Arthur taught him how to better shift his weight. It had been shortly after the Questing Beast, and Arthur's left-handed grip on the long rope he'd attached to Llamrei's bridle had been precarious at best. But Llamrei wasn't his favorite mare for nothing, and she patiently cantered round her master in circle after circle as Merlin's white-knuckled fingers gradually loosened their hold on her mane, his seat steadying more and more under Arthur's surprisingly patient instruction.
The thought stung, even if it was nice to remember the way Arthur had smiled at him when Merlin had finally felt confident enough to take up the reins, a little wistful and fiercely proud. It was probably the dimming evening twilight—usually he was fairly good at pushing thoughts like that out of his mind before they got the chance to stick and grow. But he was exhausted after a day spent on horseback, after all, and so Merlin allowed himself a much-needed moment to shove the memory away.
"I'll help," Leon offered when Merlin started to fumble with the straps that kept their bags on the horse's back, mercifully oblivious to what had been running through his mind. The look he gave Merlin was sympathetic, and Merlin smiled back with some difficulty—Leon probably thought he was just bruised from his fall.
They unloaded the supplies in silence, but this time it felt companionable rather than awkward; compared with the other silence he'd endured all day, it was an outright relief. The others were setting up camp, and Arthur and Percival had already ventured out into the woods to hunt for dinner. What with how Arthur had pushed them, they'd made it pretty far within the day—they had reached the northern edge of the Darkling Woods, and Merlin guessed that they were fairly close to Camelot's border by now. Their party would probably break up some time tomorrow afternoon—Percival, Elyan and the squires were supposed to stay near the border, paying visits to the vassals there, while the rest of them would venture further into the Northern Plains.
The squires had held up rather admirably throughout the day, all things considered. They were no more used to long rides than Merlin was, but they didn't look as stiff and sore as he felt. He could see them gather firewood on the other side of the small clearing they were going to sleep in, quietly chatting to each other and straightening up respectfully whenever a knight came near them. Their names were Gaheris and Dagonet, if Merlin remembered correctly, but he hadn't actually spoken to them that much. Gaheris had very courteously asked him whether he needed any help when Merlin had struggled back into the saddle after they'd paused for lunch, and Dagonet had a reputation among the servants for being a bit of a prankster, but other than that, Merlin didn't know anything about them.
Between the two of them, Leon and Merlin freed the packhorse from its baggage and the saddle; Leon expertly hobbled it to let it roam the clearing with the other horses without wandering too far away. Elyan, Lancelot and Gwaine had taken up the task of putting everyone's bedrolls in a neat circle around the freshly-crackling fire, and Merlin heard the quiet chatter of conversation drift over from their general direction. Well, they were knights, after all, but Merlin still found it a bit disheartening that he seemed to be the only one who was tired and saddle-sore.
With much rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs, Arthur and Percival returned to the clearing, each of them carrying dead rabbits. Nobody wasted any time in skinning the animals and spitting them above the fire—Merlin's stomach rumbled as the first drops of fat dripped into the fire, sizzling and gradually spreading the scent of grilled meat around the clearing. He hadn't eaten since lunch, but he hadn't really noticed how hungry he'd gotten until now.
Everyone assembled around the fire when the first two rabbits were done, perching on fallen logs that Gaheris and Dagonet had dragged into the clearing. Merlin hovered uncertainly for a moment, but finally sat down next to Leon, with Lancelot between him and Arthur. The only alternative would've been to sit on the other side of the fire, in Arthur's direct line of sight, and as tired as he was, Merlin wasn't sure if he could have dealt with that. He doubted Arthur wanted to look at him all evening anyway.
The rabbit was delicious and wonderfully filling, and Merlin kept silent during the meal, listening to the fractions of conversation that the quietude stirred up here and there. Dagonet was trying to find someone to bet against with regard to how long Gwaine would manage to stay on Gryngolet's back the next day, but although no one stepped up, Gwaine took it in good humor. Spurred on by the wineskin the knights were passing around, he told them how the stallion had thrown him in the courtyard, and Merlin smiled absently when he heard Arthur's laughter mingle with the others'.
They each went to their bedrolls after the meal, too fatigued from the long ride to stay up. Arthur took the first watch, although both Leon and Lancelot tried to dissuade him and tell him surreptitiously that he looked just as tired as everyone else and would most likely fall asleep. Gwaine just clapped Arthur on the shoulder and thanked him for nobly sacrificing his sleep for the sake of his knights, as any self-respecting crown prince should, and settled down in his bedroll, unconcerned by the halfhearted glare Arthur gave him.
Merlin was the last to stand up, and felt more than heard his bones creak in protest. He stifled a groan at the sharp stings that shot through the overworked muscles in his legs—he'd be stiff as a log tomorrow, but he certainly wasn't going to complain. Arthur remained seated, but the way he stared into the fire seemed too focused, like he was putting a conscious effort into not looking up.
If this had been just any other normal hunting trip, Arthur would have been ribbing him already for his poor horsemanship, and for a moment Merlin almost wished that Arthur would ask him again, in as mocking a tone as he pleased, if his bottom was sore. Merlin sighed at the thought, taking care not to trip over anyone else's legs as he picked his way to the opposite side of the fire. If he'd sunk low enough to wish for insults already, things were bad.
He curled up in his own bedroll, listening to the rustle of leaves and the occasional cries of nocturnal birds from the forest around them. A large waxing moon had risen above the trees, shedding a faint, blueish light over the clearing. Merlin could already hear soft snores from the squires' general direction, and from the sound of their deepening breathing, Leon and Percival were falling asleep as well on either side of him. Elyan grumbled about a rock poking him in the back and dragged his bedroll a little to the side, apparently stepping on Lancelot in the process, if the muffled exclamation of pain was anything to go by. Frantic apologies followed, at least until Gwaine declared loudly that if he had wanted to sleep amidst a noisy lot of blokes, he'd have found some bears to bed down with. There was a bit of muffled muttering from Lancelot and Elyan's direction, but the camp gradually fell silent until the nightly sounds of the forest and the crackling of the fire were the only sounds breaking the hush.
Merlin shifted, careful not to make too much noise, until the fire edged into his vision and he could see Arthur, still sitting on the log and staring at the flames as though in deep thought. The flickering light painted strange shadows on his features, and Merlin found himself silently agreeing with Leon and Lancelot—he really did look tired. Come to think of it, he had looked tired ever since Morgana's betrayal, but it seemed different out here in the forest than it had against the familiar backdrop of Camelot's citadel.
Watching the firelight glint on Arthur's hair was oddly hypnotic, and Merlin drew his blanket a little more tightly around himself when he felt the beginnings of sleep tug on his mind. He thought, somewhat absently, that Arthur's features looked just as tight and drawn as they had in the courtyard when Gwen had said goodbye to Lancelot. Merlin actually hadn't seen Arthur talk to Gwen at all since the feast—well, he greeted her courteously enough when they met in a corridor, but he didn't seem to notice the way Gwen sometimes turned to look after him, her expression conflicted and a little puzzled. She'd been talking to Lancelot a lot more too, but whether to escape Arthur's brooding silence or to simply spend time with the other knight, Merlin didn't know.
If someone had asked Merlin, he would have said that Arthur had seen the fleeting looks Gwen and Lancelot had exchanged whenever they'd run into each other during the aftermath of the war with Cenred. And Arthur had started to back off, giving Gwen the chance to turn to Lancelot because, what with the prince being the noble idiot he was, Arthur obviously thought that Lancelot was better suited to openly show that he cared for Gwen. But of course no one asked Merlin, and so he kept that thought to himself.
A glint of metal caught his attention; Arthur was lining up his knives on the log next to him, his movements methodical and absent-minded, born of routine rather than conscious thought. Like the others, he was dressed for hunting rather than battle, and so his sword was still in the leather sheath attached to Llamrei's saddle. He carried two daggers with him, though, and a larger one on the left side of his belt, as well as a small throwing knife in his right boot. Merlin smiled to himself, privately pleased that he still knew Arthur's weapons inside and out although he wasn't allowed to take care of them anymore.
Initially, Merlin had been surprised when he'd gone down to the armory and found Arthur's armor already polished and gleaming in the sunlight that trickled in through the small windows. It had been the day Arthur had finally spoken to him again, and in retrospect, Merlin felt foolish for the surge of relief that had coursed through him. If only he'd stopped to think, he would have seen that Arthur wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily—but he'd just been giddy with relief at the fact that Arthur had talked to him, even if it had just been a random order, delivered in a far harsher tone than usual.
Then he'd found out that the armorer was taking care of Arthur's weapons and armor now, by order of the prince himself, and in his hurt confusion, it had taken Merlin a few days to understand. The close-knit links of the hauberk and the metal pauldron and vambraces were often the only thing that stood between Arthur and death, and his sword, his daggers and the crossbow were his best defense against his enemies. Arthur had to be able to trust his armor and his weapons, and he was not going to leave them in the care of a sorcerer.
Just like the silence and the brooding, betrayed looks Arthur shot at him when he thought he didn't notice, Merlin had taken that particular injury and locked it away. It felt like an invisible compartment in the back of his head that got bigger as time wore on, but Merlin had stubbornly hidden the key and pretended that the orders Arthur snapped at him day after day were enough. And in a way, they had been, until Arthur had told him to attend to him at the feast and Merlin's hope had soared. Maybe Arthur would have spoken to him that evening, maybe he would have unleashed a bit of the furious hurt that Merlin saw lurking behind the impersonal flat gazes sometimes—Merlin would have welcomed it, he would gladly have endured any and all accusations Arthur might have thrown at him, because it would have been something, at least more than silence.
But then the Green Knight's arrival had shattered the surprising alertness the king had showed all evening, and from then on Merlin had known that Arthur wouldn't speak to him that day. Merlin hadn't even found it in himself to feel offended at the slam of Arthur's door in his face, since he knew what was in store for the prince now. He was going to spend the next few days trying to rouse his father from the strange absentmindedness he had fallen into once more, all the while struggling to tread lightly lest Uther flew into a fit of overblown suspicion, seeing a threat to the kingdom in every petitioner that stood before his throne.
Merlin sighed, and finally rolled over onto his other side, leaving Arthur to his silent contemplation of the flames. He just had to keep hoping, he told himself as he felt his eyelids begin to droop—their truce at Camelot had been precarious at best, but now this break in their routine was threatening to stir it all up again. He found himself welcoming it, though, because even if Arthur's hold on his self-control snapped and he shouted at him until Merlin felt like little more than a smear of treacherous dirt on the ground, it would be a step forward. And maybe, just maybe, he would be given the chance to speak then, to blurt out all the explanations and apologies that had built up inside his head over the past few weeks, once Arthur's anger had burned itself out.
The trees were swaying lazily, leaves rustling in a breeze that didn't reach down to their clearing—Merlin thought drowsily that they looked a bit like large, slightly drunk dancers, tipping clumsily back and forth. A large bird was sitting on a low-hanging branch, cocking its head to regard their camp with beady eyes; a loud crackle from the fire made it fly away, launching upwards into the night sky with a flurry of wings.
Merlin's eyes slipped shut to the memory of black feathers glossed over with moonlight, and his last conscious thought was that it hadn't looked like any of the nocturnal birds he knew before he dropped off into sleep.
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Date: 2011-08-31 07:34 am (UTC)