[fic] The Ivy Crown, 4a/9

[da_ya_ri]

Part 4
The Challenge


Initially, Merlin had almost protested when he'd been handed the reins of the packhorse on the day they'd left Camelot—he'd thought that he would have enough trouble steering one horse through the woods, let alone two. But to his own surprise, the packhorse was even more calm and obedient than the horse he'd been given by the stablehand that morning. It followed him wherever he led it, never walking all over him like Gryngolet did with Gwaine, although Merlin would have been far less capable of dealing with a stubborn horse. It faithfully nibbled on Merlin's tunic whenever he strapped their baggage onto its back, warming his chilled fingers in the morning when it nosed at his hands in search of treats.

All in all, Merlin thought that the packhorse had held up admirably during the two and a half weeks they'd been away from Camelot, carrying their luggage through rain and sunshine alike. But on the way to Maneshale, when Merlin had just begun to wonder if this blasted impenetrable thicket of a forest would ever end, there was a crack as the reins he'd tied to his saddle were suddenly pulled tight, and a startled snort from behind him.

Startled out of his unforgiving thoughts towards nature, Merlin reined in his horse and looked back over his shoulder. The packhorse was stumbling, dark eyes widened in shock as it fought not to fall under its load and whatever had caused its hooves to slip in the first place. It staggered to the side, almost straight into a tree, and finally stood still, flanks heaving with quick breaths.

Merlin was dismounting before he'd quite told his legs to move, and ended up half-sprawled on the ground even as he called out for the others to stop. He scrambled over to the horse, heedless of the thorns catching at his trousers and the branches that whipped into his face, and put a calming hand on its neck, relieved when it didn't shy away from his touch. The undergrowth crackled and rustled as the others rode back, forming as much of a half-circle around Merlin as the trees allowed.

"Is it the shoe?" Leon asked, but Merlin shook his head absently even as he bent over and urged the horse to lift its leg for him. The hoof looked fine, the shoe gleaming a little in the light that trickled in through the treetops, and still firmly in place, as far as Merlin could tell. There was nothing stuck to the sole either, and Merlin put the leg back down with a reassuring pat to the horse's shoulder.

Nobody spoke as he checked each hoof, but Merlin didn't need to see the others' faces to guess at their anxious expressions. Sure, they had Gaius' bag with ointments and herbs, but a broken foreleg was difficult to treat in the warmth and safety of Camelot's stables; out here in the forest, it would be a death sentence. They had enough supplies to treat a sprain, but even that would slow them down considerably.

He untied the reins from the saddle and urged the packhorse forward with a gentle pull on its bridle, making it walk a few paces before turning back around. It was definitely favoring a foreleg, although Merlin couldn't quite tell which one; he stopped and bent down again, carefully running his hands over the soft fur down to the left hoof.

"There's lots of rabbit holes around here," Gwaine said eventually; Merlin looked up at him for a moment and saw his eyes scanning the ground for the tell-tale dents in the grass. "It probably stepped into one."

Merlin nodded, feeling a little stupid as he touched the horse's right leg, trying to feel for bumps or swollen, heated patches—he wasn't that knowledgeable a horseman, but he thought the right leg felt a little warmer, and although the horse didn't shy from his touch, it shifted a little like it wanted to pull away. "It's probably just a sprained muscle," he stated as he straightened back up, smiling slightly at the collective sigh of relief that echoed around the clearing.

"You can go ahead while I make a poultice," Merlin said as he moved to loosen the straps that tied the luggage to the horse's back. It was still afternoon, although the light was beginning to dim, and he guessed that they were already pretty close to the next village. "I'll meet up with you in Maneshale."

Arthur gave him a look of fundamental doubt of his navigational skills, and Merlin tried not to feel offended—they'd been following a visible trail all day, and it wasn't particularly reassuring that Arthur didn't deem him intelligent enough to follow it to Maneshale.

But he nodded after a moment, probably because he realized that if Merlin wasn't there to put away their luggage, Arthur wouldn't be forced into sharing a room with him. Merlin carefully kept his expression blank and shoved the thought away, a little impatiently, because now was not the time to dwell on things he had no idea how to change anyway.

With a last, assessing glance at Merlin and the horse, Arthur guided Llamrei back on the trail with a nudge of his heels. But Merlin still saw his features harden almost imperceptibly as his gaze skimmed over Gwaine and Leon and finally landed on Lancelot, who was watching Merlin with a slightly worried expression.

Merlin almost rolled his eyes, but reined in the urge just in time—it wasn't Lancelot's fault that Arthur's disparaging view of Merlin's sense of direction appeared to be catching. He really didn't know what their problem was—the trail would lead him straight to Maneshale by nightfall, and even the weather was cooperating. With Beltane just a few days away, spring was slowly starting to blend into early summer, and even though the sun had been obscured by a white sheet of clouds all day, it was still warm.

"Lancelot, stay back and help Merlin," Arthur ordered after a brief silence, and it could just have been Merlin's imagination, but the words sounded... odd, for lack of a better word. Arthur's voice was steady as always, but there was an undefinable undercurrent in his tone, something sharp and barbed that hinted at steel.

"Yes, sire," Lancelot said calmly, gracefully sliding off of his horse's back. He didn't seem to have noticed anything, because he smiled at Merlin as Arthur urged Llamrei forward and the others followed. Branches and twigs snapped and cracked as the horses trudged back on the trail, and Gwaine called for them to hurry up if they didn't want all the wine to be gone by the time they made it to whatever tavern they'd spend the night in.

Merlin rolled his eyes and turned back to the packhorse, pulling the bag that Gaius had given him from the packhorse's back. It occurred to him that this was the first time he so much as touched it, and found himself briefly grateful for the fact that there had been no need for any of Gaius' medicines until now. On the other hand, the lack of bandits seemed somewhat suspicious. It was odd that they were used to being attacked even within Camelot's borders, but hadn't seen so much as a fellow traveler now that they had ventured into the supposedly lawless area of the Northern Plains.

Lancelot had knelt down to touch the horse's legs like Merlin had done before, and he found himself grateful to have someone by his side who knew more about horses than he did—sure enough, it only took Lancelot a soft brush of his hands to discern the injury. "It's the right foreleg," he said, looking up at Merlin with obvious relief. "Feels like a sprain, like you said."

Merlin opened the bag carefully, mindful of the glass jars and earthen pots inside. He took out one of the rolls of clean white fabric, putting it aside as he removed the thick, soft cloth that Gaius had put over the jars to protect them from the daily wear and tear of traveling. The jars were labeled in Gaius' neat script, and it only took Merlin a second to select the appropriate ointment.

He scooted over to where Lancelot had stood up and gripped the packhorse's bridle, but he needn't have bothered—the horse didn't so much as flinch when Merlin touched its leg again. He felt the slightly heated patch of fur more clearly now, but it wasn't big or even particularly hot, and with a bit of rest and luck, the horse would be fine again within a few days.

As he worked in silence, his mind started to drift with the monotony of his movements—he had never bandaged a horse's leg before, but he had lost count of the times he'd done this for Arthur, worked healing salve into pulled muscles with careful fingers after tournaments and sometimes after training. Once again, he found himself grateful that their encounter with Sir Gromer's son hadn't escalated into a duel—he was sure that Arthur wouldn't have let Merlin tend to him like he had used to after a fight anyway.

They had left Erik at the hunting lodge a couple of days ago, after Arthur had dissuaded him from coming with them—Erik had wanted to come along to help them to look for his sister, but Arthur had stood firm by his resolve to leave the boy in the relative safety close to Torpelei. Apparently Erik knew when he was fighting a losing battle, because he had finally relented, although he had pressed more field rations on them to stock up their dwindling supplies.

"Don't pull any more dangerous stunts like challenging random knights to duels," Arthur had told him when they'd gotten ready to leave, giving the boy a stern look from his higher seat on Llamrei's back. "You're no use to your sister dead."

Erik had nodded mulishly, although he didn't protest. The look in his eyes spoke volumes of how badly he still wanted to go with them, and Merlin suspected that he had only agreed to stay at Torpelei because he couldn't bring himself to ignore a direct order from the crown prince of Camelot.

"And hunting to provide for yourself is all well and good," Arthur continued after a moment, somewhat uncomfortably, like he didn't really want to say what he was about to tell him, but found himself doing it anyway since no one else would. "But you might also have to work."

Merlin still remembered how Erik had scrunched up his nose at that, like the very idea was distasteful to him. "I certainly won't be slaving away for those ungrateful pigs down in the village," Erik said, and Merlin had found himself suppressing a smile, quickly turning away to hide his expression. The boy was clearly just parroting back what he had been told all his life—he wasn't a bad person by any means, he was just spoiled, and too self-righteous in his defense of his dead father.

"Maybe they're not all ungrateful pigs," Arthur replied patiently. "You could prove to them that you're just as worthy a lord as your father was."

Erik had blinked up at him, the disgusted look sliding off his face to give way to surprise and a tentative kind of hope. This time, Merlin couldn't quite tamper down his grin—Arthur obviously recognized Erik's arrogance as born of ignorance, and knew how to handle it, since he'd been a little like him not too long ago. He hadn't missed how the boy perked up each time someone so much as mentioned chivalry, since he seemed to want to be a knight more than anything, and Merlin was mildly surprised at Arthur's patience as he used the chivalric code to make Erik think about his views.

As if on cue, Lancelot spoke, startling Merlin out of his thoughts although his voice was quiet and tentative, like he wasn't quite sure if he was overstepping his boundaries with the words. "So how are things with Arthur?"

Merlin glanced up at him, not at all surprised to find Lancelot looking into the trees, carefully avoiding Merlin's gaze—apparently he wanted to give him the chance to pretend he hadn't heard. He smiled a little and looked back down, scooping a generous amount of salve out of the jar as the sharp scent of juniper mixed with rosemary and thyme filled the air.

"I don't know," he replied at last, carefully lathering the sprain with ointment. The horse gently bumped its nose into his shoulders as though in gratitude. "Every time I think we've made some progress, he just... takes a step back." His own words made him think back to the night at the hunting lodge, to the conversation that he still wasn't sure how to interpret—maybe it signaled some progress, but maybe Merlin's words had just hardened the conviction in Arthur's mind that any and all magic was evil.

Lancelot's sigh sounded sympathetic, and Merlin risked another glance up at him. "Arthur seems to be stepping back from a lot of things lately," he said, somewhat cryptically, although he looked surprised when he saw Merlin's confused frown. "What, you don't... know?"

Merlin shook his head, completely nonplussed as to what he was talking about, and Lancelot briefly glanced away into the trees again, surprised and somewhat dismayed. Regret flickered across his tanned features, like he wished he could take back what he'd said, but after a moment he took a deep breath.

"Gwen told me that Arthur—," he began in a rush, although he cut himself off and gestured vaguely at the trees in search of a respectful, appropriate way of putting this into words, "well, that he— broke it off, their... relationship. He ended it."

Thoroughly baffled, Merlin just blinked up at Lancelot for a long moment, greasy fingers stilling on the horse's leg before he found his voice. "What?"

Lancelot shrugged, absently toying with the horse's reins, looking anywhere but at Merlin—discomfort was etched into every line of his face, and Merlin suddenly realized that Lancelot had thought he knew, and that he now felt like he'd divulged the prince's secret. Merlin didn't see how telling him about this was a breach of Arthur's trust, since Arthur obviously hadn't ordered Gwen not to tell anyone, but he knew Lancelot's sense of honor.

"Apparently the prince told her that he didn't think his feelings for her had a... a future," Lancelot said, softly now, like he'd figured that he could as well tell Merlin the rest of it, "and that it would be unfair to keep her from finding someone with whom she, at least, could have that future."

Merlin shook his head, struggling to integrate that piece of information into the picture in his mind. Sure, he had seen the polite distance they'd been keeping from each other during the past few months, but he never would have thought that Arthur had ended their relationship. He had known, at least, that Arthur and Gwen had drifted apart in the time since Morgana's betrayal. Arthur had been busy overseeing the repairs that needed to be made, all the while running himself ragged trying to keep his father from going mad. Neither Arthur nor Gwen had ever talked to Merlin about it, not even before his confession to Arthur, but Merlin had thought that they'd come to him in their own time if they thought he could offer some advice.

"When was that?" he asked, staring dumbly up at Lancelot, who looked uneasier by the second. He didn't seem to have anticipated the blank shock that those news had wiped across Merlin's mind, and he glanced into the trees once more as though searching for some sort of support.

"About a week after the feast," he replied, shifting his weight and looking back at Merlin, "after— you know."

"I do know," Merlin assured him, his mind flashing back to the Green Knight for the briefest second, and Lancelot sighed a little into the ensuing silence, like he was relieved that that part of the conversation was over.

Merlin reached for a soft, thick piece of fabric from Gaius' bag, carefully wrapping it around the ointment on the horse's leg to provide some padding underneath the bandage. His mind was still reeling, and a part of him felt oddly desensitized, like it had shut down to protect itself from the hurt that was sure to follow on the heels of Lancelot's words. But it was only reasonable, Merlin thought numbly—he had revealed his magic to Arthur, and since that had lost him any and all trust the prince had ever put in him, it was just logical that he hadn't told him about the end of his and Gwen's relationship. Arthur had gone back to how he'd been when Merlin had first become his manservant, guarding his secrets jealously.

The bandage was cool and soft between his fingers, and Merlin concentrated on wrapping it around the padding, not too loosely, but also not tightly enough to cut off circulation. He reined in his thoughts, keeping them on the question of whether they would indeed reach Maneshale by nightfall with the slow walk they would have to keep up due to the packhorse's injury. Lancelot's gaze was a bit too sympathetic and understanding when Merlin tied the bandage and straightened up, though, so he probably hadn't quite succeeded in keeping his features blank.

But Merlin didn't feel like talking about it just then, and so he just led the packhorse over to where his own horse was waiting ever-patiently, munching on a patch of grass. The packhorse's gait was still uneven, but not as much as before, and it didn't seem to be in all that much pain; as long as no one urged it to go faster, the sprain would heal within a few days.

Lancelot stayed mercifully silent as he helped Merlin divide the packhorse's load evenly between the three horses, and they mounted up into their saddles again, setting off towards Maneshale at a slow walk. Merlin kept his gaze on the ground, save for when he dodged random tree branches that grew in his path, but to his relief, he saw no further rabbit holes like the one the packhorse had most likely stepped into. The forest was a cacophony of rustling leaves and crackling undergrowth around them, the birds belting out their songs as if to hold off the growing late afternoon twilight. The trail wasn't broad enough for them to ride side by side, but it wasn't quite as overgrown as it had used to be around Torpelei.

"Don't you think it's strange, though?" Lancelot said eventually, turning slightly in his saddle to look at Merlin over his shoulder. The words were tentative, like he had been thinking about them for a while but wasn't quite sure how Merlin would react. "These murders, I mean—there just doesn't seem to be a reason behind them."

Merlin hummed noncommittally, startled out of his scattered thoughts by the seemingly random question. It sounded like Lancelot was trying to take Merlin's mind off of Arthur and Gwen, and he smiled even as his thoughts drifted back to the third murdered nobleman they had seen just the other day. Well, they hadn't seen the corpse itself, since it had long since been buried, but they had passed through the village, a small settlement around the nobleman's manor farm called Watenhale.

They'd asked their questions as usual, and the villagers had answered readily enough, divulging roughly the same story that they had heard twice already. A stranger clad all in green had asked for food and shelter for the night, and a week later their lord had been found dead, the manor shrouded in ivy, with the servants having ran off as the twines started to grow. At least there had been no disappeared family this time—the nobleman, one Sir Gilbert de Venables, had lived alone.

"What do you mean?" he asked at last, when the silence had stretched for a while. As carefully as he'd been trying to keep his mind from straying towards Arthur, it was only with slight reluctance that he managed to disengage his thoughts now and focus on the matter at hand. But it was as good a distraction as anything, and he had been thinking about the whole thing as well—maybe it would clear his mind to get a second opinion.

"If it's really the Green Knight who's been killing all these people," Lancelot began, like he'd just been waiting for Merlin to give him a cue to go on, "I don't understand why he deviates from his own pattern."

Merlin frowned, not quite comprehending what he was getting at, and Lancelot turned towards him again, putting one hand on the back of his saddle to steady himself, although his horse kept trudging along the trail, unimpressed by the unusual shift of its rider's weight.

"Well, all three of the dead noblemen we've checked so far were found in the woods," he continued, and Merlin nodded his agreement, since that much was obvious. "But back when he came to Camelot, the Green Knight said he'd meet his opponent at the Green Chapel, wherever that may be. And according to Erik, he also said as much to Sir Gromer Somer Joure."

"So why were they found in the woods?" Merlin muttered, not really meaning it as a question—Lancelot had a point, now that he stopped to think about it. He had never heard of a place called the Green Chapel, not in Camelot or anywhere else, but it had seemed important to the Green Knight that whoever rose to his challenge met him there to hold up his end of the bargain. But apparently he had intercepted each of the noblemen who tried to meet him there, choosing to deal out the returning blow near their homes instead.

"Maybe he grew tired of waiting for them," Merlin ventured, for lack of anything more useful to say. "Or he wanted the bodies to be found quickly."

Lancelot's eyes widened, and he leaned closer to him, shifting most of his weight to the back of the saddle, but although Merlin gave him a nervous look, his seat still seemed secure. "Do you think it was a ploy to lure us here?"

"I have no idea," Merlin admitted, although he hadn't examined the matter from that angle yet—maybe it was true, but even if it was, Merlin couldn't shake the stubborn feeling that there was no evil lying in wait for them. It was more like clues left by a calculating mind that hoped that someone would put the pieces together and see the whole picture that they formed.

"I just know that he has magic of some kind," he said, more to himself than to Lancelot, although he was clearly still listening, staring at Merlin intently like he was remembering how Merlin had touched the leaves of ivy at their first stop.

"I don't think he's a sorcerer, but there's just... something magical about him," he finished somewhat lamely. "I felt it in the room when he came to Camelot, and then again near the ivy—it's like a beacon of power." He hovered for a moment, and finally shut his mouth when he realized that there was no way to put into words how it had felt, or at least none that Lancelot would understand.

Lancelot nodded nonetheless, in acknowledgement if not in understanding, but his tone was still careful when he asked, "Do you know what Arthur thinks about all this?"

"No," Merlin said, deflating a little at the words, although Lancelot followed them up with an apologetic glance. He suddenly felt guilty, like it hadn't been his place to discuss these things with Lancelot when he really wanted to be talking about them with Arthur. But Arthur didn't seem ready to discuss anything even remotely related to magic just yet, even if it was just the Green Knight. Merlin still remembered the scorn in Arthur's tone back at the hunting lodge, when he'd said that of course Merlin wouldn't believe the man to be evil.

Still, he knew he'd feel a lot better if only he could talk to Arthur about this whole mess, just to make it a bit less confusing. As far away from Camelot as they were, he didn't even have Gaius to ask for advice—but he still wished for someone to help him sort out the confusing tangle with some fresh bits of information. Mysteries were only fun to work out if he was given some sort of lead to work with, and on second thought, they were not all that much fun if people ended up dead throughout.

"Well," Lancelot said, clearing his throat, and mustered up a smile to chase away the discomfort in the air. "We'd better hurry, or Gwaine will have depleted the entire village's wine stock by the time we get there."

Merlin snorted in surprised amusement at the words, grateful for the momentary reprieve too—he was relieved that Lancelot didn't press the subject of Arthur upon him since Merlin obviously didn't quite want to talk about it. After all, Lancelot had a point—Gwaine would buy himself a drink first and foremost when he reached Maneshale, and if he found someone to play dice with as well, the tavern would be in ruins before long.

He glanced back at the packhorse, satisfied to find it trudging along faithfully without any sign of pain save for a slight limp. Dusk was falling, slowly but surely, and the shapes of the trees had gone blurry and indistinct around them as the sun dipped towards the horizon, out of sight behind a sheet of clouds. The thought of taverns made his stomach rumble. It had been quite long since they'd stopped for lunch, and Merlin was already looking forward to the meal Arthur would order for them at the tavern, not to mention a comfortable bed to sleep in. The forest was clearing in front of them, the trees thinning to let in more of the fading light, and he urged his horse into a slightly faster walk to catch up with Lancelot again.





"This is madness," Lancelot said from beside him, his voice subdued and just this side of vicious, and for once Gwaine found himself almost agreeing.

But he had appearances to keep up, after all, and so he just shrugged amicably, chewing on the long stem of grass he had ripped from the ground earlier. The ladder creaked warningly under him, and he put a hand on the whitewashed wall to steady himself—it would be ridiculous if he ended up falling just because of this quietly ongoing argument.

Lancelot gave him another branch of mountain ash when he held out his hand, and Gwaine took care to turn back to the wall before he rolled his eyes at his fellow knight's troubled expression. Sure, it did seem a bit... well... impious of the villagers to use the gold that their recently deceased lord had left them to celebrate Beltane with much more pomp than became a small village, but what else were they supposed to do? It wasn't their fault that Maneshale had been under Sir Gilbert de Whatever's jurisdiction as well as Watenhale, and frankly, Gwaine didn't see how it was his problem that Lancelot's delicate sensibilities took offense.

As if on cue, Lancelot sighed, looking over at a small group of children running across the market square, their bare feet kicking up dust as their laughter echoed through the early afternoon air. A window opened at the inn they'd been staying at for the past few days, and a chambermaid collected the plush white blankets that had spent the morning airing out across the windowsill. The good weather had returned just in time for Beltane, and Gwaine found himself already looking forward to the binge in the evening.

"Their lord is dead," Lancelot said quietly, his gaze fixed on the chambermaid as though the whole thing was entirely her fault, "and they're not only disrupting their time of mourning, but they also use his money to celebrate Beltane?"

This time it was Gwaine who sighed, but he finished tying the branch of mountain ash to the rusty nail above the door before he turned to face the other knight. He liked Lancelot well enough, but sometimes the man's impeccable sense of honor aggravated him.

"Maybe they're secretly glad he's dead," he replied with as much patience as he could muster. "Maybe he exploited them just as much as that Gromer Somer Something did with the people of Torpelei."

Lancelot frowned a little, but Gwaine just looked back at him, unapologetic—it wasn't his fault that the lords of the Northern Plains had names that refused to stick to his short term memory. He turned back to the wall to admire his handiwork, letting Lancelot stew in his discontentment for a while. Branches of mountain ash framed the ancient wooden beam above the door, their small red berries gleaming in the sunlight. He'd nailed twigs of hawthorn to the beam as well, although the scent of the white blossoms made him sneeze.

All in all, the small house looked ready for the beginning of summer, and Gwaine carefully stepped off the creaky ladder, dusting his hands off on his trousers. Merlin, Arthur and Leon had helped decorate the inn earlier together with the villagers, although Merlin had fallen off his precarious perch on a first floor windowsill and landed in the dungheap at some point. Even Arthur had laughed, and Merlin had been ushered inside by the innkeeper's wife for a thorough scrubbing, although not before Gwaine had seen his surprised smile. Apparently he hadn't minded making a fool of himself if it drew a laugh out of Arthur that seemed almost like nothing had gone wrong between the two of them at all.

"Thank you, good sirs," a voice suddenly said from behind them; Gwaine turned around and saw the elderly lady of the house beaming up at him, her smile revealing a few missing teeth. Her hair might be white, but her blue eyes were sparkling with something like youthfulness as she looked up at the branches adorning her wall. "Our house has not looked this fine for Beltane in years."

"It was our pleasure, my lady," Gwaine replied gallantly, bowing low and discreetly spitting out the blade of grass in the process. "If there is anything else you need help with, just say the word."

"Well," the woman replied, turning her twinkling gaze to Gwaine as she stepped aside, gesturing to the open door in invitation. "I've heard you like a good drink, sir knight, and you must be thirsty after your hard work."

Gwaine just barely managed to keep a grimace of pain from showing on his face when Lancelot's heel came down on his toes, and gave the woman a winning smile as he courteously thanked her for the invitation. He had to duck to fit through the doorway, and although he had the distinct impression that Lancelot was rolling his eyes at him, he didn't look back.

Strengthened by a mug of finely brewed—though sadly nonalcoholic—sweet cider, Gwaine went back outside half an hour later, only to find the market square practically deserted. But all the houses were decorated with hawthorn and mountain ash, so he guessed that people had probably moved to the clearing in the forest where the evening's celebration would take place. He found the path easily enough, and settled in for a slow afternoon stroll under a canopy of leaves, directing his steps towards the river that they had crossed on their way to Maneshale.

He passed the field with their horses on the way, a large, fenced strip of land next to the river that had been largely cleared of trees. The horses were grazing in the shade of a small copse of birches, though, probably to escape the unexpected warmth of the day—well, save for the packhorse, which was kept in the stables behind the inn to rest its leg. The local blacksmith had taken a look at the sprained muscle and ordered at least a few days' rest if they didn't want the horse to end up with a permanent limp.

And then the villagers had basically commanded them to stay for Beltane—visitors were few and far between in these parts, and even Arthur had caved eventually under the collective enthusiasm that their arrival had spread through the village. He'd agreed to stay for as long as the horse's leg would take to heal, but he'd assured the villagers that they would help with the preparations whenever they could.

It wasn't the sort of thing Gwaine would have expected of Arthur when he'd first met him, but the longer he thought about it now, the more sense it made. Sure, Arthur could be an arrogant, stuck-up pig sometimes, and Gwaine had found himself wanting to beat some sense into his princely head more than once. But he hadn't felt like that in a long time now, at least not with the same intensity as before, during the days when Gwaine had still assured himself that the last thing he would ever do with his life was to dedicate his sword to the service of a nobleman.

And before his mind had gotten the chance to catch up with what was going on, he'd been kneeling on cold stone in an abandoned castle, feeling the cold touch of a sword on both shoulders as he was knighted by just the sort of nobleman he never would have bowed to before—a prince, no less.

At first he'd thought that he would be out of Camelot and back on the road within a few weeks at most. He had spent so much time of his life as a wanderer that he didn't think himself capable of accepting a place like Camelot as his home anymore, and he'd taken to the early days of his knighthood with a sort of scientific interest, curious to see how long it would take for him to snap, pack up his bags and leave again.

But then he'd seen the destruction that Cenred's army had wrought upon Camelot, especially the lower town where the people were so poor that they couldn't afford even the basic repairs that their houses needed. Gwaine had been many things in his life—a vagabond, certainly, a bilk and a cardsharper, even a thief on occasion, but he was no true scoundrel. And to his own surprise, he found that he didn't mind being a knight all that much if it meant that he got to help peasants rebuild their homes.

That had been the beginning, and it had melted into a routine without him noticing. He still hadn't gotten used to people addressing him with "sir," but he'd found that it was not just a title that elevated him to the status he'd spent half his life despising—that of a nobleman at the beck and call of an uncaring lord shut away in a dusty castle. Arthur was different, and maybe Gwaine had subconsciously known that from the start without wanting to admit it at first. Arthur's hands were rough with calluses from his sword, rather than as soft as they would have been if he'd been the kind of person to spend his days inside. He went on hunts with them, he trained and fought and occasionally even drank with them. And if Gwaine was completely honest with himself, he knew why the people had started looking to Arthur for support and advice more and more during the past few months, why he inspired loyalty even in freshly knighted warriors who had known him only for a day.

Gwaine could tell that the prince's equilibrium had been off in the months since Cenred's attack, and after giving it some thought, he had accredited it to the king's deteriorating state of mind. Still, no matter how dark the bags under Arthur's eyes became or how often he just barely kept himself from losing his temper in the council chamber, he was always willing to listen to Leon's quiet, well-chosen words of advice, or to let himself be dragged to the tavern by Percival and Elyan if they thought he needed a break after a long day.

All in all, Arthur didn't fit into the neat little drawer in the back of Gwaine's mind that he usually stuffed noblemen into. At first that had irritated him, but by now he found it oddly compelling. Waiting to see what unusual things Arthur still had up his sleeve made it worth hanging around at Camelot under the mantle of knighthood, after all.

And when the elderly lady had asked if anyone wanted to help her hang up the customary sprigs of hawthorn and mountain ash on her house, Gwaine had found himself volunteering without second thought, even a split-second before Lancelot had done the same. He grimaced a little, ducking out from beneath the trees and into the hilly field that the Beltane celebrations would take place at in the evening. Clearly, the high and mighty air of knighthood and chivalry was rubbing off on him.

The clearing was large and obviously man-made, a wide uneven circle cut free of the forest. He could still hear the murmur of the river from here—it was barely five minutes' walk from the village, which explained the crowd of peasants that hurried to and fro around him. People kept milling in and out of the forest, carrying stacks of wood up the gentle slopes of the hills, and Gwaine spotted Merlin and Arthur a furlong away, helping the villagers to assemble the wood into huge bonfires that would burn all through the night.

Gwaine slowly walked towards them, accepting a bundle of thick branches from a random man on the way. He passed Leon, who was putting together a crudely cut, long wooden table with a few others. Judging from how red his thumbs were, he wasn't all that skilled with a hammer, but he still gave Gwaine a grin around his mouthful of nails, and the other farmers seemed thrilled and a bit awed to have a knight working in their midst.

He settled down at the bonfire next to the one Merlin and Arthur were working at, and did his best to mimic the farmers in sticking the branches into the stack of wood to stabilize it, all the while keeping a surreptitious eye on the other bonfire. Merlin was filling the gaps with brushwood and dried leaves; his expression was tense and a bit wary, and Gwaine could see that he was talking, although the murmur of his voice was too indistinct for him to make out the words. Arthur had his back to Gwaine, but judging from how harshly he was trying to ram a particularly thick branch into a too small gap, the conversation wasn't particularly relaxed on either end.

Gwaine carefully edged around his bonfire until he could see both of their faces, but as he came closer, he realized that he needn't have worried about being stealthy—he doubted they would have noticed even if he had moved to stand right next to them. Arthur's expression was shuttered and dark, a muscle in his cheek twitching with some nameless, barely contained emotion. It was probably anger, since that seemed to be all Arthur chose to throw at his manservant these days, no matter how hard Merlin tried to coax something else out of him. Gwaine felt an impotent flash of anger, but pushed it back down with some difficulty—all of his questions had been deflected, and he wasn't the type to pry, especially when his friend so clearly wanted to deal with this on his own.

He saw nothing wrong with eavesdropping, though, and he leaned forward over the bonfire, pretending to ponder where to put his branches.

"—who knows why he's been seeking out those noblemen," Merlin was saying, defiantly, and Gwaine blinked in surprise when he realized that he was talking about the Green Knight; of all the things to argue about, he hadn't thought that this would stir up another row between them. "As long as we don't know, we can't very well judge him and just write him off as evil."

Gwaine frowned at that. Truth to be told, he hadn't really thought about the whole matter like that—he didn't care all that much that a few fat, lazy noblemen had thought they could use the challenge to prove that they were knights in more than name. Until now, it had never occurred to him to wonder whether the Green Knight was evil in picking them off like that. A quick glance to where the tables were being assembled, and Gwaine saw that Leon had paused in the act of hammering a nail into the wood, seeming to listen intently as well although his back was turned to them.

Arthur hadn't replied to Merlin's words, but Merlin didn't look ready to give up yet. If anything, his expression hardened even more, forming a look of stubborn defiance that Gwaine hadn't seen in what felt like ages. There was a certain measure of helplessness underneath it, though, like Merlin was trying everything in his power to get Arthur to understand, and had no idea why he kept failing.

Still, he took a deep breath, and let it out in a rush when he said, "I talked to Lancelot, and—"

Arthur's head snapped up as though Merlin had struck him. For a moment he looked shocked, something indescribable flickering through his eyes before his features shuttered again and his eyes went quietly, dangerously dark. "Oh, you talked to Lancelot," he said, a black edge of sarcasm cutting through the words like a knife.

Merlin looked frustrated and helpless, thoroughly out of his depth as he spread his hands as though entreating Arthur to explain himself. But it seemed like this time, Merlin wasn't content to just back off and bear the brunt of the prince's rekindled anger, because his voice was surprisingly belligerent when he retorted, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know," Arthur snapped back, his tone mocking, although his expression was far removed even from haughty amusement. "You tell me."

For a moment, Merlin just gaped at him, like he couldn't believe that a retort this immature could ever have fallen out of Arthur's mouth. Then he shook his head, flicking a brief glance up at the sky as though silently asking for support. "What are you even—" He raked his hands through his hair, a sudden movement of restless frustration. "Look, I just wanted to— Arthur, I don't even know what your problem is."

Arthur stared at him in mounting speechless fury, and Gwaine found himself wincing a little, grateful almost against his will that that look wasn't directed at him. A lesser man than Merlin might have taken a step back, but Merlin stood his ground, his shoulders squared and his chin held high as he braced himself for whatever Arthur would throw at him next.

"You don't— you—," Arthur sputtered after a moment, torn between incredulity and outrage, "you have the audacity to go around conspiring behind my back and then throw it in my face?"

"Conspiring?" Merlin said, haplessly, his voice pitching up in sheer disbelief. He held up his hands in a defensive, placating gesture, and even took a step towards the prince, heedless of the tight, trembling clench of his fists that Gwaine could see even from a distance. "Arthur—"

Arthur jerked away before Merlin could touch him, and Merlin let his hands fall back to his sides, his pleading expression verging on the kind of desperation that made something hidden pull tight in Gwaine's chest. "Why don't you go talk to Lancelot some more," Arthur spat viciously, "have a little heart to heart with the only person here who will even listen to your nonsense," and he turned on his heel and stormed away, walking down the hill in big, angry strides.

Although the prince's tone had been full of cold resentment, something seemed to be hovering just out of reach there, too, something almost like hurt. Gwaine frowned in confusion, a spark of righteous irritation rekindling itself in his chest—as far as he was concerned, Arthur had no right to be hurt right now. The shocked, crestfallen look on Merlin's face made Gwaine want to run after the prince and demand an explanation, at least if he could keep himself from beating some sense into his head for long enough, but he stayed where he was.

From his perch next to the half-finished table, Leon looked after Arthur for a moment before he stood abruptly, and Gwaine felt a small measure of relief when he followed the prince into the trees. Leon probably hadn't heard what the argument had been about from that distance, but their voices had been loud enough for him to at least make out the tone.

Merlin remained where he was, standing next to the bonfire with his arms hanging limply at his sides. His expression veered somewhere between confused, hurt, and defiant, as if unlike Gwaine, he had at least an inkling what had just happened, but was still holding on to his resolve not to back off. The way he bowed his head after a moment made Gwaine's legs itch to walk over to him, though whether he would even be able to offer any sort of comfort, he didn't know.

He sighed instead, jerking his gaze away from Merlin with some difficulty, and focused on the pile of wood in front of him. Most of the thicker branches probably hadn't had the time to dry out properly with the torrential spring rain that had gone down a week ago. Twigs and leaves had been added at the top to help the wood catch fire in the evening, and Gwaine shot a look at the sky as he put another branch in between, hoping that the weather would keep up.

But even with the hustle and bustle going on around him, he couldn't quite disengage his thoughts from the argument he had overheard. Arthur's last words kept repeating themselves over and over in his mind, along with the stricken look on his face when Merlin had first mentioned Lancelot. If Gwaine hadn't known that the prince would probably punch him in the face if he ever voiced it out loud, he would have thought that Arthur had been jealous.






__________ __________

Comments

[kassandrastoker.livejournal.com]

jealous!arthur and confused!gwaine who wants to protect Merlin....
:))

You are great
and I'm really loving this :)

[dayari.livejournal.com]

Hee, thank you!! *blushes* Jealous!Arthur is pretty much my favorite thing in the whole world, lol, although I admit I did want to shake him back and forth a couple of times while writing, too (I just channeled that urge into Gwaine's character). I'm so glad you're enjoying the fic so much!! ♥