[fic] The Ivy Crown, 9a/9

[da_ya_ri]

Part 9
The Green Chapel


He waits where his forest is darkest, sheltered safely by his Chapel's ruined walls.

Waiting is all there is to do, now that the test is almost over; but although he had thought himself patient before, he cannot shake the restlessness that has curled in his foreign bones. Maybe it was part of the witch's spell, he thinks sometimes—but then again, he was human once, and what he feels now is not unlike the rush of shivery anticipation before a battle.

Little twinges go through him when booted feet stomp down on freshly grown grass and campfires scorch the ground. Flocks of birds have fled from the unfamiliar sound of clinking chainmail and armor, coming to him with anxious trills at the first gray light of dawn. He cannot calm them; he can only promise them that it will all be over soon.

Predictably, his ravens were outraged when the Mercian soldiers first breached the eastern edge of his forest. Without his stern command, his hawks would have pecked their eyes out and chased them home terrified and bleeding, and it was all he could do to stop his hounds from sniffing out the intruders, licking their gleaming teeth in anticipation of tearing into human flesh.

But the witch ordered him to grant the patrols safe passage, and so he lets them trespass on his lands, doing nothing to stop them as they lay siege to his heart.

They are close, he knows—this morning, their camp is barely ten furlongs from his Chapel. But Emrys is closer.

Sometimes he thinks that it may have been rash of him to give the boy the means to set him free, for Emrys had not seemed to know what to do with the ivy leaf that Iseldir had passed on to him. The ravens thought him foolish, but he used the little gaps and tears in the witch's spell as well as he could. Without the witch's knowledge, he showed Emrys his forest's power and gave him the means to channel it, and now he has to wait for him to add up the pieces to form a complete picture.

The witch is close, too, her still-sleeping presence a charred, twisted something at the edge of his consciousness. He remembers well that the druids asked him to spare her, with an earnestness that bordered on pleading. But even though pity still pulls on him, it has long since stopped appeasing the slow, creeping rage that fills him, mounting day after day, like icy water bubbling up from the depths of a long since dried well.

As dawn claims the sky with gentle rosy gold, the Mercians will continue onwards, fanning out around the heart of his forest to trap the prey they were promised. He is not afraid; he left fear behind with his mortal shell centuries ago. But he knows that his is not the only destiny at stake here, and he does not want to think of the roaring, pained cry that will rise from the lands if the once and future king's blood ever stains his forest's ground.

The gray light of morning coats his home, and even the birds are silent now, listening to the rhythmic scrape of the whetstone on his axe as if they know whose blood will stain the blade before long. Tentative rays of sunlight reach for him, pouring down his Chapel's ruined walls. He listens to the endless song of rustling leaves and gently whispering grass that is his constant companion, sharpening his weapon with methodical ease, and waits.

His challenger is coming, and the witch is waking. Far too close for his liking, the soldiers yawn and stretch and prepare for another day of combing through the forest in search of Camelot's warriors. Sunlight glints on his axe, his faithful blade sharpened to a deadly bite, and he knows that he can keep at least his promise to the birds. One way or another, it will end today.





The next day dawned bright and clear, the last of the clouds scattering before the thin but insistent glow of the morning sun. Thick fog rose from the sprawling wilderness of the forest, wafting gently through Grænn's backyard as if it wanted to lay claim to the mansion itself. Unseen woodland creatures rustled in the undergrowth, and birds sang in the distance, chirping their song into the stillness of the morning air.

Gwaine couldn't help but look over his shoulder when they entered the forest once more, although Gryngolet made good use of his rider's distraction and pranced straight through a series of puddles. The mansion gradually disappeared from view through the thickening trees and billowing mist. He could see the windows of the dining hall, illuminated by the candles that Grænn's servants had lit when they'd eaten their breakfast.

There was no light behind any of the other windows, and the large archway of the main entrance lay in shadow. Gwaine had the distinct feeling that Grænn was still standing there, watching them ride away into the forest after he'd bidden them farewell.

Branches cracked ahead when Arthur steered Llamrei around a cluster of bushes, and Gwaine reluctantly turned around in the saddle again. Arthur was leading them in the vague direction of the rising sun; Grænn had told them to head eastwards in their search of the Green Chapel, and had refused to say anything more, although the prince had been noticeably disgruntled with the poor directions their host had given them. Gwaine and Merlin rode behind him, followed by Percival and Elyan, who each led one of the packhorses. Leon and Lancelot trailed behind, and Gwaine knew they were carefully guarding the back of their group.

He shifted to get more comfortable in the saddle. Riding through the forest again felt like plunging back into a long-forgotten dream—but at least the trees stood stock-still this time, and the bushes didn't scurry out of their way, and the trail they were following hadn't changed directions yet. It was like the forest trusted them to find their own way now—or maybe it just didn't want to lead them to its heart at the Green Chapel.

Gwaine shoved that thought away before it could go any further, and rubbed a tired hand over his face. Yesterday's headache was still there, a dull pounding behind his eyes that did nothing to alleviate the exhaustion he felt pulling at his limbs after yet another night of too little sleep. In retrospect, he didn't know if he had even slept at all. He'd tossed and turned for the longest time, watched the shadows crawl across the floor of his guest room, and only started drifting fitfully in and out of consciousness when the first light of dawn had turned the sky a rosier shade of midnight blue.

There was no point in denying it even to himself, and last night, with wan moonlight trickling in through the window, the icy fear that had gripped him hadn't seemed all that laughable or cowardly. For the longest time, he'd sat upright in bed with the sheets pooling around his waist, and tried to imagine what the next day would bring. He steered his thoughts towards the Green Knight, he thought of the huge axe that he had wielded himself once, and he knew that no matter how carefully worded the man's challenge had been, there was no way Gwaine could fool himself into thinking he might not be felled by a single blow from that blade.

But there had been nothing, no gruesome images dredged up from the depths of his subconscious. Cold sweat had trickled down his back in tiny drops, but Gwaine hadn't been able to imagine his own death. His mind had spent such a long time avoiding the matter that it refused to be bent towards it now, and all he came up with was the memory of the Green Knight's unshakeable calm acceptance when Gwaine had beheaded him weeks ago. It made an unexpected bitterness well up in him, because Gwaine knew very well that he wouldn't be as serene when he finally had to face down the sharpened glint of that blade. But to his own surprise, the thought must have given some comfort to the cold, desolate terror that squirmed in the back of his mind, because it had mostly run its course when he'd finally gotten up in the morning. Now, he just felt numb.

Beneath his tunic burned the mark of his weakness, the girdle's silky green fabric like a brand against his skin.

Somehow, Gwaine almost suspected that it was the girdle that had kept him awake the night before, that he would have slept soundly in what might very well have been the last night of his life if it hadn't been for the silver embroidery glinting innocently in the moonlight. It had tempted him more strongly than the call of a thousand sirens, catching and holding his restless gaze whenever he looked at his nightstand. And after a while, when his mind had once more spiraled through the inevitability of what awaited him the next day, the thought of putting it on had seemed more and more alluring.

He still had no idea how Ragnelle had known of his predicament, and he was well aware that she'd only wanted to help, but a small part of him almost hated her for giving him the girdle. It had felt so strangely right to turn down Merlin's offer of help, because even through the dread that had gripped him the night before, Gwaine had known instinctively that he was on his own with this. But the green girdle had been thrust upon him when his defenses had weakened considerably, presenting him with a way out where he hadn't ever expected to find one.

And now the sleepless night had worn down his resistance enough that he had put it on in the morning, winding it around his stomach beneath his tunic. The fabric didn't seem to absorb his body heat—it still felt silky and cool, but that didn't appease the prickling heat of shame that burned just beneath Gwaine's skin. Rationally, he knew that the Green Knight would have no way of finding out he'd been fooled. But then again, he was a magical forest spirit after all, and maybe he would sense the girdle's presence, protecting the man who had once accepted his challenge with bold fearlessness, the same man who now resorted to magic to break his word.

Gwaine's stomach clenched at the thought, and he shook his head to chase it away. He felt Merlin's concerned gaze on him, but even though he knew he looked pale and nauseous, he couldn't bring himself to reassure his friend right now. It already took all of his willpower to ignore the itching of his skin under the green silk, like his body was trying to make him do the right thing.

But doing the right thing would cost him his head. The urge to laugh bubbled up in his throat for a moment, and he suppressed it with some difficulty, well aware that a number of gazes were resting on his back as well. Neither Percival nor Elyan had asked anyone why they were headed for the Green Chapel instead of Camelot, and Gwaine suspected that Arthur had taken them aside earlier and filled them in on what had happened while their group had been split up. The two of them hadn't said anything to him about the challenge—Arthur had most likely warned them not to pester him with useless concerns and reassurances on the last day of his life.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, tightening his hold on Gryngolet's reins. The stallion was rather calm today, as if he knew that his master was struggling with himself not to jump off his back, duck behind the cover of a tree, and rip the band of silk from his waist. A part of him wanted to take it off and never see it again, but the larger part of his mind felt too numb to even care that he was breaking his word. He had no idea how to explain to Arthur why he wanted to stop and retreat into the undergrowth anyway. The prince would probably think he needed a moment to compose himself, he'd assume he was afraid, and the mere thought of Arthur's pity made Gwaine's very skin prickle with sickening discomfort.

A strange, somber mood accompanied them on their way deeper into the forest, the mist scattering before them as the sun rose higher in the sky, creating a strange, sublime twilight beneath the leaves. The terrain got more mountainous, stony slopes and hills breaking up the close formation of the trees—they stood further and further apart amidst clusters of thorny bushes. At the front of their group, Arthur called out a short command to slow their pace as the path got more and more littered with rocks. Gwaine slowed Gryngolet with an absent tug on the reins—he didn't want him to trip on the stony ground.

Although none of them had any idea how far they would have to ride to find the Green Chapel, they seemed to have come to an unspoken agreement not to rest until they reached their destination. Gwaine knew that the others were probably getting hungry again by now, but Arthur didn't call for them to stop, and nobody complained. Grænn had pressed them to take a bag full of field rations, flat out ignoring Arthur's attempts to pay for it, but although the bag had smelled enticingly of smoked meat and dried fruit, Gwaine wasn't sure if he could have choked anything down even if they had stopped to rest. At some point his stomach had clenched up completely as though protesting the slight pressure from the girdle's green silk.

As far as he could tell, Grænn hadn't suspected anything last night. It had been the last day of their strange little game, and Gwaine had dutifully delivered Ragnelle's kiss to him, although he hadn't been able to enjoy it much. He'd thought of the girdle, lying on his nightstand in his room upstairs, and it had been a snap decision not to mention it to his host. If he had, then maybe Grænn would have demanded him to share that as well. And even then, with his mind still reeling from what Ragnelle had told him about the girdle, his sense of self-preservation had won.

He shook his head to dispel the thought and darted a glance to his right, just in time to see Merlin look away guiltily, like he'd been watching Gwaine for quite some time now. He looked tense and worried, but at least composed—not like Gwaine felt inside, like an earthquake had shaken the very foundation of himself and left everything numb with tumbling disarray.

"Any idea how much further it is?" Elyan ventured to no one in particular, mercifully cutting short the train of thought that had been running through Gwaine's head. He sounded almost afraid to break the silence.

"Grænn said to head eastwards," Arthur replied from the front, obviously still disgruntled at the insufficient directions they'd been given. "Let's just hope we—"

Gwaine never found out what Arthur hoped for, because he broke off and pulled Llamrei to an abrupt stop. She tossed her head in displeasure at the sudden sting of the bit, and Gwaine barely managed to keep Gryngolet from colliding with her backside. Next to him, Merlin swayed dangerously in his saddle when his horse jerked to a stop; he let go of the reins, flailing to regain his balance, and Gwaine reached over to steady him with a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, a snappy remark already on his tongue, but it died in his throat as he realized why Arthur had stopped. At first he just saw a patch of brown fur, blending in with the slope they'd been riding up, but then he realized it was a doe, standing calm and unafraid in the middle of their path as if it had been waiting for them.

Sharp intakes of breath from behind him told him that the others had seen it as well. For a long, silent moment, the doe just looked at them, big, dark eyes seeming to glance at each of them in turn as if to make sure that their group was complete.

Then the doe started trotting up the hill, well away from the path they had been following. She seemed to test each patch of ground before setting down her hooves, and Gwaine suspected that the hill had been turned mostly to marshland by the rain. The animal stopped to turn to them again, its ears twitching slightly as it listened to the sounds of the forest around them. Long lashes framed the dark eyes, intelligent and knowing, and the strange agelessness in the doe's gaze stirred at something in Gwaine's memory.

"Down there comes a fallow doe, as great with young as she might go," Merlin murmured under his breath, and Gwaine flinched slightly, startled by the sudden sound of his voice. A slow realization started to unfurl in Merlin's gaze when the doe's eyes met his, but then Arthur turned to stare at him, and he blinked, shaking himself out of his thoughts. "I think we should follow her," he said, louder this time, conviction ringing in his tone as he held Arthur's gaze, trying to pass along some silent message.

"Of all the bizarre, unexpected, magical—," Arthur muttered under his breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. His nod looked weary, like he had seen quite enough of the forest's supernatural occupants on their journey. But there was no doubt in his expression as he locked eyes with Merlin again, and his hand was steady and firm when he motioned for them to dismount.

"We'll leave the horses here," he declared, glancing up at the muddy grass that peeked out from between outcroppings of rock. The hill did indeed look like it would slide down in an avalanche of dirt under the combined weight of all of their horses. Gwaine dismounted, more clumsily than usual, but the muscles in his legs protested the sudden movement, locked tight with anxiety as they had been for the past hour.

The doe waited patiently as they tied their horses' reins to each other's saddles, lining them up in an odd-looking queue behind Llamrei, who got her reins loosely loped around a tree branch by her master. For just a moment, Gwaine saw apprehension flicker across Arthur's features as he smoothed a hand down his mare's nose, like he would rather have taken the horses with them to the Chapel. But then he straightened up and started walking after the doe, Merlin following close behind.

It was a silent, though no less tense trek up the hill, following the doe's bobbing tail. At least she slowed down whenever her human entourage had to pick their way around a patch of grass that looked too swampy to carry their weight. Soon Merlin was panting with exertion next to Gwaine, and he could hear Leon and Percival curse under their breath whenever their feet slipped in the mud. In a way, Gwaine welcomed the sweat that beaded on his neck—having to be careful where he put his feet gave his mind something to latch on to.

The trees thickened again as the ground evened out slowly, and soon they were walking on a carpet of springy grass and dark green moss once more. Quietude stretched before them, silence of a different kind than the strained hush they had ridden through earlier. Pressing a hand to the stitch in his side, Merlin quickened his steps to get closer to Arthur, his gaze darting over the trees. Maybe he was picking up on some strange magical undercurrent in the air, but even Gwaine felt his senses sharpen with watchfulness. It felt like they had entered a place where no man had walked in centuries.

There was no visible path in front of them, but the doe still seemed to know where to lead them. Unconsciously, Gwaine found himself hanging back a little to close their left flank, exchanging a short glance with Leon when they came to walk next to each other. The other knight looked tense as well, but none of them spoke as they advanced further through the woods, the rustle of grass the only sound breaking the silence.

Suddenly, the doe stopped walking and turned around to look at them again. Her fur gleamed golden in the greenish light that filtered in through the trees, and she stood completely still for a moment as she seemed to try to convey some silent message to them. Then she suddenly darted away, veering off her chosen path to jump through a gap between two large oaks. Merlin and Arthur both started forward as though their first instinct was to follow, but Gwaine only saw a flash of brown fur through the trees before the doe was gone, the crackles and rustles of the undergrowth getting further and further away.

They all exchanged nervous looks—venturing even deeper into the heart of the woods without guidance would have been daunting even if they hadn't known the forest was magical. But by some unspoken agreement, they all started walking again, trying to head in the general direction that the doe had led them in. From the corner of his eye, Gwaine saw that Leon had his hand on his dagger, and Lancelot was purposefully falling back to guard the rear end of their group.

Little by little, the forest grew thinner, more and more sunlight filtering through the damp leaves. Although there was no movement between the rain-darkened tree trunks, Gwaine felt his apprehension grow, and the sudden break in the treeline took him by surprise. Abruptly, the forest opened up to a sheltered glade, long stalks of grass swaying gently as if in invitation, although not even a slight breeze stirred the air. Moss-covered rock formations littered the clearing, shimmering wetly in the sunlight.

Arthur had stopped abruptly, surveying their surroundings with no small amount of distrust. He exchanged a lingering look with Merlin, but Merlin didn't seem to know what to do now either. Something on the far side of the clearing caught Arthur's attention, and he ventured closer, the others trailing behind, and that was when Gwaine heard it too.

A noise pierced the silence, growing progressively louder as they crossed the glade with slow, careful steps. It was oddly familiar to Gwaine, a rhythmic, ringing scrape that was all the louder for the stillness in the air, and it took him a moment to realize that it was the sound of an axe's blade being sharpened.

His heart leaped into his throat and stayed there, as if it knew that that sound might very well mean its end. He suddenly found it hard to breathe, well aware of the shocked, unsettled gazes on his back, since the others must have recognized the sound for what it was as well. But he did his best not to let any emotion show on his face, and forced his suddenly numb legs to follow Arthur through the high grass.

The glade narrowed into a gentle slope, the trees drawing back further to make room for a looming silhouette, and as they came closer, Gwaine realized that they had at last found the Green Chapel. It must have been quite a magnificent little citadel once upon a time, but now it was in ruins of gray, weather-beaten stone. A high, crumbling arch led the way into the inside, and Gwaine caught sight of grass growing between the cracks in the tiles that must have been polished to gleam a long time ago.

And of course, the battered walls were covered in ivy. Each dark green leaf was plump and gleaming with life from the rain—the leaves rustled gently as if in greeting, and Gwaine almost found himself smiling. The sight didn't surprise him. It just reminded him of the noblemen's homes, claimed by the Green Knight's magic as their lives had been claimed by his axe.

The silence seemed to be centered here, an ominous, far-reaching quietude that made every breath, every creak of leather from their boots and vests sound loud. Leon had inched away from their group to look around the corner of the Chapel, but he didn't find anything lying in wait for them there, because he returned to Arthur's side after a moment. From the corner of his eye, Gwaine saw Merlin shiver as he looked up at the glassless curve of a high, narrow window. He wondered if his friend heard anything, if there was some undefinable magical crackle in the air that only Merlin could feel.

When the Green Knight stepped out of the Chapel, Gwaine almost didn't recognize him at first—the color of his clothes blended in with the ivy and the grass. But then the sight of him went through Gwaine like a shock of cold water, and he could only stand there and stare as his challenger stepped down from the archway to meet them.

"You came," the Green Knight said, quietly, as though he didn't want to disturb the silence of his forest. His eyes were fixed steadily on Gwaine, and he was oddly reminded of the Beltane fires, of how the man had seemed to focus on him then, too, even before Gwaine had challenged him, like he'd seen it coming.

Gwaine didn't reply. He tried to compose himself, to get a hold of the fragmented thoughts that flashed through his mind, but if he tried to speak, his voice would come out rough—hoarse with disuse, he knew, but the Green Knight might think him afraid. His skin itched at the mere thought, and he found himself suddenly reminded of the girdle, a steady, slight weight of fabric against his stomach.

"Welcome to my abode," the Green Knight went on, unperturbed by Gwaine's silence. This time, he encompassed the others with his gaze as well, and his eyes seemed to linger on Merlin a moment longer, communicating some silent message. He inclined his head at him, and then at Arthur as well, and Arthur nodded back, his features locked in a polite mask that couldn't quite disguise the tightness underneath.

For the first time, Gwaine noticed that the Green Knight looked different. His clothes were the same, but they seemed slightly more worn and scuffed—his hair was in tousled disarray, the twines of ivy shimmering between black strands, and something about his features seemed sharper, more feral. His face had lost its cultivated aristocratic quality, and Gwaine thought that he finally looked like what he was—a spirit of a primal magic that was older than life itself, ancient and untamed at the center of his power.

"You and I have business to attend to, Sir Gwaine," the Green Knight suddenly spoke up again, startling Gwaine out of his thoughts. The green eyes regarded him with grave attention, his gaze almost a physical weight. "I was not sure if you would come, but I am glad that you did."

"What, did you think I was too much of a coward to come?" Gwaine said, the indignant words tumbling from his mouth before he could think better of them. He was grateful that his voice didn't shake, that it didn't betray the jittery ball of snakes that his insides seemed to have turned into. But the twinge of irritation helped him look the man in the eye without flinching, and so he was almost grateful for it.

The seriousness in the Green Knight's face shattered into a smile. The playful glint in his eyes made him look more like himself, more like the man that Gwaine had thoughtlessly offered a dance to on Beltane eve. "Of course I assumed no such thing," he replied, mock offense lighting his tone. "After your magnificent stroke felled me weeks ago, I never would have thought you afraid."

But I am now, Gwaine thought, almost hysterically, but he managed to keep his mouth shut this time—the Green Knight didn't have to know that, and neither did the others. Their gazes were like hot brands on his skin, and he was nearly sure that none of them would have thought less of him if he'd fallen to his knees and pleaded for his life. But in spite of the frantic pounding of his heart, something kept him upright—the same thing that had made him decline Merlin's offer of help.

With an effort that felt like it would exhaust him, Gwaine tore his gaze away from where the Green Knight was resting a hand on his belt, near the ivy-covered handle of his axe. He cleared his throat, gesturing at the weapon as if he hadn't heard it being sharpened for his head just a minute ago, and said, with more bravado than he felt, "Shall we get on with it, then?"

Behind him, Merlin let out a quiet, dismayed gasp that settled uncomfortably behind Gwaine's ribs. It was hard to quell the sudden urge to turn around and reassure him, and Gwaine had to curl his hands into fists to keep himself still. He knew what he would find in Merlin's gaze—fear, concern, an overwhelming plea to take back what he had just said—and he wasn't sure if he could stand as firm and unafraid as he wanted to if he met his friend's eyes.

"Certainly," the Green Knight said after a short pause. His gaze swept over their group, resting on each of them in an unspoken command to stay back, a warning that this was between him and Gwaine only. For a split-second, Gwaine thought he saw something like an apology flicker through his eyes as he looked at Merlin, but it was gone again in an instant.

The ivy rustled when he drew his axe, but he did not lunge at Gwaine right away—he propped it up on the ground and rested his hands on the handle, much as he had done so many months ago at the feast. He just looked at Gwaine for a long moment, his thoughtfully narrowed eyes traveling up and down his body as though he was seizing up his opponent. His gaze was almost like a physical touch, and although it didn't silence the sickening squirming in his gut, it finally prompted Gwaine to step forward, out of the half-circle their group had formed around the entrance of the Chapel.

"At Beltane," the Green Knight began, his words slow and measured as he chose each of them carefully, "you gifted me with one single stroke that beheaded me. Today, I seek to return the favor, as dictated by the compact we agreed on. Do you remember?"

A silence deeper than the one before fell over the clearing like a veil. Even the trees seemed to be listening now, hushing their rustling leaves in anticipation, and in the quietude, Gwaine heard his own erratic heartbeat pound in his ears. This was probably his last chance to back out—he could just say that he'd been so drunk that night that he couldn't remember agreeing to anything. The others might even back him up on that, since they all knew of his drinking habits. There was caution in the Green Knight's eyes, a certain kind of alertness in the way he held himself, like he almost expected Gwaine to make up some excuse.

"Of course I remember," Gwaine heard himself say, his mouth moving on its own accord. He felt sick, his stomach roiling with nausea, but his voice was steady, and for that, he was grateful. "One blow in exchange for another, like you said."

Someone sighed behind him, an unsteady outrush of air, like they had been hoping he would withdraw, but hadn't really expected him to. Cold sweat prickled on the back of his neck, but Gwaine still felt inexplicably steadier, like the simple refusal to take the way out had been enough to bolster his spirits. His hands didn't feel quite as clammy, his breathing not as rattling and unsteady as before, and he straightened up under the weight of the others' eyes on him, smoothing his features into an impassive mask.

"Very well," the Green Knight replied quietly. He lifted his axe with both hands, slowly adjusting his hold and testing the grip of his hands to make sure they wouldn't slip. For a second, Gwaine thought he looked contrite, like he was already regretting this before he'd even struck him down. "Then we shall begin."

The blade gleamed in the sunlight, freshly sharpened and polished, and this time there was no trace of rust marring the metal. Gwaine's gaze was helplessly drawn to the silver arc of light as the Green Knight swung it once with deliberate slowness, keeping well clear of Gwaine's personal space, getting used to the weight of his weapon. The blade itself seemed a testament to times long past—it had killed the vassals, but before that, it had fought a losing battle against an immortal army. And now it would taste his blood.

Gravel crunched under the Green Knight's boots as he broadened his stance, breaking the thick, tense silence that had descended on the clearing like a veil. In an unoccupied corner of his mind, Gwaine noticed for the first time that they were roughly the same height. His challenger would have to swing the blade upwards to get at Gwaine's neck, and he thought almost hysterically that it would be far easier for the Green Knight to strike him down if Gwaine knelt before him.

His heartbeat was roaring in his ears as though it knew what lay in store for him, but even if Gwaine had had the presence of mind to sink down onto the ground, he knew that his legs would have been far too weak anyway. He felt cold all over, his fingers so numb that he couldn't have moved them to his defense even if he'd tried.

With his axe poised to strike, the Green Knight paused for a long moment. Green eyes met his, and for a moment he almost smiled, and he said, as if he had heard Gwaine's jumbled thoughts, "A man like you should never have to kneel before anybody."

The sunlit gleam of the blade turned to a blur of brightness, and although he knew how fast it really happened, Gwaine saw it coming as if in slow motion. He saw the Green Knight's knuckles turn white with the strain as he hurled the whole weight of his formidable weapon forward, aiming for the most vulnerable point on Gwaine's body, saw the grimace of concentration that his features had twisted into—and behind him, someone gasped, or maybe it had been Gwaine himself, his strength betraying him in this last moment, although he had sworn to himself that the weight of his terror would not bring him down.

He couldn't have helped his flinch even if he'd tried. His feet moved on their own accord, pitching his weight back in a startled jerk, and for a moment he thought he would fall, the sunlit canopy of leaves above suddenly filling his vision. But it was instinct that saved him and that steadied his weight, the terrible, cursed sense of self-preservation that had kicked in at the last possible second.

Inches from his neck, the axe cut through nothingness with a high whistle of air. The Green Knight's eyes widened in surprise from behind the tangle of his black hair, and the tendons in his neck stood out in stark relief as he fought to steady the hurtling weight of his weapon. He stumbled forward with the momentum, but didn't fall, and after a moment he managed to stop the blade's uncontrolled descent.

Despite the faint tremor that ran up and down his back, Gwaine stood stock still when the Green Knight turned around to face him. His stomach felt like a knotted fist of roiling nausea despite—or maybe because of—the girdle that was still wound around his middle. The unforgiving clarity of what he had just done pierced the fog in his mind, and for a moment, he fought the wild urge to apologize, to swear that he wouldn't move even an inch if only the Green Knight would give him another chance to keep his word.

There was no anger in the Green Knight's eyes, no scorn or disappointment. He simply stared at him, head cocked to the side, and his voice was silkily devoid of emotion when he said, "Do you flinch from my blade, Sir Gwaine? Like the coward that I know you're not?"

The words cut through him almost as though the axe had found its mark after all. Behind him, the others were tense and silent, but even the sound of Merlin's unsteady breathing fell away in the rush of irritation that infused Gwaine's veins. The Green Knight hadn't meant to insult him, he was probably just trying to get a rise out of him—but the anger helped him focus. It tore down the veil of numbing terror and shame, and for a moment he found himself almost grateful.

"I flinched once, sir," Gwaine said, forcing himself to keep his head held high and look the Green Knight in the eye. "But now I will stand firm."

He didn't know where the words came from, or why his voice was still so steady, but it felt good to hear himself speak with such calm assurance in the face of certain death. There was a short, tense pause, the others' gazes prickling uncomfortably on Gwaine's neck like feather-light touches.

They were watching him, but at least none of them had interrupted yet, although he could almost picture the way Merlin was probably holding himself back by sheer strength of will. Leon would be torn between his sense of honor and his loyalty to Gwaine, and Percival and Elyan would most likely wear matching expressions of horrified confusion, at an utter loss as to why their friend was just standing there, preparing himself for another blow. Among them, Arthur was perhaps the only one who was watching the Green Knight instead of Gwaine, his eyes flat and hard as he traced each of the man's movements, waiting for the slightest slip-up to interfere.

The Green Knight gave him a curt nod, accepting Gwaine's words. There was a calculating gleam in his eyes as he stepped back again, bending down a little to steady his stance. He still didn't look angry that Gwaine had flinched back, but seemed willing to give him a second chance. The ivy leaves rustled innocently as he adjusted his grip on the wooden handle, like they didn't know that they would get spattered with blood in a second.

This time, Gwaine had to force himself not to close his eyes—somehow, it was even worse now that he had already seen the razor-sharp blade dive for his neck once before. This stroke seemed quicker than the first, probably because the Green Knight didn't want to give him the chance to escape once more. With two mighty steps, he had built up enough momentum to swing, and the axe hurtled towards him in a blur of brightness mingled with green and brown.

It was all Gwaine could do to dig his heels in and dig his fingernails into his palms to keep himself still, heart thrashing wildly in his chest like it wanted to break out of his ribcage. But even amidst the paralyzing silence in his head, Gwaine realized that something seemed off, something was different from before. The Green Knight had aimed his stroke too wide, had taken one step too many as he'd built up his momentum, and Gwaine realized that this blow would miss.

The blade whirled past his ear with a sound like the buzzing of a hundred bees, and while Gwaine felt his insides jerk as though they wanted to pull out through his spine, he kept still. He stood firm through the rush of terrified heat through his veins, although his legs had gone completely numb by now.

For a moment Gwaine thought that the momentum of his own stroke would send the Green Knight tumbling into him, but he steadied himself with a mighty effort, jerking the blade to a stop. He didn't look surprised that his blow had missed when he turned around, shaking his hair out of his narrowed eyes. He looked calculating instead, his gaze traveling up and down Gwaine's body, kept still by sheer strength of will, and he seemed to approve of what he saw.

"Very well," the Green Knight said, so quietly that Gwaine had to strain his ears to hear him through the thunder of his own heartbeat. He hefted the axe up once more, their eyes meeting for a long moment. "Now that your courage is restored, I must strike you at last."

Although he hadn't really thought of nodding, Gwaine's head bobbed up and down, the muscles in his neck twinging with tension. He realized now that the previous stroke had just been a test, that the Green Knight had wanted to see if he would jerk back again. "Be my guest, then," he replied, with far more bravado than he felt.

The Green Knight inclined his head in assent, sunlight gleaming in his hair and casting an otherworldly shimmer on his wreath of ivy. He took a slow, measured step back, and murmured, almost to himself, "May your strength save you, if it can."

Gwaine watched numbly as the Green Knight adjusted his grip on the handle once more. The air was an icy cocoon around him, and he knew that his shirt was sticking to his back by now with the cold sweat that had rolled down his spine. The others would see the dark spot spreading down from the neck of his tunic, but at least this sign of weakness was hidden from the Green Knight's view, and he would only see it when Gwaine's body had already fallen and his blood coated the ground at his feet.

For the third time, the Green Knight lunged forward, deadly intent in his eyes as he pivoted on his heel, bringing his weapon up to strike. There was no hesitation in the ageless green, no mercy and no lenience, although Gwaine thought he saw a flicker of regret.

The blade was a whirring arc of light, cutting through the air with battle-honed precision. It happened too fast to feel anything but the crippling paralysis of fear, but for some reason, the memory of the Beltane feast worked itself through the white-silver panic. The Green Knight's features betrayed nothing but intense concentration, but Gwaine still remembered the playful glint in his firelit eyes, the easy, soft smile that had come to him so readily, and he thought, with wild, terrifying exhilaration, that it wasn't all that bad to die at his hands.

There was no time to close his eyes, no time to do anything but stand still, and for a moment, Gwaine imagined it was over too quickly for him to feel much pain. A cutting sting erupted on the side of his neck, brought by the downward sweep of the axe, and it burned in the still air as Gwaine saw the blade whistle through the air until it was brought to a stop in the Green Knight's hold.

But still there was no pain. His pulse was pounding in his ears like a war drum, he could see the Green Knight's dusty boots in front of his lowered eyes, and his head didn't fall. And didn't fall, and suddenly Gwaine saw the flecks of blood on the grass, freshly red and gleaming in the sunlight. His blood, he realized, with a sickening jolt that went all the way down to his toes—his blood, spilled by the axe's unforgiving bite.

In a haze, Gwaine brought a hand up to the side of his neck, and his fingers found not the gaping lips of a fatal wound, but a mere cut, oozing a slow, slick trickle that soaked the collar of his shirt. It stung slightly under his trembling touch, but compared to the cut he thought he would be getting, it was a mere scratch.

He looked up at the Green Knight, his vision blurred slightly at the edges. The man had lowered his axe, and it seemed that for him, this challenge was over. He was fixing Gwaine with a hard, cool look, his eyes darker than usual like he he had just come to a startling realization, and Gwaine noticed the smear of red on the axe's blade, marring the smooth steel.

"I— what?" he whispered, so faintly that he could hardly hear his own voice. An empty, sick feeling started to spread through his stomach, because he knew it couldn't be over just like this—he had come here to die, and the harmless cut on his neck left him reeling. "What— that was it?"

Head cocked to the side like that of a curious bird, the Green Knight watched him for a long, silent moment. "Not quite," he replied, his voice calm, and the sudden clench of his hands around the wooden handle was all the warning Gwaine got before the blade swung towards him once more in a silver swirl of light.

There was a wispy sound of ripping fabric, and by the time Gwaine stumbled back, the Green Knight had already lowered his weapon once more. No fresh blood stained the metal, but when Gwaine looked down, he saw that his shirt had been split down the middle, exposing his chest and a strip of green fabric—

The girdle, Gwaine realized, the thought hitting home with enough force to dizzy him anew. Numbly, he looked up again, because now the Green Knight knew, he knew that he'd been wrong, that Gwaine had been a coward all along, too weak to put his word over his own life.

He could hear the others shift behind him, confused, as they couldn't see the girdle and didn't know why the Green Knight was pinning him with a steely look. Perhaps they thought the ordeal was over altogether, and Gwaine could almost picture the relief on Merlin's face, the shaky grins that Percival and Elyan would exchange. But from the corner of his vision, Gwaine saw Arthur stare at the green fabric covering his stomach, realization dawning slowly in his eyes as though he knew what it meant.

"I—," he started, and broke off, well aware that there were no words that could make this look like anything but the betrayal it was. It was almost ridiculous, how he hadn't begged for his life before, but felt like pleading now, lengthy explanations winding through his head as he struggled for words.

The shame that washed through him was sudden and acute, tearing through the disorienting fog that had settled in his mind—just a moment ago, his insides seemed to have turned to ice, but now they were squirming like snakes. The cut on his neck burned, but he paid it no heed.

Once again he opened his mouth, whether to apologize or defend himself, he didn't know. But before he could speak, the Green Knight glanced at the trees and held up a callused hand, halting the torrent of frantic words before they could escape. There was something unnameable in his gaze, a silent, intent message that Gwaine couldn't quite read—a warning, perhaps, mingled with an absolution that Gwaine knew he didn't deserve.

"Know, Sir Gwaine," the Green Knight said, his voice measured and calm, "that it was not the girdle that saved you."

Gwaine blinked, taken aback by how carefully chosen those words sounded. He tried to hold the Green Knight's gaze, but the man's eyes darted away to the treeline once more, and his stance straightened, a fissure of apprehension cutting through his calm veneer. For a long moment, he locked gazes with Arthur, who started slightly when he found himself the focus of the Green Knight's undivided attention, and then he darted an uncertain look at Merlin as though to ask him what this all meant.

Still, the Green Knight seemed to struggle to refocus his green gaze on Gwaine once more, taking a deep breath like he was bracing himself for something he had seen coming all along. "Your strength—"

"—will not preserve you," a second voice suddenly cut in, high and ringing in the stillness of the air, and Gwaine turned around just in time to see the Lady Morgana step out of the trees.






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