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saxifactumterritum · 22 days ago

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Summary: Arthur returns to Camelot injured. There is tension in the castle, people have been unsettled by recent events and are at odds with their friends. The king has been out searching, but hasn't told the knights what their quest is. And now he has come back injured, and things start to get strange.

Content notes: canon typical violence, plus extra gore (for funsies), injury, death, canon death, (sort of), (life signs are dubious), blood. If you want to check a trigger feel free to DM me I am friendly

(Parts: 1, 2, 3)

(fic tag is Between the Heaves of Storm fic)

Nothing happens. Arthur lies sweating and bleeding, infection taking hold of him. Merlin cleans out his wounds, and Guinevere soothes his brow, and Elyan comes to tell them Agravaine is setting out for war. Sir Leon comes later to say that he and Geoffrey have successfully talked the council down from that, and instead he is riding out after the bandits. He doesn’t look happy about it. Merlin is in the middle of trying to clean Arthur’s wound again, the yellowing edges leaking clear, thick liquid, bleeding into fresh red blood, over Merlin’s hands and into the bedding.

“Hold on, you prat,” Merlin whispers, pressing magic into the wound.

Gaius has a potion he thinks will help. Guinevere quietly suggests some herbs that Gaius agrees to. Merlin looks up and Sir Leon is gone.

“Merlin,” Arthur groans, eyes wide open.

“Obviously,” Merlin says, washing his hands. He’s got Arthur’s blood and pus on his shirt sleeve, which is unpleasant. He cleans that too, and stands wet, dripping onto the floor. “What?”

“I am not dead,” Arthur says.

“No, you’re not,” Merlin says. “Can’t you tell?”

“No.”

Guinevere sponges his hot forehead and his eyes wander over her and then close. He’s white and trembling as he sleeps. Merlin dries his hands and squeezes his sleeve out and Gaius brings more medicines, calm and sure of his stinking ointments and bad tasting tonics. He does not ask Merlin for magic, so Arthur is probably not dying. Not yet. Not if they can get rid of the rot.

Sir Elyan is back again, to tell them Agravaine is using Sir Leon’s absence to make changes to taxation. Merlin nods, that is fine; taxes can be lifted, war cannot be so easily revoked. He is testing the strength of Camelot, perhaps. Can she survive without her golden king? Probably not. She is an intruder on the land, a country that is nothing but war, like others around her. What land really knows borders? Countries are not held by natural law, merely by blood spilt. Merlin doesn’t care. Arthur will care, so Merlin listens to Elyan’s news.

Next to come is Thomas, the kitchen boy, coming for Merlin because of misplaced loyalty to a man he thought was being kind up on a tower one early morning. Merlin lets the boy in and lets him see the ravaged king, lying undone from bandages once more to bleed, flesh smelling of the infection, bed wet with sweat and piss. The boy looks in horror and stumbles back out, face white, staring at Merlin as if he is the one who caused such a thing. Merlin has, and will again, so he follows on and waits for the news the boy thinks is important.

“Sir Gwaine has returned,” Thomas whispers, eyes on Merlin’s face.

“Good,” Merlin says, and shuts the door, returning to help Gaius.

Sir Gwaine comes home to Camelot with six men, all who rode out with him return. They are damp to the skin after riding through a rainy night and a fog-deep meadow out beyond the lake, down toward the river leading to the isles and inward seas that Camalot contests as owning. He leaves his men to the horses, or the horses to the men, and takes the castle in his stride, looking for Sir Leon and then, hearing he’s away, for Sir Elyan. Sir Percival was with him, and Sir Lancelot is dead. He finds a boy instead, a young white little thing who shakes and trembles and tells him he is wanted by the sickly king.

“The king is unwell?” Sir Gwaine asks, but the boy is backing away and running, and so Gwaine goes to the kitchens, hungry and cold, looking for more information.

“He was brought back two days ago,” a wide eyed Kirsten says, standing by her pots and pans, hands deep in the water as she whispers her gossip to the handsome knight who never makes or breaks any promises to her. “He was terribly injured, sir. They say he hasn’t stopped bleeding. The physician is with him night and day, and Merlin too.”

“Good, then he is in the best hands,” Gwaine says, eating the apple Kirsten snuck him. “How is your mother?”

“Well, sir, thanks to the word you put in for us with Merlin. He came to see her and fixed her arm,” Kirsten says. “He’s very kind.”

Gwaine nods, finishes his apple and straightens up. She is a useful woman to know, it is good that her mother is recovering. Gwaine makes his way up through the castle, stopping a guard he knows from the tavern to get an answer as to where Sir Leon and Sir Elyan are, and then he stops someone else who he knows from the council, a very minor lord, getting an answer as to why there are so many soldiers in the hallways. No good answer, just a vague sense that something is happening around the king, and Sir Agravaine is protecting the castle. Gwaine goes to Arthur’s rooms and lounges as the guards interrogate him, answering none of their questions, watching the bright blades they have not raised. They are following someone’s instructions, Gwaine wants to know whose so he shrugs and shakes his head and laughs and pokes at them.

“Sir Gwaine,” the door opens a crack and Merlin’s voice issues out, irritable, familiar. Gwaine grins at the guards and goes through, ignoring the twitch of their blades. “What are you doing?”

“Lord Agravaine has issued orders that we are not to be allowed entrance here,” Gwaine says, perching against Arthur’s table. “He’s changed Sir Leon’s guard and put his own men out there.”

“That must be because of Elyan,” Guinevere says. She’s sitting by the bed, hands in her lap, head down as it has been since she was caught in her little act of indiscretion. Merlin says it was all spellwork. Wasn’t that a lucky spell. “He’s been coming and going, he must have told the council he had orders from Arthur.”

Gwaine lets his gaze fall on the king. He’s laid out, a thick bandage tight to his chest and side, pink at the centre. His head is back on a pillow, his feet raised, he is sleeping. Or unconscious. He doesn't look like he is at peace, but he is very still, mouth dropped open, skin a strange colour, damp. Gwaine lets his breath out, focussing on the rise and fall of his chest, above the bandage Gwaine can see his breathing clearly. Merlin’s hand enters his vision, touching the bandage. Gwaine watches.

“Gwaine,” Merlin says. Gwaine looks up and finds Merlin’s eyes on him, expectant. Gwaine shakes his head. “What did you find?”

“Not a lot, no stirrings at the guard posts within a hard ride, no news from those further afield. Camelot is quiet,” Gwaine says. “Except…”

“Yes?” Merlin asks.

“I dunno the name of the village, to the east and around the bend of the river?” Gwaine says.

“Warham,” Guinevere says, softly. “Elyan went there, when he first left Camelot. They have a forge.”

“Yes, I visited the forge,” Gwaine says. “It wasn’t really anything, just a cross old man calling his daughter names for talking about ghosts in the fog.”

“Morgana called forth his soul, she has unsettled something,” Merlin says. “Again. I don’t think it is like the torn veil, none of you are to go throwing yourself through gateways.”

“Other people slipped through, maybe, with ours,” Gwaine says. Merlin shrugs impatiently. The king is shifting. “It was just a story, Merlin. She had seen ghosts. She was probably mad.”

Guinevere’s head comes up sharply and her eyes are hot with anger. Gwaine steps back.

“Don’t be dismissive,” Merlin says. “Arthur, for all that is holy would you stop bleeding?!”

He pulls away the bandages and Gwaine steps back again. The king’s wound is gaping open, the skin at the edges discoloured, swollen. It smells of rot and wet and fresh red flushes out with clear, yellowing liquid. Merlin snaps at Guinevere for water and then glares at Gwaine.

“What can I do?” Gwaine asks.

“Fetch me what I call for,” Merlin says.

Gwaine is too slow finding him cloths and tonics, so Guinevere takes over, hands sure where Gwaine is fumbling, and Gwaine is banished to the chair set by the king’s head, told to soothe him and keep him quiet as Merlin and Gwen work first to make him bleed and then to make him stop, from what Gwaine can see. Gwaine puts the sponge given to him against the king’s brow and the heavy head turns on the pillow, sweat sticking the light hair down in clumps, cheeks sagging, bright shining blue eyes meeting Gwaine’s.

“Arthur,” Gwaine breathes.

“Lancelot,” Arthur breathes back, Gwaine frowns and bathes the hot skin. Arthur makes an impatient noise. “Gwaine.”

“Oh. No, I didn’t find Sir Lancelot,” Gwaine says, understanding. “Nor did you by the looks of it. You were supposed to look at a lake, not become fish dinner.”

“I’d like to be a fish,” Arthur says, closing his eyes under Gwaine’s sponge. “Oh. Merlin.”

“I know it hurts,” Merlin says. “If you’d stop… Oh hell.”

“What is that?” Guinevere asks.

Gwaine looks up, and wishes he hadn’t. Merlin is holding a wad of bandage against Arthur’s side, there is something clear and thin pouring from the wound, washed away by blood.

“I’ve seen infection,” Merlin says. “Everything infects, we don’t know the cause so we can’t stop it. Discharge is normal, it should be thick, yellow or white. This is… this is water. It must be from when we flushed it out last time.”

He stops talking. He and Guinevere irrigate the wound and hold a thick pad to it. Gwaine goes back to gazing at Arthur’s blurry, blue eyes.

“They can’t stitch me until I stop rotting,” Arthur murmurs. “I think I saw him.”

“Who?” Gwaine asks, thinking of a figure of death, somewhere in a dark corner.

“Lancelot,” Arthur says. Merlin laughs. “Idiot.”

“Yeah well, you have to admit,” Merlin says, and then laughs again when Arthur’s hand twitches. “Alright, this is slowing. Let’s wrap him up again, Gwen.”

Gwaine yawns, and Arthur’s eyes return to his face, drifting closed as Guinevere and Merlin finish their work and step away to wash their hands.

“And now we’ll tell you the rest,” Merlin says, grimly, pulling another chair to the side of the bed.

He tells Gwaine about the cloud, the fog, the sweating walls, and Gwaine wonders if afterall death is somewhere about the place.

***

Gwen is alone with him. She has tried to keep that from happening, but Lord lord Agravaine called for Merlin, and Merlin sent word that he was in fact busy, but that had lead to Elyan showing up and suggesting Merlin concede this time. Seeing as Agravaine was threatening pyres and headmen and all kinds of things, lining up executions all afternoon if Merlin didn’t show up. So Merlin and Elyan had gone to see about the executions, the threatening war, the news from Sir Leon. Camelot is failing, without Arthur holding the shards his father left. So easy it falls. Always so easy. And she too, Guinevere, no queen.

“I love you, Arthur,” Guinevere says, resting her forehead against his hot shoulder.

She has become this. Nothing but this. It is all that is inside her. She is hollow.

“He will come for you.”

Guinevere snaps up, straightening her back. Arthur is not awake, his eyes are moving, closed, the skin stretched wrong on his cheeks, over his eyeballs. He looks strange, laid out there, unfamiliar. He doesn’t look like the boy she has seen grow from a wild haired child running with the dogs, to the young prince his father took in hand and trussed up in rich raiment and sent out with the soldiers, not like the young man, barely twelve winters, blooded and dazed and staring at the newly arrived sister, Gwen at her side. Not like the youth, battering his way through his friends, ugly twist to his mouth as he sneered and berated and laughed like the ass her uncle had at his big forge where they visited once and nearly lost Elyan in the well. Silly little boy. He looks nothing like the man she has watched him become with Merlin at his side, his goodness and kindness finally breaking through.

“I am coming for you.”

Gwen gets to her feet and runs, throwing the doors violently open to break the guards apart and scatter them. There are a lot now. She holds her dress up and runs, calling for Merlin and Gaius, making for the council chambers, chased by the sound of Lancelot’s voice on Arthur’s lips. Her heart is beating wildly, she can’t think, she trips and the stairs come up at her and then Sir Gwaine is catching hold, falling backwards himself into Sir Percival, both of them steadying and holding her, stilling her. She struggles.

“What is it? I will go for Merlin,” Sir Percival says.

“Just get him to the king’s chamber,” Sir Gwaine says, sharp and sure and pulling Gwen away, back through the hallways she just sprinted. “Come on, we are closer than Merlin. Guinevere. Gwen.”

“Yes,” Gwen says, shaking off her fear enough to stop fighting him and running ahead.

She hears him on her heels and then dodging around her sword drawn, dancing. No, fighting, Arthur is right, Arthur told her once that nobody fights the way Gwaine does and it’s beautiful to watch. Actually Arthur has talked about it a lot, he talks a lot about the knights, the soldiers he still spends far too much of his time amongst like he’s one of them. Training, he calls it, but she knows. He is unsure of kingship, wary of the politics, not smart enough to cut through the court intrigues. On a field, with a weapon or without, he knows what he is doing. Here, he does not. His doors are open and she runs, Sir Gwaine clearing a path and fighting at her back.

Arthur is on his feet, facing the window. He’s holding his sword, loose, a dagger in his other hand, hip against a chair shoved against the table, feet too wide apart, for balance. He is steady. Agravaine’s guards are clustered near the door, pushing in to raise swords against their king but stopped by the breadth of his shoulders, the light is dim and a strange colour and he’s lit up. He looks like he is burnished gold. They are afraid. Gwen isn’t. She walks now, calming, heart slow as she walks between the blades and across the cold floor to Arthur’s side.

“Get out,” Sir Gwaine says, hoarse and commanding and not like the man Gwen met all those years ago.

“Arthur,” Gwen says, resting her hand on his arm. “I'm here.”

“He’s coming,” Arthur says, a slight turn of his head to catch her out the corner of his eye, gaze fixed on the window. The sun is blurred, the air is shivering, as if the window is the forge. Hot and too hot air burning. It’s not hot, it’s cold, but there is heat somewhere. The wall is sweating like high summer, cold stone meeting heat.

“How do we fight?” Gwen asks.

Arthur hums, and turns fully to her, smile warming his eyes. He drops his sword and his hand is familiar under her chin, gentle. He is looking right at her, like he hasn’t since… in long weeks. He ducks and catches her in a kiss, lips cool. She holds his arm and lets him, kisses him, knows him. He pulls back slowly, still looking at her, still smiling. She smiles back.

“There,” he says, taking a long easy breath.

“How do we fight?” Gwen asks again.

“We don’t,” Arthur says. The door opens and Merlin, Elyan, Percival, Gwaine, they close in and Gwen swallows. Arthur smiles again. “Afterall, I was looking for him.”

“Arthur!” Merlin shouts it, getting close to them where the others hang back.

“I have found him,” Arthur whispers.

He shuts his eyes, drops his knife. His breath punches out of him and he grips Gwen’s shoulder, bending with pain. Her hand closes on his hip, wet, and she looks down. He is leaking, water and blood coming over her fingers. The stones at his feet are oozing, red mud, dark silt. Lines run between his wet stockings and the wall, up toward the window, spidering out. The lines meet at his feet. His legs are wet. His head hangs.

“Arthur,” Gwen says.

When his head comes up, though, he is not. She recognises him, the shape of his face changing, shifting to house expressions she thought lost, love bursting in her chest and she doesn’t know who for.

“I came back for you,” Lancelot says, Arthur’s eyes rolling up into his head and the body collapsing to the cold flags.

#got into trouble with this cus i discovered (was told) (after skipping it tunrs out a fair amount of show) that lancelot is in love with me #merlon. now must changr some things to account for new facts #so reblogging for now

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