#ngl having read over this the cogs are once again turning again...

[lit-in-thy-heart]

an excerpt from a touch of destiny, the potc-inspired merwaincelot fic written for day 1 (otp day) of @camelove 2022 which has not been completed in time

The black shirt hung loose on the frame of Gwaine’s opponent – Lot – loose enough for the unlaced opening to reveal most of his chest. A ragged scar, bulging like a vein, trembled over his heart and it was that which caused Gwaine’s focus to be away from their opponent’s face. As they lifted up their sword, Gwaine raised his eyes to the features above the scar.

They were mostly obscured by thick locks of hair that had come loose from his low ponytail and Gwaine could only catch a glimpse of a sharp jawline or a soft coating of stubble through the gaps. Assuming a defensive position, he edged closer to his opponent. All they had to do was kill him, somehow escape a contained space in the middle of a bandit hideout without being killed themself, and find Merlin. Gwaine’s jaw set. Simple.

As they circled one another like wolves, Gwaine allowed their gaze to briefly dart across the rest of Lot’s body. He was wearing no chainmail, no protection other than the loose clothing fluttering with his movement. Granted, Gwaine himself was wearing little more than Lot, but at least that meant he could move quickly. Kill him, escape, find Merlin. That’s all they had to do. They couldn’t afford to make it out as a corpse, not so soon after he and Merlin had lost Lancelot. Gwaine, for all their grief, was one of the last remaining threads tethering Merlin to anything. Gwen had been one, but that thread had been cut – for the time being at least. Kill Lot, escape, find Merlin, find Gwen and Elyan.

Lot lunged forward, light on his feet, and Gwaine instinctively darted away. The point of the blade brushed against the hem of their shirt and Lot advanced again, exposed muscles rippling like sails in the wind through the gap in his own shirt. Gwaine, momentarily transfixed, lowered his sword. Lot wore no belt and, when he raised his sword, the hem of his shirt hitched up to reveal an older scar across his abdomen.

Three lines, scored across his skin, shone silver in the candlelight and Gwaine felt the hilt of his sword begin to slip through their hand. They had traced those marks in shy starlight, had skimmed over them like they were smoothing down bedsheets, and had intertwined their fingers with Merlin’s over the bridges sculpted by that same scar tissue. ‘Lancelot?’

There was no sign of recognition from Gwaine’s opponent, apart from perhaps a flaring of the nostrils, and Lot lunged towards him again. Scrambling to regain a defensive position with his sword, Gwaine blocked the attack and pushed away Lot’s sword. Their eyes began to sweep the room in the hopes that Merlin might make one of their trademark last-minute rescues but, before they had a chance to discern any caps of dark hair that could belong to his partner, Gwaine was recalled to the fight at hand by a sharp pain in his abdomen.

His gaze fell to Lot’s sword. It was wet with blood, shimmering like a lake at night, and Gwaine’s head dropped slowly until they could see a dark patch spreading across their shirt. He stumbled backwards, still keeping a tight grip on his sword, and raised his head again.

Lot was breathing heavily, sword marginally lowered, and had Gwaine not been able to clearly see his face then they would have goaded him to end it all there and then. But the locks of hair that framed Lot’s face exposed a canvas that Gwaine had manipulated their breath across like paint. Shadows sheltered in the hollows of the cheeks that Gwaine had watched Merlin cup in the palms of their hands and candlelight danced across eyes that had always softened under the secrecy of the stars. There was no doubt about it; their Lancelot stood across from him with a blade directed at Gwaine’s heart.