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Gwaine wakes long before dawn with a strange feeling in his chest.
It’s not so unusual that he wakes up early — that’s the product of years of travelling alone and through dangerous territories. It’s the feeling that’s unusual: a warm, tugging twist. Restless legs, restless arms. Fingertips tingling like he’s run them over cooling embers.
Gwaine pulls his covers back, frowning, and gets himself dressed. He takes his time with it, turning the feeling over and trying to identify what it could mean — he doesn’t remember having dreamt, while he usually does, so that must not be it — and when he stands after pulling on his socks, he finds himself facing his window. His line of sight is perfectly aligned with the south tower where a light flickers in the Physician’s quarters.
Gwaine rubs at the warm spot in his chest, and wonders.
*
Merlin hasn’t slept; it’s obvious as soon as Gwaine steps into the room.
Gaius snores in the back corner, hidden behind the privacy curtain and unbothered by the low light of the candles Merlin has lit around the room. Merlin doesn’t look over when Gwaine steps inside, or when he carefully closes the door behind him. He doesn’t move at all until Gwaine is right beside him, letting his head drop into Gwaine’s palm as he combs his fingers through Merlin’s hair — a brief show of exhaustion, the subtle flutter of lashes.
He allows Gwaine to pull his head against Gwaine's stomach, but he doesn’t close his eyes to rest. The dim lighting only accentuates the dark circles under his eyes.
As natural as the way the moon waxes and wanes, as the sun rises and falls, it’s a cycle Gwaine falls into without thought and without regret: when Merlin’s moods sink, so do his own. He can’t help it, when he knows the cause and effect is just his love for Merlin. It always starts like this: noticing that Merlin is upset and then trying — and failing — to decipher the truest source. It always leads Gwaine back to the fact that there is much about Merlin he doesn’t know.
Merlin and his secrets, Merlin and his grief. Leaving Gwaine with that unusual tugging, twisting feeling near his heart. Wondering.
“Come for a walk with me,” Gwaine says. Merlin stares out the window, running a hand up and down Gwaine’s thigh.
“Alright,” Merlin eventually replies, and the knot in Gwaine’s chest begins to pick loose.
*
They escape into the woods just as the birds begin to wake. Gwaine mimics the notes he hears, humming birdsong as he walks.
Ahead of him, Merlin kicks some branches out of the way. He isn’t usually so open with his bad moods, but Gwaine doesn’t begrudge him. Merlin’s hurt is a rare, honest thing, and something that Gwaine doesn’t usually get to witness. He cherishes it like he cherishes all things Merlin allows him to see.
Another bird sings a note in the tree above them, high enough that Gwaine can only whistle it back.
He watches the bird fly off with a smile, and when he lowers his gaze back to the path in front of him, Merlin’s stopped and turned to look at him.
Gwaine waits to see if Merlin will say anything, but he remains silent, expression unreadable. So, he asks: “What’s bothering you, dove?”
Past experience hasn’t helped Gwaine narrow down the sources of Merlin’s burdens, but there’s something about today that makes him feel like he can push, if only because it feels right, and also because he can’t remember the last time he saw Merlin truly smile.
In a turn of events, Merlin doesn’t deny that something is bothering him, but he does turn away to look into the trees — or more likely: at anything that isn’t Gwaine. He’s realised, over the past few years, that ‘difficult questions’ with Merlin aren’t the ones about quests and politics and strategy. It’s not the ones about other people, either — with how sincerely and passionately he speaks of Arthur, he could build an army for the King made up of people who have never met him. Gwaine himself has never doubted Merlin’s love for him, through action or word. The most difficult questions for Merlin, it seems, are the ones where people ask after his well-being.
His silence is the most honest answer Gwaine’s ever gotten.
It’s not as if Gwaine expects any relationship to be easy, and he’d gone into this with Merlin with the same expectations; everyone has a past. Secrets, hurts, lovers; their own wants and needs. Merlin is hardworking and empathetic. He always has a smile for those he passes in the citadel, but there is nothing that will make him build up a wall quicker than a sincere asking after his well-being: how are you? Did you sleep well? What do you need?
Most people would assume that it would be simple, with Merlin, but that’s something he’s worked at. It’s not a fib, or a show — Gwaine’s gauntlet would be at the feet of whoever would accuse Merlin of being insincere or two-faced before they could blink — but there is a line he’s drawn in the sand, one that divides two parts of his lives. What separates Gwaine from others is only that he knows the line exists.
There must be a reason for this line, and Gwaine will respect that it’s something Merlin must need. But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt, having to look at the scars on Merlin’s body while knowing any inquiries would be waved off.
But today Merlin hasn’t built any walls. He just remains silent. Gwaine wonders: does Merlin also have that strange, twisting feeling between his ribs this morning? Does he know what it is?
*
They keep walking for a time, and the mood feels a little bit lighter than it did when they first stepped foot in the woods. Gwaine’s started humming again under his breath, and Merlin touches the trunks of trees as they pass, seemingly at random, but Gwaine hears the creaking of new growth as he steps past each one.
“Do you remember when Grettir called you Strength?” Merlin asks, as the light of morning begins to dapple through the trees.
Grettir? For a moment Gwaine’s steps falter as he concentrates on trying to put a face to the name, until — Strength. The man on the bridge.
It’s been years.
“You learned his name?” he blurts out — but of course Merlin learned his name. Gwaine’s mind is reeling, trying to figure out where the connection’d been made, how they got here. “But — yes. Yes. I remember him calling me that.”
Merlin’s turned his gaze over his shoulder and watches Gwaine intently. “How did it feel?”
Still leaving Gwaine feeling like he has to catch up when he’d had no idea he’d been left behind, he tries to gather his thoughts: how did it feel — how did it feel, to be called Strength? A strange question from a strange man. Well, Gwaine hadn’t thought about it then, had simply carried the stem of his sword-turned-lily over the bridge and carried on. He just carried on, knowing that Merlin had needed his help.
It had felt natural to follow Merlin, wherever he went. It still feels natural now. But with the way that Merlin asks, standing in front of him with shadows in his eyes, there’s more weight to the name, as though accepting such a title will push him off a precipice.
“I don’t like destiny,” Merlin says, which to Gwaine sounds like a non sequitur but as with most things Merlin says, he knows that it will come back sooner rather than later. But it’s thrown Gwaine off enough that Merlin’s quit waiting for Gwaine’s answer and has turned back to the path, picking through the brush. Gwaine hurries to follow him. “I did, once. Like destiny, I mean. It had felt like an answer, like my existence had had a purpose. But — I don’t like the person I’ve become, because of it. For it. Is this my purpose?”
They come to a clearing — or more of a small field, between two woods — where Merlin stands and looks up at the sky. He’s still frowning, but it’s thoughtful now. Gwaine recognizes the field as the one where Arthur said they once faced off with the Great Dragon; he can see where the earth must have been disturbed by its weight, grass and wildflowers growing in the scores where claws once landed.
Merlin drops to the ground crossed-legged, his back a rigid line. He starts plucking the grass at his feet.
Instead of sitting next to Merlin, like what he’s most likely expecting Gwaine to do, he lowers himself to the ground behind him, back to back. “Lean on me,” Gwaine says.
Merlin makes a soft little noise of surprise, and while they’re not quite of a height where Merlin can comfortably rest his head on Gwaine’s shoulder, he does his best anyways, sliding his seat lower on the grass so that most of his weight is resting on Gwaine’s shoulders. His face is turned towards Gwaine’s neck, eyelashes tickling his throat, warm breath moving his hair. “Which came first, I wonder,” he says, nonsensically.
Merlin doesn’t seem as though he’s anxious for conversation, so Gwaine settles in and allows the events from all of those years ago to come back in snatches — the forest, the bridge, the man whose name is Grettir, who hadn’t hesitated at the use of magic. Turning it over in his mind, Gwaine tries to connect the pieces from that day to the crumbs Merlin’s laid out for him this morning. And not just the tired eyes and the non sequiturs, but the feeling that’s lingered since he woke up before dawn, in whatever it was that guided his gaze to the Physician’s quarters, glowing warm and invitingly from across the courtyard.
It clicks so suddenly and so jarringly that Gwaine almost moves with it, and for a moment he does feel a surge of irritation, of existential doubt — his life is his own, always has and always will be, Grettir be damned — but then — just as quickly as the anger rose up, he remembers Merlin behind him. He’s gone tense against Gwaine’s back, forehead pressed hard against Gwaine’s neck, and Gwaine can’t feel him breathing.
Gwaine takes a deep breath, and then another, and he leans back against Merlin in turn. Merlin hums and breathes again, but otherwise stays silent. It truly is a day of wonders: for the second time today, Gwaine realises that as meandering as Merlin’s thoughts appear to be, Gwaine doesn’t know if he’s ever spoken so plainly of his burdens before.
“Is that my destiny, then? Strength?”
“I don’t know,” Merlin says immediately. Then, contrarily: “I don’t want to call upon you to fulfil your destiny.”
“Why not?”
“Sometimes I wish —” Merlin stops, choking on the words. He breathes for a moment, forcefully slowing down his inhales and exhales. “Sometimes I wish no one had called me to answer mine.”
He says it quickly, hushed, shot through with anxiety. Gwaine can’t reach any part of Merlin comfortably with his hands, sitting back to back, but he does tilt his head so it knocks into Merlin’s.
Merlin, full of secrets. Merlin, weighed down by grief. Merlin, and Arthur. A kingdom still settling in the ashes of an age of darkness. What will the phoenix look like, when she rises once more?
“Would you?” Gwaine asks, keeping his tone neutral. “If I asked it of you?”
Merlin jumps away so quickly Gwaine tumbles back. He coughs at the impact, not expecting to be hitting the ground any time soon, takes a moment to find Merlin’s gaze, wide and tinged with fear, looking down at him.
“You don’t want that.”
Gwaine heaves himself up with a groan. “I do. Ask, Merlin.”
“Gwaine —”
“You don’t know what I’ll say,” Gwaine argues, turning his body to face him. He shifts to his knees, hands open and waiting. “Speak to me of destiny, and I’ll answer the call however I like.”
The air around them moves lightly, carrying a breeze from the north; Gwaine’s always loved the cool smell of spring earth. He smiles up at Merlin, silhouetted against the sky still clinging to the soft light of dawn. Somehow — somehow, he thinks fondly, with another spark of that strange feeling that’s carried him through his waking hours today — Merlin’s eyes still reflect a golden light.
One of the many things Gwaine loves about Merlin is the way he respects people. Trust? No, that’s a very select few, the numbers dwindling every season to those who take care to count — but respect? Merlin will only ask if you’re sure once, and it’s never in a way that makes you feel he’s trying to push you one way or another. The look on his face is one worn by the weary, by the wise, by the ones who carry more on their shoulders than what you’d expect their slight build can take.
Merlin doesn’t lower himself to Gwaine’s level, and he’s happy for it; four years ago he’d knelt and sworn fealty to Arthur, but it was Merlin’s gaze he sought out first when he stood as a new man.
“Gwaine,” Merlin says, and Gwaine hurts with the way he knows that this is hurting Merlin. But still, just like pushing Merlin had felt right, so does this. “In the writings of the Old Religion, you are given the title of Strength. Strength to the Courage of King Arthur, and to — “ Merlin’s words are cut off, the click in his throat audible. “And to the Council of the Round Table, meant to seat Kings and merchants and peasants and Druids as equals. How would you answer the call?”
“Ah,” Gwaine says, “while those are both things any knight of Camelot would be proud to be destined to do, I don’t think that’s how my destiny is meant to be interpreted.” He smiles at the way Merlin falls back a step, eyes wide. The feeling that's been sitting in Gwaine’s chest all morning burns brighter now than it ever has. “Always doing yourself a disservice,” he says lightly, making sure Merlin can hear the teasing note in his voice, can see the fondness in his gaze. “But since you’ve called me to answer Destiny’s call, I will: to be your strength, Merlin. When you tire, I will carry you. If you fall ill, I will care for you. If you are weakened in battle, I will take up the challenge in your name. These are things I will do gladly, for the rest of my life.
“It is a cruel and tiresome thing, I imagine, to be told of your destiny over and over again. But do not let my destiny be your burden, too, when it’s one I’ve lived without hardship since the day I met you.”
Merlin kneels down in front of him now, taking Gwaine’s hands in his own. “That isn’t what was written,” he tells him softly.
“Give me this book and I will correct it,” Gwaine replies. “Whoever claims to know how a destiny should be fulfilled — especially not their own — can go and bugger off. Which came first, you ask? Merlin, dove —” He twists Merlin’s grip on his hands so that he’s taking hold, instead, lifting them to his heart. “I won’t lie to you and say it doesn’t rattle me, that perhaps my path was laid out before I ever thought to leave my home, but in the great scheme of things it doesn’t matter if you’re what’s at the end of that path, waiting for me. You are Camelot’s strength, and I’m yours. Simple as that.”
Merlin ducks his head, but Gwaine can still see the bitter, defeated twist of his mouth. He curls his fingers into the cloth of Gwaine’s tunic. “There is no book, really. Or at least — not one anybody’s ever shown me.”
Gwaine doesn’t need any help putting together that image in his mind: Merlin, who has magic and most likely a lot of it, standing in the shadow of a King who rules a land that, right now, would condemn him for breathing. Merlin, encountering people and — Gwaine doesn’t feel too presumptuous making this assumption — dragons from all corners of the land, telling him that he has a great destiny. People leaving, and waiting for that destiny to be fulfilled, somewhere else. Never looking back and thinking: oh. Well, he’s all alone, isn’t he?
It’s that tugging and twisting and burning and Gwaine cannot deal with it anymore, so he shifts his grip from Merlin’s hands to his forearms, pulling him to Gwaine’s chest. He holds Merlin to him, and Merlin struggles for a moment, taken aback by Gwaine’s reaction, but then he gets ahold of the back of Gwaine’s tunic and he claws at it, gasping. He pulls his legs underneath him, crawling into Gwaine’s lap.
Gwaine runs his hand up Merlin’s spine, combing fingers through his hair and cradling his head. “That sounds lonely.”
“Yeah,” Merlin’s reply cracks down the middle. “It is.”
They stay like that for a while, watching the sun crest over the trees across the field; as the temperature rises, Gwaine falls back, sighing at the warmth of the earth. Merlin shifts so that he’s lying on his back next to Gwaine, touching from shoulder to hip. He holds tight to Gwaine’s hand, giving it a squeeze.
Gwaine lifts their hands so that they’re above them, silhouetted against the sun. There’s nothing about them that might reveal the weight they’re meant to bear — only marked by the callouses and scars of peasants and knights. Merlin makes a questioning noise, nudging Gwaine’s hip, and Gwaine brings their joint hands back down, placing a kiss to the back of Merlin’s hand before laying them over his middle.
Perhaps destiny is meant to feel heavier than it does, but for now, Gwaine will bear it the way he’s borne it so far: he’ll carry on, with sword or lily or magic, and he’ll follow Merlin to any and all of the ends of the earth.
Being Merlin’s strength comes so naturally to him that it may as well not be destiny at all.