Springes to Catch Woodcocks Chapter Two: No More But So cont'd

[myashke]

Dinner was camp fare, far less than Arthur was used to and almost tasteless to boot, though Percival had found some sort of mint leaves and steeped them, so at least they weren’t drinking hot water. The last of the stew sat over a low fire in the hopes that Merlin’s fever would break in the night and he’d be able to eat. None of them seemed to want to finish it off, not when there was any chance Merlin might need it.

Arthur delivered a bowl of food to Lancelot, who was tending Merlin, then took his place among the knights at dinner, but Gawaine avoided his eye and didn’t speak to him.

He should never have said the things he had to Gawaine, should never have given voice to all he was feeling and thinking about Merlin. There was a chance - albeit a small chance from what Arthur knew of him - that Gawaine would think it best for Merlin to be privy to all Arthur had said. As a knight, he was sworn to secrecy, but Gawaine wasn’t raised with a knight’s honour and had always been a bit freer in his behaviour than the others.

As the sun began to disappear, Leon, Elyan and Percival readied their horses for the road. They were to ride for Camelot, he’d told them, and fetch Gaius. If they set out in the morning, they would reach Ealdor at nearly the same time. With both Gaius and Hunith working together, surely a cure could be found.

Gawaine watched the other knights tying on their packs, still obviously not looking at Arthur only the two of them still sat by the fire.

Arthur sighed and stood, laying a hand on Gawaine’s shoulder as he passed. “Come with me,” he ordered, not bothering to look back and see if Gawaine followed. By the time he reached the edge of the woods, Gawaine was at his shoulder, keeping pace with him. “I need your assurance you will not speak to Merlin about what we discussed earlier.”

“You have it, Sire,” Gawaine said curtly, glaring. “Rest assured he has no idea why you’re treating him this way.”

Arthur rounded on him, hands clenched in fists at his sides. “You have no right to judge me, Gawaine.”

“As your knight, that’s true,” he said, his voice like ice. “But as your friend and his, I cannot help but want to slap sense into you both.”

“So help me, Gawaine,” he began, grasping the man’s wrist as Gawaine put a hand on his shoulder. “If you-”

“He thinks you’re angry with him because of his secret, that you were just being kind because he is so sick,” Gawaine said, his hand falling away as Arthur let go and took a step back. “Whatever happened last night, it can’t be so awful that he deserves this. He clearly doesn’t even remember whatever it was.”

“No, he doesn’t deserve it,” Arthur agreed, sighing. “Go on. Tell Lancelot I’ll take his place in a moment.”

Arthur paced amongst the trees as the three knights left camp, the night spilling like ink over the forest and down through the branches, the moon slipping through to light up the patches of snow here and there. Tomorrow would be warmer, and Merlin was improving.

He heard Gawaine and Lancelot speaking in low tones to one another and turned back to camp, ready to enter the tent as Merlin’s friend.

Merlin started awake, Arthur stirring a few feet away but not waking.

He was parched, though as he began moving, he felt a bit stronger and wasn’t shivering anymore, either. He pushed the blankets away and shuddered as the cold winter night air hit his bare skin. He wrapped one of his blankets around his shoulders and rolled to his side.

Spotting the cup nearby, he drained what little was left in it and pushing up on one elbow, testing his balance to see if he could manage to refill it himself from the pail and not wake Arthur. He wobbled a bit as he sat up, but his head seemed almost normal. He was weak, of course, but he wasn’t feverish or confused.

Crawling to the pail by the tent door, he scooped a cupful of water and gulped it down. The cool liquid was heaven as it slid down his throat. He filled the cup again, drinking more slowly, savouring it. The night air was cold, though not abnormally so, and his stomach clenched at the emptiness there.

Peeking out of the tent, he saw the campfire still burning, the water kettle hanging as it always did when Merlin forgot to put it away, from a makeshift stand over the smaller, smouldering cooking fire. It would still be warm, at least, and warm tea sounded a thousand times better than cold water.

He looked back at Arthur, whose slow, steady breaths meant he was deeply asleep. If he didn’t think he could do it alone, Merlin would wake him or just go without, but there was no need. He reached for the thinner of his borrowed tunics but discounted the idea of trying to get it on the way Gawaine had shown him by himself. Wrapping the blanket back around his shoulders, he snuck out of the tent. Leon’s boots weren’t there, so he stood shakily on his tiptoes as he picked up Arthur’s, turning them upside-down one at a time and shaking them to make sure nothing had crawled inside in the night.

He stood for a moment, taking in their small camp - only one other tent, the central fire, the smaller cooking fire and the horses, who were tethered to a stand of trees at the edge of the clearing. He didn’t see anyone circling the camp, but he was sure one of the knights would be. They never all slept at once.

Clumping across to the fire as softly as he could manage in the too-big boots, he crouched and set the cup down on the ground. The kettle was warm to the touch, but not hot, and even though he would have loved a steaming cup of tea, he was wary of using his magic and the night was too cold to bother fetching more wood and feeding the fire high enough, then waiting on the kettle to heat.

Merlin knelt, shivering as he did. The close-fitting smallclothes were too thin to protect his legs from the cold ground. He tucked the edges of the blanket under his knees and puffed heat into his freezing, cupped fingers. Lifting the branch the kettle hung on, Merlin slid the handle off and set the kettle at his side, lowering the branch back into place.

Pouring his cup full, Merlin inhaled the minty scent of the tea, letting his hands soak up the warmth that seeped through the cup. He drank slowly, letting the tea linger on his tongue. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted in his life. It cleared his head of the last of the cobwebs the fever had strung up, opened his eyes and made him take huge, long breaths of the fresh, clean winter air. It froze his lungs, but he didn’t mind. He could feel how cold it was, how warm the tea in his cup was, the chill of the gentle breeze against his face, every sensation just as it should be.

He closed his eyes and huddled in his blanket by the fire, finishing off the tea as his mind wandered. He’d not even woken when Arthur had come to their tent, but he was sure the man had given him another potion, the last of its after-taste washed away by the first sip of the mint-leaf tea. Maybe it had been that last dose that had done it - had broken his fever - but Merlin wasn’t so sure.

He felt drained, not only physically, but magically as well. Could he have cast in his confusion, raising his temperature to warm himself? He didn’t think so, though he did know a few spells that would have served the purpose. What if he had? That was rogue magic, not truly under his control.

There was a way to test it, but Merlin wasn’t about to cast out in the open clearing in the dead of night. Who knew what or who could be spying on their camp. Someone would be patrolling and he wouldn’t want any of the knights to be startled if they saw it, especially if it wasn’t Gawaine or Lancelot.

Leaving the empty kettle on the ground, Merlin took his cup back to the tent, quickly stepping out of Arthur’s boots and climbing back inside. He sat in the tangle of blankets and listened to Arthur breathe for a few moments. He’d done it before - often actually - when they’d been on patrol or out hunting. At the citadel, Arthur slept like a log, rarely moving or making a sound, his deep breaths like heavy sighing. Out in the woods, though, he tended to wake at the slightest provocation.

He looked like a painting when he slept, his face peaceful, lips parted, redder than normal against the pure white of the rolled-up linen beneath his head. How Arthur could still sleep so peacefully on a couple of thin blankets over the lumpy ground when he’d been raised knowing royal comfort, Merlin would never understand.

Shaking his head, he reached out to brush Arthur’s hair from his eyes, his stomach fluttering as his fingertips grazed Arthur’s forehead. Pulling his hand away, Merlin sat back on his heels, thinking of the call to arms as the Serkets attacked an outlying farming village.

He remembered everything from that moment to the instant he hit the ice. He even remembered Arthur’s face as he’d watched Merlin fall, though he kind of wished he had forgotten that bit. He remembered waking and feeling Arthur pressed all along him, Gawaine warm against his back, the two of them closer than Merlin had ever been to another human being and all of them skin-to-skin. More of Merlin’s skin than theirs, but small clothes were hardly concealing and as tightly as he’d been held between them, there hadn’t been a thing left to the imagination.

He closed his eyes, letting the memories flow like smoke across his mind. He took a deep breath and sighed quietly, his skin tingling with the remembered feeling of Arthur touching him, holding him close, gently insisting on keeping his warm thigh pressed between Merlin’s legs as they lay together.

He shook his head as his mind conjured up the touch of Arthur’s lips to his own, the feeling of Arthur’s hair between his fingers, the taste of his tongue.

Hand flying to his lips and eyes snapping open, Merlin shook his head. No, oh, Gods! He’d- Gods, it was real. He’d thought it was a dream, just something the closeness of being held had made his mind create as he slept, but no, he’d actually done it.

And Arthur had kissed him back.

As horrifying as it was to think he’d just grabbed Arthur without so much as a by-your-leave, it was nothing compared to that realization.

Arthur hadn’t been asleep and he’d kissed him back, not just tolerantly. He’d seemed reluctant at first, but Merlin distinctly remembered the slide of Arthur’s tongue along his own and a hand squeezing his thigh in encouragement.

He felt his face heat at the memory and pressed his hands to his cheeks, looking down at Arthur.

Those lips had touched his own.

Had that been the reason Arthur left him that morning? Of course it was. It explained everything, but was did that mean? Was he angry, or, in light of his carefully friendly behaviour, did he just want to pretend it had never happened? Had he thought that’s what Merlin was doing all day long, just acting like the entire thing hadn’t happened? How would they ever get anywhere together if they were both too stupid to just say it.

Say what, exactly? ‘Gee, that kiss was amazing. Let’s try it conscious this time?’

Merlin rolled his eyes and lay down, staring at Arthur’s profile. Everyone would recognize it someday. It would be on coins when Arthur was King, he was sure, but Merlin already had it memorized. He lifted his hand and held it over Arthur’s chest, unwilling to risk waking the man. He propped himself up on his elbow, breathing in the clean earthen scent as he touched his cheek to Arthur’s shoulder. He rested his head there, his wounded arm stretched across Arthur’s stomach.

He breathed deeply, trying to relax and let sleep come, but every time he closed his eyes he felt Arthur’s mouth against his own, their bodies pressed together. Heart racing at the memories, he propped back up on his elbow, Arthur stirring as he started to pull his arm away.

He stilled, unable even to move apart from Arthur as he knew he should. Arthur hummed and edged closer, face tilting toward his own so Merlin felt every breath against his lips.

Such a small space between them, just nothing almost, and Merlin shuddered with the heat that radiated off Arthur’s body all along his own - through thin tunic and thin small clothes. He took a deep, slow breath, reaching for a control that had long-since abandoned him. He shook his head, at a loss as to how to stop himself when he wanted. He needed this so badly and it was right there before him. Arthur had kissed him back, he had, and that one thought was all it took.

He leaned forward and touched his lips to Arthur’s, wincing at the sweetness of that mouth pressing against his own again. It was felt like every good sensation he’d ever know - safety, warmth, softness, Arthur’s dizzying scent and the taste, Gods. He moaned, his eyes squeezed closed, and shifted closer, his thigh rubbing up over Arthur’s leg. It was too far, he knew, but he wanted to feel it everywhere, wanted to feel Arthur with as much of himself as he could.

An instant of response - of Arthur’s lips moving against his, Arthur’s hips arching up against his thigh and then it was over.

He swallowed hard and looked away, unable to stop his soft cry when Arthur’s hand curled tightly on his injured arm. He let go immediately, his harsh breath ghosting against Merlin’s cheek as he whispered, “Merlin?”

He nodded, humiliation swelling in his chest. He kept the embarrassment carefully in check behind his closed eyes, swallowing hard as he shifted his thigh away.

Arthur probably wouldn’t punch him, but Merlin knew from experience that Arthur was just as good at inflicting wounds with words alone. “I think I should check on the horses,” he whispered, dumbly, starting to roll away.

Arthur’s hand pressed into his lower back, stopping him. “No. You’re...”

Merlin opened his eyes and looked down at him, shaking his head a little, doing his best to smile though the light in the tent was dim. “I’m fine now - no fever.” He shrugged and tried to move away again, but Arthur’s hand only pressed him closer.

His other hand slid up Merlin’s neck and cupped over his forehead, and Merlin closed his eyes. It would be the last time and he wanted to remember how it felt.

“The horses are sleeping,” Arthur whispered, his breath ghosting over Merlin’s skin as his fingers slipped down his cheek, thumb brushing lightly across his lips.

Heartbeat thumping in his ears, Merlin held his breath, licking his suddenly dry lips. Arthur watched him do it, staring at his mouth. When their eyes met, Arthur inhaled deeply, then gave him a slight nod.

Merlin nodded, too, biting his bottom lip, arching back into the touch as Arthur’s fingers combed through his hair, squeezing gently on the back of his neck, urging him down. He closed his eyes, falling into the kiss as willingly as he’d fallen over the ledge, the heady rush much the same but the destination so much better.

Arthur enveloped him, even from below, strong arm circling his body, pulling him closer, moving him up and over until Merlin lay nearly on top of him, one thigh between Arthur’s, the hot press of groin against groin as dizzying as the tongue that slipped between his lips and licked him open.

He held agonizingly still as his heart leapt and his blood raced through his veins, trying desperately to focus on Arthur’s lips and tongue and hands every time he felt the strong body move beneath him. He wouldn’t rub against it, he couldn’t, though his body ached with the need to. Arthur’s hand drifted down his back, lower and lower, pressing down over his arse, grabbing the back of his thigh and pulling him close, pulling in waves, in a rhythm, in and in until Merlin was moaning and Gods, moving, rocking up and back against the twin of his own arousal.

A moan hummed against his lips and he pulled back, opening his eyes, Arthur’s smeared-red lips panting and smiling softly up at him. Arthur put a hand on his chest and pushed him back. “You’re awake.”

Merlin nodded nervously swallowing hard. “I only just remembered... you know... last night.”

Arthur nodded, smirking. “I wondered if you would. I guess I have my answer.”

Face flushing, Merlin slowly lowered his lips to Arthur’s again, this time their kiss was slow and lingering, though his pulse still hammered a stampede of hoof-beats against his ribs.

Arthur’s tongue slipped along his lips, tickling them open and Merlin shyly brushed his own against it, the languid, sleepy pace calming him, soothing his fears away.

He pulled gently back and looked down at Arthur’s face as fingers combed gently through his hair. He didn’t know if he should apologize, but it felt ridiculous to do it now, after they’d just kissed again. “I’m glad we’re both awake now.”

Arthur’s hand lifted his chin and slowly, he raised his head and looked into Arthur’s eyes.

“I should never have let you,” Arthur whispered, shaking his head. “You’re enough of a distraction as it is.”

Merlin swallowed hard, waiting for a smile or another kiss to soften the words into a tease, but as they stared at one another, Merlin felt as if something irrevocable was slipping between them. He couldn’t think of anything to say, though he desperately wanted to.

When he closed his eyes, Arthur pressed his fingers to Merlin’s lips. “Enough,” he breathed, the word a plea more than a command. “We cannot-”

Merlin turned his face away, nodding. He’d known what Arthur’s answer would be, though he’d hoped he’d be wrong. Too late, he thought of stilling the moment with magic. It slipped along through his fingers like sand.

“No one can know,” Arthur whispered. “Not even the knights - I mean it, Merlin.” His brow furrowed as if he was asking a question, even though his words were clipped and serious.

“All right,” Merlin replied quietly, unable to say more. He quickly pulled himself away and knelt up, feeling like a fool. How long had Arthur been humouring him? The whole time? Taking a calming breath and holding still as his head slowly stopped spinning, he shoved the thoughts from his mind.

Best to begin as one meant to continue. Gods, how he hated that expression.

Like a bucket of cold water, Arthur’s words had shocked him back into reality, holding up in front of him what he’d tried so hard to forget.

He was a servant, and he would obey. Arthur couldn’t help it any more than Merlin could. He knew that, but when he’d let himself dream about this moment, he’d always pictured the two of them connecting only as men, not as Prince and servant.

Arthur followed, sitting up, a hand to Merlin’s arm. “Are you all right?”

Reaching for his cup, he moved away from the touch, wishing he knew a spell to make himself vanish into thin air. Even evaporating into the winter wind would feel better than this, this aching humiliation.

He scooped up some water and took a sip, clearing his throat. “I’m fine,” he lied, staring at the tent wall. “Apart from my shoulder and ankle. My magic is a little off, so I’m not going to try to heal them right now.”

“A little off?” Arthur asked, taking the cup when Merlin offered it.

“It’s making me a bit dizzy is all. Happens sometimes when I’ve cast a lot, or something powerful,” he explained, grateful to think about anything apart from that kiss and what Arthur had said, but wishing he didn’t have to speak at all.

“You’ve been asleep for the better part of two days. You haven’t cast a thing; we would’ve seen it.” Arthur laid down, one hand tucked beneath his head, the curve of his bicep flexing in the soft light of the campfire outside.

Merlin looked away again, shaking his head. He couldn’t even look without wanting to touch. “My fever never broke,” he said, his voice sounding flat even to him. “It just disappeared. I think I must’ve created it to warm myself.”

“Is that even possible?” Arthur asked with obvious doubt.

“I cast once before when I was this ill,” he said, glancing at Arthur apologetically, then looking quickly away again. “I conjured the light orb in the cave for you, even though I was unconscious the whole time you were gone.”

Arthur’s scoff was harsh in the stillness of the night air. “I should have known that was you.”

Merlin shrugged, scooting his pile of borrowed clothing closer and starting to pull on the trousers over his smalls. He considered the second tunic, but left it there. “I’m going to stretch my legs,” he said by way of explanation, and slipped out of the tent.

He sat by the fire, not even pretending by walking around, and stared into the flames. Arthur didn’t follow him, and every moment the tent flap stayed closed was both cruel torture and a relief.

A log dropped in the fire, sending sparks high into the air, reminding him he’d never tested his theory about the fever. He sent a gentle wave of magic at the pile of kindling nearby, lifting a few twigs and poking them into the white-hot embers below the flames.

Exhaustion swept over him like a wave, crashing down and stealing his breath. He reeled, leaning back on his hands for support, head bowed and eyes closed in an effort to stave off the dizziness. It felt exactly like before, only to a much lesser degree. It was proof enough that he’d caused his own fever.

Merlin turned away from the fire’s warmth and after a few calming, deep breaths of the chill winter air, the dizziness passed, leaving him bone-weary.

When Lancelot came by on his patrol, he sat down and wrapped an arm around Merlin, not saying a word.

Whether the man had heard him and Arthur or just knew Merlin well enough to know when he needed not to talk, Merlin was grateful for the silent companionship. After a while, Lancelot patted his leg and nodded in the direction of his and Gawaine’s tent. “Get some rest.”

When the fire began to die down in earnest, he crawled into the tent with Gawaine, pulling the covers to his chin. Gawaine woke and smiled over at him, sighing as Merlin gently shook his head, hoping Gawaine would be as perceptive as Lancelot had been. “No fever,” he managed to whisper, but even that hurt, somehow.

“Come here,” Gawaine whispered, reaching for Merlin, pulling him in so Merlin’s head lay on his shoulder. Gawaine’s cheek pressed against his forehead, checking his temperature. “You’re better? Then what’s got you so upset?”

Merlin closed his eyes and took deep breaths, willing the ache in his chest to be chased away by his friend’s unfailingly bright spirit. He couldn’t speak. He felt as though he would splinter into a million pieces if he spoke.

“Is it Arthur?” Gawaine asked gently.

Taking a shuddering breath, Merlin reached for Gawaine’s hand and squeezed in answer.

“Oh,” Gawaine whispered, his voice a reflection of the anguish twisting in Merlin’s chest. Gawaine tightened his hold, fingers lacing through Merlin’s. “What happened?”

Merlin shook his head, his eyes still closed. “He-” His almost silent whisper broke off as the words clogged his throat and stuck there. He could barely breathe past them. He squeezed Gawaine’s hand again, hoping he’d understand.

“I wish I could take this away,” Gawaine whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple. “He doesn’t know what he’s giving up.”

Merlin choked on a sob, turning away onto his side, unable to be so close to another person, even to Gawaine, right now.

“Try to sleep.” Arms tucked in under and around him to circle his chest and pull him into the curve of Gawaine’s body. “You’re going home tomorrow.”

Gawaine held him in a strong hug that didn’t end. It felt so entirely different to be held for comfort’s sake instead of for warmth. It was wonderful, but hurt, too, looked at in the same light as Arthur’s unwillingness to do the same for him.

He breathed deeply, summoning control. Home, Ealdor - it would mean time to collect his thoughts and dignity before heading back to his life in Camelot. He would see his mother, for once grateful that she wouldn’t need an explanation to realize what must have happened. She would just know, and she’d understand.

She’d make sense of it all for him and help him find a way to forget and slip back into his proper role as servant and sometimes friend. He would learn to be grateful for even that much of Arthur.

Gawaine kissed his shoulder and hair, arms tightening around his chest. “You deserve him, Merlin. Don’t ever believe that you didn’t,” he whispered, drawing out the tears that Merlin had been desperately holding back.

They broken through his thin barrier of pride and wracked his body. He shook with them, but tried not to make a sound, not even bothering to wipe them away. As he choked on a gasp, the back of Gawaine’s hand brushed over his cheeks.

“That’s it, my friend,” Gawaine’s fingers wove back through his hair. He didn’t say it was all going to work out, or that Merlin still had a chance, or that Merlin was a fool, though he supposed the last hadn’t needed to be said. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Just let it out.”

He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle a sob, the tent prisming all around him through his tears. “I knew. I knew and it still feels like I’m splitting open,” he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief, pulling in great gulping breaths, trying to calm himself.

How long had he felt this way about Arthur? Years, and every single moment of those years, he’d told himself this would be the outcome if he ever told Arthur how he felt. He’d known with every fibre of his being that Arthur couldn’t feel the same way about a servant. About him.

If Arthur had screamed or laughed at him, it couldn’t have hurt this badly. That they had shared kisses before Arthur let him down was no comfort. It made it worse.

Now he knew Arthur’s flavour, the feel of his fingers on the back of his neck, the peaks and valleys of his body as they pressed together, fitting like lock and key. How could he be close to him and pretend he didn’t know those things, didn’t want them again and again for all of his life?

Gawaine’s hand opened wide over his chest, a reassuringly strong presence as if he knew Merlin felt pain - actual pain - there. “Shh, Merlin,” he soothed, pressing the handkerchief into Merlin’s hand and running his fingers back through Merlin’s hair, over and over.

“How can I-” he began, his grief a hard stone in his throat. He shook his head, unable to finish, but Gawaine pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“You will be able to carry on,” he promised, his certainty giving Merlin the smallest bit of hope. “Your feelings for him make you the best one to protect him, and you know that.”

Merlin nodded slowly, though he wanted to deny it. He wanted to run, as far and as fast as he could and never lay eyes on Arthur again, never hear him speak Merlin’s name or share another moment with the man.

Or the opposite, entirely. Now that he knew he would never have it, he wanted all of it tenfold as badly. He closed his eyes tightly and growled, pounding his fist into the blankets, desperate for any sensation but the burrowing, twisting pain that found its way deeper every moment.

“It’s not fair,” Gawaine softly said against his ear, taking his throbbing fist and pulling it open, thumb rubbing over Merlin’s fingers. “But you had to try.”

“No, I didn’t. I knew what his answer would be,” he croaked, turned to press his face into the blankets beneath him.

“He cares for you, Merlin,” his friend whispered, fingers carding through his hair. “You must see that.”

“I know,” he said thickly, swallowing hard. Even now, sobbing in Gawaine’s arms over Arthur’s rejection, Merlin could admit it. “I know he does.”

“Then hold onto that,” Gawaine said quietly, fingertips combing Merlin’s fringe across his forehead.

He nodded gently, taking a deep breath and holding on to an image behind his closed eyes. Arthur stood, silent and brooding at the corner window of his chambers. The fire Merlin was tending bathed Arthur’s bare back, neck and arms in a warm light and Merlin drank in the sight. Suddenly, Arthur turned away from the window, smiling softly at him for no reason at all.

Merlin took a deep breath and blew it out shakily, his tears finally easing.

Gawaine pulled away for a moment, reaching to his pack and pressing a handkerchief into Merlin’s slack hand.

“I’ll ruin it,” he protested weakly, fingers sliding over the fine embroidery at the corner.

“That’s what they’re made for,” Gawaine said, pulling at his shoulder until Merlin turned to face him.

He swiped quickly at his eyes and nose with the cloth, knowing he must look exactly how he felt. He sighed and reached for Gawaine’s hand, lacing their fingers together, pulling their joined hands up beneath his chin. When he could breathe without gasping at all, he looked up at Gawaine, seeing only concern and affection.

Emotions stripped too raw to accept either without the tears starting again, Merlin closed his eyes and pleaded softly, “Don’t let go of me.”

“Never,” Gawaine swore. He laid his forehead against Merlin’s, inhaling deeply before pressing a soft kiss to his lips, then to each of his eyelids. “Sleep, my friend. It will be easier tomorrow,” he promised, though Merlin didn’t believe him.

It would never be easy between he and Arthur again.

Difficult as it was to feel every minute difference of another body besides Arthur’s holding him so closely, he couldn’t bring himself to move away from the comfort. He ducked his face down and Gawaine rolled, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.

Hand still clasped with Gawaine’s, he rested his head on his friend’s chest. The slow, steady rhythm of Gawaine’s heartbeat under his ear pulled at his exhaustion.

Wrapped in the warmth of his friend’s embrace, the sharp edge of grief dulled by the tears he’d shed, he finally drifted off to sleep.

Author's Notes:

Warnings: Spoilers through Season 3. Angst, but with a bit of humour, a bit of drama and a happy ending, I swear.

Huge amounts of credit and heartfelt appreciation to my incredible betas: rebeccaann08 and imnotjkr! I couldn't do this without your unfailing support, encouragement and eagle-eyes. I hope you'll stick with Springes and I through to the end (and into BB as well!). Also, thanks to Will Shakespeare for the fic and chapter titles, which all come from Polonius' speech to Ophelia in Act I, Scene III of Hamlet.

Chapter three is completed and will be up next week. Just a heads-up - there will be at least three more chapters, likely all between 10-15K words. I'm hoping to publish at least every two weeks, but as it stands, I'm publishing weekly.

Feedback is always appreciated! I'm absolutely overwhelmed by the warm welcome I've gotten from Merlin fandom! You all have been so kind and generous with your time and comments. Every single one has motivated me to write more (and believe me, there were days when I needed that desperately)! I feel right at home here already, so thank you very much for making my first couple of stories here such memorable experiences.

Chapter one is here: Springes to Catch Woodcocks: Chapter One on A03