I'm Gwaine, and you can take your labels and titles and shove them, but if you bat your pretty lashes I just may not have ever stood a chance.
Gwaine rolled over onto his side, away from the sudden stream of sunlight blinding him through the windows of his knight’s chambers, only to find his mouth full of hay. What… Forcing his eyes open (and immediately regretting it) revealed he was not in his chambers, after all. He racked his…
Merlin was wandering the streets of Camelot in search of Sir Gwaine. He hadn’t reported for training that morning, so naturally Arthur sent Merlin to find him. The bartender at the Rising Sun Tavern had seen Gwaine the night before, but nobody seemed to know where he’d disappeared to. As the young warlock was passing the town stables he caught sight of someone stirring in one of the empty stalls.
“Gwaine?” Merlin called out curiously, unsure at first if it really was his friend.
Gwaine started at the sound of someone else there. His mind and eyesight were still somewhat foggy from sleep (and he wasn’t much of a morning person to begin with). In as swift a motion as could come naturally upon waking, Gwaine rolled into a standing position and scanned the stable whilst reaching instinctively for a sword that was not there. He caught sight of a familiar silhouette approaching from the street and very briefly felt relieved to see it was his friend Merlin.
Merlin’s entrance had startled Gwaine out of the fog in his head, but Gwaine immediately resented it; as he came around and stood up from the haystack, he became suddenly and acutely aware of a racking, excruciating pain in his left shin. His contribution to the conversation sounded something like, “Merl-aaauuuuggghhhh-fffff-ssss,” as he keeled back over and landed back on the floor, cradling his lower leg in his arms. No clue what to think or say about what might have caused him to break or sprain his leg in the night, he bit his lip, held back traitorous tears, and attempted to smile up at Merlin and nod a good morning.
Post with 11 notes
Gwaine rolled over onto his side, away from the sudden stream of sunlight blinding him through the windows of his knight’s chambers, only to find his mouth full of hay. What… Forcing his eyes open (and immediately regretting it) revealed he was not in his chambers, after all. He racked his pounding brain. I was in the tavern… I didn’t drink that much ale last night, he thought, yet no memories of leaving surfaced.
He looked down at his body to count his parts; all limbs still attached, that was good. He was wearing his street clothes, which worried him somewhat because it meant he didn’t have his sword or stand out as a knight in a crowd and as he looked around, it was clear he was someplace he didn’t recognize (a stable, perhaps? but not the stables at the castle). Gwaine sat up where he was, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, resolving to get up and figure out where in the hell he was and how he’d gotten there instead of falling back into the haystack and the thick, dreamy sleep that had been painfully interrupted moments before.
Post with 2 notes
I don’t care much for talking about myself or my past, so you should probably listen when I do, and this is one of those times.
I was born into nobility, on a technicality. You see, my father was a knight, fighting the good fight (as Mother tells it) for Caerleon back in the day. He died doing it, though. It had been the only household income, and he didn’t die some kind of war hero or anything, so when my mother went to the king of Caerleon to ask for help in supporting the family, the greedy bastard turned her away. Every day since then has been a struggle just to get on. Every day since then, I’ve had a bad taste in my mouth for those of “noble” or Royal blood (with a couple of exceptions, I’m getting there).
Honestly, while growing up impoverished was hard and disheartening, I just think there are better ways of living than the way I would have grown up had my father been alive. Where would I be now, if I’d been raised to expect things to be handed to me by people of a lower blood status than my own? I shudder at the thought of seeing myself as blinded by greed and power as the nobles back in Caerleon. No, I prefer the life I set out to find on my own. A self-proclaimed Vagabond, I left home a few years ago with just my father’s sword and clothes on my back, in hopes of finding not only enough work to send a little something home to Mum as often as I could, but finding myself as well.
What I did find was one of the last things I’d expected.
I found myself in Camelot. Uther Pendgragon was king then, and a right selfish prick, too. I made a pretty good friend of his son, though, and once Arthur was the one calling the shots, I was welcomed with open arms as a Knight of Camelot. Not something I’d have been interested in in a million years, mind you, but I’ve met some of the most wonderful friends and think that, strangely enough, I am leagues closer to finding myself here than I was on my own. I’ve made very fast friends with (King) Arthur’s servant, Merlin, too. Probably the closest to a brother I’ve ever had, and the Knights are great company, too. Really, it was Arthur’s (secret) girlfriend that made me give them all a second chance, and while I still don’t care a shilling for the blood-status-titles-nobility system, I find myself fitting into it the best I can with a wild heart on the run.
Now, I do have some quirks that make the vigilantly-watched life of a Knight somewhat more difficult for me than perhaps those raised into it. For instance, I sometimes get the feeling that I joke around more than some of the guys would prefer, but you can’t be so serious all the time and be happy, I think. I mean, growing up poor and fatherless like I did, if I had dared take life as seriously as some of these men do, I’d probably have just offed myself by now. At least Merlin seems to appreciate that side of me. Also, I think I spend more time in the tavern than Arthur probably cares for, but he just doesn’t understand I’m there to make sure that the pretty barkeeps are being taken care of and not given any trouble ;). The ale’s not bad, either. Nah, but if he does have any issue with what I do on my nights off, he’s not said anything to me about it—maybe because the last time we were in a tavern together, I took a pretty hard blow right to the face defending his honor (and that was before I even liked the guy).
Anyway, it may sound cheesy, but I suppose my motto is to always look on the bright side of life (hey, someone should make that into a song!).