The Loyal Vagabond

merlinambrosiusemrys:

The Loyal Vagabond: @ open

themaidensknight:

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?”

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.

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.