Merlin wakes at dawn, so immediately aware that he wonders whether he was asleep at all, or just drifting. Dim light is washing into the clearing, and the sweet-brackish scent of the loam lingers close to the ground.
Gwaine is warm against his back--and still asleep from what Merlin can tell from his lack of tension or movement, not to mention the hot whuff of his sleepy breath against the back of Merlin's neck. Merlin finds himself grateful, for Gwaine's presence and the fact that he's not awake both. The feeling uncoils from a core of equilibrium that--while not exactly solid--is still present now, unlike yesterday.
Merlin breathes deeply to fortify himself, trying to hold the movement of it close to not disturb Gwaine's slumber. It clears his head further, and the seeming obliviousness of the man at his back makes him try more movements--tensing and stretching minutely, testing the state of the rest of his body.
He's still a little sore, but he expected that--and feels wobbly and unsure as to whether he's grateful or not that the mortification now outweighs his physical discomfort. But perhaps he should reserve judgement on that until he stands up again--which he's more and more feeling the urge to do; not only to relieve his bladder, but to wash. His throat closes with the thought that maybe they'll have to linger yet another day while he recovers from the faery curse: perhaps that equilibrium is not as established as he hoped.
But he can force it to be--another day wrapped sullenly in blankets as he was yesterday afternoon, with Gwaine and Lancelot giving him concerned, far-too-knowing looks from their respective distances--god, he'll do anything to avoid that. Though--he cringes internally--perhaps not anything.
He doesn't remember falling asleep with Gwaine there--Gwaine must have bedded down with him later. After half a day of Merlin keeping his own little solitary cocoon, he's not really surprised that Gwaine saw fit to wait until he was asleep until he edged his way in. Clearly Gwaine has decided that propriety in their sleeping arrangements holds no importance amongst the three of them any more, and Merlin can't really blame him. He feels no qualms in sneaking off before Gwaine wakes, though.
Lancelot is asleep nearby, and doesn't even stir at the soft sounds of Merlin's footsteps. He must be as thoroughly exhausted as Gwaine; and perhaps that was the convoluted intention of the curse? Merlin can barely entertain the thought that it was something more insidious; being used as a tool in such a way makes him feel like shouting, like destroying something--perhaps the entire forest and all of its inhabitants, magical and otherwise, overwriting his humiliation with a razing fire.
The day after As Fey Would Have It (1/3)
Gwaine is warm against his back--and still asleep from what Merlin can tell from his lack of tension or movement, not to mention the hot whuff of his sleepy breath against the back of Merlin's neck. Merlin finds himself grateful, for Gwaine's presence and the fact that he's not awake both. The feeling uncoils from a core of equilibrium that--while not exactly solid--is still present now, unlike yesterday.
Merlin breathes deeply to fortify himself, trying to hold the movement of it close to not disturb Gwaine's slumber. It clears his head further, and the seeming obliviousness of the man at his back makes him try more movements--tensing and stretching minutely, testing the state of the rest of his body.
He's still a little sore, but he expected that--and feels wobbly and unsure as to whether he's grateful or not that the mortification now outweighs his physical discomfort. But perhaps he should reserve judgement on that until he stands up again--which he's more and more feeling the urge to do; not only to relieve his bladder, but to wash. His throat closes with the thought that maybe they'll have to linger yet another day while he recovers from the faery curse: perhaps that equilibrium is not as established as he hoped.
But he can force it to be--another day wrapped sullenly in blankets as he was yesterday afternoon, with Gwaine and Lancelot giving him concerned, far-too-knowing looks from their respective distances--god, he'll do anything to avoid that. Though--he cringes internally--perhaps not anything.
He doesn't remember falling asleep with Gwaine there--Gwaine must have bedded down with him later. After half a day of Merlin keeping his own little solitary cocoon, he's not really surprised that Gwaine saw fit to wait until he was asleep until he edged his way in. Clearly Gwaine has decided that propriety in their sleeping arrangements holds no importance amongst the three of them any more, and Merlin can't really blame him. He feels no qualms in sneaking off before Gwaine wakes, though.
Lancelot is asleep nearby, and doesn't even stir at the soft sounds of Merlin's footsteps. He must be as thoroughly exhausted as Gwaine; and perhaps that was the convoluted intention of the curse? Merlin can barely entertain the thought that it was something more insidious; being used as a tool in such a way makes him feel like shouting, like destroying something--perhaps the entire forest and all of its inhabitants, magical and otherwise, overwriting his humiliation with a razing fire.