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donottouchredbutton · 8 days ago

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The Kiss of the Whip

Sir Gwaine x reader. (Moodboard)

My first BBC Merlin fic! This fic contains a graphic description of a person being flogged. Please don't read if this bothers you,

This fic takes place between the end of season three and The Wicked Day, during the brief -which here we will pretend was much longer- period of the knights’ service under Uther.

*****

The silence filling Camelot’s throne room is heavy with anticipation. No one moves, no one speaks; it seems the whole court is posing for a painting, or has been replaced by actors already in position, waiting for the curtain to lift. Gwaine, standing at the forefront of the small company of knights present next to courtiers, guards -most of whom look particularly tense, glancing among themselves and touching the hilt of their swords as if in reassurance- and a crowd of curious onlookers who have abandoned their work and business expressly to witness the scene, feels a strange mixture of tension, fear and rage as he regards the man sitting on the throne, flanked by two other knights. Uther Pendragon’s stern face looks carved in stone, his neutral expression betraying nothing of the man’s thoughts and intentions.

Gwaine, already not an admirer of the King at the best of times, feels himself shuddering with hate at the mere sight of the man. As a knight, he knows the utmost decorum and dignity are expected of him, not to mention that there is absolutely nothing he could do to change things and save an innocent woman from whatever torment awaits her and she does not deserve. He is helpless, but that does not put his heart at rest; quite the opposite in fact.

Gwaine glances at Arthur, standing as usual at his father’s side, and the prince looks back at him, the expression of his bright blue eyes openly somber and unhappy. He is as silent as everyone else gathered there today, and Gwaine can’t hold it against him, because the prince has no fault for what is going to transpire in the room soon, and the King of Camelot is no man who allows himself to be led astray when he takes a decision, not even from his sole son and heir.

“Bring forth the accuser.” the King orders, his firm voice effortlessly spreading through the vast, silent room; the two guards standing by the large door open it, allowing the passage of three of their own corps, their expressions carefully neutral but still betraying their discomfort at the task they are carrying out as they lead yet another guard, wearing a more elaborate version of their uniform but no chainmail and no sword at her side, her wrists cuffed.

Gwaine’s heart leaps in his throat -a not at all pleasant feeling, unlike what happens usually whenever the two of them meet- as he sees the prisoner being led before the King, a person who has dedicated her life to the protection of the kingdom and the security of its people, a person who is good and brave and loyal, treated like a common criminal and manhandled by her own comrades and subordinates. A person Gwaine would give half of his blood to help, but who is on her own, accused of a grave crime that could ruin everything she has worked for ever since she came of age. He balls his fists, reminding himself that intervening would not help her, neither if he threw himself at Uther’s feet begging for mercy nor if he unsheathed his sword to put himself between her and whoever wanted to do her harm; there is absolutely nothing he can do to help her, at least for the time being, and therefore Gwaine orders himself to remain calm, and wait.

Once the prisoner is standing before the King, the two guards who have accompanied her move a few steps back. Their faces betray nothing, but Gwaine doesn’t miss the way one of them quickly squeezes her shoulder in a gesture of support, the other meeting her eyes for a smile; the guards are duty-bound to obey the King’s orders whatever their opinion on the matter, even against one of their own, but those small gestures of support must mean the world for the person in the stocks. She, equally stone-faced, bows deeply -a bow, like a man, like a soldier, not a lady-appropriate curtsy- at Uther; as she stands up straight, her eyes find Gwaine. She looks at him, he looks at her, wishing he could do or tell her something, anything, to comfort her and lend her strength for the ordeal awaiting her, but he remains silent, hating himself for that, even though he sees the woman smiling slightly before her gaze returns to the King.

“Captain (name) of the royal guards of Camelot.” Uther finally begins “You stand accused of allowing a powerful witch to escape from the castle’s dungeons, a witch who had been captured at the end of a month-long search and who now is free once more, free to do harm to this kingdom and its people. How do you plead?”

(name)’s head is held high, her countenance respectful but proud, proper of a person ready to take responsibility for her actions and her choices, and who doesn’t allow anyone, not even a King, to intimidate her; her courage is something Gwaine admires and loves, like he admires and loves everything about her. “The witch had been entrusted to me, to watch over and make sure she remained in her cell until the moment of her execution.” she explains “I had been warned she was devious and endowed with great powers, and I had to expect she would attempt to escape; but I lowered my guard, and she managed to slip past me. I am guilty, Your Majesty, and because of this I submit myself to your judgement.”

Gwaine glances towards his fellow knights, lined up beside and behind him, and beyond their inscrutable expressions, it is plain to see many of them are ill at ease, and sympathise with (name) and the ordeal she is being subjected to. She is not one of them, but it is well known she had wished to be, ever since she was a child, and given her courage and skills with a sword she might have succeeded if not for the First Code, which expressly forbade women from joining the knight’s ranks. Consequently, (name) decided to serve Camelot in a different way, becoming one of the few women to enlist in the corps of the royal guards and, in spite of the many who considered her unsuited for the role because of her gender, she proved her worth and was named captain only a few years later.

That a person so devoted to her kingdom and her duties, who has fought so many times to protect Camelot from its enemies with courage and abnegation, had to be severely punished for a single, albeit grave, mistake may seem unfair, but Uther’s hate for all and every magic user is well known. (name) might have gotten away with a reprimand if the prisoner escaped on her watch was a thief, or even a murderer; but unfortunately the person she let go is a witch, and therefore no one and nothing can shield her from the King’s ire.

Including him. Him, who towards the captain of the guards feels much more than fondness or friendship, and who is the only person in the Citadel and perhaps, since her mother passed a few years back, in the whole of Camelot to know her secret, and what actually transpired in the dungeons of the castle that night. No one else is aware of the truth, the King least of all, and for (name)’s sake Gwaine knows it’s imperative that it should be so.

“The failure in the fulfilment of one’s duties, which has resulted in the escape of a dangerous criminal and enemy of the kingdom, is a grave fault for any of the royal guards, and especially for their captain.” the King goes on; for all his flaws, Gwaine knows Uther never had problems with female soldiers, he never judged (name) less strong and capable because of her gender, and he readily accepted Arthur’s proposal to name her captain. The King’s consideration, on the other hand, will not spare the woman from receiving a harsh punishment, and Gwaine barely dares wondering what Uther has in store for her “Ordinarily, this would be enough cause to have you thrown into the dungeons for a while, and to strip you of he rank you have proved yourself unworthy of.”

A brief pause follows. Gwaine’s gaze rests upon the woman under judgement once more, whose expression remained carefully neutral as the potential punishment for her misdeed was exposed; still, (name)’s body language can’t fully hide the fear she feels, not of the dungeons, of the cold and the hunger and the potential violence, but of losing everything she has spent years working for, the uniform she is so proud of wearing, the duties she feels as important and vital as the act of breathing. Brave heart, my darling, Gwaine wishes he could tell her; unfortunately from her position in front of the King (name) can no longer see him, be brave for a little longer, and soon it will all be over.

“In consideration of your many years of service to this kingdom, of the many battles you have fought to defend it and the many occasions in which your loyalty and abnegation have been proved, I have decided not to punish you in this manner.” Uther explains “If you desire, you will be allowed to retain the title of captain, and to keep watching over the prisoners in the dungeons rather than joining them behind bars.”

A few chuckles move the still air in the room; Gwaine, who dared not hope for mercy, feels a sigh of relief escape his lips, surprised at but grateful for the King’s generosity, a moment before his mind actually considers Uther’s words, giving him pause. “If you desire?” What might it mean? Why would she not desire to be spared?

“Any soldier, even the most capable and loyal, must be punished when they make a mistake, just like they deserve to be praised in case of commendable deeds. Captain (name), earlier today you were informed of my offer regarding your punishment. If you accept to submit yourself to it, from tomorrow on you will be allowed to return to your duties without further sanctions, and with the respect of this court; if you refuse, you will be expelled from the corps of the royal guards and spend a week in the dungeons. What is your answer?”

(name) takes a moment to reply, her gaze not devoid of distress but clear and confident, and just like any other person present in the throne room Gwaine has no idea of what Uther has in store for her, but he is seized by a dreadful feeling, and by the impulse to urge her to refuse, to do it in her name even, no matter that (name) would certainly not thank it for him, because being expelled from the guards and a week in the dungeons -what a disgrace, being kept in a cell side by side with the criminals she helped arresting!- would be a small price to pay compared to the King’s offer, whatever it is…

But he can’t, there is nothing he can say or do to help her, and Gwaine feels no surprise when he hears (name) answer “I accept your proposition, Your Majesty.” firmly.

Judging from his unmoved expression, that is the answer Uther was expecting as well. The King waves his hand in the direction of a small group of servants standing in a line behind him, and one of them breaks away from the others to approach the throne, a tool in his hands that stops the beat of Gwaine’s heart in his chest as soon as the knight is close enough to recognise it. He gapes, horrified, filled with the impulse to scream in anguish but unable to utter the smallest sound, as a murmur of apprehension spreads over the crowd.

It is a whip.

“Father!” Arthur cries, his sudden shock making him forget propriety; he looks unable, and unwilling, to believe what is being suggested, the horror on his face mirroring that which Gwaine feels growing inside him “You surely do not want to… that is too harsh a punishment…”

“Quite the opposite. Because of captain (name)’s carelessness, a powerful witch has escaped our dungeons, and is free to attack to harm our kingdom. This deserves an exemplary punishment, not least to motivate the other guards not to make the same mistake as her.”

“But lashing… the whip has never been used in Camelot since the times of King Bruta, and captain (name) is a woman…”

“Captain (name) is a guard, a soldier.” Uther interrupts his son; he’s looking at the younger man in a way, even Gwaine can easily perceive, that warns him against further protests “A role that is independent from gender, and she has always refused special treatment; this is the same offer I would have made a man in her place. She will receive ten lashes, and her fault will be forgiven.”

Arthur grimaces; standing in front of the throne, wearing the chainmail and the red cape of the knights, no crown or circlet on his head, he looks as tall as his father, sitting on the raised throne. Gwaine knows Arthur and (name) have known each other for many years; he could appreciate the prince’s outrage, if the horror for the ordeal awaiting (name) had not made him numb to any other concern. “Ten?!” Arthur repeats, disbelieving “No, that is far too many…”

The King sighs; it’s plain to see that his stack of patience has reached its limit, and he’s tired of having his decision opposed. “According to Gaius, it is enough to cause her intense pain without putting her life in danger.” he explains, and then, as if to make sure (name) is not the only one punished that day: “Take the whip; as heir to the throne the supervision of the guards is your responsibility, therefore it is fair that you should be the one carrying out the sentence.”

Arthur doesn’t answer; his heart in his throat, Gwaine sees him stiffen and ball his fists as father and son, King and heir, share a long, silent look, and for a moment he thinks -wishes, hopes, wants, with all his heart even though he knows he shouldn’t because it’s hopeless- that the prince will refuse to obey, but a moment later Arthur is performing a stiff bow at his father and then turning towards the whip the servant is offering him. The fault is not his; his refusal would have not helped (name), since the King would have simply assigned the task to someone else. In a sense, Arthur is a victim as well, and no matter how Gwaine wishes he could shake him by the shoulders and order him to do something, anything, to protect (name) from the punishment, the prince does not deserve his anger. His father, on the other hand…

A clearly reluctant Arthur takes the whip from the servant’s hands, allowing the crowd to see it clearly: a thick wooden handle to which four cotton cords, about two feet and a half long, are attached, with small metal balls dangling from the cords’ ends. Gwaine has never seen one being used before, but he knows the weights are designated to lacerate the skin, causing wounds that might never heal completely; while flogging is usually not deadly, he can only imagine how intense the pain it causes can be. The whip has historically been reserved as punishment for the most heinous crimes, murderers and the like, even though, as Arthur protested, it fell in disuse centuries ago; the idea that a good, loyal person like (name) is going to receive the same treatment is unbearable. Gwaine closes his eyes, wishing with all his might that when he opens them again it will be all over, that (name) will be safe, serene and proud as she patrols the ground around the castle or makes sure the prisoners in the dungeons are treated fairly; wishful thinking, nothing more, and as he regards the tool in Arthur’s hand -an inanimate object, in no way guilty of the pain it is going to inflict- Gwaine feels himself hating it more intensely than he’s ever hated anyone, more than any enemy of Camelot, even more than he still, so many years later, hates the men who killed his father.

Suddenly, Arthur’s gaze meets his, shame and helpless rage filling the prince’s blue eyes. I am sorry; I don’t want this, he’s saying without the need for words, and Gwaine, whose capacity for compassion for anyone other than (name) herself is at the moment severely limited, nods briefly in return. Arthur’s attention moves to the captain of the guards herself; no doubt aware of the dozens of eyes following his every move, he touches her arm gently.

“Take heart, captain.” he murmurs; the woman nods, and even manages to smile briefly in reassurance, even though Gwaine sees her shudder when her eyes fall on the weapon in the prince’s hand “I am truly sorry.”

“The fault is not yours, Your Highness; I accepted the proposal of my own free will, and I am ready.” (name) says, as if while terrified herself, she still wanted the prince not to feel guilty for a fault that is not his to begin with; then the woman addresses the King. “Your Majesty, am I allowed to bare my back? I know it is… inappropriate, but in this way I will avoid the risk of infection should a fragment of fabric penetrate under the skin.”

The permission is granted. One of the guards frees (name)’s wrists, and the woman, unhesitatingly and apparently without embarrassment, takes off the tunic with Camelot’s crest that constitutes the royal guards’ uniform, and then her undershirt. All that is left covering the upper part of her body is her breast band, a simple strip of fabric circling her torso, fastened behind her back. Despite the dramatic circumstances that have brought them -well, not them all, Gwaine thinks with resentment; unlike the guards and the knights, whose presence is always required when the King holds court, most of the courtiers and residents of the lower town are there of their own free will, out of a morbid curiosity to see punishment being administered to someone else, as if poor (name) were a dancing bear or a band of street musicians- there, despite the sad occasion they are all witnessing, someone laughs, a few vulgar comments rise from the crowd, and a couple of men shift towards the front to avidly glance to the woman’s bare skin, the soft curve of her breast outlined by the fabric.

(name) doesn’t flinch, but Gwaine knows her well enough to perceive her humiliation, the feeling intense enough to burn, as if the poor woman weren’t suffering enough already; he balls his fists, seized with the sudden urge to punch each of those bastards in the face until they beg for mercy, to hell with the consequences. How can they? How dare they? (name) is about to receive a sort of punishment that is making the very spectators tremble in fear, and those bastards have the courage to leer at her nudity? He really wishes he could punish them, chastise that band of cretins until they beg for mercy at the feet of a woman who has more courage and dignity in her little finger than all of them combined…

(name) could take her revenge as well, Gwaine thinks. All she would have to do is want it, maybe murmur a few words under her breath, to make sure not only that the whip never touches her skin, but also that both Uther and the men who are now ogling her are punished, writhing at her feet as they beg for mercy. She could kill them all if she so desired, but she doesn’t, and she won’t, she will do nothing to spare herself the pain and humiliation she’s being subjected to, and this, in Gwaine’s eyes, is the greatest injustice of all.

(name) neatly folds her clothes before placing them on the ground; she kneels, straightens her back -still untouched and clean, but destined in a minute to look like a battlefield after the opposing armies have departed, leaving blood and destruction in their wake- and turns towards Arthur, silently communicating her readiness to begin. Then her gaze moves to Gwaine once more; she smiles at him, as if she knew -and she probably does; there is very little they ignore about each other, very little of what is in their hearts that they did not decide to share- how much pain her beloved is in for her sake and she wished to comfort him; as if, as she’s about to be lashed until her blood is drawn, she were nevertheless more concerned for his feelings.

If he weren’t already, Gwaine knows that he could fall in love with (name) at this very moment.

“Arm raised above your shoulder, Arthur.” the King orders “Do not hold back, or I will make you start again from the beginning.”

The prince doesn’t answer. He adjusts his grip on the whip’s handle and, his expression betraying his deep shame for what he’s being forced to take part in, positions himself two feet behind (name); Uther’s throne is just in front of them, the crowd waiting with bated breath, as if witnessing a theatre performance that has reached its climax, amassed on both sides. Arthur lifts his arm the way his father has ordered -and not an inch more, Gwaine notices, aware like the prince that the height makes the blow stronger and therefore more painful- and Gwaine has to force himself not to avert his eyes as the whip dashes forward, the movement reminding him of a snake attacking to bite, hitting the skin of (name)’s back.

Many among the crowd gasp; a murmur of discomfort spreads over the throne room. (name), on her part, has made no sound; she’s bitten her tongue to stop herself from screaming, but pain has exploded in her gaze, the woman’s expression seeming to suggest it is even worse than she anticipated.

“One.” the King counts “Again, Arthur.”

The prince complies, clearly aware of his father’s stern, unforgiving gaze following his every move, the King ready to judge the lash’s vigor insufficient and to have a few more added to the count. The sound of the whip’s cords cutting through the air is unpleasant, violent, merciless, something Gwaine knows he will remember to the end of his days, and when the lash hits its mark the metal weights smash against the back of the captain of the royal guards with the implacability of a scythe cutting through the corn. The impact reverberates through (name)’s body, making her arch backwards; Gwaine is suddenly seized by the terror that the lashes will damage her spine, leaving her paralyzed.

Still, no sound.

“Two.”

The third lash, brutal and cruel no matter how gentle Arthur tries to be, is the one that wins (name)’s self-control and courage. His heart in his throat, Gwaine hears and worse sees her utter a cry of pure suffering, a terrible sound that reminds him of a fawn he saw one day as he poached in Angard’s woods, and that had been caught in a leghold trap. Her body sways slightly, as if (name) were about to lose balance, but she resists, as if that cry of pain were the only sign of weakness the woman is willing to concede herself, while behind her the murmuring of the crowd has gotten louder.

“Three.”

The new lash is not more violent than the previous ones, but obviously the pain of each adds to the others, so that each blow hurts more than all the ones that preceded it, and is harder to sustain. Because of this, Gwaine is not surprised to see (name) fall forward, propping herself not on her hands but -barely- on her elbows, her head bent a moment too late to hide the expression of pure anguish that has filled her eyes. She struggles to breathe, as if after a long, hard run, and behind her Arthur lowers his gaze as well, staring at the tip of his boots as if not daring to look at the woman, or to meet the eyes of any of the courtiers and soldiers present, and that of his father, and that -he knows- of Gwaine.

Several people among the crowd look away; two women are pressing a hand to their mouth, while someone else covers the eyes of the children -the children!- accompanying them. Still, no one moves; a heavy, bitter but solemn stillness has filled the room, and Gwaine knows most people present barely dare to breathe.

“Four.”

Gwaine feels himself gasping for breath, just like (name) is, heaving as she struggles to return to a more erect position even though her body seems not to respond. He doesn’t know if this is really possible, whether the pain for the cruel treatment his beloved is receiving is actually making him physically sick or it’s all in his head, but it feels horrible, and it makes him feel guilty, and more ashamed of himself than he’s ever been before. He’s powerless, no matter that he would be ready to fight every armed man in the room, the King first of all, to defend her, and when Gwaine hears (name) sob -a tiny, helpless sound of pure pain- it sounds worse than any cry of rage, because the woman he loves is crying, the pain and humiliation she feels having brought tears to her eyes. Gwaine’s cheeks may be dry, but he knows he is crying with her.

“Five.”

Arthur changes position behind his victim, so that, Gwaine easily perceives, his next lashes will not hit the same area of her back as the previous ones, since extensive but superficial wounds do hurt less and heal faster than deeper, localized ones. It is a clever, as well as compassionate, idea, and Gwaine knows that (name) appreciates it -or at least she would, if she were still able to focus on something other than the havok being wrecked on her body, and the agony it causes her- but the prince’s attempt does very little to shield her from further damage. The woman’s body tenses the moment the crack of the whip resonates through the room, as if already feeling the pain the imminent lash is going to cause her; when it finally arrives, she falls to the ground once more, exposing her bleeding back to the whole crowd, and a scream -a real shout, uncontrolled in the emotion it is expressing- breaks the relative silence of the chamber. It takes Gwaine a moment to realise it was (name), and not him, who uttered it.

Do something!, he feels the impulse to exhort her, to beg her, even though he knows he can’t and he mustn’t, because of the catastrophic consequences that uttering those words out loud and in public would have, free yourself! Or at least make it so that you feel no pain…

He wants to do it, but Gwaine remains in his place, as if rooted to the spot, still and silent, letting the woman he loves be flogged by order of the King.

“Six.”

“Father, please…” Arthur begs, and he must know that opposing, no matter how respectfully, to the will of the King once again will cost him dearly, but he does it nonetheless, and Gwaine admires him for it, but he can’t quite focus on it, or on anything else really. All he can do, and would be unable not to, is to observe the numerous wounds, hard and cruel and merciless, that violate (name)’s skin, tear into her flesh, make her blood run. The woman is panting, as if the shock were preventing her lungs from working normally; she’s sprawled on the floor, blood dripping from her wounds on the paved stones of the throne room, the now silent crowd still observing her every move, and Gwaine wishes he could tell them to stop, not to add to the woman’s already burning humiliation by witnessing it when they have no right to…

Uther, his voice devoid of any emotion, tells his heir to shut his mouth or he will find himself keeping the captain of the guards company as the punished party rather than the punisher. Arthur gives in, and just as (name) summons up the last bit of strength she has left to kneel up, the whip’s metal weights hit her, throwing her to the ground once more. All that is left of the woman’s back is an expanse of pain and wounds, like a map whose roads and paths are drawn in blood and broken skin rather than in ink; for a terrible moment Gwaine is convinced she has stopped breathing.

“Seven.”

A few people -few- briskly leave the room. The others look on, pushing towards the front of the crowd to fill the empty spaces; no one laughs anymore, no one speaks. Gwaine’s mind is reached by a twinge of pain, and it takes him a moment to realise that he’s balling his fists so tightly that his nails are dug into the palms of his hands; unpleasant, no doubt, but what he feels isn’t even remotely comparable to the torture (name) is experiencing, and Gwaine feels ashamed of himself, and of his pain. His beloved is still lying on the floor, unable to even lift herself on her elbows and knees, next to her neatly folded clothes; at the umpteenth -how long has this been going on? How long have they stood there, witnessing a woman being whipped to within an inch from her life?- kiss of the whip another scream escapes her lips, loud enough to fill the room, and then nothing more, as if she were in so much pain she no longer had the strength to express it.

(name) is stronger and more resilient than most people Gwaine knows, and much more than her detractors give her credit for, but what she is being subjected to is unspeakable, the violence of the lashes something that would break even the most resilient knights, and the physical pain is only half the source of her grief. Almost as painful is the dozens of pairs of eyes watching her, the courtiers and servants and even a few knights disturbed by her pain but possessed by some sort of macabre fascination that makes them keep watching, safe and undisturbed as a woman who has spent the entirety of her adult life helping protect them and their homes is mistreated with a severity many would not dare inflicting on a stray dog.

“Eight.”

And then suddenly, way too late but still in time to offer her a small amount of comfort, Gwaine decides he has had enough.

He moves, breaking the stillness that seems to have filled the throne room like a spell, to approach her; the sound of his determined steps echoes in the chamber, the stride of a man who will not let anyone and anything stop him. (name) face turns imperceptibly towards him, and their gazes meet for a moment, before Gwaine positions himself behind her and behind Arthur, physically shielding his beloved from the eyes of the crowd; he rests his hand on the hilt of his sword in a gesture that needs no explanation, his head held high.

A moment later, the guards corps’ sergeants, (name)’s two immediate subordinates, move to stand by his sides, and then three new recruits the woman has been mentoring personally, and then some more, until no less than a dozen armed men, with Gwaine at their centre, has formed a line between the crowd gathered to witness (name)’s punishment and the half of the throne room occupied by her, Arthur and the King. The prince turns to nod silently in Gwaine’s direction, who grimly returns the gesture. Uther is looking at him; he doesn’t protest at what is perhaps not insubordination but a clear challenge by one who is formally one of his knights, but Gwaine sees the fist resting on the throne’s armrest clench, the King’s jaw set in displeasure and ire.

He might be in trouble, but Gwaine doesn’t give two shits about Uther’s opinion on him.

Not a word has been spoken; the soldiers have all positioned themselves with their backs to (name), so as to forbid themselves as well as anyone else the sight of her humiliation. Gwaine hasn’t; he knows he must look, and witness that terrible moment, because he owes it to her, because he wants (name) to know he’s there for her, and because he doesn’t deserve to spare himself the pain.

(name)’s breast band has fallen apart, the violence of the lashes having reduced it to a rag. When the new lash comes down on her the violence of the blow makes her body jolt, but the woman doesn’t move nor moan, doesn’t react in any way, as if she were too weak and in pain to even suffer, as if she had lost consciousness; Gwaine winces, and feels the lash on his skin, and on his heart.

She lies there, her arms outstretched as if she were about to start crawling forward to elude the rest of her punishment, but (name) wouldn’t, and she doesn’t, not after proudly, publicly accepting the King’s offer in front of the whole court. Gwaine has faith in Gaius and is sure that the physician has carefully calculated the number of lashes a person can receive without sustaining permanent damage -and then perhaps he took one or two off, so that Uther would consider himself satisfied with the punishment inflicted and (name) would be spared as much pain as possible- but as he still forces himself to regard her, his heart is seized by fear. The captain of the royal guards is young, strong and healthy, but she has lost so much blood already, and the torture has been going on for what feels like forever…

“Nine.”

Arthur has the face of a man who has never been so ashamed of himself, and deeply regrets not having absconded as soon as he was summoned to the throne room. “Father, she has fainted.” he points out, his voice carefully neutral, and the King admits it is pointless to keep punishing someone who is not aware of what she is being done.

Gwaine has the time to feel a surge of relief fill his heart. Then:

“Captain, can you hear me?” Uther asks, and Gwaine feels an array of curses rise to his lips, because can he not see what state she is in? Uther is as likely to receive an answer from (name) as he is if he questioned the pillow he’s sat on…

… except that he isn’t. Quite unexpectedly, and clearly with an enormous effort, (name) lifts herself up on her elbow and raises her gaze; agony is etched on her features, but a moment later she turns, and her eyes meet Gwaine’s, ignoring the stares of the dozens of people still present in the room. She smiles at him, and he has no idea where she finds the strength and a reason to, but he knows there is no more beautiful smile in the Five Kingdoms, and his heart cries for her, a woman cruelly punished for doing what she deemed to be right.

“I can hear you, your Majesty.” (name) answers; her firm voice, able to both sensually murmur sweet nothings in the ear of her beloved and shout orders to her subordinates across the whole of the citadel, has been reduced to a pained whisper that nonetheless seems to fill the room and being heard even from the people standing at the back of the crowd. She is still looking at Gwaine “And I assure you I can manage.”

Arthur would never lower himself to so vile an act, especially after he has done his best to shield his victim from pain even since the punishment began, but in Gwaine’s eyes the last lash looks like the most violent of them all. He sees (name), still propped on her elbow, collapse to the floor once more, and he knows that yes, now she has fainted.

“Ten.”

Gwaine runs forward without waiting for the King’s leave; he doesn’t think about it, and even if he had he wouldn’t care. He covers the brief distance separating them in three long strides as he takes the long red cape off his shoulders. Arthur steps aside, the whip falling from his hand as if the prince couldn’t bear to have it on his person, and Gwaine kneels to carefully, tenderly lift (name)’s unconscious body in his arms, the scarlet fabric wrapped around her nudity. He has held her like that a thousand times before, he knows the shape and the feeling and the warmth of her body as well as his own, but (name) has never felt so small, fragile and cold, as if she had shrank, and the feeling terrorises Gwaine beyond words.

“It is all right, darling.” he murmurs soothingly, even though he’s pretty sure, given the way her head and arm dangle from his grasp, that she can’t hear him; maybe, Gwaine admits in the privacy of his heart, it’s himself he’s trying to reassure “It’s over, (name), you are safe now…”

“Will you take care of her?” Arthur asks in a whisper, kneeling by his side. The prince is as aware of the relationship that exists between his knight and the captain of the guards as most of the citadel is, mainly because neither of the two has ever bothered to keep it secret… not that they would have been able to otherwise. Gwaine’s answer is a curt nod; at the moment, tense and furious as he is, mostly to himself, he would be ready to bite anyone who tries taking (name) from his arms, if only to medicate her.

“I‘ll do it.”

They both rise; Gwaine sees the barrier of guards open to let them pass, allowing him to stride towards the open double door, the precious, still bleeding body of (name) held against his chest.

“Are you satisfied now, father?” Arthur asks behind him, his voice thick with resentment; the King doesn’t answer, whether because the anger at being defied once more has made him speechless or because he has lost any interest in the matter now that his will has been done, Gwaine can’t tell, but the feeling burning in his belly is more than anger - it is hate. Suddenly he’s aware of his sword’s weight at his side, and of how easy it would be to cross the room, unsheathe it before Uther has the time to realise what he is about to do and the guards to intervene, and raise it above his head for a thrust powerful enough to cleave a body in two, because that is what that bastard deserves…

But no; (name) must come first, now and always, he reminds himself; forcing himself to look away, Gwaine carries the woman he loves to safety, taking the shortest way to Gaius’ rooms.

The moon is about to reach its zenith in the sky when, finally free of his knightly duties -which have been doubled as of late, since a fever has spread throughout the city, confining many of his comrades to the infirmary and forcing the still healthy ones, like him, to cover their shifts as well as their own- Gwaine is finally free to return to (name)’s room. In her role as captain of the royal guards, the woman is entitled to lodging at court: it’s a small, almost cramped room, but surprisingly comfortable and perfect for her needs, since the arrangement allows her to get to work at a moment’s notice in case of need, walking from her room to the guards’ barracks in no more than three minutes.

Not to mention that having a room of her own allows her gentleman caller to visit her at night whenever he wants - that is, very often, without malicious gossip arising at court; the only issue is that they have to keep the noise to a minimum, which is not always easy.

The sound of Gwaine’s footsteps echoes in the empty corridor as the knight hurries towards his destination, his heart pounding in his chest. Gaius has promised that he and Merlin would take good care of (name) and they have assured him already that the woman only needs rest and that her wounds will heal in time, but he can’t help worrying, and he will keep doing that until he’ll see her back on her feet, healed and ready to return to her duties.

And maybe a little longer.

(name)’s room is located on a landing near a winding staircase; as Gwaine is climbing it, he almost collides with Arthur, who is walking in the opposite direction. “What brings you down here, Your Highness?” Gwaine asks, knowing well that the prince has no particular reason to be in that wing of the castle, mostly occupied by the lodgings of senior servants of the court; then his eyes fall on a small jar in the prince’s hands, a pleasant smell of flowers emanating from it “And that is…?”

“An ointment for captain (name).” Arthur explains; judging from his sweat-soaked shirt, he’s on his way back from a sparring session with the other knights “Merlin prepared it; he told me that it will give her some relief from the pain and help her wounds heal faster.”

His arms to his chest, Gwaine raises an eyebrow, a feigned look of disapproval in his eyes. “And you were planning on bringing it to my beloved? Entering her room, where she sleeps alone, without an escort or a chaperone? Would you offer to rub the ointment on her back as well?”

“Gwaine, have you lost your mind? You know perfectly well that I am courting Gwinevere.”

“Yes, well, you can never be too sure…”

He grins, bowing his head gratefully as he accepts the jar from the prince’s hands. “Thank you; that was kind of you.”

“Of course. Make sure to, err, help her, I don’t think (name) can do it by herself.” the prince points out; a brief pause follows, and then a sigh “And tell her that I am deeply sorry.”

“The fault is not yours; you had your orders to follow, just like she did.” Gwaine says; that those orders were unnecessarily cruel is a different matter altogether, and Arthur, whose love for his father doesn’t prevent him from disagreeing dramatically with some of his decisions, sighs, quietly confessing that no matter his loyalty to his King, he’s never been so ashamed of himself as he is for what he did today, beating to a pulp a woman who has made a single, through grave mistake, after so many years of dedication to the safety and well-being of the citadel and its people.

“At least Gaius says she is going to be fine; that is a relief.” he concludes “Please tell captain (name) she is excused from her duties tomorrow; her subordinates have agreed to cover for her, and there is nothing particularly urgent to deal with. I will see her the day after tomorrow to discuss the guards' shifts for the month.”

He promises he will; the two men say goodbye, and as Arthur disappears down the stairs Gwaine finally reaches the door of (name)’s room. “May I? It is me.” he announces himself knocking.

“Me who?” an amused voice asks from the inside; Gwaine is relieved to discover (name) still has the energy to joke.

“Your beloved.”

“You’ll have to be a little more specific.”

“Ah, ah, ah…”

The door closes behind Gwaine as the knight steps towards the centre of the room, and the bed positioned so as for her occupant to be awoken by dawn’s light if she leaves the window open. Most of (name)’s possessions are neatly stored inside a chest; folded on top of the lid is her uniform, which someone must have taken after Gwaine carried her away from the throne room, ready to be put on once again. The woman’s sword is propped against the wall near the bed, close enough to be grabbed at a moment’s notice in case of need; on a small table near the window is placed a vase with a bouquet of flowers Gwaine gave (name) yesterday.

Gwaine has been in the room plenty of times, enough not to feel the need to look around him in curiosity; but even if he hadn’t, and that were the most interesting place in the world, his gaze would still still be irresistibly attracted to the woman on the bed, naked from the waist up and lying on her belly since the wounds on her back are still sore, and who has cautiously lifted herself on her elbows to meet his gaze.

“Hello.” she says, smiling softly, and all Gwaine wants is to take her in his arms, where no one will ever be able to hurt her again, and cover every inch of her skin, including and especially the most abused ones, with kisses. He will, he promises himself, soon.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly as he sits on the edge of the bed, and (name) shrugs - and then winces, because even that brief movement causes her pain. “I guess I will survive, now that the worst is over, but it still hurts. What is that jar? It smells good.”

“An ointment, for your wounds. With the princess’s compliments.”

(name) comments that it was kind of the prince to worry about her, since he has no fault. “Rather, I am sorry he got involved in this ugly business.”

Gwaine does not comment, inwardly amazed his beloved still has the strength to worry about others, given the pain she’s in. He opens the jar, the salve inside of a dirty white colour, pleasant to the touch.

“Try and relax.” he murmurs as he collects some of it with the tip of his fingers; he begins spreading the ointment on (name)’s back, massaging delicately to make it penetrate under the skin and activate its healing properties. The wounds caused by the whip’s kiss are, after half a day, still raw, and Gwaine is unable to look at them; he’s never been a violent man, at least unless someone had attacked him first, but at that sight he’s possessed by the sudden urge to pummel someone - or to cry.

(name)’s hands slip under the pillow; the woman’s body relaxes against the bed, her back arching to indulge in the touch of her beloved’s hands. “Ah… that feels so good.”

Gwaine is suddenly relieved he met Arthur on the stairs; he doesn’t want anyone else, not even Gaius or Merlin, to see (name) with that sort of smile on her face. He grins. “Does it now?”

“It does, and I hope it works; at the moment I can’t even wear my breast band, but I can’t very well present myself to my next guard shift naked from the waist up, can I?”

“I’m sure some of your subordinates would highly enjoy it.”

“You give me too much credit, darling. You know… Gaius said I will have scars from this.”

It’s the last thing Gwaine wished to hear, but the knight keeps his expression carefully neutral. He doesn’t want to minimise the matter, since he can imagine how much it pains (name), and the woman knows that it doesn’t matter really, scars are not an uncommon sight among soldiers, since hers are on her back she won’t have to look at them every time she changes clothes and he won’t find her any less beautiful, or desirable, because of them, but…

Yes, she knows, rationally; but convincing herself is a different matter altogether.

“I see.”

“Yes. Apparently it happens quite frequently, no matter how promptly they are medicated.”

The pain and regret and shame -yes, shame- are so vibrant in (name)’s voice, Gwaine feels his heart break for her. “I’m so sorry, my darling.” he murmurs, bending to kiss her brow; then he changes his mind, and finds her mouth with his, the touch brief and feather-like and still enough to make his heartbeat accelerate “I’m so sorry for all of this.”

“No.” his beloved interrupts him decisively; she carefully, painfully turns herself on her side to look at him, her hand finding Gwaine’s arm to squeeze it gently “You shouldn’t be; you have no fault. This was my decision, and mine alone, one I took knowing fully well what awaited me; truth to be told Uther was unexpectedly merciful…”

“Merciful? (name), he had you flogged!”

“And he could have expelled me from the guards, which would have been more than I could bear, not to mention a disgraceful end to my career. I have been luckier than I dared hope for, and I don’t regret choosing the whip in the slightest.”

A sad smile curves the lips Gwaine never tires of kissing passionately. “A powerful witch free to do harm to this kingdom and its people… that girl was fifteen years old and the worst she could do was to heat the water for her bath without having to put it on the fire, and to heal a wart with a spell. She had a meek, shy disposition, and would never do anything to harm others.”

“But she was a witch, and therefore an enemy of Camelot.” Gwaine softly points out “At least that is what Uther thinks.”

“Well, I don’t; I had to let - no, to make her escape, Gwaine, whatever consequences may follow. I couldn’t have it on my conscience, if I let an innocent burn on the pire.”

She looks so determined, the knowledge that the person she risked her career and experienced the agony of the whip for, and who she had never met before, is safe making the pain bearable, and Gwaine dares not argue… besides the fact that he agrees with her. “I’m very proud of you; I just wish this wasn’t necessary… and that it doesn’t have to happen again.”

(name)’s answer is silence, and a sad, resigned smile. Given the relentlessness with which the King hunts magic users there might be another unfortunate soul imprisoned in the girl’s cell under (name)’s responsibility in a week; and what will she do then? And what will the King do then, once his goodwill towards the long-serving captain reaches its limit? She will not survive another ordeal with the whip, and she couldn’t bear to be expelled from the guards…

Wincing in pain again, (name) lies back down on the bed, which is not wide enough to allow another person to do the same, but Gwaine makes do, comforted by the warmth of her body pressed against his. The day has already been filled with so much pain, and the last thing he wants is to linger on the grim prospects for the future, but he can’t help it.

“You know.” he murmurs softly, resting his cheek against her shoulder “Should Uther discover you have let a witch escape from the dungeons you’d be in trouble…”

“... but if he found out I have magic he would have me killed on the spot. Is that what you mean?”

Gwaine discovered (name) is a witch -unlike her unfortunate prisoner, more than capable of using her powers to cause harm to people or property, should she decide to do so- almost on happenstance, soon after their first meeting and before he started developing feelings for her. The issue never really mattered to him, both because he holds no prejudice whatsoever towards magic and those who use it, and especially because he has always known (name) is special, regardless of her ability to turn water into beer -his favourite spell ever- or to make the bird stitched on a tapestry sing; she is a good, loyal and kind person, as well as strikingly beautiful in his eyes, and deserves love and kindness. Unfortunately not everyone in Camelot feels the same way, especially not the King who (name) swore loyalty to and under whose command she has worked and fought for so many years, and who would no doubt reconsider his good opinion of the woman if he learned her secret.

“You know it is. If Uther discovered you are a witch, and that you have lived under his nose for so many years…”

The mere thought of what might -no, would- happen then makes Gwaine shiver. His beloved is clever, used since childhood to keep her magic secret and as good with a sword as any knight, and he’d be ready to sacrifice his life to defend her, but what if that is not enough? What if they find a way to render her magic useless, and to capture her? Forget the whip, Uther would probably decide to swing the axe headed for her neck himself…

And there’s nothing he can do to help her, and to protect her. (name) would never leave Camelot, or her duties as captain of the guards, and he wants to respect her will, because he is not that sort of man or of lover, but if something were to happen to (name) while he’s away or unable to intervene he’ll never forgive himself…

Gwaine turns on his side, a hand supporting his head; he looks at his beloved’s face, fortunately untouched by the torture the whip inflicted on her body and whose signs she will carry for the rest of her life, and rather than just standing there looking on without being able to intervene, he wishes he could have knelt to receive the kiss of the whip by her side…

He’s still deep in those gloomy thoughts when (name) kisses him, neither brief nor soft this time. She leans forward to cover the brief distance separating them, and presses her mouth to his; Gwaine groans under his breath, his eyes closed to better savour the moment, and as if by magic, he feels the tension that has accompanied him ever since he learnt of (name)’s arrest this morning disappear like snow at the first call of spring. He relaxes, relief flooding his aching muscles, and cautiously circles the woman’s waist with his arms to pull her towards him as he kisses her back. For a while neither of the two has a reason to speak.

“Thank you for being there by my side; and to have shielded me from the crowd.” (name) murmurs softly, their kiss still unbroken “I know how painful it must have been to see… but knowing you were there gave me strength.”

Gwaine grunts; he knows his beloved would not blame him for it, but that morning wasn’t the proudest moment of his life, since standing idly there, unable to help or stop the ordeal as the woman he loves was whipped, made him feel ore ashamed of himself than if he had been caught stealing from a beggar’s plate. “I have felt so powerless…”

“But it was the only thing to do; the right thing to do, even. You couldn’t stop Uther from punishing me, and I wouldn’t want you to antagonize him for my sake. All that matters is that the girl is free and safe, Uther doesn’t suspect me, and I am still captain of the guards. The pain will pass.”

“Rock solid logic.” Gwaine admits; he’s not completely convinced, but (name) is safe, and that is all he cares about. He kisses her again, a hand holding her hip and the other that takes advantage of her nudity to caress her chest and tear a moan of pleasure from her lips. He can feel (name) smile into the kiss.

“My handsome knight, coming to protect the damsel in distress…”

“We both know you would have been able to protect yourself perfectly well.”

“True. You can finish rubbing the ointment on my back then.”

Gwaine complies, gently massaging her skin until the pain of the lashes abates enough for the woman to put her breast band and her undershirt back on; now sitting on the side of the bed, Gwaine takes her in his arms once more and to kiss her temple.

“I admire you for what you did; I truly do.” he murmurs “And I know you would be ready to do it again, But if I think that in a few days you might be going through the same ordeal all over again, this time with twenty lashes rather than ten… or worse… It kills me. I don’t know if I can bear it.”

(name) sighs; she’s still hurting, both on her skin and in her soul, but she rests her cheek against his shoulder, and seems to relax. “It will be different one day.” she says, and perhaps it’s just a hope, wishful thinking due to the painful and shameful ordeal she only recently experienced and whose memory is now etched on her body forever, but she can’t help actually believing in it, at least for now, and (name) cherishes that moment, as much as she cherishes the sweet, protective feeling of the arms of her beloved holding her close “One day the King will understand that magic is not necessarily evil, and not all who use it enemies of Camelot; one day he will see that my people, witches and warlocks, deserve respect as much as any other subject. One day we will be free to be ourselves, without fear.”

Gwaine grunts, disbelief evident in his voice. “Do you really believe that Uther…?”

“I didn’t say Uther.”

They both reflect on it for a while; Gwaine smiles, and nods in assent. “Until then, all we have to do is take heart and hope for the best; and I count myself in too, because you know I am and always will be on your side.” he says; (name) smiles as she snuggles up against his side.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

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