Merlin Fic: In the Name of Faeries (1/1)
Jan. 8th, 2011 12:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
faye_dartmouthTitle: In the Name of Faeries (aka The Ongoing Adventures of Gwaine)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: LOL. What can I say? I have some other Merlin fic that I’ve simply never polished to post, so why on earth is this the one that I finally put up? I have no idea, except that sometimes I like writing silly, pointless things, and Gwaine is wonderful for both. Because honestly, he’s Gwaine. Thanks goes to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
geminigrl11 for prompting this and giving it a small beta :) Any mistakes are my own. There are no spoilers for anything in particular, but obviously this uses a character introduced in S3 in an ep that hasn't aired in the US yet.
Summary: Gwaine wants a beer, but if he ends up impersonating a faerie king representing the cause of leprechauns to enjoy it, then that’s perfectly acceptable for him.
-o-
Gwaine really just wants a beer.
Something nice and cold, preferably in a large, iced mug, but if the alcohol is strong enough, then Gwaine really isn’t picky about the details. It’s just that he’s been walking all day and while the water in his pouch will keep him from getting dehydrated, it doesn’t do much to improve his mood.
Not that he’s in a bad mood, but Gwaine prefers to go through life with a pleasant buzz because that makes it easier to smile when calamity ensues. And calamity always ensues. There is a certain predictability in this that seems to defy the odds, but Gwaine doesn’t let himself worry too much about the wherefores and prefers to be aptly prepared instead.
On some level, Gwaine does wonder if his predisposition for self gratification is what leads to calamity in the first place, but that level of self reflection is simply not possible until he’s had something alcoholic to drink, which is another reason why Gwaine wants a beer.
So Gwaine wants a beer, but if he ends up impersonating a faerie king representing the cause of leprechauns to enjoy it, then that’s perfectly acceptable for him. In his defense, it’s the barkeep who greeted him with an Irish accent, and Gwaine does not consider it his fault for replying in pitch perfect Irish dialect back to him. And he thinks he recalls that his mother’s mother’s father was Irish, so he figures it’s possible that it’s truly meant to be.
After all, how is he supposed to know that that barkeep is borderline out of his mind and that today is the same day he looks for the faerie king every year. The locals may know to avoid his establishment for fear of the insanity, but Gwaine’s just passing through on his way to anywhere and he just really, really wants a beer.
“I’ll give you a drink,” the barkeep says, friendly enough, but there’s a devious glint in his eyes as he stares Gwaine down. “I’ll give you a drink if you can prove your connection to the faerie world.”
Gwaine has no such connection, but in the name of alcohol, he’s fabricated more for less. Gwaine puffs his chest and gestures widely. “What proof would you require?” he asks.
The man actually looks surprised at the question, and it occurs to Gwaine briefly that this may be the first time the man has ever been entertained in this fashion. All the more in his favor, he figures. The barkeep’s brow furrows and he wets his lips. “A song,” he says finally. Then he nods resolutely. “All faeries can sing. In the traditional dialect.”
This doesn’t seem overly problematic to Gwaine, seeing as he can sing adequately, although the dialect might be a bit of a problem. Gwaine knows several Irish songs, but he’s not entirely certain what song a faerie would sing and it doesn’t help that most of the time when he sings, he’s had several pints, and he’s painfully sober at the moment.
Gwaine furrows his brow in return and holds himself upright. “You expect a faerie king to sing without whetting his palate? Such things go against the very laws of nature. We drink and then we sing!”
It’s a desperate maneuver, but fortunately for Gwaine, marginally insane barkeepers do not necessarily abide by the best of logic. The man nods resolutely, and pulls out a cup, slamming it on the bar. “Then we drink!”
Gwaine raises his fist with a hearty cheer. “We drink!”
Funny thing is, that the barkeep has a very nice voice, and when the Irish tune starts, Gwaine lets his lips move with the cadence and what comes out is what comes out. If the barkeep looks at him funny, Gwaine waves his hand, fills both their glasses, takes a drink and starts again.
After a while, the barkeep stops drinking, which seems to be counterproductive to Gwaine, but he supposes that’s all the more for him. The man instead sits, head propped up on his chin, looking at Gwaine contentedly. “All these years,” he says. “They said you weren’t real, but here you are.”
Gwaine smiles, lifting his glass to toast the air. The brew splashes over the side and down his knuckles. “Here I am,” he says, and tips his head, drowning a large gulp.
He puts the glass down, wiping his sleeve across his face.
The man barely notices, still stares at him. “You’re everything I hoped for.”
“As are you, my good friend,” Gwaine tells him sincerely, patting him on the shoulder. “As are you.”
The man looks like he might cry, and Gwaine remembers almost too late that he is something of a sympathetic crier. It’s not that crying is too effeminate for him, because he figures with his roguish features, he can pull it off, but if he’s crying, he’s not drinking, and Gwaine is here to drink, not to cry.
So Gwaine claps the man’s shoulder again. “You know, maybe we can find some of my brethren,” he says, a bit solicitously.
The man’s eyes widen, alight with possibility. “More faeries? Can you draw them to this realm?”
“Sure,” Gwaine says loudly. Then he leans closer, face serious. “But we’re going to need more to drink.”
The man nods then scrambles to his feet. He stumbles around to the side of the bar, and when he comes back, he’s got a dusty bottle in his hands. He pops the top and pours it hastily, a drink for himself and one for Gwaine.
Gwaine smiles broadly, lifting his cup. “To the faeries!”
“To the faeries!” the man repeats enthusiastically.
They clink glasses and tilt their heads and as the alcohol burns down his throat, Gwaine thinks faeries have it very good indeed.
Gwaine doesn’t remember much else, though the salient parts seem to stick out. There is more alcohol involved, which is the important point, and if Gwaine starts flying around the room, well, that’s just a natural occurrence given the nice brand of liquor the barkeep has offered him. And who knew that he spoke the language of the faeries?
This is why Gwaine drinks, he tells himself often. He learns much about himself in the process.
There may be more singing involved, and Gwaine is fairly certain that the jumping off the tables and swinging from the chandelier were not his idea, though he executes both with a flair that he thinks is probably unparalleled in any realm he’s been in. Except that foray in France, but he rather prefers not to think about that.
In the end, Gwaine rather prefers not to think at all, and when he wakes up with his face plastered against one of the tables, he counts it as perfectly reasonable, all things considered.
Waking up, he realizes that he’s been asleep on the table, which is actually rather pleasant, since the wood is soft with age and use, and it’s actually long enough to fit him properly without his feet hanging too much off the end. Sure, a pillow might have been nice, but Gwaine has always thought a nice intoxication does better at keeping him comfortable than most other worldly items.
Sitting up is less than pleasant, but the throbbing headache quickly abates to tolerable levels, and if he can scrounge up a cup of something warm, that should be enough to get him on his feet and on his way.
Swinging his legs off the table, Gwaine works some saliva into his mouth and looks around warily for his generous patron. However, he finds himself alone.
That’s all the same to Gwaine. He’s not big on goodbyes and while the tongue of faeries comes easily to him while drinking, he’s not so sure he’s mastered it while sober.
Gathering his things, he steals a drink of water from behind the bar and picks up a chair or two, lifting a few candles upright. It seems like the least he can do before he heads to the door and starts out.
The town is surprisingly quiet, which is fine for Gwaine’s purposes, and he’s nearly cleared its limits when there’s a mighty yell.
Gwaine looks around, but doesn’t stop. Well traveled as he is, most yells are not for him, and if they are, he usually finds it best to not answer them.
“The king of the faeries!” someone yells, and it’s clearer this time. “I’m telling you, he’s the king of the faeries!”
This sounds familiar, and yet still ominous. For while Gwaine fully supports the cause of faeries when it suits his means, he’s not sure he’s ready to make it a public effort.
Apparently, he doesn’t have much choice.
There is the sound of footfalls and he hears the sound of hoofbeats, and somehow he know that this is perhaps not as good as he wants it to be.
Still, he doesn’t stop, and though he thinks to run, he doesn’t see there being much point. He’s on foot, after all, and besides, as far as he knows, being the king of the faeries is not a crime.
Yet when he’s overtaken by a band of ragtag villagers, it does seem rather like a trial.
Two are mounted. Three more are actually carrying pitchforks. One fellow actually has a sword, and the friendly barkeep from last night looks crazy-eyed amongst them. “Tell them!” he yells, looking at Gwaine in desperation. “Tell them!”
Gwaine looks from his friend to the others, who look somewhat less crazy and infinitely more angry. “Tell them what, good fellow?” Gwaine asks guardedly, smiling as disarmingly as he can. It would help if some of them were female, but unfortunately men are the ones who like to form vigilante posses, much to Gwaine’s chagrin.
“Tell them who you are,” the man pleads.
Gwaine eyes his companions. “Who do they think I am?” he asks instead.
One of them sneers, lifting his head. “We think you’re a two-bit scoundrel who abused some poor fool for all his alcohol.”
It’s a stunning deduction. Gwaine laughs. “I assure you, there was no abuse involved,” he says. “Just two fast friends, sharing an evening together.”
One of them lifts his pitchfork a little. One of the horses prances restlessly. “By drinking his entire stockroom?”
That sounds impressive, even for Gwaine. While he will drink for free, he will also pay for such pleasures, especially if there are pitchforks and mobs involved. “If some payment is desired, I am happy to oblige.”
“No, I would never ask payment!” the barkeep says. “Not for the king of the faeries!”
One of the men pounds his pitchfork into the ground. “You’ve bewitched him,” he says.
“He’s a swindler,” another adds.
Gwaine laughs again, shaking his head. “Dear fellows, I assure you I am neither.”
“So how do you explain it, then?” another man asks pointedly.
Gwaine opens his mouth and considers his words just for a second. In truth, free beverages were never his sole intent, though when the ale started flowing, he was not one to say no. Gwaine understands opportunities, but with opportunity, he also understands consequences. Telling these men the truth is something of a futile cause because the truth is such a relative thing. Gwaine can’t think it a crime to indulge one’s fantasies, and if one man longs for endless beer while another wants to dine with a faerie king, then all’s well that end’s well, and a stockroom worth of merchandise is certainly an acceptable forfeit.
Still. Most men across the land don’t understand the simple beauty of such things. It’s the ones driven by laws and codes and business savvy that make things complicated, and if Gwaine knows anything, it’s that complications do nothing but make you unhappy.
Gwaine has spent enough of his life being unhappy. He chooses to live free and live content, and if a lie or five are involved, then he doesn’t count it a sin. “Well,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “I am the faerie king.”
This is clearly not the answer they expected, and the blatant anger on their faces freezes before turning to confusion. “What?” one asks from a horse.
“I am the faerie king,” Gwaine reports with a self satisfied nod. He looks to the barkeep. “Just ask him. He is the resident expert, isn’t he?”
“I am, I am!” the barkeep says, almost giddy.
The turn in conversation has put a foil in the clear plan of attack. One of them says to another, “He is the expert.”
“He’s crazy!” another hisses back.
“But what if he’s not?”
And therein is reasonable doubt, which is always one of Gwaine’s biggest allies. There are few things in life worth being certain of, and Gwaine knows his and if he can help others find their own, he thinks it must be a service to mankind to some degree.
The bunch falls silent, looks at each other, then looks at Gwaine again.
“Prove it,” one of them says.
Gwaine blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Prove it,” he repeats, a bit snarly this time.
On some level, Gwaine can respect this demand. He believes in what he can see, and the things he has within his own frame of reference are the things that matter most. He does not hold much hope in the blind promises of other men, for words are easy and actions are few.
And yet, he still understands that sometimes the best things in life need faith, and he sort of thinks faeries kings are among them.
However, if he doesn’t prove it, he somewhat suspects they will try to gut him with a pitchfork, which has never been a way that Gwaine has wanted to die.
“I’m not sure what proof I can offer you,” Gwaine says.
“Faeries can’t be in their true state around mortals,” the barkeep supplies helpfully.
Gwaine nods readily. “Yes, indeed. That is very true.”
“But they can fly,” the barkeep adds.
And that is somewhat less helpful.
The men look interested. “So you can fly, then?”
“If you’re a faerie, you can fly,” another reiterates pointlessly.
Gwaine has many skills, but he does not think flying is among them. Proof does not seem to be the best route; he wonders if he might have more luck with powerful persuasion.
Decided, Gwaine takes a breath, shaking his head. “It’s not about proof,” he says, looking from one to another, holding their gazes. “This is a question of belief. It’s about faith. We all put our trust in the things we have around us. We take our carnal pleasures where we can and wonder why our lives feels empty. Meaningless. Unless we let go--unless we are willing to take a chance on belief--then we are consigned to pitiful existences, devoid of greater purpose and meaning. That’s not the life I want. Not for myself, and not for you, my friends Not for you.”
Really, it’s one of his better efforts. The men listen, and when he’s done, his voice lingers in the early morning stillness.
One of them sniffles. The barkeep is crying. The glistening in Gwaine’s eyes is entirely coincidental.
Then one of them tightens his grip on his pitchfork. “I knew I had you pegged for a no-good liar,” he says.
Before the others can lift their forks, Gwaine is already running, fast and furious out of the town and darting into the woods. The pursuit is hot and heavy, and when Gwaine runs out of ground and hits the edge of a cliff overlooking a river, he thinks for a moment, it’s all come down to this. There are worse ways to die, he’s sure, but he’d actually like some more time to find out for sure, just to be safe. Death, like life, only happens once, and Gwaine would rather make the most of it, and dying at the hands of a few angry townsmen who think he’s impersonating a faerie king for a few free drinks just doesn’t seem quite right.
Besides, maybe Gwaine was telling the truth. He looks out across the water and wonders if the fall will kill him.
Turns out, it doesn’t matter much at all. As the group closes in, Gwaine takes the leap and proves he can fly after all.
In the next town, when he’s drunk again, someone asks if he’s heard about the faerie king in the area.
Gwaine claps him on the shoulder. “I have indeed, my good man,” he says. “Fill me up with another drink, and I’ll tell you all about him.”
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: LOL. What can I say? I have some other Merlin fic that I’ve simply never polished to post, so why on earth is this the one that I finally put up? I have no idea, except that sometimes I like writing silly, pointless things, and Gwaine is wonderful for both. Because honestly, he’s Gwaine. Thanks goes to
geminigrl11 for prompting this and giving it a small beta :) Any mistakes are my own. There are no spoilers for anything in particular, but obviously this uses a character introduced in S3 in an ep that hasn't aired in the US yet.Summary: Gwaine wants a beer, but if he ends up impersonating a faerie king representing the cause of leprechauns to enjoy it, then that’s perfectly acceptable for him.
-o-
Gwaine really just wants a beer.
Something nice and cold, preferably in a large, iced mug, but if the alcohol is strong enough, then Gwaine really isn’t picky about the details. It’s just that he’s been walking all day and while the water in his pouch will keep him from getting dehydrated, it doesn’t do much to improve his mood.
Not that he’s in a bad mood, but Gwaine prefers to go through life with a pleasant buzz because that makes it easier to smile when calamity ensues. And calamity always ensues. There is a certain predictability in this that seems to defy the odds, but Gwaine doesn’t let himself worry too much about the wherefores and prefers to be aptly prepared instead.
On some level, Gwaine does wonder if his predisposition for self gratification is what leads to calamity in the first place, but that level of self reflection is simply not possible until he’s had something alcoholic to drink, which is another reason why Gwaine wants a beer.
So Gwaine wants a beer, but if he ends up impersonating a faerie king representing the cause of leprechauns to enjoy it, then that’s perfectly acceptable for him. In his defense, it’s the barkeep who greeted him with an Irish accent, and Gwaine does not consider it his fault for replying in pitch perfect Irish dialect back to him. And he thinks he recalls that his mother’s mother’s father was Irish, so he figures it’s possible that it’s truly meant to be.
After all, how is he supposed to know that that barkeep is borderline out of his mind and that today is the same day he looks for the faerie king every year. The locals may know to avoid his establishment for fear of the insanity, but Gwaine’s just passing through on his way to anywhere and he just really, really wants a beer.
“I’ll give you a drink,” the barkeep says, friendly enough, but there’s a devious glint in his eyes as he stares Gwaine down. “I’ll give you a drink if you can prove your connection to the faerie world.”
Gwaine has no such connection, but in the name of alcohol, he’s fabricated more for less. Gwaine puffs his chest and gestures widely. “What proof would you require?” he asks.
The man actually looks surprised at the question, and it occurs to Gwaine briefly that this may be the first time the man has ever been entertained in this fashion. All the more in his favor, he figures. The barkeep’s brow furrows and he wets his lips. “A song,” he says finally. Then he nods resolutely. “All faeries can sing. In the traditional dialect.”
This doesn’t seem overly problematic to Gwaine, seeing as he can sing adequately, although the dialect might be a bit of a problem. Gwaine knows several Irish songs, but he’s not entirely certain what song a faerie would sing and it doesn’t help that most of the time when he sings, he’s had several pints, and he’s painfully sober at the moment.
Gwaine furrows his brow in return and holds himself upright. “You expect a faerie king to sing without whetting his palate? Such things go against the very laws of nature. We drink and then we sing!”
It’s a desperate maneuver, but fortunately for Gwaine, marginally insane barkeepers do not necessarily abide by the best of logic. The man nods resolutely, and pulls out a cup, slamming it on the bar. “Then we drink!”
Gwaine raises his fist with a hearty cheer. “We drink!”
Funny thing is, that the barkeep has a very nice voice, and when the Irish tune starts, Gwaine lets his lips move with the cadence and what comes out is what comes out. If the barkeep looks at him funny, Gwaine waves his hand, fills both their glasses, takes a drink and starts again.
After a while, the barkeep stops drinking, which seems to be counterproductive to Gwaine, but he supposes that’s all the more for him. The man instead sits, head propped up on his chin, looking at Gwaine contentedly. “All these years,” he says. “They said you weren’t real, but here you are.”
Gwaine smiles, lifting his glass to toast the air. The brew splashes over the side and down his knuckles. “Here I am,” he says, and tips his head, drowning a large gulp.
He puts the glass down, wiping his sleeve across his face.
The man barely notices, still stares at him. “You’re everything I hoped for.”
“As are you, my good friend,” Gwaine tells him sincerely, patting him on the shoulder. “As are you.”
The man looks like he might cry, and Gwaine remembers almost too late that he is something of a sympathetic crier. It’s not that crying is too effeminate for him, because he figures with his roguish features, he can pull it off, but if he’s crying, he’s not drinking, and Gwaine is here to drink, not to cry.
So Gwaine claps the man’s shoulder again. “You know, maybe we can find some of my brethren,” he says, a bit solicitously.
The man’s eyes widen, alight with possibility. “More faeries? Can you draw them to this realm?”
“Sure,” Gwaine says loudly. Then he leans closer, face serious. “But we’re going to need more to drink.”
The man nods then scrambles to his feet. He stumbles around to the side of the bar, and when he comes back, he’s got a dusty bottle in his hands. He pops the top and pours it hastily, a drink for himself and one for Gwaine.
Gwaine smiles broadly, lifting his cup. “To the faeries!”
“To the faeries!” the man repeats enthusiastically.
They clink glasses and tilt their heads and as the alcohol burns down his throat, Gwaine thinks faeries have it very good indeed.
Gwaine doesn’t remember much else, though the salient parts seem to stick out. There is more alcohol involved, which is the important point, and if Gwaine starts flying around the room, well, that’s just a natural occurrence given the nice brand of liquor the barkeep has offered him. And who knew that he spoke the language of the faeries?
This is why Gwaine drinks, he tells himself often. He learns much about himself in the process.
There may be more singing involved, and Gwaine is fairly certain that the jumping off the tables and swinging from the chandelier were not his idea, though he executes both with a flair that he thinks is probably unparalleled in any realm he’s been in. Except that foray in France, but he rather prefers not to think about that.
In the end, Gwaine rather prefers not to think at all, and when he wakes up with his face plastered against one of the tables, he counts it as perfectly reasonable, all things considered.
Waking up, he realizes that he’s been asleep on the table, which is actually rather pleasant, since the wood is soft with age and use, and it’s actually long enough to fit him properly without his feet hanging too much off the end. Sure, a pillow might have been nice, but Gwaine has always thought a nice intoxication does better at keeping him comfortable than most other worldly items.
Sitting up is less than pleasant, but the throbbing headache quickly abates to tolerable levels, and if he can scrounge up a cup of something warm, that should be enough to get him on his feet and on his way.
Swinging his legs off the table, Gwaine works some saliva into his mouth and looks around warily for his generous patron. However, he finds himself alone.
That’s all the same to Gwaine. He’s not big on goodbyes and while the tongue of faeries comes easily to him while drinking, he’s not so sure he’s mastered it while sober.
Gathering his things, he steals a drink of water from behind the bar and picks up a chair or two, lifting a few candles upright. It seems like the least he can do before he heads to the door and starts out.
The town is surprisingly quiet, which is fine for Gwaine’s purposes, and he’s nearly cleared its limits when there’s a mighty yell.
Gwaine looks around, but doesn’t stop. Well traveled as he is, most yells are not for him, and if they are, he usually finds it best to not answer them.
“The king of the faeries!” someone yells, and it’s clearer this time. “I’m telling you, he’s the king of the faeries!”
This sounds familiar, and yet still ominous. For while Gwaine fully supports the cause of faeries when it suits his means, he’s not sure he’s ready to make it a public effort.
Apparently, he doesn’t have much choice.
There is the sound of footfalls and he hears the sound of hoofbeats, and somehow he know that this is perhaps not as good as he wants it to be.
Still, he doesn’t stop, and though he thinks to run, he doesn’t see there being much point. He’s on foot, after all, and besides, as far as he knows, being the king of the faeries is not a crime.
Yet when he’s overtaken by a band of ragtag villagers, it does seem rather like a trial.
Two are mounted. Three more are actually carrying pitchforks. One fellow actually has a sword, and the friendly barkeep from last night looks crazy-eyed amongst them. “Tell them!” he yells, looking at Gwaine in desperation. “Tell them!”
Gwaine looks from his friend to the others, who look somewhat less crazy and infinitely more angry. “Tell them what, good fellow?” Gwaine asks guardedly, smiling as disarmingly as he can. It would help if some of them were female, but unfortunately men are the ones who like to form vigilante posses, much to Gwaine’s chagrin.
“Tell them who you are,” the man pleads.
Gwaine eyes his companions. “Who do they think I am?” he asks instead.
One of them sneers, lifting his head. “We think you’re a two-bit scoundrel who abused some poor fool for all his alcohol.”
It’s a stunning deduction. Gwaine laughs. “I assure you, there was no abuse involved,” he says. “Just two fast friends, sharing an evening together.”
One of them lifts his pitchfork a little. One of the horses prances restlessly. “By drinking his entire stockroom?”
That sounds impressive, even for Gwaine. While he will drink for free, he will also pay for such pleasures, especially if there are pitchforks and mobs involved. “If some payment is desired, I am happy to oblige.”
“No, I would never ask payment!” the barkeep says. “Not for the king of the faeries!”
One of the men pounds his pitchfork into the ground. “You’ve bewitched him,” he says.
“He’s a swindler,” another adds.
Gwaine laughs again, shaking his head. “Dear fellows, I assure you I am neither.”
“So how do you explain it, then?” another man asks pointedly.
Gwaine opens his mouth and considers his words just for a second. In truth, free beverages were never his sole intent, though when the ale started flowing, he was not one to say no. Gwaine understands opportunities, but with opportunity, he also understands consequences. Telling these men the truth is something of a futile cause because the truth is such a relative thing. Gwaine can’t think it a crime to indulge one’s fantasies, and if one man longs for endless beer while another wants to dine with a faerie king, then all’s well that end’s well, and a stockroom worth of merchandise is certainly an acceptable forfeit.
Still. Most men across the land don’t understand the simple beauty of such things. It’s the ones driven by laws and codes and business savvy that make things complicated, and if Gwaine knows anything, it’s that complications do nothing but make you unhappy.
Gwaine has spent enough of his life being unhappy. He chooses to live free and live content, and if a lie or five are involved, then he doesn’t count it a sin. “Well,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “I am the faerie king.”
This is clearly not the answer they expected, and the blatant anger on their faces freezes before turning to confusion. “What?” one asks from a horse.
“I am the faerie king,” Gwaine reports with a self satisfied nod. He looks to the barkeep. “Just ask him. He is the resident expert, isn’t he?”
“I am, I am!” the barkeep says, almost giddy.
The turn in conversation has put a foil in the clear plan of attack. One of them says to another, “He is the expert.”
“He’s crazy!” another hisses back.
“But what if he’s not?”
And therein is reasonable doubt, which is always one of Gwaine’s biggest allies. There are few things in life worth being certain of, and Gwaine knows his and if he can help others find their own, he thinks it must be a service to mankind to some degree.
The bunch falls silent, looks at each other, then looks at Gwaine again.
“Prove it,” one of them says.
Gwaine blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Prove it,” he repeats, a bit snarly this time.
On some level, Gwaine can respect this demand. He believes in what he can see, and the things he has within his own frame of reference are the things that matter most. He does not hold much hope in the blind promises of other men, for words are easy and actions are few.
And yet, he still understands that sometimes the best things in life need faith, and he sort of thinks faeries kings are among them.
However, if he doesn’t prove it, he somewhat suspects they will try to gut him with a pitchfork, which has never been a way that Gwaine has wanted to die.
“I’m not sure what proof I can offer you,” Gwaine says.
“Faeries can’t be in their true state around mortals,” the barkeep supplies helpfully.
Gwaine nods readily. “Yes, indeed. That is very true.”
“But they can fly,” the barkeep adds.
And that is somewhat less helpful.
The men look interested. “So you can fly, then?”
“If you’re a faerie, you can fly,” another reiterates pointlessly.
Gwaine has many skills, but he does not think flying is among them. Proof does not seem to be the best route; he wonders if he might have more luck with powerful persuasion.
Decided, Gwaine takes a breath, shaking his head. “It’s not about proof,” he says, looking from one to another, holding their gazes. “This is a question of belief. It’s about faith. We all put our trust in the things we have around us. We take our carnal pleasures where we can and wonder why our lives feels empty. Meaningless. Unless we let go--unless we are willing to take a chance on belief--then we are consigned to pitiful existences, devoid of greater purpose and meaning. That’s not the life I want. Not for myself, and not for you, my friends Not for you.”
Really, it’s one of his better efforts. The men listen, and when he’s done, his voice lingers in the early morning stillness.
One of them sniffles. The barkeep is crying. The glistening in Gwaine’s eyes is entirely coincidental.
Then one of them tightens his grip on his pitchfork. “I knew I had you pegged for a no-good liar,” he says.
Before the others can lift their forks, Gwaine is already running, fast and furious out of the town and darting into the woods. The pursuit is hot and heavy, and when Gwaine runs out of ground and hits the edge of a cliff overlooking a river, he thinks for a moment, it’s all come down to this. There are worse ways to die, he’s sure, but he’d actually like some more time to find out for sure, just to be safe. Death, like life, only happens once, and Gwaine would rather make the most of it, and dying at the hands of a few angry townsmen who think he’s impersonating a faerie king for a few free drinks just doesn’t seem quite right.
Besides, maybe Gwaine was telling the truth. He looks out across the water and wonders if the fall will kill him.
Turns out, it doesn’t matter much at all. As the group closes in, Gwaine takes the leap and proves he can fly after all.
In the next town, when he’s drunk again, someone asks if he’s heard about the faerie king in the area.
Gwaine claps him on the shoulder. “I have indeed, my good man,” he says. “Fill me up with another drink, and I’ll tell you all about him.”
