Sir Agravain of Orkney (asshatoforkney) wrote,
Sir Agravain of Orkney

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(for medraut and gawain) did you know it would turn out this bad if you did it this way?

It's a perfectly lovely day outside, and if Medraut's out and about, he likely won't notice anything amiss. Not at first. It's quiet except for some distant birdsong and the sighing of the breeze, and there's no one else around.

No one who's actually alive, that is.

The Winchesters have long since gone, and Agravain's on his own, out near the edge of the woods, by the base of a big fir tree. Medraut might notice the smell first. It's not Agravain's body. It hasn't had time to rot yet. But he might catch the sticky scent of blood underneath the smell of leaves and fresh air.

There's a lot of blood. The front of Agravain's shirt is wet with it, red and drying to brown around the edges. There's another patch on the ground, far enough away that it must have belonged to someone else. And Agravain's sword, lying just a few inches from his fingertips, is coated in it.

Agravain is lying on his back, his head lolled to one side and his eyes still wide open. The seven holes in his shirt (and chest) look small for something that killed such a big man. The way he lies is too still and too heavy, and even from a distance, he is very obviously dead.

Have fun, Medraut :D

((the thread where he got killed is over here, if anyone's wondering.))
Tags: !restricted post, gawain, medraut
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Medraut is heading towards the woods, planning to enjoy a nice solitary walk amongst the trees. He’s never minded the cold of course, but he’s enjoying the sunshine quite a lot – and despite the nice weather, there seem to be few obnoxious Mansion dwellers about.

But as he comes closer to the forest, he notices something odd-shaped beneath a tree. He freezes when he smells the blood – it’s a familiar enough smell, and an unwelcome one. The last time he smelt human blood this strong was at Camlann, and the thought of that is enough to unsettle him. At first he hopes it’s just a dead animal, killed by one of the strange beasts that haunts the woods, but he’s almost sure it’s not, and when he sees the dead shape in the shadow of the tree more clearly, he knows for sure that it’s a human.

He doesn’t realize who it is at first. Some stupid resident who’s managed to get themselves eaten by something, no doubt, but when he walks closer he realizes the broad shoulders, the ugly haircut are familiar and he goes numb.

“No, no,” he says, and he’s on his knees by his brother’s side, with idea how he got there. “You stupid bastard, you stupid, stupid –“

The body is cold, and there’s so, so much blood. Medraut touches his brother’s face and chest as though somehow he’ll revive, he’ll be warm and Medraut will be able to save him. He’ll be able to save him this time.

But he stays cold, and all Medraut can think is Lancelot, goddamned Lancelot, how could he win again. But he’s not here, surely? He doesn’t think so – he would have heard, surely, but he’s shaking with anger and sick with fear, he’s back in Guinevere’s room suddenly, fleeing from Lancelot’s sword, the image of his brother’s body forever in his mind. He can’t get the idea out of his head. He has to find Gawain. He has to find Gawain and find Lancelot – no, whoever did this, whoever did this. Lancelot, or whoever did this.

He feels like he can’t move – should he just leave his brother there? Uncovered, alone? He’s done that before, years ago now, but so clear in his head it might have been yesterday.

He doesn’t know how long he kneels there. It feels like an age, long enough for the summer breeze to chill him to the bone. But in the end he crawls over, takes Agravain’s sword from the ground, and stumbles to his feet, toward the Mansion, to find his brother.

If Gawain heads outside, he’ll find his brother hurrying up to the Mansion, shaking, covered in blood, gripping a bloody sword as though he’ll never let go.
And to think it was actually a good day.

No, really. One filled with exertion, but also with goodliness - with smiles from pretty women and memories of Ragnelle, and with a little baby who sometimes makes him think a little too much of the son he never raised.


A familiar site.

Gawain knows it before he sees it - something about instinct, perhaps. Something about habit. Swords and blood and steel, violence, gore and pain.

And the man he spots... that gait, he would know anywhere.

For a split second, the blood betrays him - into loyalty to his blood. "Brother," he calls, just as he breaks into a run. "--- what -- "

If someone wounded his brother...
Medraut stops moving at the sight of his brother running toward him, and slumps onto the grass. His grip on the sword doesn't loosen -- his knuckles are as white as his face, under the blood. He sees Gawain and he expects to see Arthur too, for a moment, with the horror and disappointment on his face that made Medraut wish Lancelot had finished him off too.

It's not real, he knows it's not. He's gone from that place now -- there's no Arthur, no Lancelot, he's safe from all that here.

But then why is his brother dead. Why again.

"Gawain," he says, as his brother draws closer. He feels he can barely breathe to get out the words. "Jesus Christ, Gawain. Oh, God, please."

He doesn't even know what he's asking for. Gawain can't do anything to change this, but he wants to desperately for this to not be real, another nightmare, another memory. Perhaps it is -- he feels as though his mind is all tangled up, he can't tell what's real and what's part of the memory, part of before, and what is here now. Maybe Gawain will shake him awake, maybe his brother will save him, this time.
The blood shouldn't make him freak out. Gawain's seen so many things. Endured so many adventures. So much death and decay already, and his own brother at Camlann, sitting on his fallen dead.

And he can't, this time, pretend he doesn't care.

He catches him, steady by sheer force of will, though his knees are buckling.

"What is it, brother - who hurt you?"

And his first thought (oh, shame) is for Melou.
He remembers the slash across the leg that Lancelot had given him as he fled, and his hand travels to his thigh for a moment, but that wound is nothing except a scar, now, past pain and blood. His fingers tangle in Gawain's tunic instead as he leans on his brother, shaky.

"I'm not," he chokes, staring wildly at his brother, "-- is he here?... he -- he can't be."

There's a fear in his face, an old fear of loss and violence that he'd lost by the end of it all. What if Lancelot is here, come to finish them, do it all over again, take the only family he has left here? Gawain, Melou, all those he loves with more heart than he knew he had left.

And Agravain, stupid, angry Agravain. He can hardly bear to think of him, lying cold underneath the tree, gone before Medraut could save him, this time the same as last.
Gawain isn't able to process - confusion rides over him like a wave of solitary madness, bringing with her names and hypotheses.

"Who?" is all he is able to ask, dumbly - Lancelot? Arthur? Lot? Oh, god, would that Lot not be here. "Who?"

And again, because the thought comes to him with horror, "Whose blood stains your hands, brother?"
Medraut takes a deep, shaky breath before he manages to answer. When he speaks his voice is quiet, full of grief -- and guilt, too.

"Agravain," he says, with effort, "he's -- Gawain, he's dead."
He just can't believe it.


It already happened.

He knows the feeling.

It's a creeping thing of emptiness that crawls up the spine like a worm slithers up a ripe apple, bores through the flesh and nestles into the core.

It's a thing that very simply does not go away easily - and is only fixed with healing and time.

Gawain's body tenses like a bow - shifts.

"Take me to him."

His voice is as blank as it's ever been.
"Gawain, I --"

He hesitates. He doesn't want to see Agravain again -- the thought only makes him sicker, the sight brings back thoughts he'd been here long enough to start forgetting. And he doesn't want to be the one to lead Gawain to their dead brother, not again. He feels terribly guilty, then, as though somehow it's part his fault this time, too.

"He's -- down here." Medraut gestures down towards the woods, and starts forward uncertainly.
Gawain does not like what he's about to have to do.

He hates it with an absolute passion, and he feels anger boiling in him, with the growing certainty that it will not be assuaged until he has avenged his brother.

And feeling protective of Medraut, more than he ever has before, he'll wrap an arm around his brother's shoulder.

"I must see to him," he says firmly.

We must see to him, is the subtext.
Medraut leans into Gawain's hold for steadiness, and nods, slow and grim. He did not imagine he would ever have to see one of his brothers dead again. But at least Gawain is here with him -- and this time, at least, it was not all his fault.

It's not far down to where Agravain lies; even at Medraut's shaky pace they will reach it quickly. But he pauses, before they are near enough to see more the Agravain's lifeless shape beneath the shade of the trees.

"Brother," he says, very quietly, and afraid, "I do not know who it was that did this -- what if --"

He does not say the last part. But his face very plainly asks the question: what if Lancelot is here.
Gawain is following the same train of thought, and that makes his already tense jaw clench all the harder.

"Then I will pursue him as I did," and probably die again, stupidly, adds the typist.

But the lifeless body is here, and Gawain's eyes fill with tears. His knees give out under him, and he finds himself in the grass, shaking in sorrow and anger.

My brother is dead.

And, most problematically.... AGAIN.

It may take him a moment to think about examining the corpse.
"We will," Medraut says, quietly but firmly. "I'll not be left behind this time."

He's not letting Gawain go off and get killed again. That would be too much.

Medraut drops down next to Gawain, and leans against his brother's shoulder, to give and take whatever comfort he can. This place feels very cold, he thinks.
It may be a while before there is something going on other than weeping and clinging - but however long it takes, eventually...

"Brother," Gawain says quietly, "We must do him proper honors."

He's thinking, they should get Parsifal. Or something.