The cell was too quiet.

No guards. No sounds. Just the smell of damp stone and something metallic. Blood.

And then they saw him.

Curled in the corner like something discarded. Arms chained, head slumped, tunic torn and soaked through. He didn’t move. Not even as the torchlight reached him.

“Gods,” Arthur muttered. He didn’t move forward.

But Gwaine did.

The fear hit him all at once — loud, thick, rising in his throat like he might choke on it. His feet moved without permission. Past Leon. Past Elyan. Past Arthur. All of them silent. Watching.

He dropped to his knees beside the slumped body. His voice cracked instantly.

“Merlin…”

No response. He reached out, hands shaking, and cupped the side of Merlin’s face. Cold. Too cold. His thumb brushed blood. Dirt. Bruises.

“No—no, no, please,” he whispered. “Please, don’t do this, don’t—”

He pressed his forehead against Merlin’s temple, voice dropping to something only the two of them could hear.

“Sweetheart, please breathe. Please…”

He froze.

The word hung in the air. He hadn’t meant to say it. Not out loud. Not in front of—

Behind him, no one spoke. The knights stood silent. Arthur’s face was unreadable.

But Gwaine couldn’t care anymore.

He unfastened the chains as gently as he could, cradled Merlin as he collapsed forward. Pulled him into his lap, cloak wrapping around them both like he could shield him from everything — even memory.

Merlin whimpered, barely audible.

Gwaine leaned close, voice trembling.

“That’s it. I’ve got you. You’re safe now, I swear. I’m right here.”

He pressed a kiss to Merlin’s hair. Held him tighter when he flinched. Whispered:

“It’s me. Just me. No more pain, love. I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

One of Merlin’s fingers twitched, catching Gwaine’s cloak.

Gwaine almost cried from the sheer relief.

He looked down at him, eyes burning, and whispered:

“You’re coming back to me, sweetheart. I won’t let go.”