Chapter Text
“Watch out!”
Gwaine’s warning came a second too late; he saw the big, black beast’s paw slash out, sending Percival sprawling. The creature turned its head to the noise. It was monstrous, a thing of legends; a dyrwülf - taller than a man even on its four paws. Its eyes were a fierce, fiery umber that pierced through the night and its gleaming teeth were bared at Gwaine; who was suddenly very glad he had relieved himself before engaging in this fight.
Gripping his sword in both hands and planting his feet, Gwaine took a moment to gauge the battlefield. Leon was out cold to his right, a nasty-looking stain of blood matted his hair and caught the light of the full moon. Percival was smote against a tree, he was groaning but seemed in little better state than Leon. To his left the crumpled bodies of two fellow knights hung limply, draped over each other in a messy heap of broken limbs. They did not breathe. One had been a new recruit from House Eardhart, the other a young man from a poor family who had proved himself in the tourney. His name was Ulsted. He had been promised to a lass who worked in the kitchens of Castle Camelot. Gwaine whispered a small prayer; both for them and for himself.
The beast charged.
Gwaine levelled his sword. It was up to him now. He roared; a wordless animal noise to match that of the dyrwülf’s howl. Steel met claw with a sound that rang through the clearing. He span away, twisting from the strike aimed at his stomach. His sword arced and sliced through the creature’s flank. The air was filled with the rank, metallic stench of blood and fetid breath as the dyrwülf howled in pain. It turned on him again, the rage of death blossomed in its eyes. Gwaine stepped back, caught his foot on something and stumbled. It was Leon’s unconscious body. He landed to one side, his sword knocked from his hand in the fall, and the dyrwülf pounced, pinning him to the torn and muddy ground. Its huge head blocked out the stars. Gwaine could see his own face reflected in its stare. He had looked better.
The dyrwülf snapped at his face, almost toying with him. Hot, acrid spittle dripped on his cheek. The sweat from the dyrwülf’s pelt made it possible for Gwaine to wriggle an arm free. He groped blindly for his sword, the one slight chance for survival that remained to him. He felt his fingers brush the pommel but the mud made it too slippery to grasp. The wolf growled and gnashed at his throat. He raised his arm to protect himself. The dyrwülf’s teeth sank deeply into his arm; he felt the flesh pierce and render, the blood gush forth. Its muzzle was painted red.
Gwaine knew this was the end. He closed his eyes.
A shrill shriek broke the night. It faded to a whuffing whimper. The dyrwülf trembled and went limp, almost crushing Gwaine beneath it.
Gwaine opened his eyes. The dyrwülf was shoved from him; by his own hands and those unseen. The stars were back. Stood over him, pain and barely-concealed fear contorting his face, was Leon. In his hand was Gwaine’s sword. Ebony-dark blood dripped from its shaft and point.
“You took... your time...” gurgled Gwaine, before blackness took him.