Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Door 17

The forest was a tapestry of gold and carmine, the autumn sun dappling the path with dancing lights, and the air filled with birdsong.

Smiling, Gwaine rode beside his Queen, their horses moving at a leisurely pace. It wasn’t often that he got to spend time with Gwen like this, and he was enjoying every minute of it—not to mention that both of them more than deserved a moment of reprieve from Camelot’s stifling politics.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he told Gwen as he adjusted his reins. “All those long councils and serious faces, day in, day out. All that was asked of me this week was to play nice with Godwyn’s lordlings during training and the banquets, and by the end of it I felt like jumping out of my own skin.”

Gwen laughed lightly, the sound as refreshing as the woodland air. “Oh, it’s not all bad. But yes, it can get quite stuffy.” She threw him a conspiratory look, patting the small blade tied to her saddle. “Truth be told, I envy you those training sessions. I should have liked to pick up a sword and pummelled something myself after yesterday’s trade negotiations. They were positively tiresome.”

“What’s stopping you?” Gwaine returned, grinning. “The Queen of all people should do as she likes.”

“Oh, I wish,” Gwen sighed, then rolled her eyes. “But you know how some of the lords on Arthur’s council are. Too many already disapprove of my peasant blood. I cannot afford to offend them more by going against propriety.”

Gwaine only just kept his tongue in check at hearing that, his less-than-flattering opinion of those lords not fit for such refined company. “I’m surprised Arthur let you ride out with only me as an escort, then,” he said instead. “Surely, that’s almost equally scandalous, given my reputation?”

“Your reputation as one of Camelot’s most loyal knights and fiercest fighters?” Gwen replied, smiling. “I could not be in better hands, could I?”

Despite himself, Gwaine felt heat creep up his neck. “Surely, that’s not what those lords have to say about me,” he deflected.

“It’s what Arthur thinks of you, though, and that’s what counts,” Gwen said decisively, and urged her horse into a quicker trot, her smile lingering as they made ever deeper into the forest.

It truly was a lovely day, unusually warm for autumn and the path below them dry, which made for sturdy riding. The Queen, Gwaine thought, looked radiant in the saddle. She was clad in one of her plainer dresses, a simple gown of lilac paired with a lavender shawl, and her hair was wound into a single long plait trailing over her shoulder. 

Gwaine could not fathom how those stiff-necked lords could look at her, see her strength, modesty and beauty, and not find in her someone to be adored. Arthur was a lucky man to have won her heart, and Camelot richer to have her as Queen.

Gwaine’s gaze drifted to the path ahead, a deep sense of contentment filling him. He had once sworn, long ago, that he would never again bend the knee to royalty, nor live a noble’s life. Yet here he was, a knight of Camelot, bound by his loyalty to Arthur and the Crown, and for all his vows of freedom, he couldn’t imagine a better life than the one he had now—serving a kingdom he believed in, with people he was proud to call his own.

His family, even.

His heart swelling, he rode on, the forest growing quieter around them, the only sounds the soft clop of hooves and the occasional rustle of leaves. When the patter of water reached their ears, Gwen immediately reined her horse toward it, and Gwaine followed without question.

They reached a crystal-clear stream, the water babbling over smooth stones. Gwen dismounted gracefully, letting her mare drink as she stroked her neck. Gwaine followed suit, slipping off the saddle and leading Gringolet to the water, though his gaze soon wandered to the flowers growing along the bank on the other side of the stream. A cluster of wild blooms, half-hidden behind some trees, caught his eye especially. They were violet, blue, and white, an almost perfect match to Gwen’s dress.

Smiling, Gwaine let go of Gringolet’s reins, trusting the stallion would stay. “Wait here, my lady,” he called over his shoulder, already hopping across the smooth stones to reach the other side of the stream, and strode towards the flowers.

The blooms were tucked among a patch of moss between some deadwood, and Gwaine crouched in the undergrowth to pluck a good handful. They would make for a lovely addition to her plait. Smiling, he picked only the nicest of blossoms, mentally composing a charming quip about how they paled in comparison to the Queen herself—when a sharp cry for help pierced the air. 

Gwaine’s head snapped up, the flowers falling from his grasp. “Gwen!” he gasped.

The trees blocked his view, but the sound of men shouting reached his ears next, along with the unmistakable ring of crashing blades. His heart racing, he jumped from the undergrowth and drew his sword as he sprinted back, his boots thudding against the soft ground, reaching the stream just as Gwen let out another, chilling cry.

She was fighting bandits, it looked, her small blade flashing as she parried a strike. One man lay dead in the dirt nearby, but three more circled her like wolves. Blood darkened her lilac skirt, spreading from what must be a gash in her thigh. 

Gwaine’s wrath surged through him like a storm. “You honourless bastards!” he roared, charging forward into the water and across the stream.

His first strike felled one of the bandits instantly, the man crumpling under the blow. The second turned quickly to face him, but Gwaine was faster, disarming him with a deft swing before plunging his blade through his stomach. Seeing that, the third bandit pivoted and fled, cursing as he disappeared into the forest.

“Come back here, you craven!” Gwaine bellowed, ready to make after him, but a pained moan from Gwen made him think again.

The Queen had sunk to the ground, clutching her leg, the lower half of her frock soaked in blood. Gwaine lowered his sword and rushed to her side.

“My lady,” he said, his voice dropping to something hoarse and terribly unsteady as he knelt by her side. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s deep,” Gwen gasped, her face pale and tight with pain. “I need Gaius.”

His instincts kicking in, Gwaine made to field-dress the wound, pulling the crumpled shawl from Gwen’s shoulders to use it as a make-shift bandage, which he secured tightly across the wound using his own belt. By the time he was done, his hands were trembling, and Gwen whimpering with pain.

Without further ado, Gwaine lifted her up into her arms, his heart skipping a beat when he looked around and found that the Queen’s mare had spooked and run off. Gringolet, however, had lingered, a warhorse through and through, and could easily carry them both.

Swallowing against the growing lump in his throat, Gwaine carefully helped Gwen into his saddle, then swung onto it behind her, his arms supporting her, and made for Camelot.

Chapter Text

Door 18

The ride back was a blur. Gwaine’s heart was thundering in his chest, guilt clawing at him. 

He had left her alone. It did not matter that it had only been a moment; he should have never left her side. What if he had been too late? What if she hadn’t managed to reach her blade in time and been taken, dragged away to whatever filthy hole those bandits had crawled from? 

What if she had been killed?

The image of Gwen fighting, blood streaming down her leg, haunted him, and he tightened his arm around her waist, feeling her shake from pain and exhaustion, her breath coming in sharp, staccato gasps.

Gwaine had to blink against his swimming vision. It had been his job to keep her safe, and he had failed her.

“Almost there,” he murmured, more to himself than to Gwen, who was now leaning heavily against him, her strength leaving her as they reached the edge of the forest. 

As soon as they left the woods, Gwaine spurred the horse faster, the familiar towers of Camelot already coming into view. Passing the city gates, Gwaine shouted at everyone to make way, nearly trampling a woman and her children in his haste to make for the castle, where he yelled for Gaius the moment Gringolet’s hooves touched the drawbridge.

When he pulled the stallion to a halt in the castle courtyard, they were immediately surrounded by guards and servants, though it was two strong stablehands who pulled the fainting Queen off the saddle and carried her directly towards the physician’s tower, a distressed maid rushing after them.

“Inform the King!” Gwaine snapped at one of the guards, pressed the reins into another’s hands, then followed, racing up the stairs and bursting into the infirmary, where Gaius and Merlin had already cleared the table and laid Gwen on it.

She had passed out, Gwaine saw, though he quickly averted his eyes when Merlin unceremoniously tore at her dress to better reach the injury, sacrificing her modesty. 

There was blood. So much blood, everywhere.

Pressing a hand to his mouth, Gwaine turned away, listening to Gaius send the fussing maid and gawking stablehands away before getting to work. He only looked up again when Merlin stepped into his line of sight, asking quietly, “What happened?”

“Bandits,” Gwaine croaked. “They were—they came out of nowhere…”

Merlin took in the blood on Gwaine’s clothes. “Are you injured, too?”

“No,” Gwaine said. “No, they only—”

“Guinevere!”

Gwaine grew stock-still at the sound of Arthur’s frantic voice. Not a moment later, the King was shouldering past him and towards the table, though Merlin deftly stepped into his path. “No, Arthur,” he said, with surprising authority. “Not right now.”

The King let out a curse, shoving violently at Merlin, but the servant stood firm, pushing back even as Arthur threatened him with bodily injury, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. 

Gaius intervened then, ordering the King to step back with an expression that was truly frightening, adding a sharp, “We are still tending to her, sire. Do you want us to save her life or not?”

Paling, the King staggered back.

“Sir Gwaine,” Gaius added, meeting his gaze. “Take him outside, please.”

Gwaine followed the instructions blindly, manhandling Arthur out of the infirmary and into the stairway outside, though the King shook off his hand the moment the door fell shut, rounding on him. “What happened?” he demanded. “How did she get hurt?”

Gwaine shrank back, his whole body overtaken by another wave of trembles. “Bandits,” he replied thinly. “They attacked her.”

“Attacked her?” Arthur echoed, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. “Where were you?”

Gwaine had to reach behind to steady himself against the wall. “I was only—I was—” He swallowed, closing his eyes before admitting, “I left her alone.”

“You what?” Arthur growled.

Not a moment later, Gwaine’s head was knocked violently against the wall as Arthur rushed at him, pressing him into the stone, his hands curling into Gwaine’s shoulders. “You left her?” he bellowed. “You left your Queen unguarded in the woods?”

Gwaine’s vision blurred, pain blooming across his skull. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m so sorry, Arthur, I…”

Arthur’s grip tightened. His face was a mask of fury now, his breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts. “You left her!” he repeated, his voice echoing so loudly through the stairwell it made Gwaine’s ears ring. “You swore an oath to protect her! To give your life for hers if need be! And you left her?”

“I—I didn’t mean to—” Gwaine stammered, his voice breaking halfway through, but Arthur cut him off with a snarl.

“Didn’t mean to?” Arthur’s hands released him, only to shove him hard against the wall again next, fresh pain bursting at the back of Gwaine’s head where it was knocked against the stone. “She trusted you to keep her safe! I trusted you! Instead she’s lying in there—bleeding, broken—because you weren’t there when she needed you most!”

Gwaine hardly remembered how to breathe, his chest growing ever tighter, his lungs squeezing shut. “My lord,” he pleaded. “Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t think…”

“You didn’t think?” Arthur shouted. “You didn’t think! And now your Queen—my love, my Guinevere, she might—she might—” He broke off, letting out an awful sound, like the beginnings of a terrified sob, but anger won over again just a moment later. Arthur’s fury boiled over, his fist shooting out, and he punched Gwaine straight in the face. 

Fresh pain exploded as Gwaine stumbled to the side, his boot catching on the edge of a step. He teetered, nearly losing his footing, only just catching himself against the wall, his other hand coming up to hold his bleeding nose.

Half-doubled over, he stared up at his King, his head throbbing.

“You’ve disgraced this kingdom,” Arthur spat, his voice venomous. “Disgraced the title of Knight. Disgraced yourself.” 

His words sliced through Gwaine’s chest like a blade. 

“If she dies,” the King went on, his voice cold and absolute, and his eyes merciless, “I will have your head. Now get out.”

“Please,” Gwaine croaked, his vision blurring, “my king, I—”

“Get out of my sight!” Arthur roared.

Shaking, Gwaine spun around and went, nearly tumbling down the stairs, his hands grappling for a halt against the wall as he tried to keep himself from falling. The world was closing in around him, the stairwell cold and suffocating.

By the time he reached the courtyard, the tears were streaming freely down his face, mingling with the blood still dripping from his nose. He scrubbed at the mess with his stained sleeve, but it was no use. The guilt, the shame, and the overwhelming weight of Arthur’s words crushed him, despair settling on him like a boulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, to no one in particular. “I’m so sorry.”

The echoes of Arthur’s anger and his own failure chased him all the way to his quarters, where he collapsed onto his bed in heaving sobs.

Chapter Text

Door 19

The tavern was dim, its air thick with the sour tang of stale ale and sweat. Gwaine sat slumped in the darkest corner, a tankard of something strong clenched in his hand. His nose was swollen and his lip split from where Arthur had struck him, and his clothes and armour, still soaked with Gwen’s blood, were reeking—not that he cared. 

The only thing he had bothered to remove was his red-and-gold cloak.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he stumbled into The Staggering Mule. The haze of drink had dulled the hours, blurring the edges of day and night. At some point, the tavern had emptied, its patrons drifting out into the dawn, only to fill again later with a fresh crowd of voices and laughter that grated against his ears.

But none of it mattered. He sat as though turned to stone, his mind a churning sea of despair. The memory of Gwen’s pale face, her bloodied skirt, Arthur’s wrath—it all replayed endlessly before his eyes, tightening the vice around his chest and pulling him lower and lower into the abyss. He had drunk to forget, but there was no forgetting. He had disgraced himself, Arthur had said, and he was right. There was no excuse for letting Gwen get hurt, no excuse for abandoning her side and leaving her vulnerable and exposed.

He was a failure.

“Gwaine.”

The familiar voice pierced through the fog like a lance. Blinking sluggishly, he lifted his head to find Merlin standing over him, his arms crossed and his expression tight. 

A fresh wave of shame engulfed Gwaine. He knew for certain the Queen could not be dead, for his head was still attached to his body, but there was every chance the gash had left her fevered or crippled, and Merlin had been the one to tend to her, seeing exactly what Gwaine had done.

He might as well have sliced her up himself.

Merlin’s lips pressed into a thin line as he surveyed Gwaine. “You’re a mess,” he said flatly, though there was concern there as well. “Just so you know: while you’ve been sitting here drinking yourself into oblivion, Leon and the others took to the woods. They found Gwen’s horse as well as the rest of those bandits, and finished the job. Apparently, they were living in a cave, setting up a permanent camp for winter.”

Gwaine shrank in on himself but said nothing, his gaze dropping to the battered table before him. Merlin’s words had struck him like blows, driving the shame deeper. Leon, Percival—gods, Elyan. How they had to detest him, despise him. He could never face them again, never meet their eyes like an equal. He had failed them as much as he had failed Arthur and Gwen.

Hurriedly, he lifted his tankard, desperate to drown the terrible ache in his chest, but before he could take another sip, Merlin had snatched it away.

“Enough,” he said, his voice low but firm. “This isn’t helping. Snap out of it.”

Gwaine’s head jerked up again, his tired eyes burning with fresh tears. He opened his mouth, but no words came, just a long, shuddering breath. 

Merlin’s face softened. With a sigh, he set the tankard down far out of reach, then muttered, “Stay here,” and headed to the bar. He returned moments later with a bowl of fresh water and a small rag, pulling a stool closer to Gwaine. “Hold still,” he ordered as he sat, and dipped the cloth into the bowl. His tone was gentle now. “Let me have a look at that.”

Gwaine didn’t resist as Merlin dabbed at his bruised and swollen face, the water stinging against his split lip. The simple act of care lifted the numbness, grounding him in a way the drink hadn’t.

“Not broken,” Merlin concluded at last, then stood. “I’ve already settled your tab. They sure charge extortionately for being such a filthy dump.” Shaking his head, he motioned toward the door. “Come on. You’re going back with me.”

For a long moment, Gwaine didn’t move, staring at the table as if it might offer him an escape. Finally, he pushed himself to his feet and followed Merlin out of the tavern. 

They walked through the Lower Town in silence. It had to be late afternoon, judging by the sinking sun, but the streets and alleyways were busy yet. As the castle loomed ahead, Gwaine couldn’t help but sense the eyes of every peasant, every guard and passerby, feeling as if they must know exactly what he had done. Even the warm autumn breeze had cooled to something biting and merciless, whispering of his misdeed as it tugged at his clothes.

He wanted to disappear into the ground, to escape the crushing feeling of guilt and despair. But he wasn’t a coward, at least not that. And so, as they neared the gates, he finally dared to ask, “Gwen—the Queen, is she…?”

“She’s fine,” Merlin stressed at once, looking at him with a small smile. “She’s in her chambers, recuperating. Arthur has barely left her side since she woke up, and the maids are fussing over her like she’s a babe. She’s quite done with it all already, believe me.”

The relief that flooded Gwaine was overwhelming, though it did little to ease the weight of his shame. Mutely, he nodded, keeping his gaze on the ground as they walked across the drawbridge.

In the courtyard, Merlin stopped and turned to him. “He wants to speak to you,” he said.

Gwaine’s stomach sank, not having to ask whom he meant. For a moment, he considered taking Gringolet from his box and riding off, leaving everything he had built here behind to lead a vagabond’s life once more, pushing aside the whole ugly mess and moving on—but he was not that kind of man anymore. 

His position as a knight of Camelot was forever forfeit, Arthur had made that much clear, but the thought of leaving Camelot was inconceivable in spite of it. He would stay, as a stablehand or servant if he had to, and do his penance in the Crown’s service. He owed Arthur and Gwen that much, even if it meant scrubbing their floors until his back broke.

Quickly, Gwaine rubbed a hand over his eyes, then straightened his shoulders and looked at Merlin. “Where does His Majesty want me?”

“The audience chamber,” Merlin replied, but then added, “Have a wash first, though, and put on some fresh clothes. I’ll tell him you’ll be there in an hour, then draw you a bath.”

Gwaine hardly deserved such kindness from Merlin, but nodded his acceptance anyway. “Thank you.”

Merlin smiled, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “It’ll be fine.”

Chapter Text

Door 20

Gwaine stood outside the small throne room, his stomach a tight knot. Upon Merlin’s insistence, he had forced down some bread to counter the ale, but it lay like a stone in his guts, only adding to the weight already pressing down on him. The thought of what was about to come made him feel like he might choke, every fibre in his body screaming at him to turn around and run.

But Merlin was with him, already entering the audience chamber and announcing Gwaine’s arrival in a voice that sounded far too calm for the gravity of the occasion. Gwaine followed two steps behind, his gaze flickering aimlessly over the stone below, avoiding looking at the throne on the little dais with all his might.

It did not stop him from hearing the sound of Arthur’s voice, however. “Thank you, Merlin. You may go.”

He wasn’t sitting on the throne, Gwaine realised; his voice was coming from near the window. Still, he did not dare look up, his eyes glued to the floor as he heard Merlin go and close the door behind him with a soft thud, leaving ringing silence in his wake.

Gwaine swallowed, his heart drumming in his chest. He wanted to speak, to say something, anything, though he knew it was not his place to speak first. The silence was too thick and growing thicker still, pressing down on him, suffocating him, and the weight of Arthur’s presence, the space between them and the shame that filled it, simply was too much. 

Gwaine’s breath hitched, the barely stifled sob dislodging something in his throat, and before he could stop himself, he had choked out, “My lord.”

“Gwaine,” Arthur started, at the same time.

Gwaine flinched. “Forgive me,” he said, the words tumbling out of him before he could snap his mouth closed, only to squeeze his eyes shut when he realised what he had just said.

Forgive me. As if asking for absolution.

Fresh shame clawed at him, rising like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him, crush him. Finally, it became too much, and Gwaine caved to the weight, buckling until he was kneeling on the floor, all but collapsing onto the flagstones, one of his hands pressing against the ground to steady himself.

His thoughts were a blur of apologies, regret, and self-loathing. Please, don’t forsake me, he wanted to beg. Please don’t cast me aside.

Arthur’s voice cut through his despair. “Forgive you,” he echoed softly. “Truth be told, I had rather hoped you’d forgive me first.”

Gwaine froze, his heart hammering away, and he had to force himself to look up, finding Arthur still standing at the window, his back turned. 

“The punch I gave you,” he went on, speaking to the stained glass, “it was entirely dishonourable. I let my temper get the better of me, let my emotions reign. It wasn’t my finest moment, and I hope you will not think worse of me for it.”

Gwaine blinked rapidly, staring at his King’s silhouette.

Arthur turned then, his face set with frustration, but when his eyes landed on Gwaine kneeling before him, his expression shifted. Grimacing, he moved forward, waving his hand. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Get up.”

Gwaine’s gaze dropped back to the floor, knowing he was exactly where he belonged: at his King’s feet; at his mercy. “I deserved that punch,” he said. His voice came out thick and rough. “You were right to strike me, my lord. I failed you. I failed my Queen, I failed Camelot.”

Arthur took another step forward, his boots coming into view. “Gwaine,” he said again.

Gwaine could not help but bow his head lower in response, humbled and shamed by his apology, an apology he did not deserve, though of course Arthur would feel compelled to utter it. Gwaine had never met a man who took the ideals of chivalry more seriously than his king. He would ask forgiveness even from his worst enemy if he felt he had gone against the code of honour, for he was nothing like Caerleon, or Cenred, any of the other cruel, selfish kings in the world. It was for that very reason Gwaine had sworn an oath to him.

An oath he had broken by abandoning Gwen.

That last thought had a new swell of words rise in Gwaine’s throat, and before he could stop it, they were spilling from his lips again, hoarse and rushed, “Please, sire. Punish me however you deem fit. I’ll accept your judgement. However many lashes you order, however many weeks in the dungeons, I shall accept them… just…” His voice faltered as a thought occurred to him, a thought that drove true fear into his heart: Arthur might very well have decided to banish him. Cast him out of Camelot forever, and forbid him from ever setting foot in his kingdom again.

The thought was beyond unbearable, and more words came tumbling from his mouth before he could stop to think. “Please,” he begged, “I’ll serve you however you wish, sire. A guard, a servant, anything. I know I’ve forfeited my right to wear the red cloak, but I want to—I beg you for permission to stay. I must stay, if I ever want to make up to you what I’ve done, if I ever—”

Arthur’s hand gripping Gwaine’s upper arm had him fall silent, the clasp forceful enough that it made him freeze, his stomach coiling tight as the memory of their earlier confrontation flashed before his eyes.

But already, Arthur’s grip was softening again, even as he said firmly, “Sir Gwaine. Rise.”

Gwaine’s head snapped up, his eyes meeting Arthur’s, finding them soft. 

“Grovelling really doesn’t suit you, my friend,” the King added, with a kindness that made Gwaine’s eyes sting anew.

Slowly, very slowly, he rose to his feet.

Arthur stepped back, shaking his head. “Of course you’re not being banished,” he said. “And of course you’re still a knight of Camelot. If I insinuated otherwise, I apologise. I would not abandon a man as loyal as you over one mistake, however foolish it may have been.”

The words took a moment to settle in, settling slowly in Gwaine’s chest and easing the jagged ache there, even as he felt an expression of disbelief bloom across his face.

“You should never have let Guinevere out of your sight,” Arthur went on more sternly. “We both know that. But I also know from her retelling how fiercely you defended her when you returned to her side, and you brought her back to me safe, if not quite sound. She will be left with nothing but a scar and a tale to tell, and so what is done is done. I think your guilt is punishment enough.” He smiled then, so benevolently that it made Gwaine’s lip tremble. “Yes, that means I forgive you, as I hope you’ve forgiven me for treating you so harshly.”

Struck mute again, Gwaine could only nod, a great tremor running through him, though he managed not to let the tears fall this time.

He was helped by Arthur’s mouth twisting into a sly smirk as he added more playfully, “Although I must say, the idea of you playing servant did sound rather enticing.” He tapped his chin. “I already know you have a way of polishing boots, but I should have liked to see you polish my silver as well, and make my bed. Empty the chamberpot, too, perhaps? Merlin sure could use all the help he can get, clumsy and scatter-brained as he tends to be.”

Despite himself, Gwaine let out a laugh, wet and thick though it was.

Arthur grinned and punched his shoulder. “Come on now,” he added, “Guinevere wants to see you, and you know the gods have no fury like a woman denied—especially if she isn’t allowed to get out of bed for another two days.”

Chuckling weakly, Gwaine ran a hand across his face, then followed his King from the throne room, all the way up to the royal chambers. There, they found the Queen in the royal bed, the brocade blankets covered in letters and missives, with Merlin sitting on a stool by her side and taking notes as she dictated her thoughts to him.

Naturally, Gwen had gone right back to working.

Gwaine resisted the urge to kneel by the bed, coming to sit on the edge of it instead and accepting her kiss on his cheek like the blessing it was, hardly though he deserved it, just as he did not deserve her fussing over his swollen face and chiding Arthur for it, nor Merlin’s warm smile and fond gaze.

But he was done wallowing in self-pity. All he could do now was to learn from his mistake, reassured that he was still accepted here, still loved and cherished, and sworn to a kingdom that would not abandon him, even if he sometimes failed to live up to its ideals.

For it was his home.