clea2011

Hiraeth

Sometimes, after sunset, Gwaine thought about it. Those were the bad days, the ones when he'd not travelled far enough to find a convenient tavern to lose himself in for the night, ones where his wineskins had run dry.

He thought of a time when he'd slept on clean sheets, had servants helping him to a soft bed, of the scent of his mother as she leaned over to kiss him goodnight. And of his father, standing there in the doorway, smiling and charming as always.

He must have been very young.

He needed to find a tavern and forget.