Elyan lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The covers are drawn up to his neck, fingers twisted in the sheets. His chambers are dark, the candle having burned out an hour before from the draught from the open window.

He has apologised to Arthur, sincerely and desperately, but he cannot help the events playing through his head. The terror of seeing the child, the mindlessness of needing to kill his king, his friend striking him down...

He doesn't remember much, except how he backed away in the armoury, only to end up back in his room, losing his grip on reality. But his face stung and he remembered Gwaine's fist...

Now he cannot sleep, mind haunted by the dark and his ears straining for the sound of dripping water. The shadows are dark, like jagged rocks. Did it move? Elyan sits up, clutching at the covers, watching the shadows.

The curtain blows in. Elyan screams.

The day after Gwaine takes to his bed, Elyan wakes up with a sore throat.

He thinks nothing of it, puts it down to the dregs of the wine, and goes about his day. Gwaine looks better, which is a good thing because Arthur has them running around like headless chickens. Training, Council, more training, and then, oh look, more training. Arthur's determined that the Mercians won't show them up and he's worried that Gwaine won't be well in time. Elyan brings Gwaine dinner, then catches an early night.

The next day, he has a sniffle and suspects he might have caught Gwaine's cold. But he barely has time to breathe, running straight from morning training to lead a patrol to the northern border to deal with a band of smugglers. It's a brief scuffle and they barely have a bruise between them when they ride back in time to catch Arthur's evening training.

Exhausted, Elyan falls into bed with a groan, his muscles aching and his head pounding.

Dawn comes and Elyan feels like he's been flattened by masonry. He shifts weakly against the pillow, his head like lead, as he coughs against the pain in his chest.

Elyan has 'flu.

Returned from rescuing a village from wyverns and watersprites, bruised and soaked through, the Knights of Camelot are all alive. And that counts for something.

So, even though it's gone midnight, Arthur has rolled out the ale and they're enjoying the fires of the great hall and the cushions and throws laid out on the stone floors.

Elyan swirls his goblet and drains the contents. Leon and Percival are involved in some sort of good-natured sparring session, and he takes a second to admire the figures of both men - particularly Percival's arms.

Arthur reclines at the head of their gathering. Merlin started the evening beside him, but has slid down to rest against his king's shoulder, snoring softly. Arthur doesn't look in a great hurry to move him.

And there's Gwaine, consumed with wine and watching the others, and Elyan permits himself a smile. Gwaine is gorgeous as ever and works hard to maintain his physique. And Elyan would know. They've been falling into bed together every other week and Elyan can't deny that Gwaine is an excellent lover. Though perhaps a little too practised...

Suddenly, a flash of light bursts through the hall. The ceiling seems to split in two and knights leap to their feet, swords in hand, Merlin throwing himself ridiculously in front of Arthur.

And Lancelot falls from the sky.