Mostly because dead people don't talk back

1: Aberrantly

Very often and sometimes a bit too many times for his taste, Gwaine found himself in very unique situations when near Merlin.

The first one, everyone knew: the bar fight. It wasn't an unusual occasion to be in a bar fight with Gwaine. Nor to wake up in a stranger's bed. No. It became much more surprising to befriend Merlin, who cared for him and hadn't gotten sick of his presence— even when overloading the bar tab— within the time he stayed. And that very same friend helped Gwaine believe something that went against the grain of his beliefs: sometimes, in rare cases, nobles are noble.

Truly, if Gwaine could choose to be in debt to any one person, that person would be, without a doubt, Merlin. He does owe him, in fact, for snatching his dumb butt out of the pub rather than leaving, saying "I don't know Gwaine," and never speaking with him again.

Would've been easier— couldn't it? —for anyone other than Merlin to do.

The second time a remarkable situation appeared, only three people knew of it. [ It's also no one's business if Gwaine added it to his list of adventures to tell as no one believed the tales of a drunk man. ] The quest of the perilous lands. Not only had a dwarf called him strength [ not significant if he'd put two and two together to get Merlin as "Magic" ] but his sword was turned into flowers, he and Merlin dealt with pheasants— they absolutely were pheasants, and saved a royal prat's hind from wyverns.

Additionally, the event of the slave trader, Jarl. Merlin had volunteered to fight the champion, [ and, thinking back, he could've at least warned them that it was him ] "fought" Arthur instead, got saved by a fortunate fire, and ended up fighting an immortal army. Fun times.

Lastly? Well, at the moment, it seemed quite a bit unusual to watch that very manservant drag dead bodies into a hole so casually.

Not that he judged, everyone has a hobby. Gwaine drinks and Merlin assassinated people. No biggie.

Backtracking his memory— as one who was prone to drinking til dawn usually does, Gwaine found no reason for the day to come as it did.

It started with a regular morning. He trained with the other knights, tried to make ladies swoon, and drank while telling his horribly exaggerated stories. It changed considerably after following a duo from the Rising Sun he'd heard conspiring against the king.

[ To-do list: once again, save a royal prat's behind. ]

Shadows marked soon after sunset, and his boots thumped against the cobbled road.

The woods wavered in his sight, the distance between him and the hooded figures increasing. The inconsiderate trees were spinning, so it hadn't been his fault he'd lost them— but not their trail. He'd followed it in a slightly more sobered stupor, stopped once or twice to lean on a tree, and ended at the edge of a worn-down hut after spotting the light of a campfire. Listening to them and glancing at the flickering light on the trees above, he stayed still to think of how to attack.

The shadow of a warlock, a very familiar man, sprung out of the empty. Gwaine nearly pushed out a "bloody 'ell" but bit his lip to shut himself up.

The smaller and more surprised conspirator halted, stunned, and therefore watched the attacker— Merlin in all his glory— snap his partner's neck. "NO!"

If the knight had attacked mere seconds before he planned, then Merlin would have known of his presence.

Gwaine couldn't move.

Barely catching Merlin's next movements over the fact that Gwaine was still processing the ease of which he'd snapped a full-grown man's neck, the servant dodged an attack of a knife. Knocked to the ground and held in a lock, Merlin stabbed the man with his own knife. Blood gushed out from the wound and began gurgling audibly in his throat.

Merlin looked aggravated, and not at the way the dying was still not dead, but he'd glared at the small spattering of blood on the neckerchief resting on his collar. He pushed the man off of him and wiped off his clothes of brush.

Gwaine couldn't move.

Why— how could someone be so used to killing that the death only inconvenienced them if it dirtied their clothes?

At that time carried out the last step before this event caught up with itself. Merlin dug a hole.

Gwaine watched the nonchalant, the unnervingly bored face, and the utter absence of difficulty his friend had in digging a grave.

It would be cool to have this as a secret between them— a knight and an assassin: best buds for life. Who knew?

Yep. He'd had too much to drink that night, but Gwaine still couldn't move.

His feet were planted into the lichen and moss on the rocks he knelt upon. The smell of blood and dirt smothered his senses, and Gwaine couldn't get up the energy to remove himself from this situation.

Merlin rifled through the clothes of the dead, tossing valuables back where his victims were and placing items carrying information of import into his own pockets.

It told largely that Merlin didn't care to own jewels, wealth, but if these people were really against the king, against Arthur— hell. Merlin looked a hell of a lot like the king's personal spymaster or assassin.

Gwaine couldn't take it personally. His best friend had hidden a part of himself for reasons. But, as a knight and a friend of Arthur, shouldn't he have had a feeling or some knowledge from the king that Merlin was who he now seemed to be?

That is if the king knew who exactly served him each day at all.

Arthur didn't know his own manservant killed and protected him from danger, perhaps every day? No. He... didn't.

The servant carried on, dragging the first body to its resting place. He tripped, pulled the body into the hole, and fell in after him.

Ah. There it is, that's Merlin alright.

He could move. This was still the same Merlin.

Rolling his eyes, Gwaine found he had stayed too long in the shadows. He thudded forward. He closed in on the grave, leaned down, and held out his hand into the hole. "Need a hand, mate?"

Merlin looked caught between a rock and a ...body. "Ehr— ye- yes."

Pulling himself up with Gwaine's help, he brushed himself off again. After silently carrying the other body onto the first, the duo continued burying the dead.

"So," he leaned down and watched the piling of soil.

Merlin briefly stopped, face pulled into one of woe and unease. Carrying on, he knew to expect questions of what exactly was happening here.

"Do you do this, this fighting and protecting his royal highness, very often?" And as Gwaine does, he shall be. Very casually using small talk to guide his way.

Merlin nodded, pushed more dirt into the grave, and wetted his lips. "You have no idea."

"Indeed. Seems like a daily chore added to your list. Should really go to the tavern then." He patted the level ground where it's inevitable to bloom from rot and stood to look up at the darkness above. "I'll buy."

"With what money?"

The knight just foraged ahead, looked back at the servant, and raised eyebrows in playful implications.

The raven laughed, and knew Gwaine really was a rarely found friend, and now, possibly an accomplice.