Gwen knows Lancelot still has some feelings for her. It would be easy to ask him to protect Arthur, she knows he would do anything for her. It would also be cruel, and Gwen, for all her love and worry for Arthur, doesn't have the heart for this.
She waits with the knights, quietly talking with Elyan. She waits for the only person she knows she can trust with such a grave task.
"Please," she prays to Merlin. "Keep him safe. Return him to me alive."
Merlin wouldn't do it for her. She knows he loves Arthur, just as dearly as she does, if not more. Merlin saw Arthur safe through many ills and threats over the years. Merlin would lay down his life to protect their prince. She doesn't even need to ask him. She does it to warn him, to open his eyes to Arthur's grave burden, to him looking back and taking in Camelot as though he's seeing it for the last time.
"Of course," Merlin responds quietly, solemnly. And of course Merlin has already seen it, for he is always with Arthur and knows him better than he does himself. "Take care of him," he pleads in return, and Gwen promises the same.
~~~
Lancelot is used to pair off with Merlin. All their adventures in the last year always felt like that to him — adventures. He's a safe harbor for Merlin; and Merlin keeps him, all of them, safe.
Other knights might feel unsure when walking into danger, might hesitate at the low odds in an ambush, might be wary at the sight of magical foes. But Lancelot knows that Merlin always keeps them safe, always has a few more tricks up his sleeve, and Lancelot cherishes, chases the moments after the danger has passed and they would be eyeing each other with mischief in their eyes at Arthur's obliviousness to the source of their salvation.
Standing by Merlin's side feels like standing at the eye of a storm. All-seeing, all-knowing, safe amidst the force of nature.
Merlin's voice still sounds lost and fractured in Lancelot's mind, for magic is a part of Merlin, and that part was lost when the Dorocha came.
For the first time, Lancelot hears Merlin afraid.
When they returned from Howden, Lancelot didn't leave Merlin's side. He followed the warlock to the privacy of his chambers, and slowly they coaxed Merlin's magic back into the world, the butterfly wings so fragile that Lancelot had to stay, had to reassure him some more, voice going softer with each conjured sun in Merlin's eyes.
And he might be angry, he has the right to feel angry on behalf of Merlin, because Merlin never is (never for himself). He's angry at the kingdom which denies Merlin his magic, and now at the whole world joining in the denial. Magic is a part of Merlin, and for all that Lancelot loves him for his kind heart, he can't look away from the splinters running through Merlin's very being, splinters where magic rests unsure. Lancelot can't think of Merlin without his magic, without the sunrise in his eyes, and he easily volunteers to accompany Arthur to close the Veil. Anything to bring his sun back.
Of course, Merlin follows them, he always does. And if before Lancelot hasn't complained about Arthur taking his unarmed and unarmored servant on every quest, now Lancelot feels an urge to scream, to shake Arthur by his shoulders and ask him why, why he's always so careless with a man he refuses to knight and to call a friend.
Now Lancelot shadows Merlin's every stubborn step, and watches out for danger in every whisper of their road, and doesn't see the promised end in Melin's determined words and wistful eyes.
Lancelot heard some rustling at the edge of the road and quickly got off his horse, turning a vigilant gaze to the forest, squinting through the darkness of the late evening.
He was returning from escorting a villager back to their home after they had shared with the court their fear of the strange happenings in the area: missing livestock and scratched trees. The lords dismissed their concerns as the work of wild creatures, and Arthur couldn't spare more than a measly patrol in a week's time: most of the men were still pulled to the border of Cenred's kingdom.
It seemed he chanced upon this wild creature on his lonesome, and he only barely managed to spare a thankful thought that this happened on his way back and his charge was safe, before a bright firebolt flew out of the darkness.
Reflexes and relentless training with Merlin made him drop to the ground, the unnatural flame flying overhead, hitting grass farther afield, instantly igniting the dry patch. Rhiannon reared up, and, whining, took off into the night. Lancelot didn't have time to look for her, his eyes tracking the barest movement behind the trees instead.
Springing up into motion, he surged for the edge of the woods. He kept his movements odd and seemingly erratic for the sorcerer to have a harder time focusing on his figure while he closed the distance on them. His red cloak, flying every which way behind him, served as a distraction and caught the brunt of the next attack. Lancelot didn't give them time for another, leaping into the fight.
His blade bit into a hastily raised staff — more a sturdy stick than a weapon. They traded blows for a while, Lancelot keeping his attacks fast and aggressive so as not to let his opponent a moment of respite lest they use it for a spell. It was ironic, really, that Lancelot was better equipped and had more experience with fighting sorcerers than most of Camelot's knights. Lancelot didn't aim for a kill (they'd be already dead if he did), at least not before figuring out their intentions.
"Why attack me?" he dodged the heavy stick and kicked at the foot to trip them.
"Why wouldn't I? A lone knight of Camelot," the sorcerer leaped back, "easy pickings."
"I'm not easy," he lunged forward and missed, misjudging the distance in the dark.
Mistakes were always dire in combat, but even more so against sorcerers. As he pulled out of a failed maneuver, he heard a whispered word, and the sudden light almost blinded him.
"No," the sorcerer agreed a few steps away. "You were not."
That's when he remembered that Merlin never taught him to win against a sorcerer — he taught him to survive. Magic, he'd told, could only be fought with magic. Lancelot missed his chance to kill, or to escape, and now stared unflinchingly in the face of his stupid death.
His death was young, only a lad, and the fire in his palm lit up his cold eyes.
"It's nigh time you Camelot knights taste your own medicine," he spat, and Lancelot could not fault him. For all his appearance and actions, he was a loyal red knight of Camelot, a fighter against magic, even if the only thing he longed for in that moment was to return home and feel its warm touch upon his lips, its heat upon his skin. He might not get a chance.
Just as Lancelot was about to say something in his defense, the sorcerer squinted at him, his eyes roving over his body, stopping at his neck where a ruined cloak clasp resided. The sorcerer's face turned ashen, and the fire extinguished just as quickly as it began.
"You are marked by Emrys," his voice quivered under the rustle of a careful retreating step. "I seek no quarry with Him. I must… away."
Then he turned and ran.
Lancelot stared, confused, at the fleeing figure, until he couldn't hear the sound. The forest stood dark and silent around him, providing no further explanation for a stay of execution. Huffing, he turned back to the road. He had a horse to find.
~~~
"And he ran, just like that?" Merlin's smile was soft against his neck, tickling at his stubble.
"Faster than the wind, he was," Lancelot murmured, and his heart fluttered in rhythm to the quiet laughter.
"Think I should mark Arthur as well?" Merlin teased the old hickey with just a tip of his tongue. "If it's so effective against enemies. It'll shorten the time I spend hovering over his neck," another touch of his lips, feather-light, "to better hover over yours."
Lancelot didn't want to think of Arthur in their bed. In these short, languid moments they managed to steal between Merlin's destiny and Lancelot's duty, Merlin was solely his, as Lancelot was Merlin's, proved by the marks littering their skin.
Lancelot slid his hand to the back of Merlin's head, fingers threading through the dark hair before pressing him closer against his neck. Hot breath met skin, a careful, teasing caress of teeth testing its nonexistent boundary: Lancelot would let Merlin into his flesh if he could, into his blood, to better feel him, magic's song lighting fire in his veins.
When Merlin bit into him, drawing another mark, Lancelot breathed out a low moan, his hips bucking as his fingers tightened in the soft hair, tugging gently at the roots. Merlin hummed against his neck, and the vibration rippled through Lancelot, warmth pooling beneath the skin.
Through his haze, he scrambled for the last of his words before they too got stolen by the rush of his heart and the mischievous eyes glinting up at him.
"You'll just have to work harder to protect him," he proclaimed, breathlessly. "As they say, hard work breeds harder, uh—" he shut his eyes against a wave of pleasure hitting him when Merlin's magic hands sneaked down. The words were truly lost now.
"I'll show you harder…"
~~~
The red of his cheeks must have certainly matched the red of his heavily bitten throat; and he could hear the knights' wolf whistles a mile away in the morning; and he had to decline Arthur's offer of Merlin's neckerchiefs at least three times that day, as Lancelot followed him to a private meeting as his bodyguard.
It was all worth it, he thought, for a horrified look on the assassin's face, as she begged off the delegation and left Camelot in a hurry only a moment later.
"It's been so peaceful lately," Arthur mused on the way back to his quarters. "No threats to Camelot, no attacks... Even Merlin hasn't felt the need to spend days at the tavern in a long while," he finished as they entered his sparkling clean chamber.
The prince turned to dismiss him, his gaze undoubtedly getting caught on the marks on his neck.
"You must be a good influence on him, Sir Lancelot. Keep up the good work."
"Will do, Sire," he bowed before leaving.
When evening brought Merlin back into his arms, smiling, pleased at his success, keep it up he did: baring his neck for a few more marks, his love burning into his skin, powerful enough to protect the whole of Camelot.
I wanted to draw some medieval clothes for Merlin and try new rendering tricks. The last sketch took 15 minutes lol but I like this little sorcerer hat and twisted magic staff
Sudden, sinking dread fills Lancelot as he feels his necklace tearing like a heartstring.
The necklace was one of a pair. The others didn't question it, as they didn't question Gwaine's attachment to his own amulet (Merlin hid a knowing look, but Lancelot saw that one) and didn't question Arthur's own on-and-off relationship with his red one. If anyone noticed the same necklace on Merlin in the rare moments it wasn't hidden by his neckerchief, Lancelot didn’t mind the wagging eyebrows and knowing smirks sent his way, playing into them with an honest blush rising to his cheeks. They knew nothing.
It was one of a pair, the tiniest bit of magic Merlin had allowed into the open: if one were torn, the other would break too.
Merlin gave it to him a few months back, when Lancelot was about to venture on a border patrol where the warlock couldn't follow him. Lancelot let Merlin tie the string around his neck, then helped him with his own. He gave his word to tear it off if he were ever in danger, to let Merlin find him with the magic of the land. He never took it off, treasuring the gift, feeling safe and cared for with the amulet close to his heart.
It was always more for Lancelot's sake than for Merlin's: Merlin had once told him that he had his own way of escaping mortal peril, and Lancelot let these words calm him, even if his friend skirted around the details. (There was a lot he hid in the guilty cast of his eyes, and Lancelot saw that. He didn't press.)
Still, they've never had to use it. Until it tears on Lancelot's neck just a day away from Camelot.
Lancelot slows down his horse, chilled hands tearing unconsciously into the reins, as his brothers-in-arms gallop farther away. It was just Arthur and all of his Round Table knights, on some important route that couldn't be postponed, the details of it leaving Lancelot's head with the dread's arrival. They left Camelot behind them, and Merlin had to stay with Gaius to help with a disease outbreak.
They've left Merlin behind, and Lancelot's necklace falls off his neck, barely caught by his shivering hand.
A few paces ahead, the knights slow down, looking back at him. Arthur's mouth is forming words as he trots closer, but Lancelot can't hear him for the loud, panicked heartbeat in his ears, for the words breaking out of him with an urgency.
"I need to get back to Camelot."
~~~
He couldn't articulate what pulled him back, couldn't betray Merlin, neither in words nor in actions. He blamed a bad feeling instead, completely honest, and the knights had to believe him, for how pale he'd gotten, how he'd tried to walk off on his own when their horses whined in surrender with the night's arrival.
Someone's arms pushed him down, someone's words made him stay, as they haphazardly set up camp. He was left gripping the torn necklace in his hands while he stared into the dark woods.
He would never make it to Camelot in time on his own two legs, no matter that his heart urged him to try. The horses couldn't go through the night either, not seeing where they were stepping — it was bound to end in disaster, what with their field medic missing.
He grips the necklace tighter, trying to feel any bit of warmth in it, to hear magic's quiet heartbeat, but there is nothing: Lancelot isn't gifted with the sense; Merlin pressed too little magic in it, just enough to link, to break, afraid for both of them if it were caught. Lancelot holds onto a memory instead: just yesterday, Merlin was hale and happy, if a bit uneasy to be separated from Arthur; he was there to see them off on their journey and light-heartedly asked Lancelot for something from the local fair.
He has to hold onto hope, and once the horses rest and dawn breaks, they will run back to Camelot.
Merlin will have to wait just one night.
~~~
When the knights gallop into the courtyard, the fire's smoke rising high above the citadel, they are too late.
They say that Merlin went up in flames brighter than the sun, the wind screaming as it picked them up and flared them stronger, higher; that the sparks touched the sky itself.
When the fire let up, nothing remained.
Smoke remains in the air. It crawls through the town, choking everyone to tears at the memories of the clumsy servant's smile and his kind heart. The smell is nauseating, and there's no escape from it.
Gaius can't tell them anything, dead to the world in eyes, if not yet in body. Lancelot stays with him, and when they both fall apart in Merlin's room, for all his strength, Percival barely manages to hold them.
Gwen is let out of the quarters she's been restrained in, kicking and screaming at Arthur's chest, as he torches the guards at her door with a look. Choking on her tears, on smoke, she tells them what she's seen.
~~~
Arthur stares incomprehensibly at his uncle, barely hearing the wild tale he spouts. It was a good thing he'd left Gwaine with Gwen and Elyan, as Gwaine would have already run Agravaine through, and Arthur couldn't have it.
"I understand what you must feel, Arthur. The boy sneaked into your side, into your heart. This betrayal is truly unforgivable."
"I was a fool," Arthur agrees, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "To let a snake into the heart of the kingdom."
"I'm glad you saw the sense, then." Agravaine smiles at his nephew in a show of care — and how was Arthur this blind to the coldness in his eyes?
"Yes, I see it perfectly clear."
"I wanted to spare you the hurt of seeing to his death, the blood on your hands." Agravaine creeps closer in lieu of placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, and Arthur takes a shaking step back from the searing heat of it — remnants of holding the damning torch still clinging to the fingers.
"You had no right," he croaks.
But he did, Arthur knows. He himself left the kingdom in Agravaine's hands, pressing the royal seal into his fingers. He might as well have passed him the torch to light Merlin's fire.
"No right," he repeats obstinately.
Agravaine opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur has heard enough.
"You afforded him no trial," Arthur draws a sword with a hiss. "And I will not give you one either."
Leon stands guard outside the chamber, just as he did few years ago when Arthur had gone in to kill his father. This time, there's no Merlin to talk him down, to spare him the blood of his family on his hands. There's no Merlin to comfort him, as only he could, after the deed is done. Leon squeezes Arthur's shoulder in support and leaves to handle the rest — the news, the funerals, the investigations — things Arthur should not worry about right now, lost and unmoored as he is in the middle of the empty hall.
~~~
The news of Agravaine's demise spread quickly, the Citadel standing deathly silent in the face of the second murder of the day.
Gwaine paces his quarters, tearing at the clasp of his Pendragon cloak with shaking fingers. He throws it to the floor, and an amulet, getting stuck with it, falls to his feet. He stares bitterly at the memento. It was the only thing he had of his late father, and it should have been a reminder to him of the nobles' tyranny and of how loyalty to the Crown was rewarded. A reminder he did not heed.
In his own chambers, Lancelot's things lay strewn about — caught between urges to pack, to leave this place, and to crawl back to Merlin's room, to stay among his belongings. The necklace lies heavy in his hands, and he can't tie it around his neck to sit close to his heart. Each attempt to do so ended with it breaking, tearing, making Lancelot relive his loss again and again. He was supposed to protect him; he should have foreseen it: how sudden and terrible his home could turn to ashes. First his village, then Merlin. It all burned.
~~~
There are druids flocking to the city gates. Heedless of the danger, of smoke still in the air, they march into Camelot, with nothing left to lose. They come to bid their farewells, to pray.
They are let in.
Even if it turned out that Arthur never truly knew Merlin, never knew of his magic, Arthur believes that he still knew his heart, kind and caring, loyal to a fault. Arthur couldn't question him, couldn't pull the rest of his secrets out into the open, to hold and admire. But he knew his heart, and if Merlin had magic, then Merlin— then Magic couldn't be evil.
As the druids gather in the courtyard under his window to hold their vigil, Arthur can't look at them — the heavy guilt pulling him down to sit at the table.
He looks at his empty chambers. Merlin's body was eaten by the fire, his sins, if any, cleansed by the flame. Yet his spirit remained here: in scrawled notes on his reports, in carelessly made, untouched bed, in Arthur forever waiting for the door to open and let in Merlin's senseless chatter.
Picking at his mother's necklace, he lets hers and Merlin's spirit guide his hand over the parchment. As dawn breaks over the land, he welcomes the druids and magic's return to Camelot. Too late for his heart, but hopefully not too late for his people.
~~~
Everything is too bright, too alive. His skin flays with the touch of cool air, his lungs too filled with smoke to breathe, and so he doesn't, heart pumping fire through his veins, beating with magic's force alone.
The altar he wakes on is searing hot, and the burn is familiar.
Iseldir's face is the first one he sees.
"Emrys," the druid whispers, reverent, as he helps him to stand. The bright light of his eyes must blind the man, and he averts his gaze east, where Emrys knows his destiny haunts the halls of Camelot.
every time i rewatch merlin it always bothers me so much that lancelot is such an under-utilized character. as a viewer, there’s so many scenes where the stakes would be so much more interesting if there was someone else who knew what merlin was actually doing and knows he’s always saving arthur’s life when nobody else has a clue
sure there’s gaius to help him figure things out but it’s different because lancelot is in the thick of it all with him. we deserved more story lines like 3x13 where lancelot knows merlin is scheming so he helps merlin out where he can
happy disability pride month everyone. here are my completely subjective, aggressively self-indulgent merlin character sexuality + disability headcanons
merlin — bisexual. ADHD.
i have never seen a more ADHD-coded protagonist in my life. forgetful in the most inconvenient ways, constantly distracted, blurts things out before thinking, cannot stop fidgeting, hyperfocuses on magic to the point the rest of the world disappears, has absolutely no sense of self-preservation. he also definitely has chronic pain. this man gets thrown into walls every other episode, poisoned, chained up, knocked unconscious, hit with magical blasts, sleeps in forests, and somehow wakes up the next morning like "well. better go polish arthur's boots." no. his joints are held together by hope.
arthur — bisexual. dyslexic. chronic migraines.
look me in the eye and tell me this man enjoys reading. he learns through doing. he remembers conversations and demonstrations far better than written instructions. he'd absolutely mix letters around if he had to read long documents quickly and spent years hiding it because he's the crown prince.
also migraines. stress. bright sunlight. heavy armor. dehydration. endless council meetings with his father. i'm amazed he can see straight.
she works constantly. she's emotionally available for literally everyone. she's sewing, cleaning, comforting, organizing, solving problems, worrying about morgana, worrying about arthur, worrying about everyone. she deserves twelve consecutive naps.
the nightmares started before the magic. then the magic made them worse. then everyone started gaslighting her. girl has probably not had a proper REM cycle since birth.
morgause — lesbian. hypermobile.
i cannot explain this one scientifically. she simply moves like someone whose joints do whatever they want. graceful until suddenly she folds herself into impossible positions. also i think she's one of those people who's always bruised and has no clue where half of them came from.
gwaine — pansexual. chronic shoulder pain.
this is the one i feel strongest about.
he grew up fighting. sleeping on tavern benches. carrying swords everywhere. getting into fights every three business days. dislocating a shoulder? that's just tuesday. i fully believe he injured one shoulder years ago, never let it heal properly, and now it aches whenever it rains or whenever he overuses it—which is every single day because he's gwaine.
everyone notices except him.
"gwaine, you can't even lift your arm."
"course i can."
tries.
"...that's embarrassing."
he also absolutely shrugs with one shoulder because the other one hurts too much.
lancelot — bisexual. PTSD/C-PTSD with dissociative episodes after his resurrection. before he died, the trauma came from a lifetime of being told he was worth less because of his birth, from violence, loss, and constantly expecting the worst. sometimes everyone else's voices sound impossibly far away. he keeps functioning because that's what lancelot does, but there are moments where he feels like part of him never truly returned from the Isle of the Blessed.
percival — bisexual. partial hearing loss. man has been around enough swords clashing directly beside his ears to permanently lose some hearing. people have to repeat themselves. he says "what?" a lot. he pretends he heard the first time. gwaine was the first to learn sign.
elyan — demiromantic. PTSD and a chronic shoulder injury. people forget that before he came back to Camelot, he spent years traveling alone, fighting to survive, and later became a knight in a kingdom that was almost constantly at war. he doesn't talk about the things he's seen unless someone else asks first, and even then he keeps it vague. loud arguments make him instinctively scan for exits, he sleeps lightly his right shoulder never healed properly after one of those fights. some mornings it's just stiff, other days the pain shoots all the way down his arm and makes gripping a sword difficult
leon — gay. chronic knee pain. camelot's oldest employee. that armor weighs a ridiculous amount. he's absolutely making old man noises every time he stands up.
gaius — aroace. arthritis. the man deserves heated blankets and tea.
freya — lesbian. epilepsy. i like the idea that the curse and her epilepsy are completely separate things. people constantly conflate them because they see a seizure and assume it's magic, which means she's spent her entire life being feared instead of cared for.
elective mutism. after years of abuse and isolation, there are days where speaking simply feels impossible. she communicates just fine through gestures, expressions, and writing, and merlin learns to understand her without ever pressuring her to talk.
her and percival get each other so well.
geoffrey of monmouth — aroace. poor eyesight. arthritis. this man is approximately eight hundred years old. he absolutely owns at least four pairs of reading glasses. he has chronic wrist pain from writing all day and absolutely despises when someone interrupts his cataloguing because he'll lose his place. his ideal day is complete silence.
balinor — bisexual. deaf in one ear and walks with a permanent limp. he automatically turns his good ear toward whoever's speaking, misses conversations if there's too much background noise, and sometimes asks people to repeat themselves without a hint of embarrassment. his limp is more noticeable after long journeys or in cold weather, though he has an uncanny ability to hide how much pain he's actually in
kilgarrah — agender. they/them. they're a dragon. human gender is probably as meaningful to them as the phases of the moon are to a fish. also if you're over a thousand years old your joints are absolutely making noises when you stand up. i don't make the rules.
"Hang on. The knight you met, what, five years ago knew? But I didn't?"
"Gwaine..."
"Sir Perfect Hair gets the premium subscription while I'm on the free trial? I cannot BELIEVE I wasn't important enough for the magical reveal. I thought we had something special."
For @merlinmicrofic. Prompt "Starvation." Drabble. Merlin/Lancelot, Gen, No Warnings. AO3.
---
After the dust settled, Merlin kept waiting for it to rise again. For the dirt to be shaken by Lancelot’s horse galloping away.
Lancelot pulled a piece off an orange and offered it to him. The tips of their fingers brushed over the cold fruit. He needed this, he decided, forever.
“I’d like it if you stayed,” he said, instead of, I couldn’t bear to watch you leave again.
Instead of, I wish you knew how much I
“I will stay. For you.”
love you.
He took another piece off the orange and held it to Merlin’s lips. He bit.
The rain finds them in the worst circumstances possible. They're desperately pressed for time and can't get distracted by a search for shelter on their quest, even with evening fast upon them. The howling wind tears at their capes, yet they foolishly press on.
What was a light pattering quickly turns into a raging rainstorm. The wall of water grows so thick that they lose sight of Arthur at the head.
"We need to find shelter!" Elyan screams over the wind.
"How! I can't even see the trees!" Gwaine shouts back.
Leon urges his horse to go faster to reach Arthur, his figure blinking in the downpour. Then the lightning strikes, and the crushing sound comes too soon. The deafening roar of nature almost makes them miss a horse's panicked neighing, and Arthur's following scream, which is abruptly cut off.
The knights press forward, their own horses straining with the day's pace and whining underneath them. They stop at the sight of their fallen prince, laid painfully and unmoving in the wet mud, his horse hiding in the bushes a few paces away.
Leon dismounts to check up on Arthur, and Lancelot follows after him. As Leon feels for the pulse, Lancelot checks the back of his head like he had seen Gaius and Merlin do all too often. He finds no cracks under his hand, and when he pulls away, his palm is wet with cold rain and dirt instead of hot blood. Must be just a bruise.
A simple fall wouldn't crack this cabbage-head, Merlin would have told him.
Merlin is not here, Lancelot remembers with a pang in his chest. They're losing time. He looks out into the wilderness, the worry in him almost making him get up and leave the knights to look after Arthur, while he goes on with the search, despite the torrents from the sky, despite the darkness settling in. A more rational part in him wins out: he can't see farther than the nearest tree, he has no hope of finding a small rare flower.
Leon calls to him, and Lancelot returns his gaze from the forest.
"We can't go on," Leon repeats his previous thoughts. "We need to find shelter."
Between the two of them, they haul Arthur up, each holding an arm over their shoulders. They stumble through the woods, caught in darkness and the squelching give of the land, the rest of the knights leading the horses behind them. No one dares to admit out loud that they're led only by a fool's hope, and nothing short of a miracle would protect them from the force of nature.
"There!" Percival cries out, pointing into the forest.
Lancelot barely blinks the rainwater from his eyes when he sees it too.
A light. It appeared on the very border of his vision, flickering in the twisted darkness of the branches of a tree. It doesn't sway with the wind, nor does it drip beneath the rain. Its glow reaches only a little way, touching upon the slick bark and the shivering leaves before surrendering to the darkness, all the more blackened by their staring at the light. It floats patiently, beguiling them, akin to an angler fish from Gaius's myths books.
Unsure what to do, Lancelot grips Arthur's hand on his shoulder a little too hard, and the prince awakens with a groan and twists free from their hold.
"What happened? What were you staring at?" he grumbles when their attention falls back on him.
"The light," Leon points at the woods, where the light holds still.
Arthur squints his eyes at it, his face scrunching in pain before alighting with a disbelieving smile.
"I know it! Let's follow it!"
Ever the brave one, or foolhardy, as Merlin would call him, Arthur launches forward, skipping over the twisting roots and stumbling only a little until he reaches the light and giddily points at the ball. It flickers under his hand, and he retracts his fingers.
"Will you lead us to safety?" the prince asks of it.
The ball holds his gaze before it slowly floats away. Arthur follows after it with sure steps, and they have no choice but to follow after him wherever it leads — to the promised salvation, or to a sinister nest of the angler beasts.
"Are you sure about it, Arthur? A light appearing in the darkness when we most need it... It seems too good to be true." Leon finally voices their concern.
"I thought the same when I first encountered it, Sir Leon. I promise that it's a good light, and I trust it not to lead us into a trap."
Theirs is a strange procession striding through the forest. As the storm rages on their heads, they barely hold in the shivers, soaked to their bones. The lightning strikes spook the horses, and only Percival's strength and Lancelot's calm murmurs settle them enough to go on.
Arthur strides after the light, undeterred.
Cold and wet and now completely lost, they come to the mouth of a cave. The light sneaks into it, flying up to the ceiling, and they barge into its shelter.
Exhausted, they set up camp and get out of their soaked clothing, shivering under the slightly damp blankets as they eat through their soggy rations. There's no point in collecting wet wood for a fire, and they sit in the cold cave in the uneven light from the magic ball.
While everyone sneaks their looks at the light, with Arthur thoroughly mesmerised by it, Lancelot stares at the mouth of the cave. The unforgiving night stares back, showing no sign of a change in weather. They're stuck.
"I can't believe you actually ventured into this alone, Lancelot," Elyan observes him. "Good thing we've caught up to you."
"I had to hurry. If we don't return in time, Merlin will die."
The reminder falls heavily on everyone's shoulders. The light grows pale, and a gloomy mood descends upon them.
"He's a sturdy lad." Leon puts a reassuring hand on Lancelot's shoulder. "He followed Arthur on more quests than I can count, and they've always returned alive. He will pull through."
Lancelot nods, not so sure. It was one thing to combat the enemy forces with magic; it was quite another to wait in slumber as his body fought against itself.
"What's that thing?" Gwaine finally asks Arthur about his light.
"That's... the light." At their incredulous gazes, he searches for a better explanation. "I've encountered it once before, in the Caves of Balor. It led me out of the darkness."
"That's a dangerous place. I've heard tales of cockatrice and other nefarious beasts in those parts of the woods," Leon adds to the picture. "When was it?" Why have I not heard of it, and Why wasn't I with you go unasked.
"It was many years ago. I believe you were still on leave to manage your estate at the time. King Bayard came to Camelot to sign a peace treaty with us, and someone from his entourage was out to poison me. They almost managed it, if not for Merlin snatching my goblet away in front of the whole court!"
As Arthur tells the tale of Merlin succumbing to poison, trying for a light-hearted tone of an old adventure, dread settles into the knights' stomachs.
"So you're telling me," Gwaine interrupts him, his anger barely restrained, "that Merlin willingly drank poison for you before? And you had him drink it again to prove his point about Agravaine!"
"I... I didn't believe him."
"Yeah, we all saw that," Gwaine spits to the side and stands up to pace at the entrance of the cave.
Lancelot remembers it all too clearly. Merlin's loud declaration, as he stole Arthur's cup before he had a first sip of his toast; lord Agravaine egging him on to drink it as though Death's breath on his neck had ever stopped him before. He remembers freezing at his place at the table, time slowing to a crawl, as Merlin coughed through his drink, either wine or blood colouring his lips in horrible red, before he fell to the ground and time ran again.
Most of all, he remembers a frightening scream — his own, or Arthur's, he doesn't know, as he was too busy outrunning time itself, snatching the limp body from the hall to deliver it to the physician, leaving the others to deal with the aftermath.
"He will pull through." Leon reminds them again, and Arthur nods at him, his mind miles away and back in Camelot, trying to hear the memory of Merlin's shaky breaths over the howling wind beating at the cave, over the phantom feeling of the sword in his hand as he struck down the last of his family.
At Leon's urging and for the lack of anything better to do, Arthur finishes his story about the light that found him in the dark and led him away from the beasts. The tale restores a bit of his mood, and he looks pleased as his light ball descends from its perch at the ceiling to float uncertainly between them.
Merlin, realises Lancelot, unwittingly mouthing the name. If his magic somehow followed them here, then he must still be alive, still fighting for his life, with enough strength to spare to help in their plight as well. Relief floods him, seeping out through a bright smile and a giddy hand, fingers reaching towards Merlin's magic light.
Not to be outdone, Arthur holds out his own hand, beckoning the light to him. After a moment of hesitation, so do Percival and Gwaine.
Under their mesmerized gazes, the ball shines brighter, setting out to rival the moon, if not the sun. Its glow washes over the cave, its touch light and full of warmth where it caresses the open skin. It floats slowly through their arms, gifting each a sparkly touch; it twirls around Arthur's fingers until he smiles boyishly again, and at the end of its path, it nuzzles gently into Lancelot's hands where it stays, like a caught miniature star.
Lancelot hides his smile from the jealous eyes of his companions, fingers combing through the immaterial ball of moonlight, feeling for the magic's stuttering heartbeat. It stays with him through the night, chasing away the darkness of his nightmare.
When a pale morning comes, Percival and Elyan return from their exploration of the cave victorious: they have found the flower for Merlin's cure.
They pack their camp, the little ball of light speeding playfully between their legs, and when they turn to leave, it flickers reassuringly at the mouth of the cave, going no further. They bid it farewell. As other knights head in the direction of Camelot, Lancelot mouths See you later at the little star. It winks at him before disappearing, and the knight hurries home.
Commission for s0mmerspr0ssen, she asked for a Druid God!Merlin in a druid temple with cool jewerly, so I took my "Origins of Europe" book to search cool viking and ancient Europe jewerly, I found this amazing design in a crown so I used it for inspiration.
Thank you so much for commissioning me!
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What if, after the Poisoned Chalice incident, Merlin hears about Arthur's acceptance of his little magic light, of his belief that someone guarded him through it, and...
Whenever Merlin needs to magic them away from some danger, or to lead Arthur somewhere, he just sneakily summons the light and - poof - it has Arthur's complete trust!
Bandits? Magic light ball knocks them out. A strange ravine? Well, magic light ball did it. They're trapped somewhere? Don't worry, Arthur would tell his knights, a magic light ball will rescue us.
It goes for longer than it should, years and years of mishaps and miraculous rescues.
Until Arthur asks the light ball to heal his father and sees Merlin's eyes lighting up when the ball touches the wound.
Lancelot thought he did well when Merlin first revealed his seal of nobility.
The parchment was colorful, and the letters looked pretty, and he hastily averted his gaze to the apple in his hands, masking his confusion with an innocent question. Merlin hurried through an explanation, eager to rope him into lying his way into the knighthood.
He hadn't told Merlin of one problem; he didn't think it'd matter, as it never did for him. Now, having lied to Merlin by omission, he feels a twisted sort of boldness coming over him. He would do well with lying, as long as he went with other people's words and looked at them a certain way.
Not even a few days into their scheme, he feels the weight of his lie pulling him down, making him stumble on his way to the Lower Town.
The scrawled letters blur on the parchment. Merlin had asked him to run a simple errand, a little bit of shopping. He mentioned some things they needed, pushed the piece of paper and some coins in his palm, and hurried on his way after Arthur.
The letters tell him nothing.
He conjures up a memory instead, as clear as he can get, of the bustling corridor and the warmth of Merlin's hand on his, the hot breath near his ear. Hawthorne and… honey? He clings to these words.
In the evening, Merlin stares in confusion at the honey jar he'd given the remaining coin for. Heat creeps into Lancelot's cheeks. The crumpled piece of paper burns through his clothes.
"That's… thank you," Merlin sets it awkwardly aside. "They didn't have any honeysuckle?"
"Uh," he grasps at the offered straw, "no."
Lancelot casts his gaze down in guilt and watches through the eyelashes as Merlin's frown melts from his face.
Guilt eats at him through the night as they lie entangled in the narrow bed. In the few days they've known each other, Merlin has already given him more than he could ever hope for — the warmest smiles of his friendship, the homely comfort of his bed, the heated voice of his support, and the wings of his belief. He should fly; there's no way he can't, not with Merlin pushing him through the air. Still, the crushing weight of his lies threatens to pull him down, and Lancelot hides from that moment in Merlin's neck, desperate to keep his dream.
It all comes down the next morning. The day promises to be busy, with many wounded seeking shelter in Camelot, and Merlin hurries through taking stock of their inventory, another shopping list at his fingertips.
Merlin weaves the intricate letters so easily that Lancelot is left mesmerized — by the scratching sound of the quill in the peace of the early morning, by Merlin's low, sleepy murmur and the sure movements of the hand that he knows turns searing on his skin. Lancelot has no chance at picking the words through the haze of this moment, and he is lost.
He finds the damning words of a plea instead. "Merlin," he whispers dejectedly. "Could you read that for me?"
Merlin falters only for a moment before slowly reading through the list. Words, attached to voice instead of paper, stick in his mind, and he hurries with the errand, determined to outrun the influx of the physician's patients and Merlin's probable disappointment.
He feels his dream crumbling through his fingers.
The knights wouldn't want him. A noble knight would find no difficulty in taking the letters apart, nor in crafting their own. And who is Lancelot? For all that he has made swordcraft his life, apparently it doesn't count without a noble lineage in his veins and some pretty words in his hands.
And he can't depend on Merlin always being there, giving his help and his voice to the parchment. It is not sustainable, and Merlin has already done too much for him. It is all for naught.
They do not speak of it until the evening brings them back to the refuge of Merlin's room, and Merlin meets him with stacks of parchment and of books laid out on the rickety table.
As he takes a quill into his sword hand, he can't be sure what kept him from confessing to it in the beginning. He should have known it in his heart — the heat of Merlin's support, the wings of his belief.
They spend many nights pressed together in the candlelight, tracing the letters of his own and Merlin's name, slowly reading through the seal of nobility, and when it's done — Merlin opens a book of poetry.
As Merlin whispers the first passages of a poem, Lancelot finds the intricate words all the more beautiful and has to stifle the urge to follow them to the source, to taste them from rough hands and the soft lips.
The letters don't keep him a knight, in the end. But as he clutches his first letter from Merlin and reads it slowly in the uneven light of the campfire, he finds that they allowed him to keep a friend.
what actually KILLS me about mercelot i that both of them thought the "more (important) than anything" thing was about their respective loves for arthur and gwen. and they aren't exactly wrong! they DO love them but. buuuuuuuuuuuut. and this is when i lose it. they'd become SO IMPORTANT to each other in the past year, and were already so special to each other before that (lancelot knew everything about merlin and kept his secret and was his ride or die; merlin was the ONLY ONE who reached out to lancelot after everything) but the larger than life, idealistic feelings surrounding their relationships to arthur and gwen (respectively) eclipsed that, and it did that because for year they had each other. they were constantly together. you cannot miss what you have by your side. they were intimate in all the ways that matter. lancelot is SO IN SYNC with merlin: he's always the first to reach him when merlin is down. the level of awareness lancelot has of merlin's place in space... the implications of it. and merlin confides in lancelot, tells him everything: every thought, every doubt, every plan. he's soooo happy before the veil was teared down. he has a friend with whom he can be himself! a friend that supports him, doesn't constantly berate him for how he uses his magic (coughgaiuscough) and even encourages him to use it for menial tasks like dealing with a stain. lancelot is fiercely loyal to merlin and IT DOESNT MATTER that he has to lie to arthur's face because in truth, lets face it, his loyalty to arthur and camelot come second. his love for gwen lighted the way at the lowest point of his life, and he gave that up because he thought it was the right thing to to, and he lost her, and gwen kinda moved on, and lancelot was moving on, too. but both merlin and lancelot were hung up on the longing-- merlin, on wanting arthur to see him as he was, and lancelot, mourning what he'd lost with gwen. but all through that they were glued to each other, no one questioned lancelot following merlin everywhere because it was already a thing by the time of the darkest hour. it is the most simple and honest love, a kind of peace and comfort that goes unremarked until is lost. and they didn't know until it was too late.
