"What happened there?" Arthur whispered in the disquiet of the forest, kneeling beside his servant, who curled up in sleep in the corner of their camp.
Lancelot didn't have an answer for him. He didn't remember. His head felt hollow, scraped from the inside out, as disjointed thoughts echoed in there with a hissing sound. All he knew was that their last adventure left Merlin shivering in his bedroll, hugging himself with scraped arms in a last bid for comfort, as a single silent tear traveled across his cheek.
Lancelot reached out to swipe at it with a gentle hand and, while tugging Merlin's neckerchief to better hide the Fomorroh's scar from Arthur's eyes, revealed something else entirely.
All breath had left him as he stared at Merlin's heavily bruised throat. Cold horror ran through his veins, as hot rage bloomed in his heart at the monster who dared to hurt, to taint Merlin like this, to lay their hands on him as though they could stifle the sun and not be burnt for it.
He put his shaking fingers above the ugly bruises, and they were the perfect shape.
Merlin whimpered in his sleep and inched away from him.
Lancelot's village was slaughtered in winter after a poor harvest. The raiders were hungry and cold themselves, and they filled their bellies with blood and warmed their hands with money. There were no survivors, except for him.
Lancelot took care of the bodies, his eyes cold and dead, just like winter. He ate the last of the food and he dug the graves, the shovel hitting the frozen ground with mindless precision.
Lancelot survived because he hid, and because he killed the one who found his hiding place. Later, he cleaned the sword with snow. Later, he left his empty home, where blood still bloomed on the iced ground. Later, he forgot the road back home because home didn't exist anymore.
He shivers in winter now.
Still, he cleans Merlin's bloody hands with snow, the gold in his eyes slowly seeping back into the icy blue.
Merlin survives because he hides and because he kills the ones who find his hiding place.
Later, Lancelot will dig a grave for the body. Later, he will follow Merlin back to Camelot. Later, he will touch Merlin's hands with a prayer on his lips that he would never forget his way back Home.
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.
"I can't believe it!" Arthur exclaimed in the resulting quiet. "You've known him for what — a day, two?" he pointed accusingly at Lancelot.
The knight ducked his head and feigned eating. It was in vain; they could still see his flaming red ears.
"What can I say," Merlin was unapologetic. He stoked the fire of their camp, his expression perfectly composed except for the corners of his mouth, which tried to run off into a smirk. "One look at Lancelot's doe eyes, and I vowed to move heaven and earth for him. A little forgery was nothing."
"This! You can't just— do capital crimes for people you hardly know!"
"But it's alright for the person I do? Noted."
Gwaine guffawed in the midst of drinking and spilled his wine everywhere. "If I had a chance to do Lancelot, I'd probably break a law too."
Lancelot choked on his stew. Merlin's smirk finally broke free into a delighted laugh.
"Gwaine!" Arthur barked at him, exasperated, before turning back to Merlin. "What I mean is that you can't risk a chopping block just because—" he threw his hand in the direction of still recovering Lancelot, "a pretty face looks at you!"
Lancelot caught Merlin's gaze, and there was something strange and fond in his eyes. Merlin's laughter died down as he had a sinking realization that he wasn't the only guilty party. After all, Lancelot had committed to harboring a sorcerer that fateful day when they had killed the griffin. Merlin wouldn't have thought Lancelot did it only because "a pretty face looked at him", but... It fit, didn't it?
Lancelot looked at him, and then he opened his mouth.
"If I may, Sire," Lancelot called for everyone's attention. "I am also guilty of the same crime."
Merlin gaped at him. Lancelot's face was solemn, his posture properly downcast. Either he spoke the truth, or he spectacularly had them on. In Merlin's honest opinion, he was this good with theatrics only when he was doing it for a lark, and usually lost all his skill when they had to deceive someone, or explain away a sudden miracle; his only saving grace being his wonderful doe eyes.
Lancelot's soft voice struck a cord in everyone's heart. He looked at them with earnest doe eyes. They had no chance.
"You accuse Merlin of forgery for a stranger, but it was my decision to deceive you about my origin. I shared my dream of becoming a knight with him, and when he returned with a seal... I was indeed a stranger to him, but he chose to believe in me. He looked at me and saw someone worthy of honor, worthy of being a knight of Camelot. He spoke to my heart, and I found myself... enchanted. I agreed, perhaps too easily, in the face of that belief, but I hoped— wanted to live up to it. I still do."
By the end of his speech, Lancelot adorned a pretty blush, the heat of his words spreading onto his cheeks. The corners of his mouth were hiding a shy smile, and his eyes shined beautifully with the same hope from years past.
He looked at his audience. The audience was silent.
Arthur was the first to avert his gaze, the light of the campfire gracing his cheeks with reddish warmth. "I suppose we can make an exception for Lancelot," he mumbled to the side.
"We should have sent him to Nemeth, Sire," whispered Leon.
"They would have eaten him alive. We can't send him anywhere," heatedly disputed the prince.
"I am never looking into Lancelot's eyes when he's trying to persuade me. Never," Elyan whispered to Gwaine. Gwaine hummed noncommittally in response, still caught in a daze.
As the knights slowly came to their senses, Percival was the only one not surprised. After all, a year ago, when all seemed lost, when the immortal army terrorized the land, he agreed to follow that doe-eyed stranger into Camelot to save his dear bird-friend.
He exchanged an understanding glance with Merlin. Mischief hid amidst the fire's golden sparks in his eyes, and they shared a wide smile at their friend's revealed talent.
Lancelot could only stare in confusion at his brothers-in-arms. Once again, their attention was caught by something irrelevant, and they didn't recognize Merlin's obvious power over him, over all of them. Merlin was much more than a pretty face — he was inspiring words; he was a beautiful, bleeding heart; he was belief, and he was bravery. Lancelot saw no treason in following him and harboring his secrets, even if it often meant claiming his deeds and distracting others with his presence.
Everyone's attention was once again on him instead of on Merlin, and Lancelot huffed at seeing Merlin's pleased, mischievous smile.
It was alright. He will hide Merlin behind himself for as long as he has need of him. As it appeared, this group was particularly vulnerable to his doe eyes.
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.
"Sometimes I dream of leaving Camelot," Arthur spoke into the quiet of the forest.
It was quiet except for their horses' trotting steps, not too quiet to alert the paranoid knights, but enough for everyone to hear about his silly dream. It was apparent that Arthur intended to trust it only to Merlin's ears, but Merlin blundered through it and answered much louder, for everyone to hear and to join in the jest.
"Really?" he drawled out, skeptical. "And where would you go?"
"I don't know," Arthur grumbled. He felt other knights' stares at his back. They trusted Merlin to have the first go at him with the jokes and kept quiet, for now. He pressed on, intent on finishing his carefree thought. "Somewhere where nobody knew who I was. I'd get some land and become a farmer…"
In the corner of his eyes, Arthur could see the knights sharing incredulous looks. Merlin downright scoffed. "You? Toiling in the fields all day? Now that's a dream."
Finally hearing the others snickering, Arthur turned defensive. "Obviously, I'd take you with me. You can do all the hard work."
That shut up Merlin for a bit. He gaped at him, and then he laughed, breath catching in disbelief at the prat's arrogance. Then he finally indulged Arthur. "And what of Gwen, of Camelot? You'll leave her all alone?"
"No, of course not." Arthur bristled. "She would make a wonderful queen in my absence… but she should come with us, if she wishes."
Merlin groaned. "Great, and I'll have two freeloaders who don't know shit about farming… If you take Gwen, I'm taking—"
Merlin looked at the knights, who all looked eagerly back at him. His gaze traveled from one knight to another until it stopped on the largest man in the group.
"I'm taking Percival. You were a farmer, right? Before you fancied playing with metal sticks all day instead."
Percival hid his laughter in a cough. "Thank you, Merlin. I would gladly join you. But I thought," he looked at Lancelot, "that you'd take Lancelot before me."
Merlin followed his gaze towards Lancelot. Indeed, he looked hurt at not being included in the dream, his doe eyes shining full force and only the upward corners of his mouth betraying the faux of it.
Merlin caught his gaze and shook his head slightly. "No, I wouldn't want to keep him away from his dream." He grinned at Lancelot. "You came to Camelot to become a knight, and you're a knight now!"
Lancelot frowned in confusion. Then his face gentled with a small smile, and he spoke with a soft, earnest voice. "The first time, yes. The second time… I came because you sent for me. I came to protect you, Merlin. Where you go, I go."
Merlin didn't know what to say. His eyes shone brightly, and he couldn't look away from his knight. They had another conversation with their gazes alone.
Lancelot wasn't his only knight, though, and Gwaine hurried to remind them about that. Maybe that would finally make the pair invite him to their not-so-secret escapades. "Same here. I wouldn't stay if not for you," he drank from the flask at his hip. "Even the best tavern in Camelot can't beat a better company."
"I'll pretend I didn't hear a word of treason from my loyal knights just now," Arthur grumbled, reminding all of them of his presence.
Leon was just as offended, and for a good reason. "So all of you would leave only Elyan and me to keep Camelot running?"
Elyan seemed sorrowful when he let him down as well. "Sorry, Leon, but I'm sticking with Gwen. I've left and abandoned her for long enough." He smiled apologetically while sticking the last sword into Leon's metaphorical back. "You're on your own."
The First Knight stared at all of them in judgment. Some of them averted their gaze, some of them bore it with dignity. Still, his disappointment was a heavy burden to carry, and it made all of them uneasy.
"If you leave me alone with the council for a few days," he warned them with a dangerous edge to his voice. "Then don't be surprised when I come to steal Merlin to a farm of my own."
"And where would you go?" Arthur indulged him, puzzled.
"I have no wish for anonymity," Leon proclaimed easily. "We'll go to my lands. It's been too long since I last visited my mansion."
Arthur turned in his saddle, gaping and indignant. "But you already have servants there! Why would you need Merlin?!"
Leon's responded with a smirk, satisfied and self-assured. He had recovered quickly from his brothers' betrayal, and he had a perfect revenge plan.
"For the company, of course. He wouldn't need to work: as you noticed, I have plenty of workers tending to the fields already." Leon ignored his prince in favor of the servant and smiled directly at him. "I'll show you the gardens, and we can take a day to ride to the lake, it's all quite beautiful."
Just as he expected, other knights, being common-born, couldn't beat that offer and stared at him with something akin to jealousy.
Merlin seemed delighted and returned his smile, easily captivated. "Oh, do you have jasmine in the gardens? And lilies?"
"I am not sure... We'll have to ask my mother." Leon admitted, a bit chagrined to find himself out of his depth.
"Oh, Lady Yrwin! How is she? How's her cough?"
"All better, thanks to your and Gaius's tonics, thank you. She's been asking about you. I think she would be glad to see you again."
Merlin has long since slowed his horse to trot beside Sir Leon, leaving Arthur suddenly alone at the head of their procession. Arthur craned his neck to look back and saw Merlin at the center of the knights’ group; they were spread in a half-circle around him, like a royal guard. Something prickled in Arthur's chest at the sight.
Merlin seemed quite lively, his cheeks warm with the heat of his smile, his cheerful voice ringing across their group with even more jests and carefree questions about their mansion getaway.
It was a captivating sight, and no one could quite contain their own smiles, caught as they were in the servant's orbit. The warmest, most content smile belonged to Sir Lancelot, who was quite happy that someone else would treat his dearest friend with the respect and care he deserved.
As their dream got bigger and bigger (were they really planning on gathering berries and going to a fair dressed like peasants?), so did Arthur's frown. As the supreme ruler of the kingdom, he decided that enough was enough.
"That's enough," he said supremely. "No one's going anywhere. We are all duty-bound to Camelot, and that's where we'll remain."
He was proud of this resolution, even while his knights shared grins and snickers behind his back. As they rode on, their attention back on reality and the road ahead, he remained alone at the head, his thoughts going over everyone's words, a terrible and heady suspicion forming in his mind: his knights were more loyal to Merlin than to him.
But then Hengroen caught up to him, and Merlin's smile shone on him oh so brightly that Arthur let that thought go. It was alright. After all, Merlin was loyal to him.
In the years they've spent together, rarely existing without each other, Arthur grew more and more perceptive of Merlin's careful evasions, certainly more perceptive than any other knight. It was this honed and treasured skill that revealed to him that Merlin had never agreed to go with Sir Leon.
Arthur's gloating would probably make him, so Arthur kept mum.
The crowd outside the cage certainly loves him, would love him both victorious and with his guts spilled — depending on which side they have bet on. The cheers and the boos wash his skin with grime and blood, but they welcome him and love him, nonetheless.
Lancelot tries not to wonder what Merlin would think of him now. Merlin is far away in Camelot, and Lancelot would be long dead before Merlin would think of him, would learn of his fate. The knights didn't love him in the end, so Lancelot settled for someone who would, someone who could use his sword, and that, unfortunately, was only ever someone like Hengist.
Lancelot skips towards the center of the cage and takes in his opponent. The guy is a mountain of a man, and the bloodthirsty crowd goes wild around him. If he wins against that, it's going to be a whole bag of gold, and if not — well, Lancelot wouldn't need to worry about it then.
He throws a last look towards their host to gauge his mood and stops short.
On Hengist's right hand, pale against the opulence of furs and skulls, sits someone who should have been safe and happy in Camelot. Their gazes meet over the rambunctious crowd, and it's the start of the battle that makes Lancelot avert his own, but something vile and shameful spikes his veins as the blue eyes of Hengist's guest keep following him.
But soon, those blue eyes have to leave his mind, for he's moving around the cage, slashing and parrying and pushing — all the usual moves of his favorite dance. He doesn't mind the pain, the blood, the grime; they're all a package deal to what he was born to do, and a twisted sense of belonging fills him while he fights to kill amidst the lowlives' gazes, all while blue eyes still pierce him from high above.
The finishing moves of his dance bring his sword to the man's throat, and he knows what he must do; he has done it before. The sword inches further, grazing the neck in a death's chaste kiss, but the weight on his shoulders makes him look up and meet Merlin's eyes over the hungry crowd that urges him to kill, kill, kill.
Lancelot stays his blade.
It is against the rules of the cage, and maybe Lancelot has allowed this sick place to permeate him, grime and blood long stuck under his fingernails, but he can't fall even lower in Merlin's eyes. He sheathes the sword and doesn't look at the terrified eyes of his opponent, and he leaves the cage behind him. With the hungry crowd booing at him for his bloodless victory, his feet bring him to Hengist.
He tries to look at Merlin only briefly, to not show his interest in front of their host, but what he sees leaves him paralyzed, cold sweat running down the temples and heart beating frantically, like a rabbit in a snare.
What first gets his attention is a bruise, blooming red on Merlin's cheek, right under his eyes, bright with disbelief. He can't look at them, though, as his gaze falls lower to the neck where Merlin's usual neckerchief is missing, some bulky, ugly collar clasped tight around his throat.
While his eyes are fixed on Merlin, he misses Hengist's face going ripe red with anger and him giving a sign to his men.
At once, two thugs step forward, grip him by the shoulders, and push him to his knees. His sword at the hip clinks uselessly against the stone floor. He can't run, there are too many people, and like vultures, they would eat him before he even reaches the cages. He can't run and leave Merlin here.
He stays still on his knees as Hengist spits at him. "There's no mercy in this place, you stupid rat." And again, the hungry crowd shouts and urges for the kill, kill, kill. "You should have known better. I will always have some blood, one way or another."
Hengist gives another signal, and Lancelot hears a thug drawing a dagger, still dirty with another's caked blood, and swallows his fear at the kiss of the blade on his throat. He doesn't want to leave Merlin here alone, but he can't run.
"Wait!" Merlin shouts. His voice is hoarse and weak, and his eyes seem feverish. "Don't kill him. Please."
"Would you look at that," Hengist laughs, and bile reaches Lancelot's throat as the lord's attention shifts to his prisoner. "My pet sorcerer took a liking to you."
Sorcerer. Is it good that Hengist knows about it, would see him as valuable enough to spare? Is it bad? Lancelot doesn't know.
"What's it about, hm?" Hengist watches them. "Is it the way he fought? Would you ask the same for any of my men, pet?"
"No," Merlin answers bluntly, defiance still shining through his features despite everything.
"Then why?" Hengist indulges him, a twisted smile stuck on his face.
"He has a kind heart. It should not be wasted."
Lancelot looks down, shame piercing that same heart. What value is it if he's here of his own volition, fighting and killing for money? Has Merlin really looked at it, or does he still remember that naive lad from when he first came to Camelot?
"A kind heart?" Hengist laughs with abandon, and his thugs echo him. "And what do you think it's worth? A gold piece a pound? A silver? I'll tell you what it's worth — nothing."
Hengist raises his hand to give another signal for his execution, but Merlin grabs at it. "Don't!" The shackles on his wrists clink with an ugly sound, and Lancelot despairs at the sight. "Don't hurt him. I'll do what you want, just don't hurt him."
Hengist seethes at the touch and grips Merlin's shackled hand with his own, hard, squeezing it until he cries out. Hengist doesn't release him then. He stands up and, his meaty palm still on Merlin, strides purposefully towards the cages, Merlin stumbling after him.
They stop at the entrance, the crowd going silent with curiosity around them. The thugs turn Lancelot around, curious as well, and the dagger grazes his throat at the careless movement.
Hengist puts Merlin's back to him and reaches for one of the heavy keys strung at his neck. He unlocks the shackles and the collar at Merlin's nape, and in one swift movement shoves him brutally into the cage. Merlin crashes hard onto the rough stone, scraping his palms against it.
In front of him stands the cowering form of a giant Lancelot spared, his sword long gone to the vultures outside the cage.
Behind him, the door slams shut, with Hengist leaning against it, and Lancelot can't see the sleazy smile on his face, but he can definitely hear it.
"I'm feeling kind today," and the crowd cackles with him. "I'll give one of you rats another chance."
At these words, the giant stops cowering, and a huge bloody smile shines on his face. His eyes go to the still kneeling form in front of him. Merlin is still panting and coughing and doesn't get up. Lancelot would shout for him to get up, but the dagger presses closer to his neck, and he has to swallow his words lest he soaks them with blood.
"You," Hengist addresses the warlock. "If you lose, or decide to spare him, I'll kill that rat over there," he pauses to let that sink in. The weight of these words falls heavily on Merlin, as he struggles to get up on shaking legs. "Show me what you're worth."
And it is all the signal the giant needs. He surges forward, as if pushed by his chance to stay alive and keep the worthless life Lancelot desperately regrets sparing. He throws himself at Merlin, crushing into him with all his weight, and brings him back down onto the bloody floor.
Lancelot watches, helplessness and misery clawing at his throat worse than any dagger could. He thrashes against his captors, but their iron grip locks him in place, and a heavy fist buries itself deep into his gut, knocking the breath out of him along with all the struggle, and only the sickening nausea remains. He is forced to watch, and he won't blink, won't avert his gaze from whatever happens, because it's the only thing he can do for Merlin, and he should see the consequences of his own actions.
The giant brings his hands to Merlin's neck, pushing into where the collar was just a minute ago, and Merlin lets out a pained and breathless gasp, his own hands going weakly for the giant's. Still, the thug's hands cling to Merlin's neck, like he clings to his own chance to live. There's no regret or shame on the bloody face, only a smile of a man breathing in his freedom.
Merlin's hands fall down. Lancelot's heart skips a beat, and there's a moment of sick triumph on the giant's face before he is suddenly, violently thrown back by an invisible force. The man's massive frame flies easily through the air and crashes into the iron cage with a rattle and a wet, loud crunch of bone. It slides heavily onto the floor and doesn't get up. Blood leaks from his fractured skull in a thick stream, and his lifeless eyes stare wide, frozen in a permanent, glassy gaze of horror directed right at Merlin.
Merlin stands up shakily, his breath fast and gulping, and stares at the body with golden eyes.
Hengist appears at his back and snaps the collar back around his throat, and the sun in Merlin's eyes instantly dies out, giving way to the feverish, dazed blue. Merlin's breath hitches loudly, painfully, and he brings his shaking hands to the collar and then jerks them away, as if burned.
All the while, Hengist laughs amidst the uneasy spectators and leads the sorcerer out by his arm. He nods at Lancelot's captors, and he is set free, and at once he rushes closer, stopping at the edge of the crowd.
Up close, Merlin looks even worse now. His skin shines with sweat, and he wheezes with each breath, and a new bruise blooms under the metal collar. It was put there by another's hands, but those as well may be Lancelot's own. Lancelot yearns to close the distance and to rip away the damn collar which must be hurting him somehow, to plead forgiveness for his mistake Merlin had to pay for, to take him away from Hengist.
He stays, rooted to the spot, afraid of making another mistake. Merlin doesn't look at him.
Hengist reaches for a bag at his belt and throws it at Lancelot. He catches it on a reflex, and the gold burns his hands.
"For the entertainment," Hengist comments and watches him before once again shifting his attention to the prisoner. He grabs the sorcerer by the collar, dirty nails biting into the skin. "You truly think that guy's heart is kind?" Someone from the crowd laughs on reflex but quickly shuts up at Hengist's annoyed glare. "That rat kills just like anyone does. All for a bag of gold."
The statement punches him in the gut and once again knocks all air and struggle out of him. It's the truth, and it settles heavy on his shoulders, a perfect fit. It's the truth, and it flays at his chest, reaching toward his heart with each bloody memory, each murder. It's the truth, and Lancelot looks down in shame, not wishing to see Merlin's disappointed look, not deserving of the blood on Merlin's hands.
It's no matter. By the time he finds the courage to look up, both Hengist and Merlin are gone.
The crowd disperses, finally sated with their bloody meal, and the dirty bag of gold burns a hole through his hands and falls down on the floor.
