Chapter Text
Lancelot woke up and stretched out his right arm. His senses, finely tuned by years on the road and his training as a knight, scanned the surroundings for threats his still-blurry and mostly-closed eyes couldn’t see. Neither of these actions required any thought on his part.
He was pleased when they informed him that nothing had woken him up but his own body, well-rested, and that Merlin was lying peacefully next to him on the ground. Groping down the sleeve he’d landed on, he found his hand. He believed it was warmer than the day before, although that may have been his imagination. Merlin was still shivering, even in his slumber, but without the desperate edge from the night before, gasping like the small involuntary movements caused him pain.
So, when he opened his eyes at last, he welcomed the new day with a smile. The forest was painted with fog, diluting the early morning sun into a glow that brightened it from within. He could almost believe that it was the Vilia still illuminating them, but they had vanished. The only thing to be heard was the gurgle from the creek and the chirps and crows from various animals greeting the morning. It felt like a good omen — like nothing bad could happen amidst that beauty. He squeezed Merlin’s hand before letting it go and getting up.
He only woke his friend once he had breakfast ready in the form of some bread and porridge, made of more water than oats or fruits but well-warmed from the fire he’d built. He would’ve liked to have made it closer to his friend, so he could soak in its heat without needing to move, but the ground wasn’t as stable near the shore, nor did it offer any convenient seats. Lancelot crouched next to him and reached out. He stopped for a moment, searching Merlin’s face for undue discomfort and appreciating it when he found none, before shaking his shoulder gently.
“Merlin,” he whispered. At his groan, he switched to rubbing the spot and called again.
In fits and starts, Merlin woke up.
“… lanslot,” he slurred. Lancelot had rarely heard a better sound.
“That’s right.” He gave his friend time to consider his surroundings, but he could barely lift his head. “Take it easy. You are supposed to be dying, after all.”
“… zut ‘splains zut,” Merlin mused with a pensive frown and Lancelot laughed at his silly earnestness, at his own relief, at the spot of dirt in Merlin’s cheek.
“You’re actually doing a terrible job at it.” He reached out to swipe it away.
“Sormm,” Merlin smiled, although Lancelot wasn’t sure that he wasn’t just reacting to his own mirth. Then he stretched out a shaky hand. Lancelot reached back, thinking it was what Merlin wanted, but instead he leant on the ground and pushed. Soon enough, he was sitting up without any help other than a hand on the shoulder when his swaying took him too far in one direction.
“Absolutely rubbish,” Lancelot rejoiced.
“What?” Merlin frowned in confusion.
“Don’t worry about it.” Lancelot grabbed his elbows and urged him up. “Breakfast’s ready. You can get warm for a bit before we go on.”
“On…” Merlin said dreamily. “To Arthur?”
“To Camelot,” Lancelot corrected. He payed too much attention to the ground as they went, hoping it would help avoid the upcoming argument. “You were hurt, remember? The Dorocha got you. You survived, but…”
“We need to go back,” Merlin interrupted, as firm as he was capable of being right now.
“You barely made it, Merlin. Arthur was this close to just leaving the quest and bringing you back himself. This is what he’d want.” He finished by setting him up on a trunk near the fire. Merlin over-balanced and would’ve face-planted right into it if it wasn’t for Lancelot, but he was mostly able to move under his own power.
“Well, Arthur doesn’t…”
“I’m not convinced you’d have survived the night without the Vilia’s help. I need you to understand this, Merlin. Merlin.” He crouched next to him and turned his chin so he’d face him. Even with their mulish expression, even with their haziness, he felt a thrill at the way his eyes were able to track him, unlike the day before. “We’re past luck. We’re past magic. You’re alive by a miracle.”
Merlin was quiet for a second.
“Vilia…?”
Lancelot sighed, unsure about whether his actual point had gotten through.
“Some sort of spirits, released along with the Dorocha. Good ones, though. They were tied to the water, if that means anything to you.”
“Spirits… of the lake?” A dim light went on in Merlin’s eyes.
“Of the creek,” he clarified, relying on his friend’s grogginess and his casual tone to skim over any painful associations.
Merlin nodded slowly and looked at the fire. He didn’t look melancholic so much as dazed. Lancelot passed him one of the bowls he’d left warming by the fire.
“Come on, eat your breakfast. We’re not going anywhere until you do.”
“Back to Arthur,” Merlin said with as much threat as he could muster given his state and the spoonful of porridge he was shovelling into his mouth.
Lancelot laughed softly. It took him a few seconds to remember that he had to eat, too, and not just crouch there staring at Merlin, no matter how wonderful it was to see him even slightly recovered. With one last squeeze of his shoulder, he took his own seat and tucked in.
The meal went by quickly and in silence. Lancelot was struck once more by how peaceful the forest was. He had to remind himself of the perils that everyone in the land was facing, especially Arthur and his brothers in arms. It was too easy to get lost in the birdsong and the pleasure of Merlin’s company when two nights ago he’d feared they would never sit across each other like this again.
Eventually, he noticed his friend flagging, just stirring the watery porridge around. His head hung low, not so much looking down as incapable of staying upright.
“Full already? I’m not surprised — it’s your first bite in two days,” Lancelot said, already reaching for the bowl.
“‘Znt hunry,” Merlin slurred. The only sign he gave of noticing when his food was taken away was curling in on himself.
Lancelot considered taking him to his horse already, but decided to let him stay by the warmth of the fire while he broke camp. It was scant work and he didn’t put much care into most of it. The bowls would probably always keep lumps of dried porridge from the thoroughly unthorough washing he gave them.
The horses, however, were fed and watered and had their hooves checked before he saddled them. He spent an age making sure that Amice was comfortable even with her straps tighter than usual to account for Merlin’s inability to actually ride with her, instead of swaying along like dead weight. Marchegai he grabbed by the head so he could press his own against it.
“It will be another long day of riding,” he said. “But we have to pull through. Ready?”
The horse snorted, almost hitting Lancelot in the face. He interpreted it as Move along. It’s not me you need to worry about.
When that was done, he put out the fire. Merlin stirred, rattled by his own shivers.
“Hey, hey,” Lancelot rushed to his side. He grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him, then switched his grip to his elbows and pulled him up. “Come on, you’ll feel better with a fireplace, some blankets, and Gaius watching over you.”
Merlin just hummed, not too awake even as they walked to the horses and Lancelot helped him mount Amice. Once up, he immediately leaned forward into her neck, seeking her warmth. Full stomach, happy heart, rang Lancelot’s mother’s words in his head, and he grinned.
“I’m gonna strap you in, now, okay?” he said, already taking his wrist to tie it down. He usually wouldn’t risk tying someone’s legs to the saddle as well, too wary of the horse getting out of control or, worse, turning and crushing them underneath, but he trusted Amice. She was a Camelot mare, smart and brave, as well as a sweetheart. The danger was greater that Merlin would slip off and hang from his wrist until she figured out to stop. So Lancelot tied his knees down as well, like he had the day before.
“Lancelot?” came the weak but surprisingly alert call.
“Too tight?” He looked up and searched his friend’s face for discomfort, pointless as it was. He wouldn’t have been able to distinguish it from the strain of his affliction.
“We need to go to Arthur.”
Lancelot sighed and fiddled with the cords to avoid his plaintive gaze.
“And do what? You can barely lift you head.”
“Don’t need to,” he insisted.
“Your magic doesn’t work. Not with the Dorocha.”
Merlin shook his head against Amice’s mane. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand something you don’t — Arthur wants you safe. We all do.” Lancelot stepped back. Arguing with Merlin was like talking to a wall at the best of times. Right then, he wasn’t even sure he heard what Lancelot was saying.
As always, though, he couldn’t ignore Merlin for long. He looked back once he was on Marchegai, ready to soothe any sore moods, and found his friend asleep. Truly asleep, and not the unconsciousness or unresponsiveness that had used to take him the day before.
“Just a little bit longer, now.” It was an apology wrapped in a reassurance, and the only one who heard it was himself. “We’ll be home in a matter of hours.”
Suddenly, a sense of foreboding came over him. He remembered the Vilia’s assertion that Arthur would need them at his side. Another memory, one he’d been escaping since he’d left his comrades, of giving his word to Gwen, already neglected but salvageable still. Then there was Merlin, who always seemed to know something no one else did, and kept insisting they turn around.
He wavered.
Reflex had him looking back at the object of his thoughts, held to the back of his mare by cord instead of any strength or will. His conviction turned to steel. Arthur had all the other knights to keep him safe — Merlin only had Lancelot. He nudged Marchegai forward, being trailed obediently by Amice, and kept the fastest pace he dared towards Camelot.
~~~*~~~
In his eagerness, they didn’t make many stops. After a few times that Merlin woke up and asked Lancelot to pause, only to then insist that they return to Arthur, the knight took to just slowing down to keep their horses apace while he checked on his comfort and health. He even managed to help him to drink from a waterskin while at a sharp trot (an action that was actually easier the less Merlin tried to cooperate).
They passed Camelot’s gates just before sunset. There were people gathered in front of it, pilgrims looking for shelter from the Dorocha, but they made way for their horses with minimal fuss. The journey through the city was the same, although the people there saw the sword and chainmail and knew to call out questions about the wellbeing of their prince. Lancelot wished that he could launch into a gallop and avoid them all almost as much as he wished to have a better answer than, “He fared well, last I saw him!”
He repeated that same response all the way to Lord Agravaine and the knights who rushed to welcome them in the main square.
“Last you saw him? I don’t understand. Where’s Arthur?” Agravaine asked, following but not interfering as he dismounted and, in the same leap, went over to Merlin to untie him.
“Do we have a stretcher?” Lancelot asked the crowd of stablehands who surrounded him, before addressing Agravaine. “He’s still on the road to the Isle of the Blessed, to end our plight.”
“But why aren’t you with him?” he demanded.
Lancelot paused for a moment. Of the many concerns pressing down on the back of his mind, the question of appearances hadn’t been one of them.
“Merlin was struck by a Dorocha,” he explained. Seeing that it was not enough by Agravaine’s incredulous expression, he changed tacks. “Arthur wanted me to bring him to Gaius as soon as possible. He would’ve done it himself if it hadn’t meant abandoning the quest. Merlin saved his life by jumping in the path of a Dorocha and shielding him with his own body,” he insisted when Agravaine scoffed.
“That I can certainly believe,” Sir Galahad said gravely. He was watching the proceedings with a grieved demeanor, along with many others. “He was always a brave one, Merlin.”
“That’s commendable of him,” Agravaine capitulated, “and of course the boy deserves every honor for his deeds. But surely it was more important to escort the prince and ensure his safety than to deliver his manservant’s body—”
“Who said anything about a body?” Lancelot cut him off sharply. The maddening sluggishness of everyone around him suddenly made sense. He blushed at the surprised (and one indignant) looks his outburst drew, but pushed on. “He’s alive, but he needs Gaius, now.”
He was faced with stark disbelief until, perhaps responding to the sudden quiet, Merlin chose that moment to let out a pitiful groan and fall off the saddle. Fortunately, he fell towards the side Lancelot was standing at, so he caught him before he hit the ground. While he grappled with his friend, strong enough to flail around but not to hold himself up, he sensed a commotion start up around him.
Multiple hands joined him in getting Merlin safely off the horse and into their arms.
“Alright, stop pulling. Stretcher, someone?”
“I don’t see any!”
“Check in the stables, quick!”
“Can’t we just do it?”
“You’re about to tear out his legs and we’re standing still,” Lancelot cut in. If he’d had even the slightest confidence that he could have made it to the physician’s chambers, he would’ve carried Merlin himself, like he had less than a week ago. They were farther from the Courtyard than from the Banquet Hall, though, and he was spent from days of travel.
“How is this possible?” Agravaine asked. He’d squeezed into the tight circle that had formed around Merlin and was staring at him with concern, although he didn’t try to hold him up like everyone else. It was probably smart, too many hands in the way already.
Lancelot couldn’t deal with smart people asking questions at the moment, so he used the chaos as an excuse to ignore him.
Soon enough, two guards appeared with a stretcher. They lay Merlin on it and shot off up the stairs. Lancelot felt bereft, so very suddenly released from his charge. Agravaine took the moment to grab his shoulder.
“How did this happen? Why was he spared?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” he said, focused on the departing guards. He frowned when they took a sharp turn and almost knocked the stretcher on a pillar.
“Sir Lancelot, this is important! If the Dorocha have a weakness—!”
“They don’t,” he said shrugging him off and taking a few almost unconscious steps after the stretcher. “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.” He spared Agravaine a glance over his shoulder, genuinely regretful that he couldn’t validate his hope, then raced away.
He trotted along with the stretcher for a while, next to Merlin’s head, until he realized he’d be of more use clearing the hallways further on and opening doors and, finally, running ahead to the physician’s chambers to give Gaius a heads-up. His heart lightened to see the familiar doorway. He hurried down the hall like a horse on the last stretch home and burst through.
“Gaius! Clear a cot and get anything you need to treat chills, Merlin’s—!” The words died in his throat as his feet tripped over themselves.
Gwen stared back at him from the cot she’d been lying on.
Joy, disappointment, longing, thrill. The roil of conflicting emotions that always arose at her sight wasn’t helped at all by the thick stone of guilt that settled in his gut. He’d thought he’d have more time before having to face up to his abandoned promise. Already her face was contorting into worry and confusion. Lancelot was momentarily distracted by the way her frown pulled at a wound in her forehead.
“Are you hurt?”
“What? I’m— Lancelot!” she shook her head and approached him. “What are you doing here? What happened?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Gaius, walking down the stairs from Merlin’s alcove.
Just then, the guards ran into the chambers. Gwen jumped off the cot to give them space and Gaius hurried over.
“It’s Merlin, he was struck by a Dorocha. He’s alive!” he assured them when they turned to him with horror. “He just needs care.”
Gaius gave a dazed nod, tapping Merlin’s face with detachment, perusing his state. The sorcerer was asleep again.
“I’ll need some blankets, if you could fetch them,” he directed the guards, who went at once. “Lancelot, some hawthorn? No, Gwen, you better do it, I’m not leaving him in charge of the herbs again. You, put some water to boil, please. The kettle’s already full. Throw another log in the fireplace, since you’re at it.”
Lancelot shot off to do as he was told, almost burning himself moving a pot full of stew that already hung over the fire in his hurry. Only when he was in front of the hearth and a shiver racked through him did he realize how cold he’d been. He took off his gloves and warmed his hands. That short moment’s breath centered him in a way he hadn’t realized he’d needed so sorely. He’d made it.
“How long has he been like this?” Gaius asked.
Lancelot glanced back just in time to see the purely medical touch stutter, as the physician ran a gentle hand through his ward’s hair.
“A day and a half since he was hit, but he has improved since we left Daobeth,” he said kindly.
“Daobeth?” Gwen lifted her head from where she was searching tincture bottles. “I don’t understand. I thought you were going to the Isle of the Blessed.” When Lancelot avoided her eyes, she insisted, “What happened to Arthur?”
He cleared his throat.
“Nothing. He’s alright. We stopped on Daobeth for the night, it’s on the way. Arthur was about to be hit by a Dorocha, but Merlin took his place. He would’ve brought him back to Camelot himself, but…” he trailed off with a sigh. Gwen deserved better than the deflection he’d used on the crowd outside.
“You never made it to the Isles. You left Arthur alone.” The words were surely an accusation, but she sounded so uncomprehending that there was no actual bite in her tone.
“Not alone,” he said, trying his best to offer comfort and not a defence. “They rest are all still on the way with him. Only I came back.”
“He’s still travelling to heal the Veil?” Gaius cut in. He’d gone pale and was staring down at Merlin, face slack with horror.
“Yes,” Lancelot said slowly. His old sense of foreboding returned at this strange reaction. “But the other knights will protect him.”
“Gaius?” Gwen asked, having noticed the same thing.
Gaius shook his head.
“Have you found the hawthorn? Lancelot, I think that’s the kettle—”
“Tell us what you’re hiding,” she insisted, the bottle shaking with her hand.
“Gwen, I am not—”
“Don’t! Don't lie to me.” She cried covered her mouth until she got herself under control. She still looked like she was about to fall apart. “Arthur… he was acting strange. I knew something was wrong. The way he spoke to his father. The way he spoke to me. The tears in his eyes when he kissed me goodbye…”
Gaius still didn’t speak, not out of unwillingness, this time, but because he seemed incapable.
“It’s like he wasn’t planning to come back,” she finished, voice clogged. “Why is that, Gaius? What is this Veil?”
Gaius sighed, as heavy as his shoulders suddenly seemed to be. He talked only to Merlin’s face.
“It’s the way of the the Old Religion — it always demands balance. The only thing powerful enough to tear the Veil would’ve been a blood sacrifice and…” he faltered for a second, the pain too great. “I’m afraid that’s the only thing that can mend it.”
Lancelot’s breath caught.
“Arthur…”
“He plans to offer himself.”
“But he’s the future king!” he protested, even though he knew better.
“And as such, he’s taken an oath to protect this kingdom and its subjects with his life,” Gaius explained.
“That’s not why he does it.” Gwen shook her head, holding back tears. “Arthur feels his people’s pain as if it was his own. He’s an… honorable, caring man.”
She covered her face again and took a few calming breaths that shook along with her frame.
“Gwen…” Lancelot reached out to comfort her, but she flinched away, her hand lifted as if to ward him off.
“Hawthorn,” she said firmly. She handed the bottle to Gaius.
One of the guards arrived with an armful of blankets, effectively cutting off any chance of discussing the matter further. At something of a loss after Gwen’s rebuff, Lancelot took them with a nod of thanks and started wrapping them around Merlin.
Eventually, though, she seemed unable to stand the heavy air in the physician’s chambers.
“I don’t think there’s much more I can do here,” she said, standing up briskly, “and I do feel much recovered from my accident. I’ll probably be of more use checking on today’s arrivals. Hann, come with me?”
The guard nodded, more of a short bow. Gwen hesitated only for a moment, pausing to squeeze Merlin’s ankle over the blankets. Then she was gone.
Lancelot and Gaius worked in silence for a short while, until the kettle started whistling.
“I’ll get that,” Lancelot muttered. He already had it in his hand when he realized he didn’t know what it was for. “Should I…?” he trailed off in the hope Gaius would take the hint and give him some direction, but the old man was focused on the dropper held over Merlin’s lips. “Is this for some potion?”
“It depends on what you consider a potion.” He straightened up with a sigh. “I was hoping he’d wake up and drink some tea, but maybe you’ll appreciate the warmth instead.”
“He was awake when we arrived.” Lancelot put the kettle on the table and walked over to place a hand on Gaius’s slumped shoulder. “For parts of the day, too. He must have sensed that he was safe enough to sleep at last…”
Lancelot stared at his friend’s face for a moment, taking stock of its gauntness, the dirt of the road, all the little reminders of their strife.
“Merlin had some plan to close the Veil without a sacrifice, didn’t he?” he asked softly. “It’s why he was so adamant that we turn back, why he didn’t want to leave in the first place. Now, Arthur’s riding out to his death.” He looked up. “Gaius, have I doomed him?”
The man sighed.
“It’s not so simple. Yes, Merlin wanted to save him—”
Lancelot stood up and stumbled away, a fist pressed to his mouth. Something was crawling up his stomach and he wasn’t sure whether it was vomit or a scream.
“But he didn’t have a different plan. He would’ve taken Arthur’s place.”
It took him a moment to process that.
“What?” He shook his head. “I don’t— I don’t understand.”
“Then it’s because you don’t want to,” Gaius told him. “It’s straightforward enough.”
“But why would he…?” Lancelot didn’t finish the thought. It was a shameful thing. He was struck by the fickleness it revealed in him.
“It’s his destiny to help Arthur bring about the time of Albion — a time of justice, kindness, freedom and equality.” Gaius threw him a significant look at these last words. Then he turned back to his ward with a defeated expression.
“I know that. Still—”
“Merlin has always taken his duty seriously, and he's a faithful friend to Arthur. He’d protect him with his life. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s almost followed through,” Gaius informed him, unaware of the chilling effect of his words.
“And now?” Lancelot asked.
Gaius considered it for a moment.
“The night watch has been expanded to look out for people who might be out wandering when it’s dark. Most knights join it, if they don’t take care of the morning clean up. You could do the same tomorrow, once you’ve had some rest. I’m sure Merlin won’t mind you using his bed if you don’t want to make the trip to your own chambers.”
“I meant with Arthur,” Lancelot amended, although it should’ve been obvious. “If I—”
“There’s nothing left to do,” Gaius told him. “He and the knights have a two-day advantage over you. Four, since they kept going while you returned. You’d never catch up in time, if you even survived a night on your own with the Dorocha roaming. We must have faith in his destiny. The world will not let him leave so soon to the shadows.” He sighed, as he had done so much that afternoon. “Have some stew, Lancelot. Some tea, as well. Then sleep. I suspect you need it all more than you think. Maybe things will be clearer in the morning.”
~~~*~~~
Gaius was half right. The nourishment had done Lancelot good and sleep had come much easier than he’d expected it to, lasting well into late morning. However, physical wellbeing couldn’t make the situation any less bleak.
Lancelot breathed the familiar scents of the physician’s chambers and thought about riding off to find Arthur. (What a peculiar turn of phrase — he knew exactly where he was, or at least with some precision. Half the task was done, and yet.) He knew he wouldn’t make it, but action of any kind was the only thing he could think of to get rid of the misery choking him. Even the light coming in through the window, much brighter than it usually was before his duties forced him to get up, seemed to be calling him out on his negligence.
He finally sat up. For the first time, he paid mind to the chair next to Merlin’s bed. Maybe it had been left over from when Gaius had had to treat him after his fainting spell on Samhain. Hwever, he would have sooner sat on the bed itself. And the desk chair, the closest one available, hadn’t been moved. Lancelot looked around the room, familiar except for the one presence it lacked at the moment, and understanding came. He, too, might want to spend his time in a loved one’s room if he’d known they’d been marked for death.
“Lancelot,” Gaius greeted when he emerged from the alcove, putting bottles away into a bag. “At this point, I’m not sure whether I should offer you breakfast or lunch. Perhaps…” He turned around and his eyes softened to find the knight leaning over Merlin. “You’ll be pleased to know that he’s much better. He’ll still require some care to ease the strain on his body —I’ll be giving him hawthorn for the time being—, but now he just needs to regain the strength he’s lost battling his… illness.”
Lancelot put on a strained smile and adjusted a blanket around his friend. He did look better. Too pale and with deep shadows under his eyes, but nothing compared to when he’d first gotten hit or even after being healed by the Vilia.
You don’t want to die, he thought. You can’t cling to life so tightly and wish it away. So how come…
“Which leaves me without an assistant,” Gaius said loudly, breaking through his thoughts. “And you at loose ends.”
Sorry, I can’t. I’m going after Arthur as soon as the stablehands have Marchegai ready.
“You mean errand boy,” Lancelot chuckled as he got up. Nothing but faith would do. “The only thing I can do with a pack of herbs is dinner. I’ll be happy to deliver orders for you, however.”
“Good.” Gaius nodded with an arch expression. “Just because everyone’s dying of something else, it doesn’t mean they should stop taking their medicine.”
It was almost nostalgic, walking the castle and then the city, handing people their potions with detailed and strict instructions on how to administer them, which he knew would be ignored. Some people even remembered him from three years ago. A particularly bold widow asked him if he’d been sacked for fraud again. A particularly concerned one asked the same thing, with much less mischief. He pointed to his chainmail with a kind smile, its weight a constant reminder of the times he was living in.
He passed the stables on his way to the lower city. He thought about asking them to prepare the fastest horse available, a messenger’s mount if necessary. Not his valiant and true Marchegai, but one who, for all its other shortcomings, could cross longer distances in a shorter time. As long as it could brave the Valley of the Fallen Kings, he’d take it.
Four days of advantage. Now four and a half.
He walked on. Nothing but faith.
The damage after a night plagued by the Dorocha was much more extensive in the lower city than in the castle, which had come out mostly unscathed. Lancelot had no real explanation for why this was so, except for the vague notion that the spirits were unable to travel through thick solid objects, like the castle stone walls. It made no difference to the end result. As he went through his deliveries, Lancelot joined his fellow knights, along with guards and many townsfolk, in picking up overturned objects, fixing or reinforcing hinges, covering bodies and more.
Fear led to silly mistakes, and many people gathered around outside their houses to patch up scrapes and bruises. It often seemed like an excuse to seek and provide comfort. Lancelot thought that it would be a perfect job for Merlin once he was better.
From time to time, he’d catch glances of Gwen as she guided the refugees. She always seemed to know where each person should go and where they’d be taken in. It was a wonder to see all those frightened, even suspicious faces, both refugees and Camelot citizens, light up with relief when she took them by the hand and focused her intent gaze on them, providing, at last, an anchor in the storm.
It wasn’t just that she helped people — her charity and hope seemed to inspire the same in others. Walking with their heads down, the weight of their own load already threatening to bury them, they would see her organizing in the path and stop to offer suggestions, encouragement or even their own place to stay. Even those who couldn’t afford that much would slow down in their hurried milling and close their eyes, listen to her speak. What words, Lancelot was too far to hear, but it would give them the strength to straighten their shoulders and continue with renewed energy. When she walked away, she was always followed by adoring smiles.
The picture was perfect. It was moments like these that gave Lancelot solace in his decision to step aside all those years ago. Even at his most melancholic, when he wondered if it couldn’t have been him, despite how little he had to offer her compared to Arthur. Bittersweet though it was, he always came around to the same conclusion. As sure as the morning, Gwen was meant to be queen.
Then she turned away from the crowd, her smile replaced by a rictus of grief, and he realized she might never get the chance.
Faith in Arthur had never been hard. But he’d also never felt like he’d been faithless before.
He dropped by the stables on his way back to the castle. He greeted the grooms and the stablehands, looked at the fading sun and thought, Now I’ve really missed my chance to go after Arthur, as if he’d ever had one. Marchegai was in his stall, looking well-rested and shiny. When Lancelot approached, he only lifted his head and whinnied instead of dancing in place as usual, eager to be let out.
“We’ve finally found the thing to wear you out, huh, fellow?” Lancelot asked, petting his nose while he fed him some hay he grabbed from a mound. The last time they’d kept such a trying pace, they’d been rushing from Haldor to Camelot’s outer woods. Sometimes, Lancelot wondered if his horse missed their days of gallivanting, always on the move, on a schedule all their own.
He left Marchegai with a pat and a kiss on the nose.
Amice was a bit further away. She chuffed in recognition, but otherwise didn’t react to him until he stepped right in front of her, and that to smell his clothes in search of food.
“Oh, Merlin’s got you spoiled, doesn’t he?” He looked around before reaching into his pouch and holding up an apple for her to munch on. “After the last few days, you’ve earned it. You really pulled through for him.”
He combed her mane with his fingers the way he’d seen Merlin do while she finished. She bumped her head against his chest in thanks.
“You’re so polite,” he cooed, keeping it up. “Don’t know where you got it from.”
He left when the sun was right on the horizon, blocked by the lower town. The stables had emptied in preparation for the night, same as the streets.
He went to check on Merlin and Gaius before retiring to his chambers, hoping to maybe mooch some dinner. However, he was greeted by the sound of an argument. Thinking ruefully that Merlin must have rubbed off on him, he didn’t interrupt, instead hunching next to the wall outside to listen in.
“Perhaps you found something when you examined him? Or, as his guardian, you noticed something about him before…” came Lord Agravaine’s voice.
“I keep telling you, I don’t know. It’s possible that the knights, being used to nights of exposure during campaigns, patrols and the like, knew enough about treating the chill to make a difference. Especially these knights, most of whom are used to life on the road.” Gaius sounded distinctly harassed. Lancelot told himself that he’d go in if it got any worse.
“But how did he survive long enough to be treated? Up until now, people attacked by the Dorocha are dead before they hit the floor — he should be, too!” There was a pause. When he spoke next, Agravaine sounded a lot more composed. “Forgive my callousness. You must understand. If we can find a way to combat their effect, it could save the life of many Camelot subjects.”
There was an even longer pause, and Lancelot braced himself to go in, before Gaius answered.
“It’s possible… Cold makes the body sluggish. As it gets worse, both the heartbeat and breathing slow down. This continues until death comes. However, there is a stage, right before that, where no signs of life can be found, yet dedicated, expert care, administered in time, has been known to bring patients back from the brink. It’s possible the Dorocha bring their victims to this stage. There would be no way to tell until they were better.”
“And the knights would know this?”
“Probably not. It’s more likely that they acted on a fool’s hope and came out victorious, as they often do.”
That was actually pretty accurate, except for the fact that Merlin had had vital signs, weak as they’d been. Lancelot carried the memory of his thready pulse against his fingers, along with peripherals of the scene like the taste of the leather glove he’d pulled off with his teeth, the burn of his eyes from the freezing air and the campfire’s and the torches’ smoke, the pinch in his foot where Arthur had been stepping on it without realizing. That ghost, he believed, would follow him forever.
“The people in the infirmary, do you think you could bring them back?”
“Too much time has passed. They’re certainly dead by now.”
“How can we be sure now?!”
“The stiffness, my lord.”
“… Should we tell the people?”
“I’m afraid it would only make them take more risks, either out of overconfidence or a desire to help their neighbours. We’ve reached a fairly stable equilibrium — if we only maintain it a few more nights, until Arthur heals the Veil…”
“Right, good thinking. You know, Guinevere also said it’s important to keep up people’s spirits. I knew she was wise, but it’s good to see her judgement corroborated. Good night, Gaius. Look after that boy of yours.” There were footsteps heading towards the door, then Agravaine’s voice, much closer. “Keep me advised of any developments.”
Lancelot opened the door before he could and faked surprise.
“Lord Agravaine.” He inclined his head.
“Sir Lancelot. What are you doing here?” he asked, and Lancelot was about to explain to him how he’d just gotten there and definitely hadn’t heard a thing before he continued, “You should be at your chambers, it’s about to get dark. Unless you’re planning to take a night watch?”
“I’m just here to get fed, then I’ll be going,” he assured him, shooting a glance at Gaius and his arched eyebrow.
“It’s dangerous to be out with these creatures loose. Well” —his expression turned pensive— “you’d know. I can trust you to take proper precautions.”
Something in his tone had Lancelot’s hackles rising up. During his first few months as a knight, he’d had to develop an instinct for duplicity, suspecting of every seemingly friendly word some nobles spoke to him, looking for hidden barbs and traps. This commendation on his cautiousness, for example, reeked of an accusation of cowardice. He’d never had problems with Agravaine, though.
Then again, the whole thing went so much against his nature that he’d barely learned enough to survive by the skin of his teeth, pride slightly stung rather than a rag on the floor. More than once, he’d only learned that he’d been insulted after, quite without a natural explanation, the person’s wine had suddenly jumped out of their goblets and on their bejeweled and embroidered laps, or their capes had coiled like snakes around their shiny boots and sent them tumbling, or their trousers had dropped, mindless of their gold-buckled and expensive-leathered belts.
“Right, my lord,” Lancelot said with a smile, thinking of the time Merlin had made Lady Cyneburg burp right as she’d been preparing to sing for the court.
Agravaine left with the small courteous bow that befit a man of his station.
“That was well done,” Gaius said once they were alone. “You shouldn’t let him get a rise out of you.”
Only then did Lancelot remember Agravaine’s odd remark, his mind caught on fonder memories. He supposed his friend was helping him even in his absence.
“Where’s Merlin?” he asked, seeing the cot empty.
“In his own bed.” Gaius lifted his eyebrow wryly before turning towards the fireplace, where he was warming some leftover stew. “I took the chance, since he was already up in an escape attempt.”
“Escape?” Lancelot laughed.
“A failed one. He packed up some supplies and made it as far as the hall outside before I dragged him back inside.”
“You weren’t here?” he asked as he sat at the table.
“Oh, I was.” There was a beat as Gaius let him process that. “I knew he wouldn’t get far — and he needed the exercise.”
“Also, to see for himself that he won’t get far,” Lancelot added with a grin.
Gaius only lifted his eyebrow again and served two bowls on the table.
“I suppose I should be glad he’s well enough to be getting into trouble,” he commented, spooning some food into his mouth.
“Yesterday, he couldn’t even stay awake long enough to finish his porridge,” Lancelot agreed. A thought kept nagging at him, though, ruining the pleasant conversation. “I suppose he was trying to go to Arthur.”
“Indeed, although how he planned to do that, it’s a mystery.” His gaze turned kind, through a remnant of sadness. “There’s really no way for any of us to reach him now.”
Lancelot spared a moment to wonder how he could’ve been so obvious considering they’d barely seen each other that day, but his worries couldn’t be assuaged that easily.
“Is what you told Agravaine true?” he asked. “About the Dorocha not killing people immediately.”
Gaius sighed.
“The science of it is true, but I don’t believe it’s the case here. We must remember this is no simple cold we’re dealing with. The dead and the living are kept apart for a reason and we’re witnessing it now.”
“So there is no hope for those touched by the Dorocha?” A stone settled in his gut.
Once more, Gaius drove to the heart of his distress.
“None. Except for Arthur.”
They ate the rest of their meal in silence.
“Well, I should get going.” Lancelot wiped his mouth and picked up the plates. “Tell Merlin I said hello.”
“Tell him yourself,” Gaius stopped him. “It’s not safe to be out on your own, even in the castle.”
“It’s not safe anywhere or anyhow,” he argued. “Besides, Merlin’s taken the bed now.”
“You've managed before.” Gaius arched an eyebrow.
“Fine. I’m not going to my chambers,” Lancelot admitted. “I’m going to take a night watch.”
“You’ve already spent all morning working yourself to the bone.” Gaius watched him with tight lips for a moment. “It won’t help Arthur to punish yourself.”
“I’m not!” he said, although maybe that wasn’t wholly true. “I’m trying to honour his… sacrifice. His beliefs. Camelot is his life — I’m protecting it the only way I can, now.”
He left the plates on the table and walked away, done with the argument, but Gaius’s voice stopped him at the door.
“Do come back when you’re done.” His eyes were tortured when the knight turned around. “I’d like to know you’re all right.”
~~~*~~~
Lancelot was startled awake by the sounds of rustling. The previous night had left him in high-alert, despite how uneventful it had been. Or maybe because of it — tension had coiled tight in his gut and never found a release. However, his initial alarm passed once he remembered where he was, in a bundle of blankets next to Merlin’s bed, and what the noises probably meant. He settled down with a grin.
After a few seconds of pitiful groans and grunts of strain, a hand reached over the side of the bed and gripped the mattress. Then a leg hooked over it and started to pull as well.
“You better not fall on top of me,” Lancelot said and the movement paused.
The limbs pulled back. There was some more rustling before Merlin’s head poked over the mattress to peer down at him.
“Oh,” he rasped. “There’s a bug in my room.”
“Yeah, in your bed,” Lancelot shot back. “It’s a really ugly one, too.”
A groan. “Don’t you know it’s rude to steal a convalescing man’s jokes?”
“By now, you’re just being lazy,” he teased.
When the head disappeared and more sounds floated down, though, he sat up. As he’d thought, Merlin was trying to get up again.
“Hey, if anyone’s earned the rest, it’s you,” Lancelot said while he pushed him back into the bed. When Merlin resisted that, he settled for propping him up against the headboard.
“I’m just a bit sore,” he grumbled.
“Having your limbs frozen over will do that to you, I imagine.” Lancelot he sat down next to him. “Just sit tight for a bit.”
“I’ve been sitting tight for days,” Merlin gritted out. “Meanwhile, Arthur’s getting closer to the Veil. How can we even be talking about my feelings when—?”
He cut himself off and jerked his face away. Lancelot studied him for a moment. Though hassled and gaunt, that mulish tilt of the jaw was one he was very familiar with. It was the same old Merlin. It felt like there should be a mark, some indication of the choice he’d made.
“Gaius told me,” he said when it became clear that Merlin wouldn’t go on. “About your plan.” That got him no answer either, so he pressed. “Did you really intend to sacrifice yourself once we got to the Isle?”
Merlin clicked his tongue, still looking away. He worried his lips for a moment.
“What do you want me to say?”
Lancelot honestly didn’t know. A part of him had remained incredulous, certain that Gaius had misunderstood, or that he himself had.
“I look at you and I wonder about myself. I always knew you were brave…” he mused. “Braver than me, but…”
Merlin snorted at that.
“Lancelot, the modest,” he teased.
Lancelot shook his head. He glanced at the closed bedroom door and leaned closer.
“I don’t know if I could do it,” he confessed. Merlin looked at him in confusion, so he clarified what he hadn’t been able to say out loud to Gaius. “Sacrifice my own life like that.”
Merlin laughed.
“You do it all the time, though.” He tilted his head in the direction of the sword he’d left in in a pile in the corner, with his armour, belt and boots. “Did you think those were made of rubber?”
“I’m willing to place myself between danger and innocents,” he explained. “I’m willing to take the risk of losing my life. But I’d fight like hell for it, first. I don’t think… I’d be brave enough to knowingly give it up.”
“It’s not,” Merlin started, then had to pause when he shivered.
Lancelot tucked the blanket more firmly around him. The sorcerer thanked him with a nod.
“You need to have something. A reason. Then, it’s not about bravery…”
“What is it about?” he insisted.
“What’s all this questioning about?” Merlin retorted with a puzzled smile. “You’re the most selfless, noble person I know.” He elbowed Lancelot’s arm with a significant expression. “Someone brave enough to do anything he proposes.”
It wrangled a smile out of him, as Merlin’s faith in him always did, but he couldn’t escape the reminder that he’d failed, and more than just himself.
“I broke my word to Gwen,” he told him. “I promised I’d protect Arthur with my life, but I abandoned him.”
Merlin grabbed him by the elbow.
“Looking after Arthur is my job, not yours.” Lancelot was about to remind him that wasn’t true, when his grip tightened and a fire came to his eyes. “Besides, all hope may not be lost. We can still reach him, even beat him to the Isle.”
“What do you mean?”
“Boys?” Just then, Gaius walked in. “I thought I heard you talking. I suppose a full-day’s labour added to a full-night’s work takes its toll on a person.”
Lancelot smiled sheepishly under the onslaught of his judgemental eyebrow, but something about his words nagged at him. He looked around the room and noticed the way the light got in for the first time. It was not morning’s nascent light that touched the room.
“It’s almost evening.”
“What?” Merlin yelped. He scrambled on the bed to sit straighter and look out the window, as if he needed to see it with his own eyes.
“Yes,” Gaius drawled out. “I meant to light the candles if you were up.”
“Why didn’t you wake us?” Merlin demanded, getting up in a burst of energy. Lancelot followed him to give him stability.
“Why would I?”
“Arthur and the others should be getting to the Isle tonight,” Lancelot said.
Gaius’s expression turned grim. “Maybe it would’ve been better for you two to sleep through it, then. There’s no point in holding vigil.”
After much wrangling, Merlin gave up on the laces of his shirt and pulled his jacket over it.
“And where are you going in your sleep shirt?”
“Gaius! It hardly matters!” He bent over to get his boots and almost fell on his face. “I don’t really need my boots either,” he said to Lancelot, some ten inches away after catching him.
“You really do,” he answered as he hauled him up. “So do I. And my armour.” He left him in the bed, where he hopefully couldn’t get in too much trouble, and got dressed.
“What are you two planning?” Gaius demanded, standing in between them to aim a demanding eyebrow at each by turn.
Lancelot slowed down, unsure of the answer.
“We’re going to Arthur,” Merlin replied as if it was obvious.
“Merlin,” Gaius said gently. “There’s no time. You won’t make it.”
“No, you’re wrong,” he insisted, feverish. “I can save him. I’ll call Kilgharrah. He’ll get us to the Isle in a matter of hours, if that.”
“Who’s Kilgharrah?” Lancelot asked, tugging on his chainmail absentmindedly.
“You can’t seriously be thinking of riding the Great Dragon as if he were a horse,” Gaius chided him.
“What?” The knight dropped his belt.
They ignored him.
“I’ve done it before,” Merlin said petulantly. “Not the horse part. Let’s not compare him to a horse.”
“I’ll just get dressed,” Lancelot mumbled.
The sorcerer —dragonlord, right, the full implications of that were beginning to land— shot to his feet and only stumbled a few steps before righting himself. “You ready?”
Lancelot sheathed his sword and took a second to answer. Their sense of urgency had pushed him forward, but, like the scrape of metal on leather was a spell, dread rose to the surface.
“It’s pretty dark already,” he said. “We’ll be at risk with the Dorocha. How far will we have to go to find Kilgharrah?”
“We only need to make it to a clearing near the Darkling Woods, to avoid being seen. He can protect us once he gets here.” He tried to rush out, but his legs gave out by the doorway and he had to hold himself up on it. A grimace creased his face. “I’ll need a bit of help, though.”
He reached out towards Lancelot. For the first time, he didn’t jump to comply. The knight fiddled with his belt to stall, just a few moments to think, that was all. What was their plan, really, after the dragon? Once they made it to the Isles of the Blessed? No, that was willful ignorance. The plan was the same as it had been for Merlin from the start — to give his life up to heal the Veil.
And Lancelot was supposed to help him. He lifted his eyes up to Merlin’s outstretched hand and his impatient face.
To do nothing would have been to leave Arthur to die.
He wrapped Merlin’s arm around his shoulders and led them to the main chambers.
Gaius had grown quiet. He followed them out of the room with sorrow written over every line of his body. Lancelot wondered at his silence, his willingness to let the man who was like a son to him give his life away. He wondered at himself. This was not the first time he’d had to carry Merlin in this way, but it hadn’t been often enough for the feeling of him draped against his side to become this familiar.
He was literally dragging his friend to his death, each step more of his own power than Merlin’s. The same friend he’d set out to save by taking him to Camelot just a few days ago. The one he’d abandoned his promise to Gwen to protect. But this would fix that. It would save Arthur, Camelot’s hope, Albion’s future. He had to do it.
He stopped at the shut front door, his hands busy holding Merlin up. The sorcerer opened them with the arm he didn’t have draped over Lancelot. They still didn’t move.
“Lancelot?”
It was impossible. There was no space for fear or sadness, guilt or anger, just a big wall of denial. He looked at Merlin, frozen, wishing he could see Lancelot’s conflict and understand, because he couldn’t give words to the almost numb mess of emotions inside him that wouldn’t let him move forwards or backwards.
Merlin just looked back at him in confusion. Then his eyes widened. He pushed off of Lancelot with a gasp and stumbled until he reached the table.
“Merlin?!” Lancelot and Gaius ran over to him.
“It’s done,” was all he said, shell-shocked. “It’s done.”
“What? What happened?” Lancelot shook him by the shoulders to snap him out of his daze.
Gaius staggered back and dropped on the bench.
“The Veil. It’s closed.” Merlin looked up and met his eyes with slowly dawning horror. “He closed it.”
~~~*~~~
Lancelot spent the night walking. Merlin had shut himself in in his room with a set to his shoulders that had warned off any company, so he’d gone out on a night watch, on the excuse of making sure that the Dorocha were really gone.
Even if he hadn’t trusted Merlin’s instincts (he did), he saw their absence soon enough. Not by the lack itself, but by the fullness — as Camelot realized that they were free of the threat at last, the streets filled with people roving about, from one house to the other, revelling in their peace. Some corners hosted musicians playing their instruments and regaling the neighbours with ditties, while those without a troubadourian streak joined in with spoons and pots and full voices. They’d lit up candles and set them up along the paths, and some they carried them in their hands, not for protection anymore, but for celebration. From everyone’s lips rose Prince Arthur’s name in cries of adoration and thanks.
Lancelot couldn’t help drawing similarities between their festivities and a wake.
At first, people tried to approach him. They expressed their relief and thanked him for whatever on earth they thought he’d done that week. They realized he preferred solitude rather quickly, though, and left him to his own devices. He wasn’t the only one too grieved to join in the merriment.
He didn’t see Gwen. He didn’t think it was because she was busy taking care of the king, despite what he said when people asked — asked to the air, then turned to him with the fuzzy awareness that they moved in the same circles.
The celebrations were still going strong when the sun rose, but Lancelot had had enough. He forewent his own chambers again. Mindful of Gaius sleeping in his cot, he tiptoed in. He didn’t bother knocking on Merlin’s door or asking if he was awake. He did stop in the middle of the room to give him the chance to say something. A request for help, an admission of sorrow, a recrimination. Merlin never turned away from the ceiling. He only spoke once Lancelot had lain down on his blankets, just like he’d left them the evening before.
“It’s like it’s not real. I actually have to remind myself to feel like a failure—”
“Merlin,” Lancelot chided him.
“Do you get it, though? I don’t think… I think he might…”
He didn’t say anything. The rational part of him said it was just shock or denial. He did trust Merlin’s instincts, though. He had to fight not to get either of their hopes up. That wasn’t a pain he could bear.
“I feel the same,” he said, slowly, aware of the delicate balancing act he had in his hands, “but I think it’s just… too big. I can’t accept it. Not yet, not without some sort of proof or until the knights return. Alone.”
“You think I’m just fooling myself?”
“I don’t know.” He pursed his lips, frustrated. “I think, whatever I say, I won’t be doing you a favour.”
There was silence for a while. Then a hand appeared over the edge of the mattress above Lancelot’s head. He reached up and took it.
~~~*~~~
Five days. It would take the knights about five days to return.
Lancelot and Merlin slept until the next morning. Gaius didn’t hold it against them, which he proved by enlisting his apprentice to help him with hangover remedies and ushering Lancelot out to the training grounds. Cheerful despite their massive headaches, the knights had decided that, now that the Dorocha had been defeated, it was time to resume their sessions.
They jokingly asked after his drawn complexion, certain that they hadn’t seen him amongst the overindulgent revellers. Despite his grief-fuelled sleep, he felt devoid of energy and had as much trouble holding in his meals as the worst of them. Nonetheless, he led the knights into an adequately gruelling sparring session. The kind Arthur would approve of after days of so-called inactivity, and to remind his men that, however much fun that third tankard of ale could bring, it was nothing compared to the fun he would get watching them wince whenever their swords clanged.
Lancelot had no idea how he made it through the morning.
He declined the knights’ invitation to retire for a game of cards, not sure what he’d do with himself instead but knowing that he couldn’t spend another second in their company.
“You didn’t tell them.”
Gwen’s voice stopped him as he headed back into the castle. He’d been looking down to take off his gloves and so he didn’t see her standing at the gates to the grounds. He wondered how long she’d been there. A sense of dizziness came over him as he walked over to her. Here, they’d had their last conversation before he’d left on the quest, but she’d been the one to approach him.
“No. It didn’t feel appropriate without real confirmation. Unless you…”
She nodded, closed off.
She’d been distant this past year. At least, by comparison. They’d shared a closeness once that they could not regain. Nonetheless, there had always been affection in her eyes, an assurance that he'd held a place in her heart, even as a friend. Now, though, there was only cold.
“You think he could still be alive?” she asked. When he winced, she placed her hand on her chest. “I do. I can feel it. In my heart.” Her expression melted while she said this, but then it scrunched up in pain and she turned it away. “Or maybe I’m just fooling myself.”
Lancelot took a step forward, pulled by his very soul pulled to offer her comfort. His own spirits were buoyed. This was the second time he’d been given reason to hope for Arthur, by people whose connection to the man was incontestable. Though darkness cast over their future, this was something he could put his faith in.
However, his mood plummeted again when Gwen flinched from his outstretched hand, wrapping her arms around herself and erecting walls as strong as Camelot’s own between them.
“I asked you… to protect him. I trusted you to bring him back safely.”
“I’m sorry. I know I let you down, but Merlin was at death’s door, you saw him—!”
“You promised.”
“I’m sorry—”
“You gave your word! How could you—?!” Gwen turned to him at last, face contorted in pain and confusion, and Lancelot felt his heart do something similar. “Now I don’t know where he is, if he’s dead—”
“What would you have had me do, Gwen?” he asked desperately, wishing for understanding but also, maybe, an answer. “I didn’t even know what Arthur was planning!”
“You promised to protect him with your life!”
He might have had to do it, too. He could see in her eyes that she reached the same conclusion. She sucked in her lip, tortured by the what-ifs.
There, at last, common ground.
Lancelot took a deep breath and fell back on the one thing that had been pulling him through, the one thing he knew he’d done right.
“He was fine. He had —has— five of the best knights in the land to protect him. Arthur was fine. Merlin wasn’t.”
Gwen was quiet.
“I—”
“Don’t.” Her hand sliced through the air between them.
Lancelot had never felt the coming winter so keenly.
She deflated.
“I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I take no pleasure in raking you over the coals. It’s certainly not for your excuses, even though I realize that’s all you can give me.” She drew herself up. “I apologize, Sir Lancelot. I’ll let you go back to your matters. Heaven knows I have enough to keep me busy.”
She tipped her head in a polite bow and stalked into the castle. Lancelot let her get head start, wary of crossing her since they were going the same way. He used the time to catch his breath — he found it was strangely short.
~~~*~~~
A couple of days went by in a similar manner. Lancelot trained in the morning, ate something in the kitchens or the physician’s chambers, then retired to his quarters. He had nothing to do with his time, yet a greater need to fill it. While the invitations to join the knights in the afternoons persisted, an air of hostility started to colour his interactions with some of them.
With the danger over, the celebrations done and the hangovers overcome, there were those who felt it suitable to append sneers in Lancelot’s direction to their lauds to Arthur’s bravery. Friendliness towards him from other knights was underscored by derisive snorts. They also tried to rough him up during spars, although that Lancelot was more than capable of defending himself from.
Their criticisms were a different story altogether. He’d thought he’d developed a thick skin during his first months as a common-born knight — it turned out derision was a lot easier to handle when it was undeserved.
In the afternoon of the last day before the knights were set to arrive, he tried to look for a distraction before he went mad. His feet took him to the castle without conscious thought. He might have stopped them. It could lead him one of two places. His chambers, alone, again, was the last place he wanted to be.
Then there was Merlin. After the night the Dorocha had disappeared, his illness had taken a turn for the worse — or so he’d claimed. It had been a ready enough explanation for his listlessness and heaviness, and an excuse when he’d tired of pretending to be fine halfway through interactions. Once, during dinner, Lancelot had made a comment to that effect, Merlin already retired to his alcove, and Gaius had said that there was no reason why it couldn’t be both, his health reacting to his worry. It all amounted to the same thing — no one was welcome to infringe on his solitude, Lancelot included.
Simply another instance of his friend’s tendency to retreat when suffering turmoil. Intellectually, Lancelot knew this. However, he couldn’t get rid of the niggling fear that that wasn’t all there was to it. That Merlin may have lost his faith in Arthur returning alive. That he had come to the conclusion he’d have been able to save him if it hadn’t been for Lancelot. If he hadn’t frozen.
Then Merlin appeared, limping down the steps of the main square as if summoned by Lancelot’s thoughts. When the sorcerer raised his tired eyes from where they’d been focused on the ground and met his, they brightened up with their usual welcome.
“Lancelot,” was all he said, and Lancelot saw his fears for the morbid illusions that they were. There was a sort of restrained motion to him, similar to how he’d held himself the night the Veil had been healed. He looked the knight up and down, the evidence of his latest training session evident on him, and twisted his face into a grimace. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a wash?”
Lancelot hopped up the steps so he could grab his elbow before he tottered to the side.
“You’ll wish I had, if wherever I have to carry you is very far,” he said as they started walking.
“I’m already wishing it, thank you.” Merlin croaked out a laugh. Even after all this time, fine tremors continued running through his body. “And… yes, I think this will be the rest of your day.”
Lancelot smiled.
“Just what I wanted to hear.”
~~~*~~~
When they reached the forest clearing, well into dusk, Merlin had to rest. They both would’ve preferred looking for a convenient stump to sit on, but his legs just gave up, so they ended up on the ground while they recovered. Merlin had started putting more and more of his weight on Lancelot as time went on, so he appreciated the break as well.
“So. What exactly are we doing here? Besides calling this dragon, I get that,” he waved off. He’d figured that out when they’d taken the postern gate towards the Darkling Woods, as they had planned to do some nights ago. “I mean, what are we hoping to accomplish?”
Merlin heaved deep sigh. He ran his hands through his face and hair roughly, but, then, he looked so haggard that even that couldn’t make it worse.
“Kilgharrah… is the one who first told me about my destiny. About Albion and my magic and… Arthur.” He nodded to himself with urgency. “He knows all about the prophecies. If anyone knows what happened… or what I’m supposed to do next… I just need to know.”
He trailed off into silence. Lancelot tipped to the side and pressed their shoulders together. Merlin pressed back. After a few moments, he seemed a lot more settled. He nudged Lancelot to warn him he was standing up.
Then, once on his feet, he threw his head back and roared.
Lancelot had become familiar with the mess of syllables that carried his friend’s magic, despite his own lack of comprehension. But this was different. These snarls and growls sounded nothing like his usual spells. They came straight from his chest or maybe even deeper, and rattled the air as if it jumped to attention to respond. They felt like power.
It took Lancelot a few seconds to recover his own voice once Merlin finished.
“So that was you… calling him?” At Merlin’s amused nod, he looked around. “Where is he?”
“Give him a moment,” he snorted.
The forest around them had quieted at his display, but soon nature rallied. Owls hooted and crickets called. The wind played the leaves like a rattle.
Merlin gave a soft kick to the ground. “We were never going to make it in time.”
Lancelot was saved from replying by a flapping sound. In the blink of an eye, it grew from a distant flutter to rolls of thunder, delivered along with their own storms by gigantic, leathery wings. The mighty beast they belonged to covered the moon, so it was cast in shadow, lit only at the edges to form a reptilian silhouette trimmed by barb-like scales. Patches of brightness illuminated its ridged face and glinted off its fangs. Its eyes, though, shone with light all their own. Its eyes froze Lancelot to the spot.
It landed as an earthquake and lifted its head high, finally letting itself be seen in its full glory. Then it bent its neck in a deep bow.
Merlin returned it in equal measure.
“Thank you for coming,” he started, but the dragon cut him off.
“Who is your friend?” it —he, he could speak— demanded.
Instead of answering, Merlin turned to Lancelot. He braced himself and took a step forward, sketching a smaller bow than the ones previous.
“I’m Lancelot.”
Somehow, the dragon’s features smoothed over into something almost pleasant.
“Ah, of course.” Its voice shifted from gruff to gracious. “Sir Lancelot, the bravest and most noble of them all.”
Lancelot shifted, thinking of the past week, of broken vows and cowardice.
“I’m not sure that's true,” he said delicately.
“We shall see,” the dragon replied. Then he turned to Merlin. “Young warlock, it gladdens me to see you alive and well. Though our connection told me as much, one can’t be too certain of anything, in these times of turmoil.”
Merlin took a step back, stricken.
“So it’s true? Arthur is dead?”
The dragon reared its head, equally staggered.
“Why would you ask that?”
“The Veil…” Merlin explained, more hesitant. “The spirit world would demand a sacrifice to heal it…”
“Not the spirit world — it is the Cailleach, its gatekeeper, who would’ve asked such a price,” the dragon corrected him.
“Arthur was on his way to the Isle of the Blessed to fix things. We were all convinced that only a blood sacrifice would do. Then I felt the Veil heal, the Dorocha are gone… I thought...” Cautious hope was growing on his face. “Could the Cailleach have taken some other reward?”
“Not unless she was forced to do so, and I know of no power that could have done that.” The dragon’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, his teeth showing. His nostrils twitched in a way that made Lancelot worry that fire would be imminent. “Especially with you here. You couldn’t have returned so quickly from the Isle. Why weren’t you with the prince?”
“He was injured,” Lancelot stepped forward. “A Dorocha hit him. I’m the one who took him away from the quest and brought him to Camelot—”
“So that is what I sensed.” Kilgharrah pulled back. “You were very lucky indeed to have survived.”
“I had some help,” Merlin said. “The Vilia healed me.”
“We have much to thank them for, then, although I suspect your own constitution deserves a fair share of the credit. There is a limit to what the dead can do for the living. Even now, residues of the specters linger on you.” He straightened his neck. “Step forward, young warlock, so that I may rid you of them.”
Merlin did as he was told, sparing Lancelot a, “Don’t worry, he’s gonna help.”
Before the dragon breathed fire at him.
Lancelot lunged forward, hand on his sword, but stopped himself. Merlin had asked him to trust. Somewhat calmer, he noticed that it wasn’t flames that the dragon was shooting but some multicoloured glare. It was hard to grasp, much less describe it in his own head. The closest he got was thinking that it looked like pure magic.
Finally, the dragon drew back. Merlin stumbled a little, then straightened up. Even in the dimness of night, the change was evident. He held himself without as much effort, at ease for the first time since the attack. Lancelot couldn’t be sure, but he thought the bags under his eyes had gone away and even his pallor didn’t seem as bad, the deathly grey turned moon bright.
Merlin took a content breath.
“Thank you.”
“It would have faded on its own,” Kilgharrah said modestly. “Now, let’s return to the matter of the Veil. The issue is not as finished as you believe, although it’s not all disagreeable. I can assure you — Prince Arthur is still alive.”
A dizzy laugh sounded in the clearing. It took Lancelot a moment to realize it had come from himself. His relief was so great it was almost like its own weight. Merlin turned to him and they shared a joyful smile.
Kilgharrah only gave a grave nod.
“There may be a time for Albion yet, and you and The Once and Future King will be central in bringing it about. However, nothing else is as clear.”
“What do you mean?” Merlin asked, still giddy, but slowly coming down from his high.
“Fate is, at its core, the tapestry of life and death. When the witch,” he spit out the word, “tore the Veil between the worlds, all of it was sent into disarray. With its healing, the threads could have been rewoven, if not quite the same, then close enough. The tapestry could have been restored.”
“You just said that it was,” Merlin protested.
“It was mended,” he clarified, “and some aspects of it are still recognizable. However, it is not as before. Some threads have been pulled in an unforeseen direction. Threads perhaps not pivotal on their own, but so tightly interwoven in the pattern that moving one meant moving all.” For a moment there, Lancelot could’ve sworn the dragon glanced at him. “Too much so to return to what it once was. Now, the tapestry has taken a new design. I fear I cannot decipher it.”
“You don’t know that it was a bad change,” Merlin pointed out. “Arthur survived what were by all means unsurmountable odds. Maybe destiny has made way for him, and all the challenges and threats that you warned me about may not come to pass — Mordred, Morgana…”
Lancelot felt a pang of pity for his friend and his stubborn faith in the people that he cared about, even if it had been long ago. Fortunately, Kilgharrah explained the issue in his stead, although without as much care as he might have preferred.
“Morgana just released the spirits of the dead upon the land, an act whose full consequences remain to be seen,” he blustered. “She is Albion’s enemy, and yours. That has already come to pass. As for the rest, it’s true, some tragedies may have been avoided. Or they may not, and we will be blind to them, as well as to any other threat.” His voice lost some of its sharpness and real concern shone through when he said, “I will not be able to guide you anymore.”
Merlin swallowed heavily in the loaded silence that followed. Lancelot stepped forward, unable to stand the dread that he could see overcoming him.
“Does that mean you’ll stop helping him?” he asked Kilgharrah.
“Of course not,” the dragon replied at once, head held high. “As I’ve made clear many times before, my loyalty lies with you, Merlin.”
“Not that many times,” his friend joked weakly, but he did appear a bit comforted.
“See? We’ll figure it out, somehow. Even if we have to do it without a prophecy,” Lancelot said, squeezing his shoulder.
Merlin’s smile dropped once more.
“We don’t have much of a choice.” Even so, he squeezing his forearm back.
“It was well said, nonetheless,” Kilgharrah said. There seemed to be a new warmth in his voice. “You will do well to keep this reminder of hope near you, Merlin. And, Sir Lancelot.” He gathered momentum and took flight. “Well met.”
He left the way he came, and just as suddenly.
“You surprised him, I think,” Merlin said out of nowhere as they walked back.
“To be honest, it doesn’t seem possible.”
“I wouldn’t have thought it so before tonight, either, but there it was,” Merlin laughed. Much of the doom he’d been carrying recently had been relieved. It was good to see. “He wasn’t expecting you.”
“He knew who I was,” Lancelot contested. He was struck by the possibility that Merlin had talked to Kilgharrah about him.
“I only know what I saw,” Merlin insisted one last time, without much heat.
“I surprised him, that’s all well and good, but did he like me?” he deflected.
“Oh.” Merlin bumped their shoulders together with a mischievous smile. “How could he not?”
~~~*~~~
The next day dawned with the ringing of the bells. Lancelot shot out of his bed and had his armour on before he realized that it wasn’t the chimes that alerted of a threat, but those reserved for welcoming an entourage. A good thing, too, since in his hurry he’d forgotten to put on a gambeson underneath his chainmail.
He suspected he still wasn’t the model of knightly propriety when he got to the main square. Everyone else was caught up in their own excitement as well, though. He slowed down when he saw Gwen fly down the stairs, but not for long. She was resplendent with a huge smile and tears of joy threatening at her eyes. The loud cheers coming from the town didn’t leave much doubt about Arthur’s state.
Lancelot thought about approaching her now, when the fear for her beloved wasn’t so oppressive. It felt mercenary, though. Besides, he wasn’t sure he deserved her forgiveness, not even were she willing to give it. He’d have to search for his absolution, instead of stealing it like a vulture.
A hand on his elbow wrenched him out of his somber musings. Merlin was grabbing on to him with barely contained glee. He’d once again decided that his sleep shirt would do, as long as he had his jacket on. Fortunately, he was wearing his boots as well.
“Here it comes,” he whispered before Lancelot could comment on it.
The knight answered with a smile and they turned to watch the entrance as the clamours grew louder and nearer.
Then Lancelot noticed how odd the sounds were. He couldn’t quite put his finger on how, except that their echoes were strange. Suddenly, they stopped. Only clops and whinnies could be heard from the gates’ corridor. Those gathered in the Courtyard prepared to celebrate. Lancelot felt dizzy. The world tipped, the only point of stability Merlin’s hand around his elbow, and for a moment he was sure that he was dreaming.
Then Llamrei’s white head appeared, Arthur right behind, and the world righted itself. Several gasps of relief sounded in the square and applause broke out, but Lancelot saw a reason to brace himself in the prince’s grave expression. After him, all worse for the wear, came Gwaine, then Elyan, then Percival and then.
And then, Lancelot thought. Realization made its way through the quieted crowd. Merlin gripped his arm for dear life and Lancelot let it anchor him in reality, though he couldn’t make his numb body respond.
Once the knights made it to the centre of the square, Gwen walked forward to meet them. From behind, all they could see was her back, shoulders set, their solidity belied by her tight fists. When Arthur dismounted, she drew him into a hug. They held each other for a few moments that felt like eternity, so still was everything around them.
And then Arthur stepped back and addressed everyone, his stony façade just a little bit cracked, his hand holding on to Gwen’s.