Work Text:
The Hunters of the Round Table stared at Lancelot with a mixture of awe and horror in their eyes. He knelt on one knee in the middle of the barn, black blood dripping off of him. Those of them that still wore their own blessed glasses could see the body of the hellhound lying in front of him, throat torn open in a parody of how it would have killed its own victim had the hunter not been there.
“I guess it’s me then,” he said solemnly, breaking the hushed silence that had fallen over the group. He planted the demon knife in the soft dirt in the same movement as pushing himself to his feet. “Can you remind me of the words?” He was clearly addressing Merlin, but when the warlock didn’t react, it was Leon who grabbed the paper from his hand and brought it over to Lancelot.
“It was supposed to be me,” Arthur said, at once despondent and relieved, as the other hunter and Man of Letters took off his blood-smeared blessed glasses.
“I’m glad it isn’t,” Lancelot said, before unfolding and reading the spell. “Kah nuh ahm dahr.” Immediately he doubled over in apparent pain, dropping back to one knee, and that was enough to pop Merlin out of his apparent shock. The medic bolted over to him, grabbed his shoulders.
“Lance! Lance, what’s going on, talk to me!” Merlin asked, frantic, as his friend’s forearms began to glow an unearthly shade of octarine.
“I’m fine,” the hunter hissed back through gritted teeth as the color began to fade. It dissipated completely, and with a heavy breath out, Lancelot was able to straighten up again. “I’m okay, really.”
“No, you aren’t,” Merlin said, pressing his forehead to the other man’s. There were tears in his eyes. The other hunters turned away, knowing that grief was something personal. He blinked, the tears fell, and the moment passed. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Lancelot insisted on still hunting, even though he was clearly not at a hundred percent. He went with a different partner each time, and went slow. He got to know the towns and people they visited more than was strictly necessary for the case, and went sightseeing on his way to and from the bunker. He and Merlin spent most of a month rambling around in the canyons of the Southwest canyons after they put down a werecoyote.
A week later, Lancelot saved his little sister's soul from Hell. When the hellhound had come for his father's soul, the daughter's, still such a little thing, had been snagged on its claws and dragged down. Now, his sister was on her way up to heaven.
He would be joining her soon, he realized. After performing the second spell, the pain didn't go away. It abated some, enough that he could stand and pretend he was fine for the time it took for them to get back to the bunker. He knew he wasn't alright though. As soon as they got home, he crawled into his bed and curled up beneath the covers. Merlin came in and rubbed his back as he cried himself to sleep.
The next day, Lancelot resolved himself and got to work. He didn't try to hide the pain from the others, but neither did he complain about it. Acknowledging that he wasn't in any shape to be hunting anymore, he helped Merlin out with the research for their cases and on how to cure a demon. At the same time, he started writing down the old cases he had worked alone. He didn't want the details to be lost when he wasn't around to tell the story anymore. When his hand started to cramp up too badly from holding a pen, he would just talk aloud and Gaius would transcribe. With all the time they were spending together, as the physician tried to find something to alleviate the symptoms, Lancelot learned that the old man had a sense of humor so dark that he’d never let it come to light before.
“I’m going to miss you,” the old man said one day. “I’ve rather liked having someone around to outlive.”
When even just talking got too exhausting, he would curl up on the couch, usually with one of the others, but sometimes alone, and watched one of the movies he had been planning to see but hadn't gotten around to yet. Someone, usually Gwen, would bring him a dinner that someone, usually Gwaine, had cooked. The boisterous hunter was actually a surprisingly good chef, and more than that, a considerate one. After Lancelot got sick to his stomach once when the symptoms were bad, Gwaine made sure all his meals were easy to digest, not too rich with what might be described as gentle flavors.
More than anything else, Lance’s friends made sure he was never alone if he didn't specifically ask to be. The default became that he didn't even sleep alone. Often, Gwen would curl up on one side of him, Arthur on the other. Merlin was a notorious blanket hog, so he brought his own sleeping bag when it was his turn so Lance wouldn’t get cold. Leon and Elyan didn't feel close enough to Lancelot to lie in bed with him, but they would sit in the armchair and read or browse the internet for an hour or so until the other hunter fell asleep. Gwaine, whose insomnia typically kept him up to all hours, actually slept better beside Lancelot and usually fell asleep first. Percival snored horribly and took up three quarters of the bed, but having him there was still nice. It made Lance feel loved.
When the time came, Lancelot had no last words beyond the spell. It was just him, Merlin, and the soon-to-be-human in the abandoned church. Light streamed out of slash in his hand, and he turned to Merlin. As he pressed his palm to the demon's forehead, curing him and closing the gates of Hell, he was smiling.
Not everyone had something to say at the funeral. Gwaine was uncharacteristically silent, along with Leon, Percival, and, surprisingly, Arthur. If they whispered anything, the pounding rain masked the sound. It had been pouring since Lancelot cured the demon. Closing the gates of Hell must’ve created some kind of atmospheric disturbance, or else the sky was just crying.
Elyan was the first to speak. “I remember the look on his face, right after he killed the hellhound. And I think it will haunt me for the rest of my life, because I know I will never face my own death with so much dignity.”
“He did everything like that,” Gwen agreed with her brother. “He admitted whenever he was scared, but never let it hold him back. He was open in a way that I couldn't have hoped to find in a man who had been alone for as long as he had.”
You caused that, Merlin thought but didn’t say. You made him a better, more trusting man and he loved you for it. He let all of them stand with their thoughts in the rain for a while before starting what wasn't exactly a eulogy, but would be the last words said while the body burned.
"He will be remembered," Merlin said. "Not for the man he was; when we are all gone, those memories will be gone too. But he will be remembered for what he did. Long after hunters forget the words to the exorcisms and stop carrying holy water, they will remember him as the reason why. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten. We will write down your name, Lancelot, and they will honor you. They will remember. We will remember."