Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A tourney is hardly what Merlin would call a romantic gesture, but Arthur insisted and Gwen seems to be enjoying herself, smiling brightly at every decorated ring the knights bring for her.

She thanks Sir Percival as she takes the ring from his lance then steps back to sit down, letting him ride off with a happy grin. 

Trumpets announce another participant.  Arthur and Merlin turn to the entrance, surprised since all the gathered knights have already offered their rings to the lady of the day. 

A new rider runs the practice joust. 

Arthur is disgruntled.  He personally sees to every knight of the kingdom and is familiar with most every one of the realm, yet he’s at a loss. “Who on earth’s that?” 

“I have no idea,” Merlin admits, wondering what brave person has come to impress the king’s fiancée knowing he’ll be facing the Knights of Camelot themselves. 

The stranger catches the ring with his lance and the crowd cheers for the show of skill.  From where they are, Merlin and Arthur have a good view of Gwen in the stands, politely applauding the stranger.  She steps down to take the decorated ring with a furrowed brow, just as confused as everyone else about the unknown man. 

The knight pulls off his helmet. 

Gwen’s confusion twists — she’s disturbed. 

Merlin is next to recognise the stranger, who is not a stranger at all.  His pulse fills his chest like the heartburn before the reflux, a heavy weight threatening to suffocate him. 

It can’t be, but it is: Lancelot stares up at Gwen, looking just the same as the day he walked through the Veil — the day he died. 

Lancelot pulls his horse back and nods respectfully to Arthur.  His eyes barely glance over Merlin, as though he’s just another face in the crowd. 

Anyone who even vaguely knew Lancelot enough to recognise him all stare at him, stunned.

Merlin and Gwen meet eyes across the tourney field, a dawning feeling like horror on their faces.  What should be a miraculous reunion is tainted by the dreadful feeling that something is wrong.

The dining hall is quiet of distractions as everyone pays close attention to the undead knight seated across from the king and his fiancée.

Lancelot tells the story of a nomadic people who took him in.  He is Lancelot — he speaks just the same and acts like the man they all know — but Merlin feels unsettled by his presence, like something integral to Lancelot is…askew.  They haven’t met for more than a moment the entire day, Lancelot never saying a word to him, and now he does not even glance beyond Arthur to where Merlin stands ready to serve.

There was a time when Merlin was the first person Lancelot would look for in a room.

Lancelot says something humorous based on his smile and the guffaws round the table, but Merlin isn’t able to focus beyond the niggling impression that something is off .  The man should be as dead as possible, unreachable — Merlin has tried — but he sits at the end of the table like he’s simply been lost for a while, the same man but two steps to the left.

“You made your way home,” Arthur concludes with a pleased air, reaching out to take Gwen’s hand on the table.

Gwen’s attention darts to Arthur at the gesture, smiling tightly, then looks further back to catch Merlin’s attention.  They exchange silent expressions that betray the ease they both try to display.  Only the two of them seem to be so unsure of Lancelot’s reappearance, everyone else taking it in stride.

“I would like to propose a toast,” Lancelot announces, standing. “To the people I hold most dear.”

Merlin twitches at the jealousy and confusion in his heart as Lancelot raises his glass to the knights seated around him, never considering to look past Arthur’s shoulder at one of the people who had grieved him most, who still grieves for him even as he seems to be living and breathing right in front of them all.

Everyone raises their cups, “To Camelot.”

The relief of a returned friend softens Arthur’s shoulders — here, he is not the king, he’s just Arthur.

“To Camelot.”

Lancelot smiles and brings his cup to his lips.  Finally, finally, his eyes drift to Merlin.  His smile fades — there is no humour in his eyes to disappear — then his gaze falls away as he drinks.

Not a glimmer of kindness or familiarity.

Merlin wants to brush off all his odd feelings with excuses of Lancelot’s time away, but he cannot believe that a man like Lancelot could dismiss the connection shared with someone he claimed to have loved as Merlin.

Merlin clasps his hands tightly and keeps an eye on his dear friend, a stranger.

Chapter Text

Merlin bursts into his own room, looking around to make sure it’s not an absolute mess.  Lancelot has seen it worse, but it’s still instinct to be presentable when there are guests.  At least with Lancelot, he can sweep away any mess with magic instead of fumbling around as though his day job isn’t mostly cleaning.

“You can have my bed.” 

Just like when they met… Merlin expects Lancelot to bring that up, but maybe he’s just trying too hard to prove something he’s barely sure of.

“No, no,” Lancelot brushes him off, noble to the extreme just as usual. 

They could share, or Lancelot could wait an hour or so for one of the knights’ rooms to be cleaned and his old belongings moved in, or they could- Well, Merlin can think of a lot of solutions, mostly things he knows that Lancelot would’ve suggested because he carries the memory of the man like a favoured, tragic bedtime story.  It’s unfair to expect someone to act exactly as you expect, especially after months of grief and distance, so Merlin scolds himself and lets it go. 

Whatever the Veil had done to Lancelot, Merlin is not going to refuse the gift of a friend returned, even if it’ll take a while to settle back into a relationship once life-encompassing and ripped away so suddenly.

“Really, after all you've been through...it's the least I can do.”

“Thank you, Merlin,” Lancelot says, then — because he’s always been able to read Merlin like an open book — adds, “It's good to see you, too.” 

Merlin lets himself fall into what feels like a lie, half ready to run into Lancelot’s arms right there and then despite the man making no effort to stand as close to him as they once usually did.  He misses Lancelot so much, had spent months simmering with guilt and ‘what if’s and returning to empty rooms knowing Lancelot would never be there to greet him again.  He’d spent so long missing Lancelot that standing before the man feels like a fragile lie — Merlin still misses Lancelot. 

Like it’s always been, spilling his secrets is easy with Lancelot. 

“I've spent so long thinking about...what happened.  Could I have saved you? And if there was anything I could have done.” Merlin swallows heavily, trying to remember what it feels like for someone to know so much about him, for Lancelot to share the burden of secrets. “If I could have used magic…” 

Lancelot smiles, but it’s not the right smile.  His eyes do not crinkle with concern, he does not even offer token protests at Merlin thinking he could’ve changed anything.

“If any of us had any magic, Merlin…” Lancelot walks past Merlin, clasping a hand on his shoulder, and Merlin feels himself chill to the bone.  Lancelot sits on the bed. “Life would be a lot easier.” 

Merlin throws out all doubts that this isn’t the real Lancelot. 

Something is horribly wrong and he needs to figure out what before everything goes sideways and Camelot is put in danger.  Merlin plasters on a grin that the real Lancelot would’ve clocked as fake instantly and leaves with only a carefully-controlled “Goodnight.” 

Merlin closes the door behind him and steps down into the main room of the physician's chambers.  Gaius watches him return and questions his worried face.

“I want to believe that everything is fine,” Merlin admits, knowing now that he can’t. “And that we really have Lancelot back.”

Gaius tries to assure him, or maybe he’s just letting Merlin draw his own conclusions since he’d never known Lancelot as well as the knights, Gwen and Merlin, “It certainly looks like him.” Gaius knows Merlin too well, one of the only people in Camelot who can consistently call him out, and recognises that Merlin has greater suspicions. Gaius takes a long look at him and asks, “What is it?”

“I don't know.  Something's wrong.” Merlin walks to sit at Gaius’ side, leaning closer and lowering his voice so there’s no chance of not-Lancelot overhearing, “When he was telling his story, I sensed something wrong.  Then the way he greeted me, that made me suspicious.  But what happened just now — that's made me sure.  He forgot I have magic.  Lancelot would never do that.” 

Lancelot had loved Merlin’s magic, had seemed to share the awe of him that the druids touted but Merlin had never quite understood.  To Lancelot, Merlin was unerringly human and beautiful, and they had loved each other, enough for Lancelot to give his life for Merlin’s.  Nothing about this Lancelot is quite right, dressed in black and overlooking Merlin as though they had not shared their everything with each other.  Even when he comes close, it’s paired with something so irreconcilably not Lancelot that Merlin can’t feel at ease.

Gaius hums non-committally, already dismissing Merlin, “Strange, indeed.  Give him time.” 

As if Lancelot’s very core needs time to settle back into its usual shape, as if it’s just some surface memories that are missing and not the very foundation of Merlin and Lancelot’s relationship.  Gaius dismisses the notion that the man in Merlin’s room isn’t Lancelot as though Merlin does not know the knight as he knows Arthur, the other half of his very soul. 

It doesn’t matter what Gaius thinks because Merlin knows the truth.  Besides, there’s someone more important who cared very much for Lancelot as well…

Gwen has not been a personal servant since Morgana had turned her back on Camelot, so she spends her morning enjoying a breakfast she cooks herself and plans to head to the citadel a few hours before noon when the servants get busy and need every spare set of hands.  It is as it has been every day since Morgana left. 

In the peaceful morning, her thoughts turn to Lancelot’s sudden return.  She hadn’t managed to pull Merlin aside to talk to him properly, but she knows they’re both unsure of the sincerity of this miracle.  There had just been something not quite right about Lancelot…or perhaps she just fears that it’s all too good to be true. 

Gwen is brushing her hair, almost ready to go out, when someone knocks on the door.  She opens it to find Lancelot leaning against the door frame, a charming smile directed to her — the situation disarms her completely. 

It still knocks her off-balance to see Lancelot alive, even more to hear his voice wherein recent times it’s only been a rapidly-fading memory. “May I come in?” 

Gwen tenses.  She is an engaged woman, but also still a servant — she has every reason to avoid being alone with a bachelor knight, especially in her own home.  The unsettled feeling at Lancelot’s presence does not leave; she cannot shake how he disturbs her.  But neither can she shake off the way her heart warms at his presence, the way she longs to hold him in her arms as she’s missed for so long.

Lancelot sees her hesitance and clarifies, “I only want to wish you well.” 

Gwen pushes away the odd feeling she has, sure of Lancelot’s chivalry if nothing else.  He would not come for a taken woman, especially after having been the one to let her go.  She allows him in, the space between them strangely intimate now that the outside world is closed away.

Seeing him in front of her, alive and breathing and smiling so kindly, Gwen wonders if her distrust at his presence is a symptom of herself and not him, if this is more about how she feels about what happened.  Lancelot is right in front of her and she can barely bring herself to be happy.  It’s unfair to him. 

“When I heard what you'd done, I felt so guilty.” Lancelot tries to deny it, the noble man that he is, but Gwen interrupts, “You were protecting Arthur, just as I'd asked.” 

Lancelot nods, but Gwen feels off-put by the reaction.  She blames herself and has always felt the weight of Lancelot’s decision, but she also knows of Merlin’s guilt too.  When he had confided in her after everyone but Lancelot returned from the quest to close the Veil, he’d heavily implied that Lancelot’s last words, his final actions, had been with Merlin in mind.  Gwen knows how close the two of them had been — maybe not each other’s missing halves but they certainly understood each other more deeply than Gwen had ever understood either of them.  Lancelot’s response feels like a betrayal of what she knows.  Gwen hadn’t intended her slightly misguided guilt as a test, but now she really needs to talk to Merlin.

Lancelot steps closer and she resists the urge to back away (and the urge to step into his arms).

“I did what I felt was right in my heart.  You taught me that, Gwen: to be true to myself.” And doesn’t that feel like a twist of the truth, of the times she’s seen Lancelot and Merlin huddled together, conspiring like lifelong partners while Gwen barely got a bit of his heart for a time. “You will make a wonderful queen.  Your love for your people is surpassed only by your love for Arthur.” 

That feels exactly like something Lancelot would say and it so easily strikes at the affections she’s always had for him, detangling her worries like a comb through hair; yet the unease does not shift, always simmering just out of sight. 

Lancelot pulls out a cloth and unwraps it to reveal a bracelet.  He claims it as a token of good fortune from the people who’d saved him after the Veil. “I'd like you to wear it, for I see their goodness in you.” He takes her hand and puts the bracelet on her wrist. Gwen’s not sure Lancelot’s talking about the bracelet when he continues, “It is a rare thing.  And I was lucky to have been touched by it.” 

Gwen gives him a small smile, unsteady and unsure but knowing her heart has already accepted Lancelot back.  She can argue with herself that it’s impossible for Lancelot to be back, or maybe otherwise he’s been touched by powerful magic, until she believes it, but he knows just how to push past her grief and get at the part of her which wants desperately for this to be Lancelot, no strings attached. 

Lancelot steps even closer, taking her face in his hands, and she tenses in anticipation — for what, she dares not consider for what the assumptions will reveal about herself. 

Lancelot kisses her forehead.  She isn’t disappointed, though there’s an odd feeling in her chest.  She relaxes with a relieved sigh.

“I wish you and Arthur everlasting happiness, Gwen,” Lancelot says, hands warming her cheeks. 

Lancelot looks back at her with a soft expression as he leaves. 

Gwen smiles back, but it fades at the gentle weight of the bracelet on her wrist, reminding her of the gift.  She studies it uncertainly — it’s nice, not notably expensive but too close to a courting-style gift for Gwen’s comfort. 

She forgets about the bracelet as she heads to the citadel.  Servant work is busy even without someone to personally attend and Gwen is happy to be occupied, stealing a few moments with Arthur but refusing his invitations to spend the day together, trying to keep her normal for as long as possible even if she is to become nobility upon their wedding.  Everything will change, sooner than she can imagine, but she can keep this a little longer. 

That afternoon, after the sun has cooled a bit and the knights are well-fed, the first round of jousts are held. 

Arthur, the best knight in the kingdom, rides gloriously and swiftly wins his bout.  It’s much like the tourney that was held what feels like an eternity ago, when Gwen and Merlin had helped Arthur anonymously participate so the other knights wouldn’t go easy on him just for being their (at the time) prince.  Where then they had come together only to be pulled apart by their class and King Uther, now Gwen finds herself nearly on even ground with Arthur — by their wedding night, no one will be able to question their relationship, for she will be Arthur’s queen. 

Gwen feels giddy as Arthur dedicates his win to her and knows that she could find nobody better to marry when she sees his proud smile.  To be loved back by someone like Arthur is special, it’s everything she could ever dream.  Her heart tugs as though to follow him when he rides off the field. 

The tourney delights Gwen, for every silly grin the victorious knights send her and the lamenting of Gwaine as he’s dashed from his horse, loudly proclaiming he shall have to relinquish his love for the fair Lady Guinevere after all!  All the knights have similar dramatic declarations, knowing they’ll never have her heart though perhaps they can embarrass each other along the way.  The knights of Camelot are dear to Gwen and she to them, and she cannot imagine living anywhere else.  This is her home, these are her friends, and the entire event is in honour of her marrying the love of her life. 

Gwen searches the edges of the field and spots Merlin helping Arthur out of his armour, grinning brightly as Merlin notices her staring and waves. 

Yes, her life is wonderful. 

Merlin’s gaze is drawn away and his smile falls; Lancelot rides onto the field.  Gwen’s earlier apprehension about him returns at Merlin’s reaction.  He’d once been closest to Lancelot and clearly Gwen isn’t the only one worrying that something isn’t right.  She isn’t sure how she’d forgotten their shared concerned glances yesterday, but it’s hard to ignore when she can see Merlin tracking Lancelot’s figure like a hunting dog. 

Lancelot demolishes his opponent, a skilled knight even after months off horseback.  Gwen gives her praises, earning a charming smile sent her way.  She’s just as enthusiastic for his win as all the other knights, and his fallen opponent is just as dramatic in his languish over his loss. 

When her eyes tear away from Lancelot, Gwen catches Merlin’s figure again — she needs to find Merlin the moment she’s free and talk to him.  The uncertainty and unease is weighing on them both.

Chapter Text

The day after Lancelot’s arrival, Merlin wakes in the grey-blue dark before dawn as usual.

The chill of the Dorocha settles into his bones as it does every waking hour, never when he’s unconscious, only coming for him when he can actually notice it.  He will not freeze and die any more than another man in the same place, but he has to drag himself out of bed with more effort than before the incident at the Isle of the Blessed.  The patient cot is twice as uncomfortable as his own bed where Lancelot sleeps, a reminder of what he lost and what he may not have back. 

Merlin lights the fire in the physician’s chambers, the heat barely skimming Merlin’s skin, bringing only the slightest reprieve from the otherworldly chill.  His breath dims the flames when he drifts too close.  Not even the fire licking right at his skin can make a difference — Merlin wonders if the pyre will be the next time he feels warm. 

Gaius is still asleep so Merlin runs down to the kitchens to get them both breakfast — then backtracks to the kitchens to snatch up some extra for their guest.  Just because he’s a liar wearing the face of a beloved, lost friend doesn’t mean not-Lancelot should be denied food. 

Breakfast ends up being an unusually quiet affair, Merlin not trusting to speak even vaguely of magic or other private affairs while not-Lancelot sits with them, up early for a knight but likely disturbed to waking by the morning bustle of the physician’s chambers.  Gaius makes a valiant effort to not look suspiciously between Merlin and Lancelot — he acts more like they’re having a lover’s spat than that Lancelot is a stranger wearing a friend’s skin, but at least he’s taking Merlin’s worries into account at all. 

Merlin doesn’t want to leave the stranger unsupervised, but he has multiple jobs and there’s little to do to convince a perfectly healthy man to stay locked up in the physician’s chambers. 

He attends Arthur as efficiently as possible, simultaneously getting strange looks at his hurry and an argument for his presence.  Time with Arthur soothes Merlin’s moods, Arthur somehow always knowing when something is off with Merlin and doubling his teasing until Merlin snipes back with a silly grin, tension pouring away.  Merlin has good friends; he doesn’t appreciate whatever cruel magic has stolen one’s face. 

Merlin is bringing Arthur’s laundry to the washroom when he passes Lancelot, who seems a bit frustrated or confused.

“You okay there, Lancelot?” Merlin asks, noting how the man easily responds to the name and wonders if he truly believes himself Lancelot or has just trained his story well. 

Not-Lancelot puts on a sheepish expression. “Ah, I’m looking for Gwen.” 

“What are you doing in the citadel, then? You know where she lives.” 

Lancelot looks surprised but is not forthcoming on why he thinks Gwen would’ve moved, maybe assuming the king’s fiancée would already be living like royalty.  Merlin stays suspicious. 

“Thank you, Merlin,” Lancelot says then leaves. 

Nothing more.  Merlin’s heart aches even though he knows now that this Lancelot has no idea what the real Lancelot meant to Merlin and Merlin to Lancelot. 

Strangely enough, Merlin realises that Lancelot is heading further into the castle instead of towards an exit.  Whatever he wants Gwen for must not be too urgent — or maybe he doesn’t know where she lives and is going to ask someone.  Could there be someone in Camelot, in the citadel itself, helping the fake Lancelot? He could be working alone and just went off to look for someone who wasn’t close enough to the real Lancelot to consider such questions suspicious. 

Merlin remembers the laundry in his arms and sighs.  Arthur’s potential temper reigns victorious over the idea of following around a dead man. 

He needs to do research later, he decides.  An excuse to Arthur about his duties to Gaius will be enough, and Gaius will cover for him if anyone comes knocking only to find him absent. 

Merlin gets on with his chores, wondering all the while what magic could be at work.  The Veil definitely killed Lancelot — powerful magical bargains cannot be based on lies, though the manipulation of the exact wording is easy enough.  But the Cailleach had been clear and Merlin is sure beyond a doubt that Lancelot died when he walked through that Veil.  So then what? That means Lancelot was brought back from the dead, or someone is pretending to be him with a transformation (not an illusion, for there’d been no body after the Veil to burn, let alone something of it to use for an enchantment of such detail). 

That afternoon, the library welcomes Merlin like a dusty old friend and the royal librarian turns a blind eye to Merlin heading straight for the hidden alcove housing very illegal books on magic. 

The floor is hard and the room dark.  Merlin conjures a light he can easily dismiss and deny if he’s caught, and starts reading any title that seems relevant. 

It seems an entire day passes before Merlin finds a book that seems promising, face grim as he leaves the library with it smuggled under his tunic, avoiding the librarian as he scampers to the physician’s chambers to hide the book before the tourney. 

‘The Art of Necromancy’ tells Merlin everything he needs to know and more. 

That night, as he eats dinner across from Gaius in the physician’s chambers, Merlin tries to act casual.  Gaius will be quick to shut down Merlin’s suspicions about new arrivals and magical conspiracies, so he needs to be clever about this. 

“Chicken is good.  Nice broth.  What do you know about necromancy?” 

Gaius stops with a spoon halfway to his mouth, looking at him incredulously. “What?”

“Well, you know lots...about lots of things, don't you?” Merlin says very cleverly. 

Gaius thankfully understands what he’s getting at, frowning at him, “Necromancy is the most dangerous of all magical practices.  Even in the days of the Old Religion, such sorcery was viewed with the utmost suspicion.  I know I'm going to regret asking this, Merlin, but why do you want to know?” 

Merlin looks at his bedroom door, beyond which he knows not-Lancelot is resting in his bed.  There was a time when he’d rather be sitting and eating with Lancelot than Gaius, when Lancelot would have put himself at the same table even if he wasn’t hungry just so he could spend time with Merlin.

“I think that someone has raised Lancelot from the dead,” he explains, because he really doesn’t buy the story about the Veil not killing him and the fortune of his healthy return. 

There’s a knock from outside before the conversation can get anywhere and Gaius tells the person to come in. 

Gwen enters and closes the door behind her, clearly not here for medical attention.  Merlin had completely forgotten to go find her during the day, too busy researching and not even thinking about how she’s taking the Lancelot situation. 

He goes to stand and tell her all this, make his excuses and ask her now, but she’s already coming to his side and saying lowly, “Something’s wrong with Lancelot, you feel it too.” 

“Yes!” Merlin says too loudly, feeling vindicated. 

His head snaps back to the bedroom, worried that not-Lancelot will hear and come out. 

“He’s staying here?” Gwen asks at his reaction, sitting down when Merlin shuffles over to give her space at the table. 

Gwen’s warmth at his side is a comfort to Merlin but he knows his own chill does not lend any in return. 

“It’s for the best, especially because…” Merlin glances at Gaius but does not wait for approval because Gwen deserves to know, “I think someone used necromancy to raise Lancelot from the dead.” 

“Magic?” Gwen gasps, and Merlin tries to not feel the sting of his existence spoken of with fear from his best friend.

“By ‘someone’,” Gaius interrupts, surrendering to Merlin’s insistence of Gwen knowing what’s going on, “I presume you mean Morgana.” 

Merlin nods and Gwen’s expression tightens.  She doesn’t have to say anything to reveal her disquiet.  Merlin reaches out and she accepts his hand.

Gaius weighs Gwen’s presence against what they’re speaking of, Merlin staring insistently so he knows Gwen is a non-negotiable addition to their troupe, and sighs, “The old legends do speak of such creatures, they call them ‘shades’.  Poor, tormented souls summoned from their rest by the necromancer's art.” 

Gwen looks as pained as Merlin feels at the idea of Lancelot stolen from eternal rest for some cruel purpose of Morgana’s.  Of all people, Lancelot deserves peace, not for his memory to be perverted by a lie.

“So it’s possible?”

“Even if it is possible, we have no way of knowing for sure,” Gaius says just to dash hope, to be realistic, as he always does. 

Merlin pulls out ‘The Art of Necromancy’ from where he’d sat it next to him, just out of sight, for just this situation. Gwen raises her eyebrows at the title and his sneakery.

Gaius assesses the book with pleasant surprise, “Or do we?”

Gwen feels nervous about the plan. 

They’re messing with magic using magic , but what other choice do they have? She just hopes they get answers, something better than this uncertainty. 

Gwen stands to stretch her legs after leaning over the book of necromancy with Merlin for so long, but Merlin’s hand reaches up and gently takes her fingers in his hand.  He frowns at her wrist — the bracelet! She’d completely forgotten about it. 

“I didn’t think Arthur was enough of a romantic to buy you jewellery,” Merlin teases, though his voice gives away his confusion — he doesn’t have to mention how Merlin would know before Gwen if Arthur had gotten someone a gift. 

“It wasn’t Arthur.  Lancelot gave it to me this morning,” Gwen explains, suddenly realising how odd that is. “He put it on my wrist and said it was a token from the…the people who helped him after the Veil.” 

Lancelot, noble and chivalrous, had given an engaged woman something that could be interpreted as a declaration of love.  And he’d never given Gwen a chance to reject it, putting it on her himself, and she had worn it all day without thinking for even a moment to take it off.  It feels almost underhanded, especially compared to how Gwen would have assumed a man like Lancelot would approach gift-giving. 

Merlin glances up at her and slides the bracelet off her hand, just fast enough that she doesn’t have time to protest even as she feels the urge to. 

She’s confused — why had she worn it? She cares for Lancelot, that’s true, but it’s an inappropriate gift and she has no obligation to him, even if her heart burdens itself with the idea of his death being her fault (and her chest flutters with long-abandoned but not forgotten affections). 

“Strange,” Merlin mumbles as he studies the bracelet with more scrutiny than a little piece of jewellery usually warrants. “That’s unlike him, and if Lancelot is really a shade summoned by Morgana…” 

“I shouldn’t keep it,” Gwen says, suddenly very sure of herself. 

Too much is going on between her engagement, the wedding tourney, Lancelot’s return and Morgana — whatever had convinced her to keep the bracelet earlier is dashed.  She has no urge to take it back from Merlin, that ungentlemanly gift from a dead man to a taken woman.  It was sweet at the time, but not something she’d ever expect from Lancelot.  Merlin is equally suspicious of it so at least she doesn’t feel she’s going mad. 

Gwen sits back down next to Merlin, the both of them staring at the innocent object she’d been wearing all day. 

“It could be enchanted,” Merlin says, turning it over in his palm. “Or it’s just a normal bracelet.” 

“For now, I think you’d better look after it.” 

Merlin smiles apologetically at her, putting the bracelet aside and returning to the book. 

When they’ve learned all they can, Merlin insists that Gwen and Gaius sleep, that Merlin will set up the magic and wake them before Lancelot rises so they can see if it works.  Gwen knows that Merlin will paint a white spiral on the ground right outside his bedroom, and he may have tried to avoid telling her directly but he will have to speak magic to activate the spell. 

Merlin will use magic, and she will not say a word. 

Merlin and Gaius seem used to this sort of treason, getting the necessary equipment with easy excuses and not batting an eye at the idea of magic.  They would never harm Camelot, and Gwen wonders how often they do this; go around the law to protect everyone.  She wonders what they actually think of magic outside it being illegal and hence never spoken of for fear of persecution.  She wonders if this is Merlin’s first time doing magic, and knows for certain the answer is that he’d do anything for Arthur’s sake. 

That night, Gwen lays in a patient cot, bidding Gaius a good night and drifting to sleep quickly after the following busy day, an empty dream greeting her. 

She’s roused from what feels like too little sleep by Merlin shaking her shoulder, whispering urgently, “It’s time.” 

Dawn casts the physician’s chambers in yellow-white light while Gaius is also groggily awakening across the room.  The ground in front of Merlin’s bedroom is painted with a circle filled with a spiral.  It looks completely inconspicuous, non-magical, but Gwen trusts Merlin and knows little of magic.  After most of a night’s sleep, she finds herself feeling no different on the topic.  She should bring it up to Merlin sometime… Maybe much later — after all, Merlin has already kept hush on this for so long and they don’t have the time for the sort of conversation that would come from such a heavy topic. 

Gwen, Gaius and Merlin huddle to hide in a cupboard, presuming Lancelot will not think or care to look for any of them.  It reminds Gwen of the times she and Merlin would snoop around for gossip — she misses when they’d spend many hours a day together, getting their duties as personal servants done sitting beside each other.  Gwen decides a conversation about magic is exactly what the two of them need to settle into each other again, she hopes. 

Lancelot emerges from Merlin's bed chamber and walks over the circle without noticing anything amiss. The circle burns red and a skeleton washes over Lancelot’s features like a flash of lightning. 

Gwen keeps her mouth tightly closed against the gasp and sob that threatens her composure. 

They hear the door close and hurriedly stumble out of their hiding place.

Merlin swallows shakily, sounding very small as he says, “I didn't want it to be true.”

Gaius places a hand on his shoulder.

“I know.  We all wanted him back.” 

Merlin meets Gwen’s eyes, the burden of their hearts shared yet heavier than they can bear together, and he voices the quiet ache, “More than anything.”

Gaius continues as if everyone else in the room doesn’t feel the world has just tilted on its side, “This man's a shadow of his former self.  A shadow with ill intent.” 

Ever-loyal and used to putting himself last, Merlin worries, “Do you think he means to harm Arthur?” 

Gwen understands, stifling the renewed grief in her chest to focus on the possible danger to her fiancé and kingdom.  She steps closer to Merlin, taking his cold hand in hers and pressing their sides together.  He squeezes back reassuringly, almost too tightly.

“Whatever his reason for being here, it can't be good,” Gaius concludes. 

They all turn to where Lancelot had left, too late to follow him but concerned what he could be doing now, let loose on the kingdom — Morgana’s puppet wearing the face of someone they all trust.

Chapter Text

Merlin yawns as he returns from eating with the other servants.  Usually he eats before attending to Arthur’s lunch, but Gwen had decided to drag him to eat with her since she won’t be a servant for much longer.  Merlin thinks he’d miss these little things too if he one day suddenly became a nobleman — not that it’s a possibility.

Arthur will surely be in a good mood after a visit from Gwen, so Merlin can get some chores done in his chambers before their usual banter turns more passionate and Arthur hauls more time-consuming tasks on him.  The king’s been on a hair trigger with the stress of the wedding, even if it’s usually overshadowed by his pure delight; Merlin has always had a special skill in riling up Arthur, something that unfortunately applies vice versa. 

Merlin is musing about this afternoon’s tourney when he’s suddenly dragged into a smaller hallway.  Gwen has her hand tightly clasped on Merlin’s wrist and is breathing heavily, looking back down the main hallway to make sure no one else is nearby. 

“Gwen? Is everything okay?” 

Merlin takes her free hand in his and she lets her grip fall from his wrist, leaving Merlin holding both her hands.  Her brows are furrowed; something has frightened her, and Merlin squeezes her fingers gently to encourage her to open up to him. 

“It was so strange,” Gwen murmurs, breathing starting to even out as Merlin strokes his thumbs over the back of her knuckles. “I was leaving Arthur’s chambers and I planned to do some chores, but then Lance- the shade approached me.  He asked about the bracelet —he saw I wasn’t wearing it — I told him I must’ve forgotten it at home — and he… There was this strange look in his eye.  I told him I’d go straight home to put it on before the tourney, just so he wouldn’t come after me.  It sounds silly but I immediately ran to you…” 

There’s a fear in her eyes and Merlin is equally terrified for her — the shade could’ve done a lot worse to Gwen than some subtle intimidation. 

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m here,” Merlin reassures quietly, ducking his head to bring their faces closer so Gwen can easily see his expression and to hide her away from the world with his body. 

“I don’t know what to do.  If it’s really Morgana who brought him back… Why? That bracelet is important somehow… Merlin, I’m really worried.” 

Gwen looks ready to flee at the next person who could unexpectedly come down the hall.  Merlin steps closer and lets go of one of her hands to put an arm around her shoulders, moving Gwen to rest her head on his own shoulder. 

“I won’t let anything happen to you or Arthur,” Merlin promises, turning his head to press his lips to her hair in an almost-kiss. 

Gwen teases lightly, “You’re our biggest fan.” 

Merlin smiles, the moment tinted with worry. 

“Gwen,” Merlin says seriously, making her pull away enough to look at him. “Stay with Arthur today.  I know you want everything to stay the same…but I’m worried about the shade’s focus on you.” 

Gwen easily agrees, moving back into their half-hug. 

“I’m sure Arthur will be happy to see me.  I don’t like keeping this from him but I have no idea how to explain… I’ll stay with Arthur as much as I can.” 

“I’ll keep a closer eye on the shade.” 

“Thank you, Merlin.” 

Gwen turns into the hug and puts her other arm around his ribs, embracing Merlin properly.  Merlin wraps his arms around her shoulders, squeezing her gently to reassure her. 

“Let me walk you to Arthur; he won’t be in his chambers right now,” Merlin offers, knowing better than anyone what the king is up to on the daily. 

Gwen is significantly calmer when he leaves her with Arthur than when she’d come running to him, leaving Arthur unaware anything has happened at all.  She gives him a brief, tight hug before he stalks off to find the shade. 

Actually — Merlin switches directions and stops by the physician’s chambers to retrieve the bracelet from where he hid it.  He’s sure now that it’s an enchanted object, even if he and Gaius couldn’t figure out what it’s meant to do, and he feels safer keeping it on himself than lying around where the shade can find it. 

He spots Lancelot turning a corner.  Merlin ignores the urge to call out to him and slinks after the shade, keeping far enough away to deny following him if he’s spotted. 

Lancelot enters Agravaine’s chambers and Merlin feels everything fall into place.  Of course it’s Agravaine, which means Morgana really is the one who dragged Lancelot’s soul from its rest.  Merlin doesn’t risk listening in, this hallway sees a nosy servant pass every few minutes, so he leans into an alcove to wait out of sight. 

It’s easy enough to hear when the door opens again, prompting him to start walking down the hallway toward Agravaine’s chambers, catching the shade’s eye while looking like it's a simple coincidence that Merlin encounters him. 

“Lancelot!” Merlin greets with all the cheer he can muster, his expression probably a bit too tight but the shade doesn’t know him well enough to tell. “Nervous about the next round of the tourney this afternoon?” 

“A bit, but I’m sure Gwen will cheer me on.  Her support will give me strength.” 

Lancelot has revealed more than he realises; all the clues compile to a vague prediction of what Morgana wants.  Gwen is the target, but why? 

“Of course she will, Gwen cheers for everyone! I wasn’t expecting her to have so much fun with all this — this is more Arthur’s sort of thing — but I guess they’re just perfect for each other, like I’ve always said.” 

Lancelot’s face does something that Merlin can’t recognise before it smooths out, but his smile suddenly looks somewhat disgusted. 

“Indeed.  Gwen will make a great queen.” 

The way the shade phrases it makes Merlin wonder.  He might have an idea of what Lancelot is after, and how that could help Morgana. 

“I suppose you must regret it, though.” Merlin hides his smirk as Lancelot looks at him with confusion, elaborating, “When you left, Gwen still harboured a lot of love for you.  She stayed in front of your funeral pyre longer than anyone else.  If you’d come back just a bit sooner, I’d bet her grief would’ve pushed her right into your arms — all of this wouldn’t even be happening.” 

It’s all boldfaced lies and Merlin feels a bit gross thinking so poorly of Gwen, but Morgana wouldn’t know that to tell the shade and shape his perspective.  Knowing that he’s a shade makes it significantly easier for Merlin to manipulate the man.  He almost wishes all of Camelot’s enemies were like this, but he wouldn’t wish this sort of torture even on Morgana — the face of love used for cruelty. 

Gwen and Lancelot had never had more than shared affections they never ultimately acted on, but her guilt of causing Lancelot’s death weighed on her more visibly than Merlin’s and it’s easy to twist her actions into those of someone who’d lost the love of her life, to make the shade believe that Gwen could turn away from Arthur so easily.  Yet Gwen and Lancelot’s relationship would’ve never blossomed even if he’d never died — Gwen already had Arthur by then, and Lancelot had Merlin, something different from a lover but just as life-encompassing. 

The real Lancelot would’ve denied any romance between him and Gwen, but the shade soaks up the lies. 

“I wouldn’t want to ruin Gwen’s happiness,” Lancelot says chivalrously as though Merlin can’t see the sinister plans forming in his head. 

Merlin raises his eyebrows suggestively, stamping down the flittering jealousy he feels. 

“You think she still holds you in your heart even now?” 

Lancelot muses, nurturing the seed Merlin had just planted, “There’s…a chance.” 

Merlin realises belatedly that they’ve walked out to the tourney field where some of the knights are already preparing.  He recalls that Lancelot will be in one of the first bouts and supposes it makes sense that he’s planning to gear up a bit early. 

“Let me help you with your armour,” Merlin insists, following the shade into a tent where a squire has laid out Lancelot’s equipment. 

Lancelot looks at him oddly, glancing at the tent flap as though anticipating someone.  Merlin’s face twitches in annoyance, though he’s not entirely sure why.  He ignores the behaviour and grabs the gambeson to start dressing Lancelot. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to do this for you,” Merlin says wistfully. 

He can see the question in the shade’s eyes.  Morgana knows so little of how Merlin and Lancelot had been; this shade knows nothing of their bond.  It hurts to see Lancelot right in front of him, almost just the same except Merlin is but a stranger. 

“Thank you,” Lancelot says just because there’s nothing else he can say without giving up how little he knows. “I missed you- this.” 

The correction and the emotion in his voice is enough to make Merlin freeze, for a moment wondering- But no, this Lancelot is just a shade, a spoilt version of someone Merlin had once loved. 

Lancelot stares at Merlin for a long moment before his attention drifts back to the tent flap. 

Merlin helps Lancelot into his chainmail, suspicion growing. 

“Waiting for someone?” 

Lancelot’s eyes flicker around, to Merlin then the tent flap then where Merlin is adjusting the chainmail then back to Merlin’s face. 

“I was hoping that Gwen would come to wish me luck.” 

“When I’m right here?” Merlin accuses a little too fast, teasing venturing too far the side of bitter to sound convincing. 

Merlin will never have his Lancelot back, but this is honestly worse than if his dearest friend had stayed dead.  He stares the stranger in the eye, a man with the face of a nobler and braver knight.  Lancelot is confused by Merlin’s reaction — he seems to be grasping for an idea just out of his reach — but Merlin turns away and picks up the first of the man’s armour so he doesn’t have to watch the lack of understanding. 

Maybe he was too hasty or too obvious — Merlin tenses as a hand comes around his waist, pulling him back and around until he’s almost chest-to-chest with the shade.  They’re so close that Merlin feels the warmth of Lancelot’s breath against his mouth and chin, and can see those eyes so impossibly dark brown that from any further away they look black. 

“You’re cold,” Lancelot frowns, distracted from whatever he intended to say, probably feeling the chill even through his gloves and the clothes between them from where his hands rests on Merlin’s back. 

The real Lancelot knew of the consequences Merlin faced for surviving the freezing, life-taking touch of the Dorocha, for waking up even after death walked through him.  Merlin wasn’t used to the otherworldly cold then, and Lancelot had said he was unnaturally pale, quite literally looking like death had warmed over, in the time when they’d travelled alone together to regroup with the knights on the way to the Isle of the Blessed. 

“After I survived the touch of the Dorocha, I’ve never felt warm again except in your arms.” Merlin explains, just to have something of the real Lancelot back.  Maybe that phrasing sounds too romantic, but Lancelot had always understood how little romance had been between them and how much more everything he’d been to Merlin. “You pine for Gwen now just like when you first met, but I met you first.  You were mine first, and you died for me.” 

Something devastatingly confused comes across the shade’s face and his fingers curl in the fabric of Merlin’s jacket.  Seeing that expression on Lancelot’s face, as though Merlin is the stranger, makes his heart tighten.  He reaches back to grab the hand Lancelot still has on him and shoves it off, stepping away from the shade. 

“I died for you…?” the shade says, consolidating the information with himself, failing to sound like an echo instead of a lost child. 

“What a great man I loved,” Merlin whispers, “who walked into death itself for me.” 

Lancelot swallows, mouth half open with questions and revelations, taking little stuttering breaths as though to speak, but he says nothing. 

The tent is too stifling, too enclosed, with the red and golds of Camelot bathing them in intimacy.  Merlin retreats without shame, he knows Lancelot will not follow, and tells the nearest squire to help Lancelot finish putting on his armour. 

Merlin storms to Arthur’s tent. 

He glances to the stands, not seeing Gwen and assuming she’s still with Arthur.  He’s right, finding her helping Arthur into his armour, the gentle love between them mocking Merlin’s moment with the shade. 

Gwen turns to him, a lovely smile on her face that falls at the sight of him.  It must be obvious what a bad state he’s in — even Arthur shuts his mouth to take him in. 

“Merlin, is everything alright?” Gwen asks. 

Oh, how ironic this is.  It’s Merlin’s turn to run from the shade, driven to his best friend’s side with fear and the painful reminder that the stranger wearing a lost love’s face can never be Lancelot. 

“It was so strange,” Merlin breathily echoes their earlier conversation. 

Gwen understands immediately and gathers him into her arms.  He won’t cry, he can’t when Arthur is right there and will ask questions — it’s already a miracle that he’s so silent as Gwen comforts Merlin — because the only time he won’t call Merlin a crybaby is when Merlin wants him to be obtuse and not realise something is wrong. 

Trumpets sound from the field outside the tent, a signal to the audience to settle and for the knights to finish getting ready. 

Merlin pulls away from the hug, steeling himself with little success.  Face pale and flushed with grief, he says, “The first bout is starting soon.” 

Arthur has a thousand questions but Gwen efficiently straps him into his jousting gear and shoves him out of the tent, the tourney crowd roaring with applause at the sight of a semi-finalist.

Gwen sends Merlin a final concerned look but he shakes his head and waves her off to go sit in her place of honour in the stands.

Chapter Text

Lancelot does not react to the squire that finishes dressing him for the joust.  He accepts the helmet thrust into his hands and is alone again.

Merlin’s absence is what truly makes the tent feel empty. 

Lancelot doesn’t understand.  His mistress had told him of his death: he had died for Gwen, and Gwen had confirmed it herself when he gave her the bracelet.  The bracelet she’s no longer wearing.  Did the enchantment not work? Has someone figured out what’s happening? 

The conversation he had with Merlin… Lancelot feels like he’d just faced a scorned lover.  Morgana claimed that he was Gwen’s first love, but that doesn’t seem quite right.  Gwen seems more uneasy than glad for his appearance, less happy than King Arthur who clasps his shoulder every time they see each other as though to check he’s real.  Lady Morgana was forced to resort to the bracelet, after all. 

The only other person so suspicious of Lancelot is Merlin, who… What was Merlin to him before? What was he to Merlin? 

“What a great man I loved.” 

Love… Lancelot loves Gwen.  He is to seduce and woo her, wrench her away from Arthur so his mistress can become queen.  He was chosen because he is the one who can reach Gwen’s heart.  Except he’s apparently reached someone else’s — he’d always been in someone else’s heart. 

Lancelot and Merlin must have been close, far more than Lady Morgana ever knew.  Merlin is more sceptical of Lancelot than even Gwen, who never fails to send him an odd look and had somehow been in the right mind to remove the bracelet that was meant to reawaken her affections for him.  And there’s the way his body reacts — in battle, it responds like he has all the memories of his life, and it does the same to Merlin.  How many times must he have reached out to Merlin for it to be as familiar to his body as a blade? How many times had they shared air and heat and touch? 

Merlin still refers to Lancelot like something of the past, as though he has not returned, and Lancelot supposes he hasn’t, not really.  He’s just a shadow of a man that once was — he hadn’t minded, not until he’d faced Merlin and learned that, all this time, love was waiting for him. 

The trumpets sound for the first match. 

Lancelot wanders out of his tent to the field, preoccupied as he mounts his horse and instinctively readies his lance.  He’d never had to relearn to wield his sword or ride a horse after months of being dead, the skills coming easily to him; muscle memory, like when he’d pulled Merlin in by his waist and breathed the same air as him ( like a lover ). 

Lancelot’s attention is on the memory of Merlin’s cold waist and furrowed blue eyes when he wins his bout and removes his helmet to bow to Gwen, half-heartedly going through the motions of the plan. 

Gwen applauds politely, not lingering on him longer than necessary as the trumpets announce the last of the semi-finalists. 

King Arthur faces Sir Leon.  He wins, as is expected.  Sir Leon falls backwards off his horse and somersaults at the force of his king’s blow, face planting limply in the dirt.  The crowd cringes as though they have not seen more brutal takedowns, then cheers for the victor. 

Gwen applauds Arthur with great enthusiasm, pride and love overflowing in her praises.  She has never turned that look upon Lancelot — maybe if she still wore the bracelet, she would, but her wrist is inconspicuously bare. 

Lancelot’s thoughts and attention are drawn across the onlookers, not sure what he’s looking for until his eyes land on Merlin standing by the king’s tent.  He looks dour, something presumably pointed out by the passing Sir Percival based on Merlin’s responding tension and Sir Percival’s surrendering gesture. 

With Lancelot and Arthur’s matches won, the semi-finals are over, meaning Lancelot will be facing the king in the final joust.  Instead of last-minute preparations, Lancelot heads for Arthur’s tent — or, more accurately: to Merlin. 

Merlin’s body and expression lock up as he spots Lancelot approaching, taut between furious and wanting to bolt in the opposite direction. 

Lancelot grabs Merlin’s arm before he can run. “You know who I am.” 

It comes out more desperate than he intends.  Lancelot feels a need to know.  Lady Morgana could not fill in all the gaps — hadn’t needed to, did not care to — but Merlin knows him.  Merlin has all the bits that no one else has seen, and can call him out from the furthest distance.  For all Lancelot knows, Merlin has already figured out that he’s not really Lancelot.  Not in the way he should be. 

Merlin’s eyes widen with despair.  He opens his mouth — to shout for help, to scorn him, to beg for what’s lost, Lancelot doesn’t know — but shuts it tightly as King Arthur approaches. 

Lancelot and Merlin stare at the king, tense enough to arouse suspicion but Lancelot does not let go of Merlin’s arm. 

“What’s going on?” Arthur asks with the sort of authority he hasn’t needed during the festivities, looking between them, and Lancelot can’t tell what he assumes of the situation. 

“Nothing,” Merlin lies easily, as though he’s not shaken to the core by Lancelot’s presence. “Lancelot and I just need to talk.” 

Arthur raises an eyebrow but relents, “Finally… Fine, make it quick.  The next match can’t be delayed too long.” 

Lancelot thanks Arthur, following Merlin as he walks off to somewhere quieter.  They stop between a cluster of tents belonging to the other participating knights.  There’s nobody else here — this space doesn’t see much traffic as the tent pegs are a tripping hazard, and no knights are lingering on their way to spectate the king in his final match. 

Lancelot lets go of Merlin’s arm.  Merlin blankly watches his hand leave. 

“I know what you are,” Merlin confirms, not meeting his eye. 

Lancelot assumes he knows what Merlin means, “I am Lady Morgana’s.” 

Merlin doesn’t seem surprised, but his face twists with disgust and grief as he corrects, “You’re a shade.” 

Lancelot has no idea what that is — Merlin notices his confusion and explains, sounding like he’s reciting something, “A poor, tormented soul summoned from eternal rest by necromancy.” 

That makes sense, he supposes.  Lady Morgana had brought him back, though it’s only in front of Merlin that he feels tormented by the things he hadn’t thought to care that he’d lost.  Lancelot doesn’t particularly care about what being a shade means, his original goal when seeking out Merlin still in mind. 

“But who am I?” 

“You don’t remember your life,” Merlin concludes, already knowing this. “Morgana probably told you the important stuff for your mission and that’s it.” 

“She doesn’t know me as well as you do… Everyone else was completely tricked.” 

“‘Everyone else’ didn’t plan to spend their life by your side.” 

Merlin looks at him apprehensively, unsure how to continue after such a confession.  Lancelot waits for him — he wants to know more, anything that Merlin can tell him. 

Merlin’s eyes flicker in the direction of the tourney field, distracting his train of thought to another: “We don’t have much time before Arthur gets huffy waiting for us.  I need to know… Why were you brought here?” 

Lancelot shouldn’t tell him.  Merlin will disrupt Lady Morgana’s plans, but… Lancelot is exhausted by his own existence.  He’d already once given up his own life willingly, though he can’t remember it, and living feels like a burden now, especially with all these deceptions.  He doesn’t wish to betray his mistress, but this is Merlin , who he cannot resist reaching out to and holding his hand. 

Merlin makes an effort to keep himself relaxed as Lancelot slots their hands together, not letting go but not reciprocating the tender hold.  His touch is unnaturally cold; Lancelot wishes he knew why. 

“My Lady Morgana asked me to woo Gwen, to break up her relationship with King Arthur.” 

“Not to kill Arthur?” 

“No,” he says, because for all that he’s trying to accomplish, it’d never crossed his mind to physically harm Arthur. 

Merlin genuinely relaxes at that, unconsciously making his hand comfortable in Lancelot’s grasp.  Lancelot wonders how much the king must mean to Merlin, if it’s more than Lancelot. 

“Go and joust, then,” Merlin says almost light-heartedly, pulling his hand away from Lancelot’s and using it to shove him lightly in the direction of the field. “We can talk more after.” 

Lancelot looks over his shoulder as he walks away, wanting just one more moment with Merlin.  Merlin smiles thinly at him, though it drops quickly, and heads the other way. 

Lancelot remembers the promise of later and refocuses on the tourney.

Chapter Text

Gwen is supremely stressed.

She’d had her eyes on Merlin when the shade approached him and then they went somewhere she couldn’t see.  She relaxes only marginally when Merlin safely returns to the sidelines after some time. 

Arthur and Lancelot mount their horses for the final bout of the tourney.  They acknowledge the crowd then turn to each other, readying their lances. 

Knowing Lancelot is nothing but a shade, Gwen worries for Arthur.  She glances away from the field to gauge Merlin’s reaction and is confused to find him standing casually.  He’s still as apprehensive as he’s been since the shade’s arrival, but there is little worry in him as he watches the knights prepare to joust.  Whatever Merlin and the shade had talked about privately has probably soothed him, and it makes the tension in Gwen’s body relieve a bit.  If Merlin thinks that Arthur is safe, then he is. 

Her trust does not diminish her worry, but it’s enough for her to put on a brave face as the horses start galloping.  Lances aimed, the finalists meet in the middle, hitting each other and sending both their lances splintering. 

Lancelot rides upright, but Arthur… 

Gwen jumps to her feet as she sees Arthur nearly keel off his horse, folded in pain and barely still in his saddle.  He valiantly tries to straighten up, taking the offered lance from a squire — Merlin straightens up, looking ready to run onto the field and intervene, but waits for now.  Lancelot watches Arthur closely as he replaces his own lance as well. 

Gwen wants to call the tourney to an end immediately but Arthur wouldn’t withdraw from any match even if he was guaranteed to die.  She can do nothing. 

Arthur can’t even lift his lance into the attack position as the joust continues.  Lancelot rides as powerfully as though he hadn’t been hit too, weapon raised and aim true. 

Gwen can hardly watch, but as the horses come into range of the lances, Lancelot yields and the horses ride past each other. 

She slumps in relief and the crowd cheers, King Arthur the victor even as he drops his lance and stumbles out of his saddle, doubled over in pain.  Ever brave-faced, Arthur limps to meet Lancelot in front of the royal box, a hand tucked beneath his breastplate to clutch where the lance had injured him. 

Lancelot kneels before his king, looking almost shameful, though whether it’s for having yielded or because of the injury he caused Arthur, Gwen isn’t sure.  The shade is so much like the real Lancelot had been, so she hopes his actions are spurred by himself and not whatever mission he’s been revived for.  At the very least, Arthur lives.

“Arise, Sir Lancelot.  It's not necessary.” Arthur encourages Lancelot to his feet, smiling through the pain. “I always thought you the noblest of my knights.  You just proved me right.  Thank you for your courtesy.” 

Lancelot bows to him, seeming no lighter for the absolution. 

Arthur looks up at the royal box and Gwen smiles down at him, glad for the outcome of the match.  Arthur bows his head to her then limps off to where Merlin and Gaius are waiting at the edge of the field, ready to attend his injury. 

Lancelot glances at her from the corner of his eye and Gwen doesn’t know what to make of him as he leaves.  Whatever Morgana has brought him back for, it’s clearly not to kill Arthur, otherwise Lancelot would’ve never yielded and Arthur wouldn’t be alive right now to fall into Merlin’s arms. 

Arthur has won the tourney, so Gwen leaves the box for the last time and rushes to his tent to see him. 

In the royal tent, Merlin has already stripped Arthur of his armour and layers, Gaius attending to the nasty bruise forming along his side. 

“He has at least two broken ribs,” Gaius concludes to Merlin, then addresses Arthur, “You should be recovered within six weeks, though this bruising will give you much grief for a time.” 

Gwen sighs with relief that Arthur wasn’t more badly injured — he’s been hurt worse in tourneys past, and she’s seen as much as death grace some jousters.  She moves to be at Arthur’s side, but Merlin’s serious expression halts her.  He pulls her to the tent flap, ready to leave himself. 

“I spoke with Lancelot before the final round.  Arthur is safe, but please stay with him?” Merlin smiles softly when Gwen agrees, already planning to do so. “I need to talk with the shade again…” Merlin glances to where Arthur is grumbling about Gaius’ prodding, lowering his voice until even Gwen struggles to hear, “There’s something of the real Lancelot in there, I just know it.  He asked me who he is, Gwen.”

Gwen understands completely what Merlin is hoping for. “We could get him back.” 

She tries to hide her anticipation, but even from behind her, half-distracted by his wound and Gaius, Arthur must notice how she fills with emotion because he stops complaining and looks towards her.  Gwen and Merlin both smile at Arthur and he takes the reassurance enough to turn back to Gaius and pretend he’s not listening. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Merlin warns, but she can see how much he wants this too. “But I’ll definitely try.” 

Gwen ushers him out, watching him all the way to Lancelot’s tent.  Arthur tries to ask what they were talking about but she shakes her head and he drops it, probably assuming it’s just the ‘girl-talk’ that she and Merlin often enjoy without him.

The tent flap opens and Lancelot quickly brushes off the squire that had been helping him out of his armour.  Merlin moves aside to let the squire leave rather than stepping inside.  It’s a sound decision to make, being aware of Lancelot’s inhuman nature and the harm he can do.

“Who am I?” Lancelot feels like that’s all he ever says to Merlin. 

“You’re working with Agravaine,” Merlin says instead of humouring him. 

Lancelot has no idea how Merlin knows that, but he’s coming to terms that Merlin knows a lot more than anyone could’ve expected.  Merlin also refuses to lend any power to Lancelot for this conversation. 

Lancelot tries again anyway, “How do we know each other?” 

“I doubt your bosses would be patient enough to wait for me to finish recounting everything we were together.” 

“My ‘bosses’ are already upset because the plan isn’t working.” 

“The plan to seduce Gwen away from Arthur?” 

“Gwen doesn’t seem to hold any affections for me anymore, so my lady tried something else-“ 

“The bracelet,” Merlin guesses, rummaging through a pocket and procuring the item of interest. “A very inappropriate gift for a taken woman — I couldn’t let the future queen walk around wearing jewellery from another man.  I’d guessed it was enchanted, at least I have an idea what it does now though.” 

With there being no point in hiding it, Lancelot explains, “It’s meant to reignite Gwen’s feelings for me.” 

Merlin scoffs, “That’s not how enchantments work, but sure.” 

“You know enchantments…?” 

Merlin looks caught out and Lancelot wonders just how much magic Merlin knows, to have identified an enchanted bracelet and a shade, and talk so surely about it all in magic-hating Camelot.  Merlin doesn’t have a lick of magic himself — Lady Morgana would have mentioned something as important as that — so he must be very educated on the highly illegal subject.  Merlin is as much a mystery to Lancelot as Lancelot is to himself, yet he gets the impression there was a time when this all made sense to him. 

Merlin shoves the bracelet back in his pocket.  Lancelot doesn’t even think to track where it’s put and he’s left to wonder over how, even without a hint of memory of the man, he trusts Merlin implicitly. 

Jumping to another topic to avoid the question, Merlin rambles, “We met when you saved me from a griffin.  I was out collecting herbs for Gaius when I got attacked — you protected me and the griffin flew off.  Your sword shattered against the griffin’s body and a piece got lodged in your side, so I brought you back to Camelot for healing.  We got along and you told me about your dream to become a knight.  Gwen and I helped you, but it didn’t work out in the end.” 

Lancelot had heard something similar from Lady Morgana, though Merlin of course knows more of the detail.  Yet for all that Merlin rambles, he’d said very little. 

“How did you help me?” 

Merlin smiles sheepishly, the most relaxed that Lancelot has seen Merlin in front of him. “I forged a seal of nobility for you, Gwen got you armour, and we shoved you Arthur’s way.  You actually managed to get knighted, but Uther got suspicious about your noble lineage and found out there’d never been a ‘Lancelot of Northumbria’ — horrible luck that he knew the Northumbrian nobles well enough to ruin the plan.” 

Lancelot blinks at him disbelievingly. “You committed fraud to the crown for a man you’d just met?” 

Merlin shrugs, “I liked you.” 

There’s sudden busyness outside, tents being taken down and the tourney stands being dismantled, and Lancelot remembers he’s still in most of his jousting armour.  The day is hot and the layers only increase his discomfort, soaked in sweat after the sun and exercise, but Lancelot had dismissed the squire who was helping him.  He isn’t entirely sure why he’d done it at all, just knowing he’d wanted to be alone with Merlin. 

Lancelot makes an attempt to undo the armour himself, but he struggles enough that Merlin raises an amused eyebrow and finally comes closer.  The tent seems smaller when Merlin is right in front of him, the entire world just the two of them and the red of the canvas. 

“Did we get along well after I became a knight?” Lancelot plans to leave the question there but realises he needs to clarify, “The second time.” 

Lady Morgana had not been in Camelot when Lancelot had served King Arthur and what she did know is secondhand gossip, so Lancelot had learned little of himself from his time as a true knight of Camelot, and of course even less of Merlin. 

Merlin deftly helps Lancelot out of his armour, years of service to the warrior prince-turned-king more useful than a teenage squire’s fumbling attempts to help another man get changed. 

“I missed you a lot while you were gone,” Merlin starts right at the beginning as he removes Lancelot’s gauntlets. “I was so grateful when I sent for you, for Arthur’s sake, and you showed up.  I’ll admit it made me happy when you told me you came because of me, not Arthur.” 

Merlin moves away to put down the armour he’s pulled off Lancelot. 

“You must be the type to inspire loyalty.” Lancelot doesn’t say ‘devotion’ even though that’s what he means.  It feels too powerful a word to ascribe to a man he barely knows, yet that’s what most fits the feelings and glimpses of the past that he can’t fully remember. 

“Gwaine said something similar to me too before, so maybe,” Merlin muses as he prompts Lancelot to move his arms to help take off the chainmail. 

Lancelot watches Merlin put the armour away neatly.  It reminds him of earlier, when he’d reached out without thinking and pulled Merlin in close.  He’s half-tempted to do it again but he’s aware enough of himself this time to not intrude on the other man’s space again.  As far as he can infer, he and Merlin were never lovers, though… 

“You said you loved me.” 

“We loved each other,” Merlin says almost dismissively.  He looks at Lancelot strangely, as though realising for the first time that he’s speaking to someone right in front of him and not himself. 

Merlin starts undoing Lancelot’s gambeson.  It feels like being stripped bare, though the sexual tension that Lancelot expects never arises.  It’s simple and intimate, almost domestic, and Lancelot considers what sort of love they shared. 

Left in only his tunic and everyday trousers, Lancelot has been made vulnerable.  Merlin smooths out the fabric on his shoulders, unnecessary but sweet.  Merlin’s touch chills him even through the fabric and he welcomes it after the exertion of jousting. 

“I don’t really understand what we were.” 

“No one did,” Merlin says, looking completely alone even as Lancelot stands with him. 

Merlin’s hand lingers on Lancelot’s shoulder, then slides down his chest before falling back to his own side.  Lancelot understands the longing, wanting to continue touching Merlin as well, and his own hand darts out to grab Merlin’s wrist. 

Merlin shifts so they’re loosely holding hands. 

It’s comfortable and familiar, and Lancelot feels a hint of what must have been a profound love.  It’s frustrating to not have a full grasp of himself when the biggest question is right here, holding his hand and making his heart warm. 

Merlin has been notably evasive, avoiding telling Lancelot too much. 

“The original plan was to meet with Gwen in a place where King Arthur will see,” Lancelot reveals because he wants Merlin to be open with him, and that plan had already been thrown aside with the failure of the bracelet. “Gwen would betray King Arthur with another man — me — and the throne of the queen will once more be free for Lady Morgana.” 

Lancelot needs to talk with Agravaine to inform his mistress of these new developments — with Gwen’s absent affections, there’s little possibility of success now — though it’s not even a consideration that he won’t keep all mentions of Merlin as minimal as possible. 

“What will you do now? Gwen will never turn away from Arthur — they’re true loves.” 

“True love?” 

It sounds a bit fanciful. 

“We found out during one of the times Arthur was under a love spell.  We couldn’t figure out a cure quickly enough, but true love’s kiss can break many enchantments, including all love spells.  Gwen is Arthur’s true love.” 

“You know a lot about magic,” Lancelot comments. He does not feel scorned to learn the woman he supposedly loves is impossible for him to reach. 

Merlin looks at him sharply, the loose grip of their hands becoming tight for a moment. “There was a time you knew why.” 

Another thing lost to his return as the semi-living. 

Lancelot has the sense that his whole self, wherever the rest of him is — probably still dead — would hate the pained expression on Merlin’s face. 

Someone lifts the tent flap, surprised to find people inside. 

It’s an unfamiliar squire, who stutters apologies as Lancelot stares him down, “Sorry, sire, I thought this tent was empty and the person in charge of it forgot to put it away.  Everyone else is gone… I’ll just leave, sorry.” 

The squire scurries out. 

Lancelot turns back to Merlin, startled to see that Merlin had never looked away from him, observing him wistfully, almost mourning. 

“We’d best leave him to it,” Merlin says, making to pull away but Lancelot keeps an insistent grip on his hand and follows. 

Merlin is exasperated, shaking him off and scolding, “I need both hands to carry your armour.” 

Lancelot sheepishly steps back, letting Merlin gather up the equipment so they can leave and let the squires deal with the rest. 

Lancelot watches Merlin’s back as he walks out, then follows just a few steps behind.

Chapter Text

Agravaine stands on a balcony, prepared for good news and to set into motion the final step of Lady Morgana’s plan.  It’s starting to get dark when Lancelot finds him, a bit later than their designated meeting time.  Agravaine smiles, ready.  Lancelot thins his lips in anticipation of speaking.  Agravaine’s frustration bubbles but he waits patiently.

“The bracelet was figured out.  Guinevere hasn’t worn it at all today and she harbours no affections for me on her own.  There’s nothing more I can do.” 

“No,” Agravaine balks. 

That shouldn’t be possible! The bracelet should have addled the servant girl’s mind so as to not make her even recall its presence, let alone be in the right mind to remove the gift from her beloved .  Lady Morgana’s plans could not have been so easily thwarted. 

Unless… 

“Emrys! He must have figured us out somehow.” 

“There’s no chance of success now,” Lancelot sighs, looking hurt that he’s unable to help his mistress. 

“No, no,” Agravaine dismisses the idea of failure. “There must be something we can do.  I can go to Lady Morgana again or—” 

A very clever thought comes to him.  The original plan had been to have Gwen meet with Lancelot and begin the physical affair, and Agravaine would lead King Arthur right to them, to watch his fiancée dishonour him with his own eyes.  But now… 

Lancelot waits silently as Agravaine forms a new plan. 

Agravaine feels his face stretch into a smile.  Yes, yes , this could still work! “Follow the plan as before: get Gwen somewhere I can bring King Arthur.  When he arrives, you are to make it look as though the two of you are being lecherous.” 

Lancelot bristles and, oh, right, Sir Lancelot has always been unerringly noble, even now as a literal shadow of his former self. “I would not force myself upon a lady, Lord Agravaine.” 

“It’s no different to the bracelet, Sir Lancelot,” Agravaine tries to soothe. “She’ll just be less enthusiastic.  Maybe it’ll even spark her clearly still-held love for you.” 

Lancelot looks doubtful but Agravaine reminds him that this is for their Lady Morgana and he reluctantly agrees. 

Agravaine never notices how Merlin was standing right outside the door the entire conversation, exchanging a brief but tight look with Lancelot as he leaves. 

Arthur watches Guinevere wring her hands nervously.  She’s been increasingly fidgety since dinner.  She sits with Arthur in his chambers — it’s getting late but Arthur had already offered her an escort home later so she’s comfortable staying just a bit longer. 

There’s a knock at the door and Arthur tells them to come in. 

Guinevere stands hurriedly as Merlin walks in, closely trailed by Lancelot.  Since when does Merlin knock? 

Merlin meets Guinevere’s eyes, unable to muster a convincing smile but nodding reassuringly.  Guinevere relaxes slightly and Arthur is confused by the entire interaction.  He knows they’re close friends, but this is weird behaviour even for them.  They’d been exceptionally strange for a few days now, actually, Guinevere being unusually clingy (not that he’s minded) and Merlin conspicuously absent except for when Arthur catches him whispering with his fiancée in a suspicious corner (not that Merlin disappearing is uncommon). 

Guinevere keeps an eye on Lancelot who stands just a step behind Merlin, staring at the back of his shoulder rather than meeting anyone’s eye, not even his king’s. 

“ Merlin? What in the world do you need at this hour?” 

Merlin speaks to Guinevere first, “We’re telling him.” 

Guinevere glances at Lancelot then to Arthur.  Arthur registers the looks and how Guinevere seems in on whatever this is, which is starting to feel like an intervention but he has no idea what for. 

Merlin’s expression flickers between faux relaxation and tense fear as he steels himself. 

“Sire,” Merlin starts, trying to convey the seriousness of the conversation with the rare unironic use of titles when addressing his king in the company of friends. “Morgana is- Well, uh… Actually, I don’t know how to say this succinctly.” 

Guinevere bursts out, “Lancelot is a shade.” 

Arthur looks between the three of them — surely they’re conspiring against him in an attempt at a practical joke.  To use Morgana is awfully cruel for them though and Lancelot can hardly pull his eyes away from the random spot he’d chosen to stare at for the sole reason that it’s not Arthur. 

“What in the world is a shade?” 

Merlin mumbles like he’s said it a hundred times, “‘A poor, tormented soul summoned from their rest by the necromancy.’” 

“Necromancy- Magic? ” Arthur tenses, hands clutching at the arms of his chair. 

Merlin is paler than Arthur’s finest fitted sheets, looking ready to throw up or be attacked.  Arthur ignores him for the more pressing accusation, holding Lancelot in his gaze.  He looks like a perfectly normal man, no more tormented than he should be, and he certainly doesn’t seem magical. 

“We checked,” Guinevere says because Merlin still looks like he’s prepared for Arthur to throw him in the dungeons. “Gaius, Merlin and I.  We’re sure he’s a shade, and Lancelot himself backs it up.” 

So Gaius is in on this too.  How long have they been going behind his back? The entire time? 

Lancelot confirms, “I was not ‘found’.  I truly died when I walked through the Veil.  Lady Morgana summoned me out of a lake and all I know is that I serve her — everything else is what she told me.” 

“You retained your personality well enough,” Merlin finally says, throwing a weak smile over his shoulder to Lancelot, the shade.  It’s a pathetic showing compared to Merlin’s usual wit and positivity.  It’s enough for Arthur to actually start believing that Lancelot is some evil magic creature here by Morgana’s will. 

“And muscle memory,” Lancelot adds, stretching his wrist mindlessly in mimicry of his favoured sword flourish. 

Arthur stares at them.  They’re all mad. 

Guinevere steps forward, sitting in the chair adjacent to Arthur’s.  She leans in, taking his hands in hers, drawing his attention away from his manservant and knight. 

“Merlin and I had suspected something was wrong with Lancelot since he arrived.  Something was never quite…right.  Merlin and Gaius did some research and testing, confirming that this man is actually a shade, not the real Lancelot.  We of course assumed it was a scheme by Morgana, so we were worried.  Thankfully, it seems more of Lancelot is in there than any of us expected and he’s…” Guinevere furrows her eyebrows and looks behind herself to Merlin and Lancelot, standing strangely close. 

Lancelot starts strong, not even trying to ease into it, “I am loyal to my mistress.  I was brought into being to seduce Gwen, turning her affections for me against you.  It seems she’s singularly in love with you now, though, your majesty.  Lady Morgana gave me an enchanted bracelet, one to reignite Gwen’s feelings for me — Merlin identified it, though, and now the plan is entirely unsalvageable.” 

And now Merlin is competent enough to recognise magical bracelets, probably single-handedly preventing Arthur from losing his fiancée to an enchantment she couldn’t fight no matter how honest her heart is for him.  The room may as well flip over for the way his world crumples on itself around him. 

Merlin’s eyes widen and Guinevere panics a little as well at Lancelot’s words, though Arthur can’t think why. 

Merlin hurriedly tries to cover up…something, giving Lancelot a meaningful look to shut up, “I just thought it was a strange gift for a taken woman.  I only knew it was enchanted when Lancelot confirmed it.” 

Do Merlin and Guinevere think Arthur would do something to Merlin for helping against Morgana? Sometimes he can’t even begin to guess what’s going on in their heads, especially right now with both of them acting so bafflingly and being overly-anxious.  At least Guinevere, Arthur can coerce into speaking her mind — it’s impossible to get Merlin to speak when he’s decided not to.  Arthur has always kept his silence regardless of their mystifying thought processes because of their willingness to speak out against him and how they make him a better person, a better king.  Right now, it makes his heart hurt. 

Just as inexplicable is that Merlin, Guinevere, Gaius and apparently even not-Lancelot had discovered and almost resolved two cases of malicious sorcery and have only now decided to tell Arthur.  They probably could have kept quiet forever and he would have never known. 

Arthur’s jaw tenses and he firmly holds Guinevere’s hands.  He’s in turmoil, it’s likely obvious to everyone else, but at least Guinevere’s presence is soothing, her love and patience. 

Arthur faces the situation as a diplomat. “Why did you not bring this to me immediately?” 

“I wasn’t sure you’d believe me…” Merlin admits quietly. “Once I talked with Lancelot, though, I thought you might be forced to accept the truth if we all brought it up.” Merlin hesitates for a long moment, intending to say more but stopping himself nervously. 

“Out with it, Mer lin,” Arthur sighs, processing the shade still huddled slightly behind Merlin as though to shield himself. 

“Agravaine.” Merlin’s lips tighten at how Arthur bristles, making sure to quickly keep talking so Arthur can’t start arguing, “He’s working with Morgana.  I’m sorry , Arthur, but you need to listen to me.  He’s Lancelot’s contact to Morgana within Camelot and he’s planning to do something tonight .  He wants Lancelot to meet up with Gwen and convince you she’s betrayed you so she will not become queen.” 

Arthur is becoming angry, he can feel the burning in his chest and throat, the tensing of his jaw.  Guinevere tightens her hold on his hands, trying to keep him seated even as she’s startled by what Merlin is saying too — at least this she had not kept from him. 

“Arthur,” Merlin beseeches the king as his friend, not as a servant or subject of Camelot. “Please, let the plan play out and let me prove it to you.” 

Guinevere is concerned but Lancelot quickly assures, “I would never do anything untoward to you without your permission, Gwen.  It will not get that far.” 

Guinevere smiles tightly, trusting more in Merlin’s determined expression than the shade’s promise.  Her grip shifts and Arthur holds her firmly in reassurance. 

Arthur stares at the two men.  He’s ready to turn on Merlin, the words against his uncle biting at his heart, but Arthur can’t bring his hand against his friend just yet however much he wants to defend the last of his family, not when everyone in the room begs him to listen. 

“Fine.  Fine.” Arthur wants them to be wrong, he hates going against his uncle like this, but these are all people he trusts — though it seems Lancelot hasn’t been someone real since they’d met again. “Prove it to me.” 

Merlin does not look relieved. “Gwen?” 

“Give me a moment with Arthur.” 

Merlin and Lancelot leave them alone, Merlin closing the door gently in respect to the tense situation. 

Arthur takes a shaky breath, the room suddenly less stifling.  Morgana, magic, Agravaine, Merlin .  It all feels so heavy.  Then there are Guinevere’s hands in his, soothing and loving.  The ‘shade’ had called her singularly Arthur’s.  He can see it in the worry in her eyes and the decision to stay with him even after revelations that had shaken her too, even after Lancelot had seemingly returned. 

“You believe all this?” he asks to be sure now that they’re alone. 

“I saw the proof with my own eyes — that’s not the real Lancelot, it’s just a shadow.  Lord Agravaine though… I can’t say I’m particularly surprised, but I didn’t know.” 

“‘Not particularly surprised’,” Arthur mumbles in repeat. 

Merlin had spoken out against Agravaine before, and apparently even Guinevere has harboured suspicion for him.  Who else is disquieted by his uncle? Who else is staying silent like Guinevere when they feel as strongly as Merlin?

“He’s changed you, Arthur,” Guinevere says, making sure to share his gaze and show her vulnerability, not letting him escape her or fool himself against her honesty. “I love you, but Lord Agravaine has pushed you into decisions you would’ve never considered.  I mean, you never doubted Gaius until Agravaine planted the idea.  And then Merlin? He’s been by your side longer than anyone else, he’s risked his life over and over again for your sake, and you dismiss him so easily just because the man he is suspicious of is your uncle.” 

“He’s the only family I have left,” Arthur quietly opens up, feeling laid bare with the simple statement. 

“I am yours.  The Knights of the Round Table will fight for you to their final breaths.  Merlin is more loyal to you than even Sir Leon, you have seen it time and time again.  Arthur, you are beloved and trusted.  Please, place your faith in the people who have proven their love of you.  You cannot rely on one man for your entire reign, and even then it should be someone you trust because of their actions, not because you have blood ties.” 

Guinevere, like Merlin, can speak her mind openly to Arthur more than most people, reaching out for her fiancé, not her king. 

“I can trust Agravaine.” Arthur isn’t sure he believes his own words. 

“You once trusted us too,” Guinevere reminds him, squeezing his hands gently.  The way she says it, like she’s lost Arthur, breaks his heart. 

She lets go slowly, eventually standing to leave.  Guinevere bows, an acknowledgement of her respect for him as her king after all that time holding his hand as his love, and sweeps out of the room with the invisible ease of a servant. 

Her presence lingers in the warmth of his hands and the smell of fresh flowers. 

Arthur clasps his hands together and all but prays for no more betrayal, regardless knowing that by the end of the night, he will have to turn against at least one person he loves dearly.

Chapter Text

Arthur is laying in bed in the dark overthinking when the door opens.  There’s no knock — whoever enters must be expecting Arthur to be asleep.  He lets his gaze wander just enough to recognise it’s his uncle before he closes his eyes, feigning sleep mostly to give himself time to get composed.

“Arthur.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, ignoring the crumbling walls of his resolve.

Agravaine calls again, “Arthur.”

Arthur turns over and opens his eyes, pretending to be groggy at the awakening.

Assuming he’s disturbed Arthur, Agravaine apologises with so much genuinity it borders on mocking, “I’m so sorry, sire.  There's something you must see.”

Here it goes…

Arthur follows Agravaine out of the room, thankful for the darkness in his chambers that lets him hide his conflicted expression until they get into the moon- and torch-lit hallways.

They’re heading for the council chambers, Arthur can tell.  Why was Agravaine there to have seen anything at this hour? He hates that he’s already questioning his uncle before a hint of any proof.  Except the word of those he trusts is plenty of proof, isn’t it? Guinevere and Merlin are not people who would ever intentionally lead Arthur astray — they have been by his side longest and most faithfully of anyone except maybe Sir Leon — and they’re confident that Agravaine has betrayed them all.

The doors are open as if waiting for Arthur.

He steps into the room and has a perfect line of sight to where Guinevere and Lancelot stand together as planned.  Guinevere has a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder, looking up at him, though Arthur can’t see her expression for how she’s turned away from where he and Agravaine entered.  Neither Lancelot or Guinevere seem aware of their arrival.

Guinevere speaks low and fast, hardly a whisper, “We’re best friends, of course he’d tell me.  There was a time-”

Lancelot interrupts steadily, “There was a time I would’ve known that.  Merlin makes sure to remind me just how much I would’ve once known.”

“...It’s not your fault.”

Lancelot is quiet, then starts on what feels like a completely different conversation, “My lady asks this of me, and I must do it.”

Lancelot only notices Arthur because he looks towards the door expectantly, knowing he would arrive.  He drops his eyes and tilts his head forward to touch his and Guinevere’s foreheads together, a gesture easily mistaken for intimacy to the wrong eyes at the wrong angle, such as where Arthur stands.

Guinevere flinches back, then follows Lancelot’s gaze over her shoulder and spots Arthur.  She steps away from Lancelot.

“Arthur…” Guinevere sounds so apologetic, it’s almost like a confession, but it’s all for Arthur’s sake, because she knows this is breaking his heart, and that’s somehow worse.

Arthur can’t move.

Agravaine had brought him here, now lingering at the doorway like he knows exactly what’s happening in the room despite not having a good look from where he stands.  He probably hadn’t heard the hushed conversation; Arthur had barely heard it from where he stands a few steps closer to them.

Lancelot can’t look him in the eye, but Guinevere clasps her hands in front of her as though waiting for judgement, head slightly bowed but gaze boldly remaining on Arthur.  Guinevere’s anticipating the scenario of Arthur turning on her, he realises.  How could she believe that he’d do that to her? Especially when she’s the most innocent party in all of this.

Agravaine suddenly speaks, making Arthur tense in surprise, “She’s made a fool of you, sire!”

Arthur hears the provocation dripping in Agravaine’s voice, the cajoling to get Arthur to react.  Oh, he’ll react — he’s ready to collapse under the weight of his own existence and shrivel into some useless herb to live out his days without a single thought but the nourishing ground and careless tread of passing animals.  Merlin might find him pretty and pick him, placing him in a basket with the actually useful plants he gathers for Gaius, or tuck plant-Arthur into his neckerchief and walk around like a girl with a flower at his chest.

But he is the King of Camelot, Arthur Pendragon, and it’s the dead of night and his own uncle tries to make him attack the love of his life.  Guinevere’s expression is carefully controlled, trying not to influence his decisions with anything but her honesty but that itself influences Arthur.

Arthur turns around and faces Agravaine. “Yes, Morgana must’ve thought she’d make quite the fool of me with all of this.”

Arthur feels the moment everything breaks.

Agravaine is caught unawares and his shock, not quite of surprise but of being found out, is enough for Arthur.  Agravaine quickly schools his face, about to defend himself or distract Arthur with poisonous words, but Arthur won’t let him — can’t, or he might fall prey to the man again.

“Guards! Arrest Lord Agravaine.”

Agravaine shouts and fights the sudden hands on him, but Arthur does nothing in response.  Beyond the halls, out of sight, Agravaine’s protests eventually stop and he lets them drag him away.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, apparently having been in the council chambers the whole time and has now circled around the pillars to stand a few paces from Arthur’s side.  Despite his sudden appearance, Arthur does not startle — he expects Merlin at his side more than his own sword.

There is an entire world between them, an impassable chasm.  King and peasant, master and manservant, unloveable prince and beloved friend.  Despite it all, Merlin had risked Arthur’s ire to make sure he wouldn’t be ignorant to Agravaine’s betrayal, even after Arthur’s threats to silence Merlin.

“You did warn me,” Arthur says, bereft.

“I didn’t want this.”

Because Merlin is so erringly loyal even when Arthur has no idea what he’s done to deserve such devotion.  Merlin is the one person who Arthur has always trusted and needed, who would spend an entire night awake sitting on a cold stone floor because he didn’t want Arthur to be alone and who tells Arthur the truth even when anger will be the sure response.

Because Merlin always puts Arthur first.  The devoted fool.

“I know.”

It would take three paces to be chest-to-chest with Merlin.  Ten paces to hold Guinevere.  Fifty, seventy, a hundred and more increasing paces to face his uncle being dragged to the dungeons.

Arthur tells everyone to leave him alone.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Arthur confronts Agravaine first, because his heart wrenches and aches less at the face of his uncle than his dearest friends.

Arthur has had plenty of time during his sleepless night to ponder everything Guinevere and Merlin had told him, to process Agravaine’s betrayal and be retrospective on the man’s actions.  His faith in both Guinevere and Merlin’s intentions for him lets their words ring true, even if he refuses to face either of them and escapes his room before dawn.  He can’t stop thinking about his uncle’s past behaviour with the new context — and loses all trust in Agravaine. 

The dungeons are as dark as when Arthur was a small child and he’d explore the citadel, hardly ever allowed into the city — the dark, fire-lit passages had intrigued and terrified him, and sometimes still they sat dread upon his shoulders.  The guards are not surprised to see him but are on higher alert than usual after last night’s arrest and because of today’s wedding.  The wedding… Arthur feels his marriage loom heavy, yet the threshold of the dungeons brings a separation from the event that lets him focus on the cell holding his uncle. 

Agravaine puts on a very convincing lie, as usual.  Arthur feels foolish for how easy it is to see, and how easily he had fallen for it.  “She is trying to trick you, sire, you saw it yourself.” 

“What did I see, uncle?” 

“Infidelity!  In your father’s time, such things amidst noble families would be punishable by death.” 

But this is not the reign of Arthur’s father and the death penalty is not so easily meted.  Arthur sees now that Agravaine often pushes him to give harsh punishments, using charismatic words that dig right at Arthur’s pride and the little boy who wants nothing more than to make his father proud — in the absence of a father, to make his only living family proud.  That little boy had been so desperate that he’d forced the hand of the people who actually love and trust him.  Arthur is just glad that they care enough to fight for him instead of giving up. 

Agravaine had done everything right.  Without Merlin and Guinevere, Arthur wouldn’t have known the betrayal until it was too late, and even then he’d stubbornly refused to listen until the truth forced his hand.  In the cool, damp dungeons, Arthur sees his uncle for what he truly is, watches him twist what he thinks Arthur saw, in equal parts grovelling and trying to make Arthur do what he wants. 

“Why work with Morgana?” Arthur interjects. 

Agravaine just deflects, denies, careful words poking at guilt and filiality.  Arthur leaves the dungeons with no answers. 

Arthur has always been unsure of his own judgement, but when his brain starts to doubt the suspicion he wants to lay on Agravaine, that desperate little boy unrelenting, he remembers Guinevere’s begging and Merlin’s fear, and his resolve strengthens.  He will stand on the truth, even as it aches. 

Arthur couldn’t get anywhere with Agravaine, but there’s another person with just as much importance in what happened last night.  Right now, Lancelot, or whatever he has become, is confined to his chambers, the guest room that should’ve been his since he came back yet was never used. 

When Arthur enters his chambers, Lancelot tries to stand at attention, but Arthur grabs his shoulder, gently bullying him to remain seated at the table.  Lancelot doesn’t look guilty or smug or anything at all, expression unsettlingly unreadable.  Arthur had always found Lancelot hard to read, but his actions had spoken for himself well.  Now, Arthur isn’t sure of anything. 

Arthur doesn’t feel comfortable staying close but he can’t handle the vulnerability of sitting across from Lancelot, so he stands on the other side of the table.  He crosses his arms to steady himself and thinks back to what Merlin, Guinevere and Lancelot had told him last night.  He asks, “Whose orders do you follow?” 

Lancelot can’t meet his eye but doesn’t hesitate, “Lady Morgana.” 

“Why work for her?” 

“She is my mistress.  I was made for her.” 

“‘Made’ — what is that meant to mean?” 

“I am a shade, sire.  I was summoned by magic and I have no memories of when I was alive.”  It’s no more than what Arthur already knows, yet the knowledge feels anew and so much more real in the dawning day. 

The door to Lancelot’s chambers — his temporary prison — open once more and the both of them turn to see who has entered so unabashedly. 

Merlin freezes at the threshold as he sees Arthur, eyes flitting between him and Lancelot.  “I’ll come back later—” 

“Why are you here, Merlin?” Arthur sighs, wanting to dismiss Merlin but ultimately thinking it would be useful to have him here. 

Merlin shifts his feet nervously then closes the door behind him.  “I wanted to check in on Lancelot — the shade.  He went expressly against his…programming, for lack of a better word, last night.” 

Arthur looks upon Lancelot appraisingly.  “Indeed, you ignored an order from your mistress.” 

“Lord Agravaine is not her.  It was a spur of the moment idea after the previous plan failed.  I had no reason to follow through.” 

“You still explicitly went against her,” Arthur says, slowly realising there may be more to this shade than expected.  From what little he now knows, it doesn’t seem like the shade should have so much free will.  There’s hope niggling at his mind, but he dares not entertain it after he has already lost Lancelot twice.  “What now? I’m certainly not allowing you back to Morgana.” 

“I…do not know.  I will do anything she asks of me, but she cannot command me within Camelot without a middleman; I know of no others that are hers, except the one you have already arrested.  I am now useless, especially since you will know the truth behind any of my attempts to take Gwen.” 

Merlin takes a sharp breath and Arthur becomes aware that he’d never moved from the door, leaning back against it, trying to be nothing more than a fly on the wall.  But for once, Arthur can’t keep Merlin on the sidelines. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says sharply, making him startle to meet Arthur's eye. “You knew about this.  You…and Guinevere.” 

“Yes.  We’d both suspected early on, and then I found a book on necromancy.  We tested it, I swear, before we ever thought to come to you.  This—” Merlin gestures at Lancelot like he is a thing, not a person regardless of his creation. “—is unquestionably a shade.  Lancelot is dead.” 

Arthur’s heart stings at Merlin’s assurance that he wouldn’t come to Arthur with his worries. 

Merlin is startlingly calm.  Arthur had seen over the months since Lancelot’s sacrifice how Merlin had never really moved on, becoming as isolated as possible in spite of his circle of friends.  Even Guinevere had recovered more thoroughly, moving on with her life, not stumbling at every step for Lancelot’s memory like Merlin did.  And yet now, faced with a magical creature with the face of his grief, Merlin is suddenly…settled.  It’s as though seeing Lancelot again has made it real that he’s dead, that the magic means he’s truly gone and not simply waiting to return, whereas it has only brought uncertainty to Arthur. 

Lancelot speaks into the pensive silence, “I only await judgement at your hand, sire.” 

Judgement.  The king is the decision-maker.  Arthur is the one to jury and execute, who has to make the choices and choose between them.  Sometimes — often — Arthur craves the guidance of his childhood, the lack of faith in him of his father who would not allow Arthur his own thoughts, the years where his word was not the final. 

Arthur cannot decide, so he wearily looks at Merlin.  “That book you read… What can be done about the shade?  Can we get rid of it?” 

Merlin shrugs.  “It has to be called off by its creator, or…killed.” 

Arthur looks at the shade, which does not react to the idea of its death.  They can’t leave it as-is, Morgana will always have control of him, but Arthur can’t imagine killing Lancelot, the guilt of his sacrifice always weighing heavy.  He can’t even imagine ordering someone to kill him.  Shade or not, this thing has Lancelot’s face and manner.  Arthur is as weak a man as he’s always been. 

“There’s no way to bring back the real Lancelot?” Arthur asks with desperate hope. 

“No,” Merlin says too quickly. 

“Are you sure?” 

Merlin is silent for a moment, face tight with turmoil as he and Arthur stare at each other.  He’s reluctant and frustrated to admit, “I don’t know.” 

“Then you better find out.” 

“You— It’s your wedding day, Arthur.  You can’t have a malevolent magical creature hanging around, waiting for Morgana to give him the order that will ruin everything.” 

“You already thwarted her,” Arthur says somewhat bitterly, wondering how often Merlin has gone behind his back and dealt with problems that Arthur should have known about.  The reminder of the wedding is a painful one — he doesn’t want to think too hard about how it is now something he is dreading. 

Merlin tries to reason, “We need to get rid of him before the wedding, surely.” 

“Go ahead then.” Arthur gestures at the shade. “He’s all yours.” 

Merlin looks vaguely sick at the responsibility or what it entails.  He stares shakily at the shade, then back at Arthur.  After a long moment, he manages to mutter, “Right…I’ll get on that.  Lancelot… You, just stay here.  Don’t go anywhere.” 

Arthur leaves the room alone, feeling like he made just as much progress with the shade as with Agravaine.  Everything feels useless.  There’s nothing he can do.  And the wedding is shoved in his face at every turn, knights and lords giving brief congratulations in the decorated halls, everyone in their finest clothes, including the servants, none of whom bother being discreet as usual and instead prioritise getting done what needs doing.  So much happens behind the scenes, Arthur barely gets glances.  Guinevere likely knows most of the preparations, Merlin too — the both of them are always so much closer to people than Arthur is, knowing the goings-on of the citadel and even the whole city, and maybe telling Arthur about it if he asks or they think he’ll be interested (though Merlin usually has little care if Arthur is entertained by his prattle).  Arthur again wonders how much he feels he should know is withheld from him with as much ease as the shade, something that could affect specifically Arthur yet was concealed until it was impossible not to. 

Agravaine, Lancelot, Merlin.  Arthur has spoken to them all.  There is one more person involved who he should seek out (and he wishes it were two — he wishes he could sit down with Morgana and ask where it all went wrong and beg for them to just be two stupid kids again, playing at being knights until Morgana inevitably beat him at swordplay, in the times before Uther dragged them apart and something irreconcilable came between them, long before Morgana had ever turned to magic).  Arthur baulks at the idea of speaking to Guinevere.  They’re to be married this afternoon, yet he suddenly cannot bear to face her. 

Arthur remembers last night.  Guinevere had held his hand for both their comforts and not been entirely informed of the situation either, yet she had known about it all along, never speaking to Arthur.  He should talk to her.  He is scared — he doesn’t know of what. 

The staff of the citadel know what to do already, and the sun is nowhere near its zenith, so Arthur returns to his chambers.  He discovers that Merlin has been here earlier by the curtains pinned away to let sunlight in — it’s a beautiful day to get married.  There’s evidence of Merlin’s haphazard cleaning methods that Arthur’s has long gotten used to, even prefers after years of this.  Arthur has seen Merlin’s own room; how Merlin treats Arthur’s chambers is sparkling comparatively.

Arthur forgoes a chair and slumps right into his bed, rumpling the neat sheets.  He’s made no progress at all today, and time marches onwards mercilessly.

Merlin flips through The Art of Necromancy so aggressively that a page catches and rips slightly.  He slams the book shut in frustration, leaning back to rub his palms against his eyes, dreaming of easy solutions.

The door to Gaius’ chamber opens and Merlin hurriedly sits up, only to see that it’s Gwen.  He slumps back down. 

“Sorry to disturb you, Merlin.” Gwen walks inside more tentatively than usual. 

Merlin admits, “I’m not getting anywhere with this anyways.” 

Gwen comes to stand over Merlin to see what he’s up to, recognising the book. “This is about the shade?” 

“I need to get rid of it before the wedding.  While the shade is still active, Morgana has an enemy smuggled right in the heart of Camelot.” 

At the reminder of the wedding, Gwen’s face pinches slightly.  Merlin straightens up and offers her to sit beside him, concerned. 

Gwen doesn’t need to be prompted, she does not have the aversion to vulnerability of Arthur or Merlin’s endless secrets, to tell Merlin her woes, “I’m not sure if the wedding will happen.  With everything going on, it doesn’t feel like a good time.” 

“So what if there’s been some interruptions? It’s good, actually — no one wants Agravaine at their wedding.  I’ll get rid of the shade, Morgana won’t be able to do anything anymore, and you will have a beautiful, amazing wedding like you deserve.” 

Gwen looks at Merlin sorrowfully, then glances at the book on the table. “The shade, you’ll get rid of it with magic.” 

Merlin freezes.  He swallows nervously, beginning to stutter out deflections before he even knows what to say. 

Gwen continues without him, “You used magic to confirm the shade’s identity.  And you’ll use it again to get rid of the shade.  You and Gaius, you’ve been looking after Camelot with magic for a long time, haven’t you?” Gwen looks at him, not with fear but not with anything particularly positive either.  If anything, she seems upset and lost. “I don’t understand but I don’t have to; you would never do harm unto Camelot, especially Arthur.  Just be careful, okay?” 

“...I was born with magic.  I’ve never known how not to have it.  When I first came to Camelot, only Gaius knew the truth.  For a long while, I thought I’d always be alone, but… Lancelot ended up finding out when he first came to Camelot.  It was my magic that aided him in killing the griffin.” 

Realisation dawns upon Gwen, finding clarity on Merlin and Lancelot’s relationship after years of curiosity and confusion. “All this time… And when he died, you had no one else.” 

Merlin’s lip quivers and his eyes shine with gathering tears, reaction quick and uncontrollable. “He left me alone.” 

Gwen chokes up and pulls Merlin into a hug, letting him bury his head against her shoulder.  Merlin’s body is cold despite the lovely day and warm room — the physician’s chambers are always slightly too hot because of the fire that’s always kept going for the purpose of brewing medicine.  Sometimes Gwen feels it’s like holding a corpse, so cold and still, and in a way it must feel like death to Merlin, to have lost someone like Lancelot.  After the Dorocha, after the closing of the veil, Merlin had never been the same.  Gwen had thought she understood, but apparently even this ran deeper than she thought, Merlin’s dearest self taken to the grave with Lancelot. 

Gwen fears magic.  It has been a sore place in her heart since Morgana’s descent into vengeance and violence.  In an instinctual way, she fears Merlin now too, subconsciously wondering if he’ll kill her for finding out about him.  He wouldn’t, she knows (she thinks…), because it’s Merlin, and honestly it must feel so relieving to finally have someone to help bear the secret, even if she cannot replace Lancelot.  While she fears magic and has not settled how she feels about Merlin, she wouldn’t choose otherwise than to hold Merlin close as he grieves anew their lost friend. 

Merlin eventually composes himself and pulls away from the hug, face pale and flushed. 

“I won’t tell Arthur,” Gwen decides.  It would be a horrible time for him to find out, after the betrayal of Agravaine and Morgana’s magical touch on the worst of his life. 

Merlin relaxes with relief.  There’s a fear to him too, the type that Gwen has not thought of for too long — the fear of those King Uther would send to the pyre for painful retribution, or whatever the king’s reasoning had been, which Gwen had once felt in full force when she was accused of a magical plague upon the city.  She’d almost forgotten the helpless pain, but never the way Merlin moved heaven and earth to absolve her.  All that time, he’s had magic, has lived in constant terror of being caught or accused — it didn’t matter which one, in Uther’s Camelot, where even a whisper of magic was crushed — yet here he remains in Camelot, the most loyal of all men to King Arthur. 

It’s a heavy day already, so Gwen does not continue the conversation as such, letting the silence settle Merlin.  Her attention wanders back to book of necromancy that had given them everything they’ve needed so far to deal with the shade. 

“Have you found anything?  To get rid of the shade.” 

“Nothing helpful,” Merlin mutters with frustration.  “Mortally wounding the shade would get rid of it, but Arthur is hesitant and I…I can’t kill Lancelot.” 

Gwen’s instinct is to consider that a perfect option.  It’s not really Lancelot anymore, killing it would simply be returning his memory to rest and destroying Morgana’s plans, but clearly Arthur and Merlin have misgivings.  She doesn’t voice her disagreement, knowing it won’t be heard. 

“Could you break the link between the shade and Morgana? Or send the soul back to death?” she wonders, ultimately having no idea how magic works. 

Merlin considers it, “Settling the tormented soul…but how?” He opens the book once more, finding the passage on shades with the ease of someone who’s been agonising over it. 

Gwen sits with Merlin as he reads and rereads the pages, scouring the book’s other passages to see if there are linked ideas which can help.  Gwen enjoys the peace, the ambient sounds of Merlin’s flicking through the book and the city outside, her final hours of being a regular person before she becomes queen.  She suddenly becomes very aware of what is coming. 

“Merlin?” Gwen waits for him to look up, acknowledging her before returning to the book, before continuing, “What’s it like to do magic?” 

Merlin gapes at her, then falls into a thoughtful state.  “Well, there’s the spells, which are really just commands.  You tell a light to appear or a tree to fall.  There’s more complicated stuff, like what summoned the shade.  You beseech the gods and magic to bring about something powerful.” 

“A miracle,” Gwen muses. “It’s like praying.” 

Merlin shrugs. “I guess it is.  The druids certainly follow that aspect, having shrines for the dead and worshipping nature.” 

Gwen’s eyebrows furrow as she thinks on it all. “What if you gave the shade funeral rites? Maybe that would get rid of it.” 

Merlin jolts upright from where he’s been curled over the book. “Of course!  Gwen, you genius, it’s right there — even Camelot still does it.  You set the soul to rest!  I just need to find the perfect prayer.” 

Merlin picks up The Art of Necromancy and starts rushing out of the room.  He stops halfway out the door, turning back to where he’d left Gwen at the table. “Thank you so much, Gwen.  I’ll do my best.” 

The door closes with the thud of wood on stone, and Gwen is left alone in the physician’s chambers.  She sighs, hoping Merlin doesn’t get so stressed and busy that he misses the wedding. 

It’s still quite early in the day, yet Gwen is exhausted.  She sits just a while longer, taking what little time she has left.

There’s a knock at the door.  Arthur groans then braces himself, getting out of bed with great effort.  He’s emotionally and physically a mess, so he tries to at least tidy his appearance as he stumbles to the door.

On the other side is Guinevere, surprised that Arthur actually answered.  Arthur’s avoidance and indecision has been made moot by Guinevere’s arrival. 

“I’m sorry,” Guinevere says quickly. “I just had to see you, before…” 

“Come in,” Arthur sighs, opening the door wider. 

Guinevere doesn’t hesitate to enter.  She walks with confidence only to stop at a seemingly random spot in the room.  She will not sit down, Arthur knows, unlike Merlin who often steals a seat whenever he wants.  Arthur takes a moment to stare at Guinevere.  She’s beautiful, draped in the sunlight, wearing the purple dress she’d made herself and had been wearing endlessly in the lead-up to the wedding. 

“I should’ve come to find you.  I should’ve, but I couldn’t…” 

Guinevere shakes her head. “We both know we need to talk.” She goes silent for a moment then takes a fortifying breath. “Arthur, are we still getting married? After everything that’s happened, I wouldn’t blame you to delay it or even—” 

“I will not call off the wedding!” Arthur yells reactively.  Guinevere flinches back, startled, and Arthur can only be glad there is no fear in her eyes.  Still, it’s not pleasant to be so aggressive to his beloved.  He places his hands on her shoulders and smooths them down her sleeves apologetically.  “Sorry, I just… I love you.  I want to marry you.  Everything that’s happening has just made it difficult to be excited.” 

Guinevere grasps his arms in return, thumbs pressing through the fabric of his tunic in a comforting motion. “I feel the same.  I can’t wait to be your queen, but after yesterday, the shade and Agravaine and… I understand.  I was so confused, and for a time I thought I would be taken from you.  More than anything, I want to stay by your side, even when our marriage seems to face endless hurdles.” 

Arthur is so frustrated by it all.  He spent so much of the morning trying to resolve everything yet nothing has gotten done and at this point they might not even go forward with the wedding. “I’m not letting Morgana ruin our wedding.” 

A smile slowly brightens Guinevere’s face and she makes a play at thoughtfulness, as though she’s weighing the options even though Arthur can see she’s made up her mind even before she tells him, “It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be ours.” 

“It’ll be ours,” Arthur repeats with a feeling of awe. 

Arthur pulls Guinevere closer by their clasped hands until they’re nearly body-to-body.  He leans down and she meets him in a sweet kiss full of promises.  Whatever happens, they want a life together, and the first step is their wedding this afternoon.

Chapter Text

It’s Merlin’s own fault the Lake of Avalon is a conduit for death, the veil between worlds as thin as it can be without tearing open. He’s laid so many people to rest here, all of them lost too soon, and just as many he wasn’t able to bring here due to the circumstances; Will, his father, Lancelot…

The shade walks into the lake willingly, stopping only once he’s at the edge of the shallows, submerged to his knees. He pauses a moment, looking out at the water and treeline and the distant mountains, then turns back to Merlin upon the shore.

“I’ll miss you,” the shade tells him surprisingly demurely. “Thank you.”

Merlin swallows the grief and blinks away the tears that threaten his composure, and he does not reply aloud to the shade. He smiles tightly, wishing the grief away so he can barely taste the bittersweet moment. The shade closes his eyes, making sure the last thing he sees is Merlin’s attempt to love him back.

Merlin hesitates but finally speaks the blessing meant to release Lancelot’s soul from its torment, “Grið fæstne mid þisse tintregian sawle.”

The shade sighs so deeply it seems for a moment that he’ll deflate entirely and sink below the water. It could be like he was never there, simply an empty space. But he does not — he takes another breath in and a soft smile crosses his face.

His eyes flutter then blink open. He looks ahead and meets Merlin’s eyes.

It’s Lancelot, the real Lancelot, who looks at Merlin. He could sob for joy; Lancelot smiles brighter — the smile that Merlin remembers from his life — at the very sight of him. His eyes are brown and glimmer in the sunlight in the exact way Merlin has missed for so long. Merlin had almost forgotten the way Lancelot’s eyes pinch with happiness and the stretch of his smile.

Merlin doesn’t hold himself back. He runs toward Lancelot, splashing and wading through the water faster than Lancelot can step forward to try and meet him too, and throws himself against the other man. Lancelot hardly stumbles back, taking Merlin in his reliable arms and holding him close. Merlin screws his eyes shut and feels Lancelot’s stubble scratch at his neck.

“Lancelot,” Merlin gasps through the tears that finally tumble down his cheeks.

“Merlin,” Lancelot greets back with the right mix of emotion, the right tone and inflection that the shade could never mimic no matter how it seemed to fool everyone else. “Thank you.”

Merlin sobs with relief and joy and a sense of finally being complete again, burying his face in Lancelot’s neck to try and get closer still. “I missed you so much. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—"

“No, Merlin.” Lancelot gently pulls Merlin just far enough away so they can look at each other, kind eyes full of so much affection that Merlin could melt into the lake for it. It wouldn’t be so bad, becoming the silt of the lakebed, if it didn’t mean letting go of Lancelot. “I gave myself willingly, and I’d do it again — for you. As you have loved me, I have you.”

It’s been so long since Merlin has been able to hold Lancelot like this, to be reassured in the way only Lancelot can. Arthur can try, with his horseplay and attempts to make Merlin laugh, and Gwen can try, with her soft touch and kind sentiments, but no one has ever wormed their way to his very core and unravelled him until they could say just a phrase and make the world right again; not the way Lancelot could — can.

Merlin’s eyelashes feel heavy with the water accumulated from his tears. His wet cheeks are cold for the breeze in the air. The world sings a simple tune, the trees croak and the foliage rustles, and Merlin hears as much as feels Lancelot’s breathing with their chests pressed together, feels the air released so close to his face that it brushes over his lips.

Everything is absolutely perfect.

It feels right for Merlin to lean in and press a chaste, meaningful kiss to the corner of Lancelot’s mouth. His heart flutters with the sort of happiness he thought would be forever lost to him after he lost the man he’d loved most, whom he loves with all his being.

Lancelot’s arms loosen around him, slowly falling away. His hot breath is suddenly absent. Merlin feels the confused furrow of his own brow in the pinch of his cheeks and peels his eyes open, blinking away the film of tears to see properly. The body in his arms feels empty.

Lancelot falls.

Merlin scrambles to hold him up, catching Lancelot under the arms before he can submerge in the shallow water. Lancelot’s head lolls back, limp and unresponsive. His hands dip below the surface, body wet up to his waist for Merlin’s weakness. Merlin feels the moment all the life leaves Lancelot’s body, when his body turns colder than Merlin’s and leaves a complete absence in the life-full lake and forest. Chest pressed to Merlin’s ribs, it’s almost like Merlin feels his heart stopping.

True love’s kiss can break many enchantments, Merlin has known for years. But the ludicrously powerful spells of necromancy? And in this manner?

Merlin remembers Kilgharrah’s words as a curse, as he tends to often these days: “A force greater than you or I can understand, a force that has puzzled many minds… The greatest force of all: love.”

Falling to his knees in the shallows of the lake, Merlin brings the unresponsive body, the corpse, close to himself, cradling Lancelot’s head to his heart. Pebbles dig at his knees through the thin, wet fabric of his trousers, the sting nothing compared to the way his heart seizes, and the water rushes up to his waist, sticking his clothes to his body in a horrible way, but how can that matter when all the love in him has been ripped away once more?

“I’m sorry,” Merlin chokes out, staring down at the perfectly still face of his Lancelot.

Lancelot dies the second time as he did the first: all because of Merlin, because they love each other; and there’s a smile upon his face, like he can leave everyone behind without regrets. But, oh, how many regrets Merlin has.

Merlin pulls Lancelot closer and curls his body over him, burying his face in Lancelot’s shoulder one last time.

And he weeps.