Lancelot was ready to die.
It wasn’t that he wanted to die, not at all, he had simply accepted the necessity of it. The choice had been surprisingly easy to make, once he’d seen Merlin — kind-hearted, cheeky, magical Merlin — unmoving on the ground, fighting for his life after the Dorocha had touched him.
Now, Merlin was healed and healthy, but Lancelot’s choice remained unchanged; he would do anything to save Merlin — just like Merlin would do anything to save Arthur, and since Arthur was set on sacrificing himself to close the veil, well, the conclusion was really rather simple.
Lancelot tried not to think about anything else — especially not him. And yet, he could feel his eyes on his back, always watching. They had been watching each other a lot, ever since they’d first met, then even more once Guinevere had decided that she’d had enough of men altogether and started seeing the stable master’s daughter. Lancelot wished he wasn’t watching now. He’d be able to tell, just like Merlin would be able to tell if he weren’t so completely focused on Arthur.
“Lance,” murmured Gwaine, appearing at his side without warning.
Lancelot startled and glared at him. “What is it?”
“You’re being weird,” Gwaine declared bluntly. “Tell me what’s going on in that thick skull of yours, so I can beat whatever stupid idea you’ve had this time out of you.”
As expected, then. He really had to work on concealing his thoughts better if he ever wanted to be able to keep any secrets from Gwaine. The thought had barely processed when Lancelot’s gut sank; he wouldn’t be alive long enough to work on anything. At least dead men had no need to conceal anything.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied evenly, keeping his eyes on the path ahead.
“Bullsh*t,” Gwaine hissed. “I know that expression, it’s the one I saw you wear right before you gave some flimsy excuse for you and Merlin to run off alone in a battle against immortal enemies — a battle you still refuse to tell me anything true about.”
“We were held up,” Lancelot began, but broke off when Gwaine scoffed and shook his head. Lancelot heaved a sigh. “What do you want me to say, Gwaine?”
Their eyes met for a moment, and a familiar jolt of longing went through Lancelot. He looked away, lest he do something colossally stupid.
“Something true. Whatever big secret you’re carrying, you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Lancelot winced. “And what if it isn’t my secret to tell?”
Even out of the corner of his eye, Lancelot could see the flash of understanding flickering over Gwaine’s features. He really had to shut up sooner rather than later.
“It’s Merlin, isn’t it,” said Gwaine. “It’s always been Merlin.”
It wasn’t a question, so Lancelot stayed silent, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the forest ground in front of him as he walked.
“Are you in love with him?”
Gwaine’s tone was as even and blunt as ever, and Lancelot’s gaze snapped up to meet Gwaine’s eyes before he could stop himself. How could those warm, brown eyes look cold as steel? It made Lancelot’s insides twist.
“What?! No!”
Gwaine softened, his shoulders sagging a little.
The ache to be near him didn’t come as a jolt this time, it crashed into Lancelot like an avalanche, suffocating and merciless. Gods, how he wanted to reach out and reassure him that, no, of course he wasn’t in love with Merlin — how could he be, when he was right here, when they were them and all they would’ve needed was an excuse? Why had they never come up with an excuse? They could’ve had weeks, months.
But it was too late now, because Arthur slowed at the front of their little caravan, and when they caught up to him, their destination lay in front of them.
“The Isle of the Blessed.” Arthur’s words might as well have been death bells.
Nobody spoke while they were on the boat that took them to the island, yet Lancelot could feel Gwaine’s eyes on him the entire time. Gods, this would hurt him, wouldn’t it.
For a moment, Lancelot’s resolve wavered. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to consider the possibility of letting Merlin do as he wished, of grieving his best friend at Gwaine’s side, alive. Alive and without magic to protect Arthur, who was the only one who could bring the Golden Age that Merlin always spoke about, eyes sparkling and full of hope. Alive with the knowledge that he had doomed Camelot by interfering with destiny, because destiny needed Merlin and Arthur, not Lancelot and Gwaine.
Then the Wyvern attacked, and Lancelot had never been so glad to see a monster coming at him, welcoming the distraction with something almost akin to joy. Almost.
When the group split up, he scrambled after Merlin, Gwaine following behind him like the stubborn bastard he was. Not for the first time Lancelot wished he had magic of his own, just to will the prat away, to make him turn back — to spare him the sight of what was bound to happen.
The veil hung in the air like liquid smoke, its edges fraying and morphing without pause; suddenly the phrasing “a tear in the fabric between the worlds” was painfully on the nose. Even without magic, the feeling of wrongness it exuded was palpable enough to make Lancelot shudder.
He hardly listened as Arthur and Merlin argued with the Cailleach, his attention focused on the black chasm calling for someone’s death. Only when Gwaine, reckless as he ever was, charged at the Cailleach did Lancelot’s eyes dart away from the veil for the briefest moment. One last look.
Arthur offered his life, Merlin intervened — they really were quite predictable. With Merlin focused on the Cailleach, Lancelot took his chance. The horrible feeling of wrongness, of dread and decay, grew stronger with every step.
One last look.
He halted, barely an arm’s length short of crossing the veil.
One last look, even if he won’t look back at me.
Lancelot turned slowly for one final indulgence in his life — and was knocked off his feet by a solid body slamming into his.
“Don’t. You. Dare,” snarled Gwaine, pinning him to the ground.
It was pure reflex to throw him off and roll into a defensive stance. Both of them had their hands on their sword hilts as they stared at each other.
“There’s no other way,” said Lancelot, resignation ringing in his voice.
“There’s always another way!” yelled Gwaine. He was furious, good. Fury would lessen the grief.
“It cannot be Merlin,” Lancelot insisted. “He’s too important.”
“Important how, for what?!”
“Camelot needs—”
“No, shut up, don’t even answer that, I don’t care — it cannot be either of you! I’ll go!”
All air was sucked from Lancelot’s lungs, pain flaring in his chest as though he’d been stabbed right through the heart. No, not you. Never you.
“I’m sorry, Gwaine, but I can’t let you do that.” He drew his sword. “I can’t.”
A loud crash and Merlin shouting what must’ve been a spell drew his attention for barely a second, then Gwaine was already on him. They were evenly matched, they knew each other’s combat styles — a fight like this might well go on for hours, and they both knew it.
But it wasn’t about victory, was it? It was about who made it to the veil first.
Across the hall, another battle was raging. Flashes of light were coupled with the sounds of stones shattering, and for the briefest moment Lancelot worried how Gwaine would react upon learning that Merlin had magic, only to abruptly remember that Gwaine wouldn’t be alive to react to anything if Lancelot didn’t win this fight.
Though it felt like hours, it couldn’t have been longer than a couple of minutes before a booming voice echoed through the hall.
“Enough!”
It took Lancelot longer than he liked to admit to realise that it was Arthur, who was looking back and forth between the two fighting pairs with a positively murderous expression. Reluctantly, he lowered his sword, but not his guard, aware of Gwaine’s every move to his left.
“That is enough,” Arthur repeated, calmer but by no means any less menacing.
“Arthur—”
“Not another word, Merlin!”
“Sire—”
“That goes for you too, Lancelot, and you as well, Gwaine! Even you,” he rounded on the Cailleach, “will not breathe a single word. You gave me a choice — me, Arthur Pendragon, King Regent of Camelot; not them, not any of them! — and I made my choice. You wanted my life and I was willing to give it. And yet, you allowed my decision to be overruled, allowed the price you sought to be replaced with another. Why is that?”
The Cailleach scowled. “Death readily accepted has opened the rift, only a life freely offered will close it.”
“So it never mattered who crossed the veil?” Arthur scoffed. “That is hardly believable.”
“Do not speak of things you do not understand, Arthur Pendragon,” spat the Cailleach with an angry hiss. “You may be the Once and Future King, but you know nothing of the true powers ruling the world — this one, and the next.”
“But I do.”
Instinctively, Lancelot’s eyes flew to Gwaine, watching for his reaction to Merlin’s words, for shock or anger, fear or betrayal to distort his features — but Gwaine’s expression remained unchanged; watchful and serious. Had he known? Had Merlin told him and never said anything to Lancelot, or had Gwaine simply figured it out for himself? Or was he truly so unfazed by the revelation of Merlin having magic that it didn’t matter to him?
“Then you know the price that is demanded, Emrys,” snarled the Cailleach.
Merlin nodded. “An equal life must be offered. But that’s the trick, isn’t it? I should have realised sooner. Who died to tear the veil? How much life was left in them when the sacrifice was made?”
The Cailleach threw herself at Merlin with a scream, only to be flung back by a wordless spell, Merlin’s eyes flashing gold.
“You should know better than this, Gatekeeper. Nature demands balance, not endless death; you are draining the magic out of the earth with your pointless greed. What were you hoping to achieve?”
The question hung in the room for a tense, drawn-out moment, then Merlin raised his voice again and it rang like thunder, “Tell me, Cailleach, what were you hoping to achieve?”
“Freedom,” the Cailleach bit out.
All the anger drained from Merlin’s face. In its place appeared an odd sort of understanding, as though he knew exactly what she meant.
Lancelot winced when he realised that Merlin probably did feel much the same in Camelot. Trapped. Given a task nobody else could fulfil, bound by duty regardless of what duty put him through, with no way out, no end in sight.
Suddenly, Merlin’s expression hardened again. “Even the Gods must bear their cravings. A dream will only be a nightmare if you let it become one. I offer my life in equal exchange; take what is due and close the veil, or face the consequences of your excess.”
Every muscle in Lancelot’s body tensed. He gripped his sword tighter, ready to stop Merlin if he — or Arthur or Gwaine — took so much as a single step towards the veil.
But none of it happened. Instead, the Cailleach bowed, before extending a hand towards Merlin. Golden tendrils rose from his chest and flowed over to her, winding around her arm, across her shoulders and down the other arm raised towards the veil. Warmth spread through the air, the wrongness faded, and, within mere seconds, the tear in the veil had vanished — along with the Cailleach.
There was a beat of total silence, as though time stood still. Then Merlin collapsed.
“Merlin!” Arthur barely caught him before his head hit the stone floor. And wouldn’t that be just typical for Merlin? Solve the big, scary magical problem only to split open his skull a second later.
“Arthur? Is he—”
“He’s breathing, he probably just exhausted himself.”
Lancelot couldn’t help it, no matter how uncalled for it was; he laughed. Perhaps it came out a little hysterical, most certainly incredulous, but he laughed, and Gwaine joined in a mere moment later.
Their eyes met.
They were alive. They were alive and Merlin and Arthur were alive; somehow everyone was alive and if that wasn’t an excuse Lancelot didn’t know what could be, so, for once, he stopped thinking about honour or nobility and just acted.
The kiss was wet, probably because Gwaine’s lip was split open, and somewhat sloppy as they moved, yet out of sync, to find how they fit together. Lancelot wanted it to go on forever. Gwaine was solid and warm and right against him, and then they had suddenly found their angles, limbs slotting into place like they’d always belonged around the other’s body, the world fading to the background.
It was only when the remaining knights rushed in, Leon shouting, “Sire!” as the door banged open, that they broke apart, flushed and panting.
“I knew you had a stupid idea in your head,” muttered Gwaine, clearly trying for chiding but ending up sounding ridiculously fond. “Don’t ever try that again, alright? I’ll have to actually kick your arse if you do.”
Lancelot chuckled. “You can try.”
The scandalised expression Gwaine gave him in response would have put any noble lady to shame. Lancelot laughed, and, just for good measure, kissed him again. It was softer this time around, all their previous urgency vanished, leaving nothing but gentle affection that felt more natural than anything Lancelot had ever experienced.
Inevitably, the world crowded its way back into their awareness. Or rather, Lancelot’s mind returned to some basic functionality — and with that returned his concerns for Merlin, because Arthur had seen! Abruptly, he twisted in Gwaine’s arms to look for Merlin, half-fearing to see him already run through with a blade.
“Sire, about Merlin, please let me explain before—”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Arthur cut him off. He didn’t sound angry.
“Sire—”
“He saved me. Us. As furious as I am about his tendency to throw himself in harm’s way to protect others, he saved us and he granted Camelot safety once more.” Arthur looked up at Lancelot. “Am I right in assuming that it wasn’t the first time?”
Lancelot nodded. “Yes, Sire. I can tell you what I know if you wish.”
“That won’t be necessary. He can tell me himself, once he is well again.” A small smile tugged on Arthur’s lips as he looked down at Merlin and softly added, “Idiot.”
In an odd deja-vu of only a few days prior, Arthur gathered an unconscious Merlin into his arms and turned to leave. “Let’s go, I’ve had enough of this place.”
As soon as they stepped out of the boat back on shore, everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief to be off the island. Immediately, the teasing banter that had ceased in the face of the Dorochas returned with a vengeance Lancelot really should’ve foreseen. Granted, if Elyan and Percival ever got over themselves, Lancelot surely would be teasing them too, so both him and Gwaine endured it graciously, only sharing occasional wry glances.
It likely would’ve gone on the entire way home, if Arthur hadn’t eventually put an end to it during a quick rest by looking both of them straight in the eye and saying, “Congratulations. Was about time.” And that was that — one last round of whistles and cheers notwithstanding.
“So,” began Gwaine, several hours of mostly silent travel through the woods later. “Magic, huh? That was the big secret.”
Lancelot smiled wryly and nodded.
Gwaine gave a low hum and said nothing. But just as Gwaine could tell when Lancelot had something on his mind, so could he when Gwaine had something on his.
“I didn’t keep it from you because I don’t trust you, Gwaine, it simply wasn’t my secret to share. I couldn’t betray Merlin like that, just like you wouldn’t have if our roles were reversed.”
The look on Gwaine’s face was so unimpressed that Lancelot couldn’t help but laugh.
Gwaine rolled his eyes and sighed, “Alright, fine, I get your point. But I’m still kind of pissed about you trying to bloody sacrifice yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “How about I make it up to you?”
“Oh? And how do you intend to manage that?” replied Gwaine, his tone already teasing, full of unspoken promises unfit for polite company.
But Lancelot only smiled widely, taking Gwaine’s hand in his. “By telling you something true.”
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