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Chapter Text

The Vilia know the two figures passing through the woods by their stream. One, they need no face to recognize, but remember the resonance of her magic from when it tore the veil between worlds. The second they have met, though he is not the same. The Vilia can sense the hollow void within the physical shell, the dark magic that resurrected him still swirling through his aura. Lancelot is no more. His shade trails behind the mistress that brought him back, no doubt for some vile purpose. The Vilia mourn his corrupted destiny.

No, the sisters whisper amongst themselves. They intervened once to preserve fate; they can do so again.

The burbling brook scintillates in the afternoon sun, catching Lancelot's eye. He slows his pace, pauses, and turns to look. Careful not to draw the attention of the witch, the Vilia beckon him closer with subtle susurrations. So freshly resurrected, his mind is pliable and he easily responds, walking to the edge of the stream and taking a knee at its edge. He dips a hand into the water to drink.

The Vilia cannot restore him but they know who can. The water glows faintly as they suffuse their magic into his skin. It is enough to break the control Morgana has over him, and they leave him with one all-encompassing thought. Merlin.

.o.0.o.

He knocks the woman out from behind. He can't say why he does it, can't even say who she is, but he feels a compulsion to get away. His thoughts are fleeting as he stumbles through the woods, and he often staggers to a stop and blinks numbly at surroundings he can't make sense of. Then that whisper pushes through the haze and propels him forward once more. He doesn't know where he's going. He doesn't know who he is.

He breaks from the forest into a meadow. A castle stands against the sky up ahead, red banners trailing through wispy clouds. There's a lone figure in the grass picking plants, and he knows him. He doesn't know how and he doesn't even know what he knows, only that something is there, something calling out to him.

The lanky young man looks up and freezes, and the two of them stare at each other for several long moments. Then the boy comes closer, expression rapidly shifting between disbelief, suspicion, grief, and desperate hope.

"Lancelot?" His voice cracks on the word- no, name?

The thought is as fleeting as all the others, but the voice triggers his own ability to find speech again.

"Merlin," he says.

The boy's eyes water. "Wh- how?" He drops his basket of herbs and closes the distance, only to pull up short at the last few feet, brows quirking in confusion. "Lancelot?"

He still doesn't know what that means. "I know you," he says instead. "I…I don't know anything else, but I know I know you."

Merlin falters. "Lancelot, what's going on?"

"I knew I had to find you," he goes on. He frowns, not remembering why. And while up until now he had felt nothing but numbness, now he feels a flicker of fear. "Help me."

"Okay, I will," Merlin says, tone careful like he's dealing with a wounded animal. "What's the last thing you remember?"

He tries to think. That memory is there, just inconsequential. "Walking out of the water. Following her. Then…" He shakes his head. "I knew I had to find you," he repeats earnestly, and he's starting to feel distressed because now that he's found Merlin he doesn't know what to do.

"Her who?" Merlin asks tensely.

The name rises up as though through sludge. "Morgana."

Merlin physically reels back. "Morgana brought you back," he breathes, and he sounds horrified.

"Yes. I…got away." He gives Merlin a beseeching look. "Please…help me." He looks around the area, feeling overwhelmingly lost.

Merlin finally closes the distance and takes his hands. He feels a tingle, and it tickles at the back of his mind, another something that's just out of conscious reach but he feels he recognizes it.

"You have magic," he says. "That's why they told me to find you."

Merlin's brows pinch together anxiously. "Who told you?"

"I don't know."

Merlin exhales heavily.

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be," Merlin immediately says. "It's not your fault." He bites at his lower lip and looks around. "I can try something," he says and lifts one hand tentatively.

"I trust you." And it's the one thing he is certain of.

Merlin's expression twists with something like anguish, but he holds his palm up and utters strange words. His eyes flare amber as magic penetrates the air and flesh before it. It's warm and floods every crevice of this hollow being, effectively drowning him, but he's not afraid. Something deep inside him shrieks and snaps, and Lancelot feels himself getting slammed back into his own body with enough force that he's thrown to the ground. He gasps in a lungful of air like it's the first breath he's taken since rising from those dark waters. It sears his chest and leaves him choking. He should be writhing on the ground but he's only on his knees, his forehead pressed against a shoulder and arms up around his, propping him up. Everything is hot and cold simultaneously and his mind is a jumble of thoughts and feelings but he knows now. He knows everything.

"Merlin," he whispers shakily.

Merlin leans back, still holding him by the arms lest he topple. "Lancelot?" he asks warily.

Lancelot drops his forehead back down against Merlin's chest. "Thank you," he breathes. It's like he's woken from a nightmare.

Merlin tightens his hold on him, shifting from propping him up to fiercely embracing him. "It's really you."

He's utterly spent and can't even manage a nod, but Lancelot lets himself lean limply against his friend. "Thank you," he repeats in a reedy voice.

Merlin squeezes tighter. "We should get you back to the castle."

"Can we stay here for a minute?" he asks, still not lifting his head. He can smell horse and grass on Merlin's shirt and the wildflowers around them.

Merlin moves a hand up to cup the back of Lancelot's head. "Of course."

Lancelot keeps his eyes closed and just breathes.

Chapter Text

"It's A Delicate Thing"

It's a delicate thing, weaving a soul back together. Merlin can mend fabric and leather easily enough, and often he'll use his magic just to speed things along, but there are no shortcuts with this, and his magic must be wielded as carefully as a needle and thread set to sundered flesh.

Lancelot lies still as death on the cot in Gaius's chambers. Breaking Morgana's hold over him had only been part of the battle. They'd stopped him from carrying out her plans, had banished the hollow shade from his mortal shell. And now he's just that—a shell. Empty and devoid of the spirit that had once so vibrantly made him alive.

This isn't the end, though, not by a long shot. Merlin refuses to leave it at that. There are pieces still inside his friend, fragments of a soul shattered and broken by death and Morgana's vile resurrection, but it's something to work with.

Merlin sits by the cot and reaches out with his magic, wrapping it around the first tattered shard and cradling it in warmth. Merlin soothes the raw edges. It resonates of loneliness, and Merlin takes his memories of their first meeting, of those first founding stones of friendship, and grafts them to the wounded soul.

It leaves the shard vibrating from the trauma, and so Merlin has to stop and let it rest, let it heal. This is a delicate process.

Gaius tells Arthur that Lancelot is in a coma and they won't know anything until—or if—he wakes. He doesn't mention Merlin's nightly vigils where he sits for hours, gingerly weaving the threads of a lost soul back together. And Arthur excuses Merlin's lapse in chores and attentiveness as grief. Lancelot died and then he came back wrong and no one expects a miracle to fix this.

Merlin holds a trembling fragment in the palm of his hand. He can feel the terror and anguish wafting through his mind's eye. This piece remembers Morgana's touch and the glacial poison of dark magic. Merlin suffuses his magic into the shard, his magic which is bright and soft and warm and everything magic should be. Lancelot's soul gradually settles, gradually eases into Merlin's touch and rests in it. Merlin holds him like that for a while, lets him be at peace before the pain of healing must commence once more.

It's a grueling process, both mentally and emotionally, and another reason why it's taking so long. Merlin exhausts himself with each phase and has no choice but to rest between sessions lest he make a mistake. And he cannot make a mistake. His dear friend has been abused enough.

Gwen comes to see him, as do the other knights. There's a mixture of grief for Lancelot and mistrust that it's safe for Merlin to be left alone with him like this. Gaius assures them Morgana's curse is broken.

"Then why won't he wake up?" they ask.

"It's a delicate thing," Gaius says.

The soul begins to take shape. It still has ragged edges and gaps. Merlin stitches together every single thread with memory and love, infusing thoughts of the others and their care for Lancelot as well. The soul recognizes him now, welcomes the touch of his magic. It stirs restlessly, wanting to wake.

Soon, Merlin promises, and uses the strings of his magic to sing it to sleep. And he continues the delicate stitching.

It's a cohesive voice that greets him next time. Merlin.

Merlin smiles through his magic, radiating warmth and brilliance like the sun. Lancelot.

Thank you. I can be at peace now.

The magic undulates with Merlin's shaking head. No, my friend, you can live.

Merlin makes one more pass over the restored soul, checking for any missed seams, any overlooked wounds no matter how small. But Merlin's patience and tenacity has paid off. Lancelot is whole.

Merlin sits by the cot and reaches out to rest a hand over his friend's forehead. He sends an infusion of magic through the mortal body, quickening it to wake.

Lancelot opens his eyes and gazes blearily at the ceiling. After a moment, he then lolls his head toward Merlin and smiles softly. "Thank you."

Merlin smiles too, eyes watering. "Welcome back."

Chapter Text

"Precious Scars"

Merlin winds his way through the woods, basket slung over one arm. He casts a look over his shoulder, but no one's following. No one ever does. He's good at sneaking around.

He ducks into a narrow cleft of a tall escarpment and follows the trough between rock and stone until he comes out in a grotto, shielded on all sides by tall scarps camouflaged in lush trees and flora. A stream runs through the sheltered glade and shimmers with soft blue light. Merlin nods to the Vilia as he passes.

There's a massive tree taking up an entire patch of earth between one rock wall and the bank, its branches forming an umbrella over the grotto, though sunlight still filters through its canopy and lands in spots of amber and yellow across the ground. A curtain of ivy hangs over a split down the middle of the trunk, and Merlin enters into the hollowed out center. The interior has been fashioned into a simple dwelling place: a short stool and small rickety table sit in one corner, blankets over a bed of moss lie along one groove at the base of the inner bark, and various tools, books, and knickknacks sit in small wooden crates stacked in another corner. Merlin's done his best to furnish the hollow with things he could sneak out of the castle bit by bit.

Lancelot is sitting on the ground, dressed in a white shirt and brown trousers, tying bundles of herbs together with string. Locks of hair curl around his ears and over his eyes. It's getting long. He looks up at Merlin's arrival and gives him a small smile.

Merlin takes a seat and sets the basket down next to him. "I managed to sneak a pastry today," he says cheerfully and pulls out the blackberry delicacy wrapped in a napkin to hand over.

The offering draws another smile from him. "Thank you."

There's more food in the basket, as much as Merlin could get away with stealing: breads and cheese to supplement the berries and vegetables that grow in a small lot outside and the fish Lancelot sometimes catches in the stream. He'll fill the basket with Lancelot's herbs to take back so no one will suspect what he's been up to. That was Lancelot's idea, always looking out for Merlin even when he was the one in need.

"How are you?" Merlin asks. Lancelot is safe here and he's cared for, but Merlin still worries about his friend.

"I'm fine, Merlin," he replies and takes a bite of the pastry.

Merlin watches carefully for a sign that he's enjoying it. Lancelot is difficult to read these days; there's a solemn melancholy about him, though he never complains about his situation or the necessity of being hidden away out here in the woods. It isn't fair, though.

"I'm sorry I haven't been to visit more lately," Merlin says.

"It's alright," Lancelot replies, his eyes sad yet understanding. "Your life is in Camelot, your work with Arthur and Gaius, not out here looking after me."

Merlin swallows hard and tentatively says, "It's been several months. You could come back to Camelot. We could come up with an explanation for everything, that someone else got you out of the Veil—"

Lancelot sharply shakes his head and looks away. A ray of sunlight through a chip in the outer bark catches the scar on his cheek, lighting up the speckles of gold and cerulean blue like an iridescent crescent carved into his flesh. It's not the only one. There's a scar that curves around his neck and down the back of one shoulder. More criss-crossing in glittering gold and cobalt can be seen through the laces of his shirt. Like rivulets of star and sun dust, one bisects the palm of his right hand while a thin lattice of scarring marks the back of his left. And those are just the ones Merlin can currently see. He knows there are more.

...

"What do you mean he's not dead?"

Floating orbs of light and water bob on the air in front of Merlin. "The Cailleach demanded a sacrifice to close the Veil, but Sir Lancelot's blood was not spilled. He walked through the Veil, alive, and she accepted his life given over to her. Now he is trapped in the realm of the dead, doomed to eternal torment."

Merlin stares at the Vilia in horror.

The water spirits share a look among themselves.

"We have a way to rescue him."

Merlin straightens sharply. "How?"

They return to the Isle of the Blessed. Merlin watches nervously for the Cailleach, but there is no sign of her. She may be powerful, but she is not omniscient; she won't see this coming. Still, they must act quickly before the ripple effects catch her attention.

The Vilia tell Merlin how to create a crack between realms, just enough for them to slip through. It is not the same spell that Morgana used and therefore doesn't require a blood sacrifice. Merlin concentrates all his magic on forcing a wedge into the fold, and then the Vilia are rushing through it. He can hear the screams of the Dorocha from within, but the crack is too small for them to escape through. He stands there, waiting, poised on the edge of a knife as a cold sweat beads the back of his neck. He expects the Cailleach to show up any minute.

Then the Vilia are shouting for him to widen the gap, and Merlin forces it open. Several orbs of light come streaming out, Lancelot somehow carried between them. He falls to the ground and Merlin immediately slams the rift closed before anything else can follow. He runs to his friend and drops down beside him, only for his heart to seize. Lancelot's eyes are blown wide, but they're not focusing on Merlin, and horrible, gurgling breaths are shaking through his rib cage. Vicious slashes have sundered all the way through chainmail and flesh, down to muscle and sinew. He has been ripped to shreds, and now Merlin feels an all new terror, because he can't possibly heal all this and did he just save his best friend in order to watch him die a second death all over again?

"We must leave," the Vilia urge. "Come, we know a safe place."

Lancelot is choking on blood but Merlin knows they're right; no doubt the Cailleach would have felt the disturbance in the Veil and will be on her way. They have to leave.

So he casts a haphazard healing spell, hoping it's enough to keep Lancelot on this side of the living, then pulls his wounded friend up over his shoulder and returns to the small boat. The Vilia stir the water and propel the vessel back to the opposite shore swiftly, and from there they lead Merlin through the woods to a sheltered grotto.

Merlin lays Lancelot on the bank of a stream, and together he and the Vilia work to combine their magic to heal the grisly wounds. Merlin watches amber and blue light flood the gashes and mend the flesh back together. But there's an unintended result.

The healed marks glitter with the remnants of said magic, runnels of scars forged in silver and inlaid with gold and azure.

...

"I'm sorry," Merlin says, voice cracking. "For everything."

For Lancelot sacrificing himself in the first place, for the torture he endured, and now this life of exile because Merlin's magic just isn't enough.

Lancelot looks over again. "No, Merlin, you saved me." His gaze flits down and to the side. "I can still feel it, sometimes, that place."

He shudders, and a spiky lump swells in Merlin's throat. He already knows time passed differently within the Veil; the Vilia told him. What was mere weeks for Merlin was years for Lancelot. It wasn't just the magical scars that had been keeping him in this grotto, but the fact that he had been so damaged, physically and mentally, that he needed a secluded place to recover from it all.

Lancelot gives himself a small shake and lifts his head again. "I would still be there if it weren't for you. I'm grateful."

Merlin shifts onto his knees, leaning forward earnestly. "You would be welcomed back," he insists. "Arthur would look past all this." He gestures to Lancelot and the glittering scars.

But Lancelot just shakes his head again and speaks in a softer voice, "You and I both know there are many others who would see me as a monster. It's better I stay here."

"You are not a monster."

Lancelot's mouth quirks ruefully. "I'm not who I once was. These scars are just an outward representation of what's broken inside."

Merlin scoots closer and takes Lancelot's hand, folding his over the marks. They warm beneath his touch as readily as skin does.

"They're a sign of what you endured, of what you sacrificed to save everyone. They're a sign that you survived, that the spirits themselves decided to fight to bring you home. And you're still you, in spite of the horrors inflicted on you. These don't make you broken; they make you beautiful."

Lancelot gives him a wan smile at that. "Maybe, one day," he concedes. He rotates his hand under Merlin's and squeezes back. "If I am needed, I will come," he vows, then ducks his eyes. "I'm sorry for my cowardliness."

"You have never been a coward," Merlin says staunchly. "And after everything you've been through, you deserve some peace, Lancelot. I would never tear you away from that."

"Thank you," he whispers.

They sit in companionable silence after that, Merlin and the bravest, most noble knight of them all, who sacrificed everything and was shattered for it.

But one day he won't be hidden away. One day the world will see him again, see what he did for them. See what it cost. And they will sing of the beauty in his brokenness.

Chapter Text

"Home" (Precious Scars II)

Lancelot never leaves the grotto. It's sheltered and secluded, and with the Vilia's protection, nothing can get in without their leave. Between them and Merlin's regular visits, Lancelot's basic needs are met. He's not terribly lonely, either; the Vilia are steadfast company and he appreciates their care toward him. He does miss his friends and the life he used to have. But he had willingly given it all up when he walked into the Veil. The fact that he was brought back doesn't change that things cannot go back to the way they once were. He cannot go back to the way he once was.

Then one day some Vilia come bouncing urgently across the water, splashing up droplets in their wake.

"King Arthur is here!" they exclaim.

Lancelot's heart jolts in his chest. "What?"

"He and his knights are in the woods. They are under attack."

Lancelot leaps to his feet at that. "Is Merlin with them?"

The Vilia shake their heads frantically. Lancelot's lungs compress. If Arthur is in danger, how can Lancelot in good conscience not go to his aid? He sprints to the hollow tree and grabs the sword Merlin had brought him. He has kept up his training in his isolation, but it isn't fear of battle that makes his heart race as he prepares to leave the safety of the grotto. He doesn't know how Arthur will react at seeing him after all this time…seeing him as he is now.

But he cannot hide, not when his king and friends are being overrun. And they are, according to the Vilia's rapid updates. Some of them had remained behind at the scene of the skirmish to relay what's happening, and it isn't good. If Merlin was with them, Lancelot is sure the battle would be going differently. But for some reason the warlock is not, and Lancelot must overcome his fear.

He follows the Vilia out of the grotto and up the stream. The sound of clanging swords begins to echo from up ahead and he quickens his pace.

The scene he comes upon is indeed dire. Arthur and the knights are outnumbered, each of them battling two foes at once while yet more come charging toward them. Lancelot takes a steeling breath and leaps into the fray. His arrival catches the bandits off guard and he manages to cut down two before the rest adjust their attack to include him. Lancelot's prowess has not suffered in his exile, but he can tell it's not just the might of his blade that gives these men pause. His appearance is no doubt unnerving.

Lancelot tries to ignore it all and lets the rhythm of battle take over. Within minutes, the tide turns and the knights are able to drive back their enemies, slaying several before the rest finally call a retreat. And then there is silence in the woods. Lancelot stands with his back to his friends, but he knows he cannot postpone the inevitable, so he slowly turns around to face them. He swallows hard at the slackened expressions on their faces as they stare back at him in shock.

"Lancelot?" Arthur finally breathes.

He bows his head and speaks softly, "Sire."

No one else says anything. Lancelot's heart is pounding against his rib cage. He does not regret coming to his friends' aid, but he regrets this moment. He wishes the Vilia could sweep him up and disappear.

Then Percival strides forward and pulls Lancelot into the most fervent hug, the force of it pushing the air from his lungs in a whoosh. He stands there stunned for a second before he lifts his arms and returns the embrace, clinging desperately to a friend he's missed so dearly.

Percival finally pulls back and moves his hands up to clasp the sides of Lancelot's face. "How?" he asks, voice cracking with emotion.

"It's a long story."

Percival's gaze shifts a fraction, and he rubs his thumb over the crescent scar on Lancelot's cheek. Lancelot reaches up to grasp his hand and pulls it down, then steps away.

"I didn't die when I went through the Veil," he explains. "I was trapped there. The Vilia rescued me, healed my wounds, but…" He shrugs and drops his gaze to the ground. "It left its mark."

"How long have you been back?" Leon asks.

"Some months," Lancelot replies quietly.

"Months?" Elyan repeats dubiously. "Why didn't you come back to Camelot?"

Lancelot makes a gesture that encompasses himself because isn't it obvious? "I should go," he says, and he knows it makes him sound like a coward but he can't bear this, so he starts to turn away.

Percival reaches out and captures his hand. "This is why you didn't come home?" he asks, and he sounds hurt as he gently cups Lancelot's palm, angling it so beams of sunlight scintillate along the gold and cerulean scars.

The word "home" makes Lancelot's heart constrict with longing.

"It's a sign of magic," he replies, and he can't help but flick a look at Arthur.

"Lancelot…" Arthur responds, and he looks cut to the core, though whether it's bereavement or betrayal, Lancelot can't decipher.

"I would not bring trouble to your kingdom," Lancelot adds, then looks back at Percival. "I'm doing all right," he assures his friend. "You need not worry about me."

He tries to extract his hand, but Percival doesn't let go.

"Lancelot," Arthur finds his voice again. "We thought you dead. We mourned you. And now to find you alive…you really expect us to just walk away and pretend this didn't happen?"

Lancelot nods. "It's for the best. I would rather be remembered as I was."

"You mean as a hero who saved all of Camelot?" Gwaine finally speaks up. "A hero everyone would rather have back in the flesh instead of an absent memory," he adds with gruff pointedness.

"Not like this," Lancelot argues, and he shoots a pleading look at Arthur to understand. "People will see I've been touched by magic and they'll be afraid. My very presence will cause mistrust and suspicion and I don't want that." He bites his tongue before he can say he's heard things are going well right now; he can't reveal that Merlin already knows about him.

"Anyone who has something to say against you will have to go through us," Gwaine says staunchly. The vehemence surprises Lancelot, though he supposes it shouldn't.

"You're not the first one to be saved by magic," Leon puts in. "It may be more obvious in your case, but you should not feel like you have to hide because of it."

"Aren't you the least bit repulsed by this?" Lancelot asks weakly, tugging the collar of his shirt down to expose yet more of the iridescent scarring. Merlin called it beautiful but he sees the world differently than most people. There are many others who would call him an abomination.

"You're alive," Percival responds. "It doesn't matter how, not to me."

"Nor me," Gwaine echoes.

"And maybe people need to learn not to be afraid," Elyan says. "Maybe…maybe not all magic is evil."

Lancelot looks away. So he is to be the sacrificial lamb once more, offered up on the altar of spectacle for the greater good.

Arthur walks up to him. "Lancelot…" and there's a plea in the way he says his name. It draws Lancelot's eyes up because Arthur is still his king. Arthur's gaze traces slowly over the scars, but there is no disgust or revulsion in his eyes, just a solemn sadness. "Gwaine is right. After everything you sacrificed for Camelot, for me, you should be welcomed back with open arms. You will be, I'll make sure of it." He reaches out to clasp Lancelot's shoulder. "Please, come home."

And there's that word again, that single word that has the power to melt his resolve, because deep down he wants it more than anything.

He has to look away again as the tears come, and then Arthur is pulling him into an ardent embrace.

"Come home," he says again.

Lancelot breaks. "Okay," he breathes. Okay.

The rest of the knights move in to take their turns hugging him, and Lancelot's heart feels fit to burst. He can almost forget that returning to Camelot will present new challenges. But with his friends standing so resolutely beside him, he thinks he may be able to face it.

And if not, there's always the grotto. Lancelot turns to look back at the stream and the dimly hovering lights above the surface. He nods his gratitude to the Vilia and thinks he sees glints of smiles in return. They have looked after him and he will never forget them, but perhaps it's time for him to be where he belongs.

Home.

Chapter Text

"Touched By Magic" (Precious Scars III)

Lancelot's heart thuds painfully against his rib cage as he follows Arthur and the knights into the lower town. He knew to expect the stares, but that doesn't make them any easier. Every person they pass pulls up short and gawps at him. He tries to keep his gaze fixed on the ground to avoid their frightened eyes, but the hushed murmurs and gasps reach his ears. He is a specter back from the dead, visibly marked by the means of that resurrection. Mothers pull their children behind them. Men exchange whispers of sorcery.

Leon and Percival edge in closer to him, flanking Lancelot in a show of solidarity. Gwaine and Elyan walk behind, guarding his back, not that any would dare come near him. Arthur leads the way into the citadel. Someone must have run ahead to spread the news of their return because people are spilling out of the castle. Gwen comes rushing out, as does Merlin, both of their eyes wide with shock.

Arthur smiles to dispel the building fear and claps Lancelot on the shoulder as he says jovially, "Look who we found in the woods."

Gwen brings her hands up to her mouth. "How is this possible?"

"Magic," Lancelot answers, and his voice doesn't carry as far as he would like. "I didn't die when I went through the Veil," he says, telling his story for the second time that day. "The Vilia—water spirits—rescued me, brought me back. I was gravely wounded and they healed me." He flicks a look at Merlin, who blinks out of his stupor as he realizes no one knows he played a role in that rescue, that his secret is still safe.

Gwen moves forward and reaches a hand up to brush Lancelot's cheek. He tries not to flinch. He's seen his reflection in the stream, the way the coruscant scars glint and glitter. He knows why everyone is gawking at him.

"Do they hurt?" Guinevere asks, voice soft with genuine concern.

"No," he murmurs.

Merlin comes over then, shaking his head and eyes watering. He doesn't say anything, just pulls Lancelot into a fervent hug.

"There will be a feast tonight," Arthur declares to everyone. "To celebrate the return of Camelot's greatest hero."

Lancelot cringes at the accolade. The last thing he wants is to be the center of attention.

He's escorted into the castle, his friends sticking close as though reticent to let him out of their sight. He appreciates the buffer between probing eyes but he's also been alone for several months and so he's starting to feel slightly suffocated at the same time.

They lead him to Gaius's chambers, Merlin proclaiming he can stay with them until some rooms are readied for him. Gwen volunteers to take care of it and leaves first. Arthur says he has some business to attend to, and with his departure, the rest of the knights leave as well, saying they have some things to see to also. Lancelot gets the impression they are going to make the rounds to everyone under the sun about his return and the treatment they expect him to receive.

It's just him and Merlin that enter the court physician's chambers, and Gaius looks up from his worktable, expression shifting into surprise.

Merlin checks the hall behind them before shutting the door, then turns to Lancelot. "You have to tell me how you ended up coming back to Camelot with them."

Lancelot shrugs weakly. "They were being attacked by bandits. You weren't with them, so I…came to their aid."

Merlin grins. "And what did I tell you? Arthur doesn't care about this." He gestures to the myriad scars, fingerprints of Merlin's own magic along with the Vilia's.

Lancelot shifts in discomfort, because his friends might have said it doesn't bother them, but he can't be sure a small part of them isn't affected by his appearance.

Gaius clears his throat, drawing their attention. He greets Lancelot with a warm smile and pulls him into a hug. "It's good to see you, my boy."

Lancelot manages to smile back. Of course Merlin would have told him about Lancelot's return from the beginning and so he isn't shocked by the revelation. "Hello, Gaius."

The old man casts a curious eye over his scars. "It's really quite remarkable," he comments.

Lancelot knows it is. He was suffering eternal torment and then was rescued. He should be dead but he's alive. He's grateful, he is. He just wishes he wasn't so self-conscious about it.

The feast that night is a new kind of torment. Lancelot is given fresh clothes and he's seated at the table in his old spot, and Arthur toasts his heroism on the Isle of the Blessed and his miraculous return. But the attention only encourages the stares, and the din of carousing doesn't hide the members of court leaning in close to exchange whispered comments. Arthur may have declared Lancelot an honored hero, and he suspects his friends have made it clear he is not to be accosted, but that is not the same as acceptance.

He would lock himself away in his new chambers, except he is given a new knight's uniform and that means he is expected to perform certain duties. So he joins his friends on the training grounds and on patrols. He is always paired with some combination of Leon, Percival, Elyan, and Gwaine and no one else. He's not sure who the instrument behind that decision is and he doesn't ask. The stares are an ever-present backdrop everywhere he goes, and after a while he begins to simply get used to it.

Touched by magic, they say, in hushed voices where they think he can't hear, as though it's a heinous curse rather than the life-giving blessing it is. Lancelot looks at his scars every day, the tracks of metallic blue and liquid sunshine, and he remembers waking up in the grotto to Merlin's tears. These scars are evidence of love.

He tries to hold his head high after that, joins his friends in their roisterous hijinks and banter. They never look at him with revulsion or fear or treat him differently.

He does catch Elyan looking at him thoughtfully one day as they sit in the sun after a bout of sparring. "What?" he asks, that reflex twinge still simmering beneath the surface. He can just imagine how much the scars on his face are glittering in the direct sunlight.

"You remind me of a craftsman I met on my journeys," Elyan replies. "He repaired ceramics using gold and silver lacquer to meld broken pieces back together. I asked him why he'd use such valuable resources on broken pottery instead of fashioning a new piece, and he told me that broken objects weren't worthless just because they'd been broken. That they were beautiful for it, and he chose to mend them with precious metals in honor of that."

Lancelot drops his gaze. That was certainly how he'd felt, in the beginning. The Veil had broken him in many ways, and it was pieces Merlin and the Vilia had put back together, but he'd never felt that it made him quite whole as he'd once been. But he's beginning to realize he doesn't have to be.

"Are you attempting to woo Lancelot with poetry?" Gwaine interrupts. "Because that was a bit long-winded."

Elyan scowls and throws a glove at his head.

Leon leans toward Lancelot. "The sentiment is true, though," he says.

Lancelot smiles back.

There is beauty in the breaking.

He accompanies Merlin when he goes out to forage for herbs, which requires walking through the lower town. Lancelot is sure the gossip has been rife among the peasants, but they haven't gotten as much of an eyeful of him as those in the castle. Once again, everyone stops what they're doing to stare.

Merlin flashes a discomfited look around. "I'm sorry," he says under his breath.

"It's not your fault, Merlin. And it doesn't bother me as much as it did in the beginning."

They pass some children playing, and one of them kicks the ball wide, sending it sailing out into the street. Lancelot stops the ball with his foot, then bends down to pick it up. A little girl comes running over to retrieve it, only to come to an abrupt halt and blinks owlishly at his appearance. Lancelot offers her a kind smile and hands her the ball. She takes it tentatively, but then smiles back and returns to her playmates.

"I still wish there was more I could do," Merlin says once they leave the town limits and are in open countryside. "You don't deserve the stares and whispers."

"It's alright. People fear what they don't understand. But if I can show them that not all magic is to be feared, then perhaps I can lay some groundwork for you to one day not have to hide who you are."

Merlin stops and turns sharply. "This should not be about me."

Lancelot shakes his head. "It is, though. Everyone thinks it was the Vilia alone who saved me, but it was you too." He lifts his hand, the glistering rivulets of gold and cerulean sparkling in the sun. "Your magic is beautiful, Merlin. And I want everyone to see it the way I do."

Merlin gives him a pained look. "And I want everyone to see past it. To see you. You, who gave up your life for this kingdom."

"I didn't give it up for the kingdom," Lancelot says. "I'm afraid my motives were more selfish than that, which is why I don't deserve the praise Arthur has bestowed on me for it."

"I know why you did it," Merlin replies, eyes glistening. "And it doesn't make the sacrifice any less noble." He reaches out and takes Lancelot's hand, running his thumb over the lattice scarring.

"You told me once these marks are beautiful," Lancelot speaks softly. "Because they're a sign of what I've endured. But they're beautiful because they're a sign of what you did for me. I was broken, and you saved me." He turns his hand over to clasp Merlin's. "Everyone says I've been touched by magic, but the truth is I've been touched by love. And while they may not know your name yet, these scars tell the story of who you are. One I am proud to bear."

Merlin's eyes well with tears. "It's your story too."

Lancelot smiles and nods. A story of friendship, sacrifice, and brokenness.

And one of love, endurance, and the beauty found within the hurt and the healing.

Chapter Text

"Seashells on the Shore"

"Look at this one."

Lancelot turns as Freya holds out the shell she just picked up.

"It looks like a unicorn's horn," she remarks.

Lancelot takes the small, spiraled shell and rolls it between his fingers. It's surprisingly smooth.

"I wonder if there are unicorns in the sea," Freya continues.

Lancelot smiles as he tries to imagine what such a creature would look like. Given the length of this shell down one finger, they would have to be very small.

The ocean breeze ruffles his hair and makes his sleeves billow. Freya's dress flutters like waves of silk. They're able to come this far and no further, right to the edge of where the Lake of Avalon feeds into an estuary that meets the sea. It's a nice change of scenery. Avalon is peaceful but unchanging. Here they can watch the tide crash against the strait pouring into it, hear actual gull calls in the air, and sift through sand looking for treasure.

A glint of shimmering teal and lavender catches Lancelot's eye, and he bends down to pick up the large dome-shaped shell. The bottom side is coarse and bumpy, but the inside is smooth like gilded silver. It looks like a forgotten piece of craftsmanship, a relic of a realm no mortal has traversed.

"Oh," Freya says. "That's lovely."

"It will hold the others," Lancelot replies.

They place their small trinkets in the basin and resume their leisurely stroll along the edge of the beach. Lancelot finds a fanning shell with corrugated grooves and bright pink streaks. He brushes off the sand granules and holds it up to Freya's hair. It would make a lovely comb, if he had the tools to fashion one with.

Freya gives him a fond smile and takes the shell to add to their collection. It's just the two of them here. Loneliness and their love for Merlin formed a bond between them when Lancelot first woke on the banks of Avalon. He sees Freya as the little sister he never had, and she feels a measure of protectiveness toward him. They shared similar curses—their bodies taken over by something monstrous and forced to hurt others.

Lancelot tries not to think of that. The memories hurt too much. He misses Merlin, though. They both do.

Freya stoops and picks up a shell the same color as the sand, her eyes lighting up. "A whole one!" she exclaims.

This is their holy grail, a round shell with an exquisite five-petal flower in the center. They've only ever found broken ones before. Lancelot marvels at the design in its entirety. Yet another piece of artistry from a world removed. He wishes he could explore the ocean depths; he is dead, after all.

But his soul, like Freya's, is bound to the lake.

He beams in mutual elation at their find as Freya carefully places it in the dome shell. The winds are shifting, and it's time to leave. Freya links her arm in Lancelot's and they walk back together, the hint of sea spray and brine fading behind them as they return to the banks of Avalon. Two displaced spirits forgotten by the world save for one. Maybe they're waiting for him. Maybe they're just waiting.

And so they bide their time in whatever way they can, stealing moments of carefree discovery that had been denied them in life, even in something as small as a broken seashell on the shore.

Chapter Text

"The Lonely Wanderer"

Lancelot does not regret saving Guinevere or playing a part in Hengist's demise, since the warlord had so brutally threatened her. But it has left him in more dire straits, with not a single coin in his pocket nor a source of employment. His belly is already rumbling with hunger, and his stomach cramps with the memory of the long days he had gone without before he became a fighter for the entertainment of brutish men. He told Gwen there are not many opportunities for a man like him, and that hasn't changed.

His many nicks and scrapes sting, and he finds a creek to briskly wash them out in. The cold water helps revive him. He hasn't slept in over a day, having kept watch for Arthur and Gwen last night so he could slip away before dawn. His heart gives a fresh pang. Guinevere had awakened a part of him he thought he'd lost, had reminded him who he is. But there is another who loves her and Lancelot has chosen not to come between them. It has left him bereft in more ways than one.

He wanders again, just as he did after his village was destroyed, after he had left Camelot. He forages for food, but berries are hardly enough to fill the stomach of a grown man. Sometimes he manages to catch some fish in a stream. He passes through villages, seeing if anyone has use for a sword. He doesn't need money as payment; a hot meal would be enough. They all tell him to move on; they have no need of vagrants.

Lancelot sleeps on the cold hard ground under an open sky and thinks of Guinevere. She may never be his but she is still a reason to live a noble life. He will not seek out work as a cage fighter again.

So he wanders. And most nights he tosses and turns with hunger pangs but at least he still has his honor.

One day he comes across a group of men in the woods. Four are laughing and jeering at a fifth they've got strung up with a piece of rope tossed over a tree branch. They're dressed in dark leathers and armed, while their captive is garbed in peasant clothing and a plain, sleeveless jerkin. The man's expression is furious, and he kicks out at a bandit that gets too close, sending the barbarian crashing to the ground. One of the others moves in and kicks out the backs of his knees in retaliation, and he drops, his brawny arms snapping taut as they yank on the rope.

Lancelot draws his sword and strides forward. "What is your quarrel with this man?" he asks.

The four ruffians turn toward him, exchanging looks among themselves.

"Mind your own business."

"Attacking a defenseless man is my business," Lancelot replies.

The men sneer and draw their weapons: two swords, an axe, and a mace. Lancelot grips his sword with two hands and braces himself. When the men attack, he launches into battle. Four against one isn't good odds, especially when Lancelot's reflexes are strained from lack of nutrition, but years of training help to make up for it.

He slashes one man across the side and spins to swipe at another. A blade arcs toward his neck and Lancelot throws up his sword to block. The steel collides with a resounding clang. He catches sight of the mace coming at him and is forced to drop to the ground to avoid getting his skull crushed in. But now he's at a disadvantage.

The peasant suddenly lets out a mighty bellow and snaps the rope binding his wrists. He charges into the fray, body slamming one of their foes before snatching the bandit's own weapon away from him.

Lancelot uses the brief moment of surprise to get back on his feet, his blade clashing with his opponent's on equal footing once more. Four against two changes the odds very much, especially when this peasant proves to be a rather capable fighter. In a matter of minutes, the four bandits are lying on the ground, defeated.

Lancelot and the stranger turn to each other.

"Thank you," the man says.

"I should thank you. I doubt I would have come out of facing down four alone unscathed."

The man's brow furrows a fraction. "Then why did you do it?"

Lancelot gives a mild shrug and sheathes his sword. "It was the right thing to do."

The man smiles. "I'm Percival."

"Lancelot." He steps forward to shake the man's hand.

He then turns to survey their fallen foes and after a moment's thought, crouches down to search their belongings. He finds a pouch that jingles with coin, but he sets that aside. He will not disgrace himself by robbing the dead. He does, however, find some rations in the bag, and before he can think, he starts scarfing the food down. It's only after he's devoured half of the portion that he remembers he's not alone, and he flicks a look up at Percival. The man has picked up a crossbow and propped it up against his shoulder and is watching Lancelot carefully. Lancelot forces himself to swallow the suddenly dry food and tucks the remainder into his own pouch. It's better he save some for later anyway.

"You gonna take that?" Percival asks in a neutral tone, nodding to the pouch of coin.

Lancelot shakes his head. "I'm not a thief." He wants to search the other bags for food but he's too ashamed. Maybe if he and Percival part ways, Lancelot can double back…

"My village isn't far," Percival says, turning slightly and cocking his head in invitation.

Lancelot hesitates. It doesn't feel right to take advantage of someone he rescued—who ended up rescuing him just as much in the end—but he is desperate. So he wordlessly follows.

"You on your way somewhere?" Percival asks.

Everywhere and nowhere.

"No," Lancelot replies.

They fall silent for the rest of the walk through the woods and to the village. Percival leads Lancelot into one of the homes where a young woman a good foot shorter than Percival is chopping vegetables at the table.

"What's this? The mighty hunter coming back empty-handed?" she says with a touch of mockery.

Percival props his crossbow against the wall by the door. "Got waylaid. This is Lancelot." He nods toward the girl. "This is my sister Adeda."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Lancelot says.

She gives him a curious look before resuming her chopping. "I better not hear any complaining when there's just vegetables in the stew."

"I'll go out hunting again tomorrow," Percival promises.

Lancelot notes he doesn't say anything about getting accosted in the woods, so he maintains his silence as well.

Percival pulls a chair over and gestures for Lancelot to sit, then goes to help his sister throw the chopped vegetables into a cooking pot.

"So, Lancelot," Adeda says. "What brings you to our village?"

"I'm just passing through," he assures her. "Unless you have any need of a sword to deal with some trouble." Though, given he just left a group of bandits slain in the woods, any trouble they might have had is likely over.

"Is that what you are?" she responds. "A traveling knight in shining armor for the common folk?"

He can't hold back a wince at that. "I'm not a knight," he says quietly. "But I'm afraid I have little else to offer in way of service."

"It was good you were passing through today," Percival says. "I'm grateful."

Adeda narrows her eyes. "Hold on, what exactly waylaid you?"

"Just a spot of trouble."

"What kind of trouble? Percival!"

He shrugs. "Some bandits. But Lancelot came along and everything's fine. And those men won't be coming near the village, so there's nothing to worry about." He flashes her a toothy grin.

Adeda huffs irritably at him before turning to Lancelot. "Thank you for saving my brother."

Lancelot inclines his head. He knows he should leave, but it feels so good to sit down in a proper chair that exhaustion is quickly stealing what little resolve he has left. And the vegetable stew smells tantalizing.

The door opens and a little girl comes barreling inside, followed by a man with the same build as Percival. She runs straight at Percival and leaps into his arms. He picks her up and swings her around. Adeda barely leans out of the way and scowls at them both.

"Pryde! You're filthy. Don't go flinging mud into the supper!"

Percival sets the girl down and picks a large piece of hay from her frazzled blonde hair. "What have you been into now?"

The child giggles. "I wanted to surprise Father."

"By hiding in the hay stack?"

"Indeed," the older man says and looks at Lancelot. "Hello."

Lancelot rises to his feet stiffly and nods respectively.

"Father, this is Lancelot," Percival introduces. "I met with some bandits in the woods and he saved my life."

The man flicks a worried look at his son, but Percival is obviously hale and whole. "You have my deepest thanks," he tells Lancelot. "I'm Albice."

Lancelot nods again. "I should be on my way before it gets dark," he says.

"Stay for supper," Percival interjects. "Even the night."

"I do not wish to intrude."

"You saved my son," Albice puts in. "The least we can do is offer you shelter for a night."

Lancelot ducks his gaze. "That is very kind of you. Thank you."

"Come on, Pryde, let's get you cleaned up," the man says, holding a hand out to his young daughter.

The girl bounds over to him and they head outside again. Adeda and Percival return to preparing supper, and Lancelot is left with nothing to do but sit down again. He rests his elbow on the table and pinches the bridge of his nose in exhaustion.

When supper is ready, Adeda fills six bowls.

"I'll take it tonight," Albice says, picking up two bowls and heading out.

"Our mother is staying with a woman due to give birth soon," Adeda explains as she sets a bowl of stew in front of Lancelot. "Perhaps you can meet her tomorrow."

He doesn't know what to say to that. Pryde sits on the bench beside his chair and scoots as close to him as possible, eyeing him with obvious interest. He offers a wan smile and picks up a spoon. He tries to eat slowly, but after the first two swallows his stomach cramps ravenously, and he starts shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth.

"Didn't your mother teach you table manners?" Pryde exclaims.

Lancelot's face flushes hotly and he sets his bowl down. "My apologies."

Adeda and Percival, however, are eyeing him with more understanding.

"When's the last time you had a decent meal?" Adeda asks.

Lancelot ducks his gaze again. He can't actually remember. He musters a smile and raises his bowl in a small toast. "This is by far the most decent meal I've ever had."

Adeda does not look impressed by his attempted flattery.

"You're looking for work, yeah?" Percival says.

Lancelot shrugs and makes himself take a modest spoonful of stew. "There are, unfortunately, few opportunities for a man of the sword who does not belong to the nobility. Not honorable opportunities, anyway."

"Where are you from?" Adeda asks next.

"A village that was destroyed long ago," he answers.

No one seems to have anything to say to that, and so they return to their meal in silence until Pryde breaks it with some enthusiastic recounting of the caterpillar she found earlier that day.

The hot stew settles in Lancelot's belly, making him even more sleepy. He hasn't been this full in a long time.

Percival brings out an extra blanket and gets Lancelot settled on the floor in the back.

"Thank you," Lancelot tells him again with full sincerity.

Percival smiles back.

Lancelot sleeps hard that night, waking fitfully as he's accustomed to, to check on his surroundings, but the reminder that he's safe pulls him back under just as quickly. He wakes in the morning and rolls over, only to find Pryde crouched beside him, watching intently.

Lancelot rubs at his eyes. "Good morning."

She breaks into a beaming smile. "Morning!" She leaps to her feet and darts off.

Lancelot pushes himself up and shuffles over to the table where Percival, Adeda, and their father are sitting. Adeda pushes a bowl of porridge toward him.

"Sorry about Pryde," she says.

"It's alright." He looks at the breakfast and starts to protest, "You've been more than generous…"

"Eat," she responds sternly.

Lancelot digs in, only because his stomach needs little encouragement.

"Where will you go?" Percival asks.

"I don't know. It doesn't really matter," Lancelot replies dully. Though he has felt immensely uncomfortable intruding on this family, their company has also been the nicest he's shared in quite some time. It makes his heart constrict painfully at the thought of returning to a solitary life on the road.

"You could stay here," Percival says, drawing a startled gaze from him. "Can't say there's any sword work, but there's plenty to do. We don't have any coin to pay with, but a decent meal and roof over your head might be fair exchange. Could learn a few new skills."

Lancelot falters at the unexpected and generous offer. Living by the sword is all he knows, but it's not getting him anywhere. Aside from the memory of a woman far away, he has little to live for.

He glances at Albice, but the man seems in agreement with his son's proposal.

"You're welcome here, Lancelot," he says.

Lancelot's throat tightens. He has been alone for so long, the kindness offered him here in this moment is enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"I would like that."

Chapter Text

"Letters From Camelot"

The first time Lancelot receives a letter from Merlin, he's spending the night in a tavern room, and so he's alone when the burst of fire comes out of nowhere. Lancelot stares at it in fascination as it flits through the room toward him and then poofs into a piece of parchment. He smiles, knowing who it's from before even reading the scrawled handwriting.

Lancelot, I hope this message finds you. It took me a few tries to get the spell to work. Don't tell Gaius.

Lancelot's lips twitch in amusement.

There's never a dull moment in Camelot. I've had to save Arthur's hide twice since you left. I still don't get the credit for it, just so you know. You should have stayed. You did slay the griffin, after all. So what if I helped a little? Arthur never needs to know about that.

Lancelot's heart falls at the despondency he can read between the lines.

Anyway, I hope you're out there slaying beasts and will return to Camelot soon. -M

Lancelot carefully folds the letter and places it in his sack. The next morning, he sets off with the intention to do just that—prove himself worthy to return to Camelot.

Things do not go to plan. It's not like there's a terrible beast terrorizing a village around every corner, and there is little work for a sword for hire—little noble work, in any case. Lancelot receives a few invitations to join a mercenary group, but he refuses. He will not sell himself for blood work.

But the coin he received from Arthur when he departed Camelot is running low and he will have to figure out something soon.

He comes across a group of travellers in the process of being ambushed and he rushes in to defend them. But no sooner has he slain the last bandit that the perceived victims turn on him and steal his horse, leaving him stranded in the woods. He had planned to sell the horse in exchange for a few more meals. Now he has nothing.

As he sits in front of a campfire in the forest, a burst of flame comes zinging toward him. He reaches up to snag the edge of the parchment as it materializes.

Lancelot, I hope you're well. Things have been, well, they've been rough, I'm not going to lie. I almost lost Arthur, and then in trying to save him almost lost my mother, and then Gaius. They're all fine now. But it was close. I wish you had been here. I feel so alone sometimes. I'm glad you know the truth about me. I'm glad I can talk to you about it. Be well. -M

Lancelot's heart aches, and he has the fleeting thought of returning to Camelot, knowing Merlin would welcome him back. But he can't, not like this, not in shame. Uther would banish him for the insult, and Arthur would be disappointed. No, Lancelot must earn his right to return.

But it's proving so much harder than he'd imagined.

Lancelot, you're never going to believe this. Uther is in love with a troll. He's under some enchantment, obviously. And while this Lady Catrina trying to get the crown is most certainly a bad thing, it's still all rather hilarious. Uther and a troll! I wish you were here to see it. I hope you're all right. After what happened with Hengist and Gwen, I've been worried about you. I wish you could write back.

"I wish that too," Lancelot replies quietly to himself.

He could write a letter the traditional way, but he has no coin to pay a messenger to deliver it. His stomach rumbles, unsatisfied with the meager berries and mushrooms he's foraged for his supper.

After leaving Hengist's "employment," Lancelot hasn't known what to do. There is still no honorable work for a man like him, but he is loath to return to the degrading work of fighting for another's entertainment. He supposes he'll have to become a mercenary for hire. It will at least continue helping him improve his skills as a warrior.

Lancelot, I know now what you feel towards Gwen. And how much it hurts to not be with her. I met someone. She was the most beautiful, pure soul I have ever laid eyes on. She didn't see herself that way, but I think she could have, with time. We almost ran away together. She was like me. Well, not exactly like me, but she had to hide. She accepted my magic, like you did. I loved her.

Lancelot frowns at the past tense Merlin's used.

So I understand now, why you left. I would have given up everything for Freya's happiness. I wish I could have saved her.

"Oh, Merlin," Lancelot sighs, heart aching for the pain he can feel within the pen strokes.

Gwen is well, just so you know. I hope you are too. -M

Lancelot hones his skill, taking jobs here and there. The work is soul-crushing, but he holds the memory of Guinevere in his heart. He'd said she had changed him forever, and he will not dishonor her by reverting back to the hopeless shell of a man he had become.

He's become attuned to that little prickle of static on the air that precedes a letter arriving, and so when he senses it, he makes sure to venture off to somewhere private. The air sparks and the winged fire zips toward him. Lancelot catches it and unfolds the parchment. He furrows his brow; despite arriving in flames, there are damp patches on the paper.

Lancelot, I wish you were here. You're one of the only people I can talk to about this. Gaius, of course, but he doesn't always understand and he keeps secrets thinking it's for the best. I met my father. He hadn't even known I existed, so I suppose I can't blame him for not being in my life. He'd had to go into hiding because of Uther. Gaius only told me because we needed a dragonlord to defeat the Great Dragon. And there's that. I was so foolish, Lancelot. I released the Great Dragon and he tried to destroy Camelot. And so Arthur and I sought out Balinor but then he died saving me and it's all my fault. I didn't even get to know him. Arthur said no man is worth my tears but he didn't know, he couldn't know. I don't even know why this hurts so much. It's not like I did know the man. He was a stranger to me. But I wanted to know him. Now with him dead, his powers have passed to me. So now I'm a warlock and a dragonlord. I never asked for these responsibilities. And the one person who would have understood what it was like is gone.

Anyway, I hope you're well, my friend. -M

Lancelot's heart constricts. He vows to reach out to his friend soon, to use some of the coin he now earns as a sword for hire to write back.

But there is no time now, as they are called up for their mission. It is a rough one, with much blood shed. Lancelot ends up injured and at the mercy of the band's physician—whom Lancelot has to pay in return for treatment. The subsequent fever leaves him drained and penniless, and so he must commit to more missions to earn back his supper.

And he forgets Merlin's need in the face of his own.

Lancelot walks through the encampment of survivors. Cenred's army has left a trail of bodies in its wake. Lancelot is glad he had not responded to that call for hired soldiers; he draws the line at this kind of barbaric brutality against innocents. There is no purpose in this slaughter, either, no lands to conquer. The men came, destroyed everything in sight, and moved on. They even massacred villages on their own side of the border.

Lancelot hadn't arrived until afterward—had he been there during the attack, he would have fought to his death. This way, he's alive to merely offer a meager form of protection from anything else while these people are in such a vulnerable state. They have nothing to give and so he will of course take nothing in return. Besides, this is what he was meant to do.

He turns into the woods at the prickle on the back of his neck, and a moment later, the fire letter erupts out of nothing. Lancelot reaches up to grab it.

Lancelot, I need your help. Camelot needs your help. Morgana and Morgause have taken the city and throne. Arthur and a few of us are in hiding. They have an immortal army incapable of being killed. Which, is probably good reason to stay far away. But we both know such evil will not stay contained within Camelot's borders. Please, if you can, come. -M

Lancelot crushes the letter in his fist and turns to stride through the camp. "Percival," he calls. "I'm sorry, I must go."

The large man frowns at him in confusion. "Go?"

Lancelot nods regretfully. "The army that did this is now in Camelot. I have friends there and must go to their aid."

Percival's brows knit together. "You plan to fight them? They have been unstoppable."

Lancelot nods grimly. "I know, but I must try."

He has left Merlin to face such trials alone for too long now. No more.

Percival draws his shoulders back. "I will go with you."

"Are you sure?"

"Cenred's army killed my family. I have nothing left except to avenge them."

Lancelot claps him on the shoulder. "Then my friends will welcome your help. And I give you my word we will do our best."

He cannot write back to tell Merlin he's coming, but he hopes his friend has that much faith in him to know he will, of course, answer the call.

Chapter Text

"Shade of Oneself"

Lancelot is different. He knows this. Only because the memories of his life before his death and cursed resurrection feel like they belong to someone else, but he feels like himself now. The Shade was banished and Morgana's hold over his mind broken. He's back in Camelot where he belongs, a knight in service to King Arthur. But things are not the same.

He goes through the motions. He can play the part, just as he did while under Morgana's spell. He can carry on a conversation with his friends, can smile at the appropriate times. He keeps Merlin's secret and serves as the warlock's confidante, and it all comes naturally. Everything around him is the same. But something inside is missing.

Lancelot doesn't know what it is. A hole left by the Shade? The mark of black magic that will never wash out? …A piece of his soul that never came back at all?

It takes a few weeks and a few skirmishes, but Lancelot eventually realizes what is missing—the very thing that made him who he was before the Veil, before the Shade.

Sir Lancelot, the bravest and most noble of them all.

He is neither of those things anymore. Underneath all the layers is gripping fear. Fear of death, fear of pain (oh, he remembers the Veil all too well: the soul-piercing cold and abject suffering)—he will fight, of course he will. But he dreads it. His stomach turns to knots that don't let up; his sleep is rife with nightmares.

Sometimes he wants to quit and flee, but he has nowhere to go and the fear of the unknown is just as debilitating. He's trapped, suspended in this life that isn't living but only surviving. When did he become the victim?

After Morgana. After the Shade. He died a heroic death, chose to sacrifice himself for the world and the people he loved. Then his agency was stripped away and he was made a puppet, a tool to be used against the very same kingdom he had given up everything for.

His mind and body may be free now but he still feels imprisoned in this endless cycle of war and despair. He looks to his friends, his king, and wonders how they do it, why he can't seem to regain that fire, that determination to keep fighting. The battle has become a slog rather than a cause.

He confides in Merlin one night. Magic did this; maybe magic can help him.

But Merlin doesn't understand.

"You're yourself," he insists. "You just need to give yourself time after everything that happened."

Lancelot shakes his head. He doesn't know how to explain it because yes, he is himself. And yet…not. And the more time that passes, the further he sinks into this cyclical mire of losing hope. Another piece of himself that's just…gone.

He thinks back to the times in his life when he'd lost everything, even his sense of self. He'd found his way back then, remembered who he was and reignited that fire within.

So why couldn't he do that now?

Morgana makes her move on Camelot, with Agravaine's help. The city is lost and they have to flee. Lancelot gets hit and falls over the wall.

When he finds himself standing in a hazy landscape with no other features, he assumes he's dead. Again. This isn't the Veil, though. There's no chill, no screaming.

Yet.

Something prickles the back of his neck and he turns around, only to startle when he finds a young boy standing behind him. The brown eyes hold a universe of sadness. Lancelot recognizes himself.

"What is this?" he asks aloud.

"This is us," a familiar voice answers.

Lancelot tenses as an older visage of himself comes into view. This one is still younger than him, with longer hair and a boyish smile full of naive dreams. That Lancelot kneels next to the young boy.

"We lost everything too young, left to fend for ourselves," he says compassionately. "But what did we do?"

The young boy looks thoughtful before bending down and picking up a sword from the thin layer of mist covering the ground. The sadness is replaced with determination. The other Lancelot stands.

"We are a survivor."

The boy begins practicing his sword work.

"It didn't work out so well for us," Lancelot points out.

"I wouldn't say that. We met Merlin, after all."

The mist wobbles, and another version of Lancelot appears. This one, Lancelot instantly recognizes. His time with Hengist was his lowest.

"We found our way back," that Lancelot says. "We remembered what we had to fight for."

Guinevere.

"We loved and lost," the war-torn Lancelot of the present says.

"Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all," the young, idealistic version of him replies.

A fourth figure arrives, dressed in full chainmail. Lancelot isn't sure where this one is from.

"I'm the one who found something worth dying for."

Ah.

"That was the end of us," he says. In more ways than one. That was the last time Lancelot was Lancelot.

"If it was, you wouldn't be here."

"I'm not you."

"No," the other Lancelot agrees. "Your soul was sundered and we're the pieces you lost."

So he was right.

"You can take us back, reclaim yourself. You are not doomed to this fate."

Lancelot's eyes prick hotly. He wants this more than anything, but he's afraid, because it feels out of reach.

His recent incarnation gives him a compassionate look. "You are not too far gone," he says.

With that, the young boy practicing to become a knight so that he can defend the helpless against the brutality he suffered turns to Lancelot and spreads his little arms before stepping into him. The two merge. Lancelot takes a breath.

The naive idealist follows, then the redeemed version. That leaves the hero.

"I died for something," that Lancelot says. "Now it's your turn to find something to live for."

Lancelot closes his eyes and embraces the last piece of himself. He feels abuzz and warm, like a fire has been rekindled. And just like that, the person he's been for the past several months feels like the stranger. Like a shade.

The hazy air grows thicker, then dark. Lancelot opens his eyes to a dimly lit cave. He can feel the hard ground beneath the blankets underneath him, and his head is throbbing. He reaches a hand up to feel a bulging bandage.

"Lancelot!" Merlin exclaims and rushes over. "You're awake!"

More people gather around him. Arthur and Gwen, Percival and Leon.

"What happened?" he mumbles groggily.

"You fell and hit your head. We were worried you wouldn't wake up," Merlin explains, expression taut. "Morgana's taken Camelot."

Lancelot nods slowly; he remembers. "What's the plan?"

Everyone glances at Arthur, who looks stricken.

"I don't know," the king admits.

"Just rest," Merlin says quickly. "We're not going anywhere."

No, but they would be. Another battle is on the horizon, but Lancelot is not afraid this time. He remembers all the times they faced insurmountable odds and still emerged victorious.

He remembers how to be the brave and noble knight he is.

He remembers how to rise.