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                  He was not like the other children in his village. He’d spoken of it only once to his mother, and she’d flashed red and waved her hands and shushed him quickly, warning of a far king who was hunting for magic, a man who employed witchfinders and spellbreakers and the sort of dangerous men who would drag him over the border to claim gold. He’d shut his mouth and kept his silence, but he could never stop seeing.

                  Lancelot had a gift, a blessing placed upon him when he was born by some power he would never know. He saw things. Not visions, as a seer might, but a way of looking at people and knowing them. His mother had been gentle and smooth and faintly blue, his father a deeper shade of the same color that would flicker to black when he drank. His gift had served him well when he’d been forced to take his life elsewhere, able to know at a glance if the barkeep was honest, or if the stranger on the road would rob him for the spare coins tucked into his boots.

                  It served him also when the woman wandered into their camp, fine robes and flowing hair. The caravan he’d been traveling with were not honorable men, but they’d been walking on his road, and he knew he could care for himself well enough.

                  When he first saw the light through the trees, he’d been worried for his sanity. When the goddess came, he’d found himself unable to speak.

                  He watched in mute horror as his companions set to rob her, tear her dress and take her coins. She merely looked -looked- and they were dead. Then her pale eyes turned on him and he had enough wits left to throw himself to his knees before her.

                  She was a light unlike any he had ever known, higher than any magic he’d born witness too, greater than any righteousness a mortal could dare claim.

                  She reached down and stroked his dark hair, “Lancelot, why do you tremble?”

                  “I- I-“ he chokes around his voice, forcing his tongue to move, “You are beyond me, my lady.”

                  “Peace, sweet one. You have my blessing, do you not? A portion of my sight, given to my favored ones, little syneseer.”

                  He cannot help the way his head jerks up, looking briefly into those perfect features. Her skin is flawless, but his eyes will not meet hers, his mind skipping over them to trail over waving tresses and round ears. He forces his eyes back to the grass, lest her light burn away what little mind he has left, “My lady, I am nothing, a peasant with no education or name. Why would you honor me so?”

                  Her hand sweeps down again, and then lifts his chin so he sees her soft smile, “There is one I love who will love you. Your sight is for his sake.”

                  “He is dear to you?”

                  “It would be an empty world without him.” She motions to the trees, the sky, existence, “Without him, none of this could be. But you, Lancelot, from the moment I met you, I saw something invisible.” Her lips quirk upwards, “There will come a day it will be there for all to see.” She reaches and touches his heart, a warmth flowing through him, “I see your dream of knighthood, and your despair for it. Do not give up so easily, for a path will come to you. Follow this,” She taps his chest, and his heart skitters alarmingly, “it will guide you.”

                  She steps away from him, and the light fades.

                  He stays there a while, reeling. His legs are shaking too badly to lift him. He blacks out a few times before his strength begins to return. He finally staggers up and retches against a tree when he sees the dead men collapsed around him. He’s been on his own long enough to know to run. He gathers supplies, frees the horses, and takes one for himself, riding for the nearest border, to Essiter.  

---

                  He never learned who she was, the lady who came to him, but he never doubted her divinity, and he spent the next years training and dreaming as she bid him. Even without proper instruction, he honed his skill with a blade until he could have walked a fearsome mercenary for any noble’s coin. He gained minor fame in the tournaments that allowed common men to enter, but mostly he found himself on the fringes of events. He was strange, something about him that made men sneer or turn down their eyes in shame. Perhaps it was because of how easily he saw them, their true selves shining out when they wanted no men to see.

                  He’d learned a great deal of the world in his travels. He knew well what made men great, and it was never land or looks, never power or pride. Lancelot strove to be the ideal knight, driven by the promise given to him, and careful always to keep his gifts hidden.

                  It was five years after his encounter that he found himself wandering through the forests near Camelot, slightly lost and impossibly weary. The last three kings he’d come to had laughed in his face, and the nobles he’d approached had been no better. One had wanted him hanged.

                  He had little hope Camelot would be the place to embrace him, but he did not dare give up on his quest. Lancelot would become a knight if it took his last breath.

                  He trips a little over a root and curses, righting himself and looking up as he steps out of the trees. Another presence fills his senses, alerting him he’s not alone. There is a creature, an enraged beast, and there is a young man with dark hair and pale limbs with a basket on his arm.

                  He has time for only a fleeting impression.

                  The boy was pure. New. Gentle.

                  The boy was going to die.

                  Lancelot races forward, sword in hand, desperate to reach the young man before the monster. The thing roars as he sprints away, and Lancelot finds himself facing down the creature, its great wings creating a flurry of wind that sweeps over him as it swoops low. He curses and waves his sword, thrusting in, only for the blade the shatter on the thing’s skin.

                  He turns and runs, grabbing the stranger by the elbow and-

                  He stops, a spark of fire slapping through his body, harsh, filling his mind with colors he’d never seen before, never knew existed.

                  Suddenly he’s being knocked to the ground, the boy shielding him with his body as the monster swoops low, a dull ringing filling the air as a shield of pale gold arcs over them. It screeches, claws thumping against the barrier, and then flies away.

                  The magic vanishes and the stranger pushes off him, breathing heavily and looking wildly about as if it might come back.

                  Lancelot doesn’t move. He’s not sure he can. Still half-sprawled on the ground, he stares up at the young man and tries to reconcile what his gift is telling him with the long-limbed, raven-haired, large-eared human trembling before him.

                  The young man turns to him, grinning shakily, “Close one, yeah?” He extends a hand to help him up, “I’m Merlin.”

                  Merlin Merlin Merlin. The name repeats as he sweeps through his memories, but he doesn’t know what legend it could be from. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, and he finds himself staring at that light in the young man’s chest, the supernova of power and brilliance that had somehow been compressed into little more than a spark.

                  When he doesn’t take the hand, Merlin pulls back, looking hurt. He glances away, rubbing the back of his neck and taking a breath, “Look. I know…I know we’re in Camelot. But…could you not tell anyone?”

                  Lancelot frowns, confused.

                  “About my magic? I promise I don’t use it for evil or whatever.”

                  He almost laughs. To imagine anyone with a light like his doing wrong… it was unthinkable.

                  Then, remembering himself, Lancelot goes to his knees and bows reverently on the trampled spring grass. He waits, unsure if he has permission to speak. If this were a normal meeting, he would never have seen his face, would have taken care to press himself to the ground and pay the honor that was due, as he had to the goddess before.

                  “Wh-what are you doing?”

                  “I am your servant, my lord.” he murmurs.

                  The boy ogles him, “Did you get hit on the head when you fell?” He demands, suddenly coming closer, “Let me see.” Without warning, a hand is cupping the back of his neck and he’s bowing his head as nimble fingers dance through his hair, “No cracks, no bumps.” He steps back, “What are you called?”

                  “Lancelot, my lord.” He stares up, confused why this one is denying his nature. He tilts his head, “Are you not a god?”

                  Merlin blinks, and then a moment later is doubled over with laughter, until he has to sit down with him on the grass and clutch his side, nearly crying. “Me?” He sputters, “Oh, tell that to Arthur, he’d love that.” He giggles again, grinning as if they’re sharing some fond joke.

                  Lancelot stares, then shakes his head. A trickster god, perhaps? But no, that light… it could only come from the highest of sources, not a simple spirit or fae.

                  “You are.” He says dumbly.

                  This seems to sober him, and he peers forward intently, “You’re serious, aren’t you? Look, mate, Lancelot, whatever you’re called, I’m as human as you are. Sure, I’ve got a little magic in me, but I’m no one important. I’m the prince’s manservant. Do you think a god would polish boots and clean stables?”

                  “It is not for men to judge gods.” Lancelot mumbles, glancing down, “But it is odd, to see you here, in such a form.”

                  “What makes you think I’m a god anyways?”

                  Lancelot shifts, uncomfortable, “I…see things.”

                  Merlin’s eyes narrow, “Like a seer?”

                  “No, I see… auras I suppose. Colors and shades. I see what people are, where they stand in the threads of fate. I’m a syneseer.”

                  The other man nods slowly, seeming to digest this, “And I look like a god?”

                  “You look human, but here,” he motions to the center of his own chest, “there is something else. Something more. It is small, but dense and bright beyond what my eyes could register. Gold or white or lightning-blue, trapped in tight vibrations. It is a god’s light, and pure.”

                  Merlin swallows, looking away as he digests this, “I…that’s not me. You must be mistaken, my friend. My mother was a mortal woman and I bleed like any other.” He gets up suddenly, brushing the matter off his hands, and reaching down again, “Let me take you back to Camelot. The physician’s my uncle and you really should get looked over after that fall. Just don’t mention the magic to anyone, yeah?”

                  Lancelot stares at the outstretched hand, having bared his soul and been disbelieved. Yet the white glow is still there, the certainty of goodness and safety. Merlin’s grin is bright, and his eyes are gentle, and suddenly Lancelot decides that if this boy truly does not know his own nature, then he must be protected until he does. It is his duty as a knight.

                  He takes Merlin’s hand.

---

                  Merlin smiles brightly at his newfound friend, Lancelot shining in his place before the throne as Uther gently brings his sword to the man’s shoulder.

                  He leans over from his place on the wall, speaking eagerly to his mentor, “Look at him, Gaius. Does not Lancelot deserve this moment?”

                  The old physician glances away from the spectacle long enough to lift an eyebrow at his ward, “I never said he didn’t,” he harrumphs slightly, unwilling to give ground, “Tonight you brought Lancelot triumph, but who knows what the future may hold? You played god, Merlin, setting him on a path of your choosing.”

                  Merlin goes still, ice racing down his spine at the words, smile fading. He stares at the kneeling knight, remembering the moment when the man had lowered himself down before him, declaring his something other, something more.

                  Hailed him a god.

                  Gaius nudges him, looking concerned, “You know I don’t approve Merlin, but this is a celebration. Try not to seem so long-faced.”

                  He offers a shaky smile, looking away quickly as Lancelot rises to join his brethren, his new fellows thumping him on the back, clasping him by the arm. Arthur embraces him, smiling wide, and the image makes a balanced counterpoint, the two men opposites in all ways but their devoted hearts.

                  Merlin wonders what he has begun.

---

                  Lancelot throws back his head and laughs, sitting near the fire in the physician’s workroom as Merlin regales him with his latest midnight adventures, this time throwing in new voices for the latest evil warlock and cunning spellcasters.

                  The knight smiles back at his friend, glad Merlin had made him a place in his life. When he’d been sent away from Camelot in those early days, he’d feared they’d never meet again, but then Merlin had called for him, desperate, and he’d answered. Now, he was a knight of the round table, set at the heart of the kingdom Merlin always whispered would be with far eyes and wistful grins, of Albion.

                  When he’d been told he would have his dearest wish, he had not dared dream of such blessings.

                  Gaius bustled in, irritably shooing Merlin away from his workspace and beginning a new set of tonics, insisting the boy sit down out of my way. Merlin pouted, but Lancelot nodded to Gaius, grateful the physician saw how wearily the boy swayed on his feet despite his animated motions.

                  The knight settles Merlin closer to the fire, grabbing him a blanket from the extra pile and wrapping it around his slim shoulders, showing what little care he was allowed to. Then he sits down attentively for the rest of the story, forgetting the ache in his joints and the cold in the air as Merlin spins a tale as bright as any hero’s ballad song. He minimizes his part, of course, but Lancelot had learned ways of coaxing the truth out.

                  Gaius grumbles occasionally, hands always in motion as he mixes and cuts but they both knew he kept an attentive ear. The old man had lived a life of unhappy endings, and these little victories were a welcome change.

                  For Merlin, Lancelot knew, it was a chance to be seen, to feel a part of a world he’d locked himself out of. The knight could not understand why he’d chosen this path, but he would walk beside him as long as he was allowed to do so. Merlin was the purest soul he’d ever known, and his truest friend.

---

                  Lancelot moves through the morning bustle with the ease of long practice, color impressions sweeping around him, keeping the crossbolts up on his shoulder as he steps confidently through the crowd. He grins as he sees Merlin ahead, nearly laughing at the man’s aghast expression as he stares at the red creeping over the pure white fabric of the prince’s shirt.

                  “You could try a bit of salt.” he offers.

                  Merlin looks over, brightening briefly at the sight of his friend before returning to his woeful expression, “Arthur’s going to kill me.”

                  The knight shakes his head, wondering how such trivial matters could worry anyone of Merlin’s gifts. Just last week he’d told him a tale of defeating a wicked goblin and now he was letting himself fret over wine stains, “You’ve faced far worse, Merlin.”

                  “He needs it for tonight,” he protests.

                  Clapping him on the shoulder, Lancelot moves away, “I’m sure one such of your talents can think of something.”

                  He looks back pointedly, just in time to see that telltale gleam rise, the shirt cleaned. Lancelot smiles, sparks lighting behind his eyes as he blinks. Each time the manservant took up his gift, it was as though a veil was lifted, and for a brief instant he could see through the cracks to the power beneath. It was rejuvenating and comforting and frightening all at once, and though he knew he should not encourage the man to use such gifts in Camelot where the danger was so great, he could not believe in any darkness when witnessing that light.

                  With a free step, Lancelot continues with his day, waving a farewell to his friend.

---

                  Merlin waits with his uncle, listening with half an ear to the knight’s report as he checks the king over for any other wardrobe malfunctions. Arthur still hadn’t forgiven him for letting him parade about with the back of his shirt tucked up, but after his snark this morning Merlin had deemed it only fair, especially since the prince would be using his speech tonight. Still, it wouldn’t do well for him to be seen here before his court as anything less than all he was; the manservant knew well how important image was to maintain with the stress of Uther’s madness weighing on the kingdom.

                  “…Seas of Meredor.”

                  Merlin’s eyes snap over as Leon continues, the words drawing his focus.

                  “We caught up with Morgana on the plains of Denaria. There was someone else with her, we think Morgause, but we could not be certain.”

                  Arthur taps his fingers, and in the silence Merlin tenses as Gaius steps forward, dipping his head, “Sire, if Morgana was sighted so close to the seas, I have little doubt she was making her way to the Isle of the Blessed.”

                  Agravaine clears his throat, “I’ll send out patrols at first light.”

                  The prince nods to the man near his side, “Thank you, uncle.” Arthur turns his attention back to Leon.

                  “Sire, you should know her powers have grown. Sir Bertrand and Sir Montague are both dead.”

                  Merlin feels his stomach plummet. Morgana has taken from them again, killed two good knights and sent the others fleeing back to the city. Nerves begin to buzz through him as he realizes that after all this time with the witch remaining silent, he had no idea of her plans, much less what she hoped to achieve on the Isle.

                  “Keep me informed of any developments.”

                  He files out with the rest of the council, thoughts jumbled, waving off Gaius’ glance of concern. He hasn’t realized he’s frozen in a corridor until a hand takes his elbow and draws him from traffic, Lancelot’s soft eyes meeting his, “Are you well?”

                  He swallows, “You heard Leon. Her power has grown. She’s killing again.”

                  Lancelot pauses, the man’s eyes flicking briefly down as they always did before he offered something he knew would bother him, “Whatever her powers, I am sure you are well above her match.”

                  Anger pools in his stomach, and he shoots the knight a hard glare, the man releasing him instantly and stepping away, “You don’t know anything about it!”

                  “I know Morgana.” Lancelot protests, returning closer and careful to keep his voice down, “I saw her when she came with the cup of life. Yes, she was powerful then, strong enough to raise her armies and topple them at a whim, but even were her power doubled and then tripled over again, she would be no more than a pond to your ocean. You are not comparable.”

                  The manservant listens stiffly, refusing to meet his eyes and focusing instead on looking around the now deserted corridor, “Whatever you think, she has killed two of Arthur’s knights. Now she rides for the Isle, and I have no grasp of her intentions.”

                  “The Isle of the Blessed.” Lancelot murmurs, voice gentle on the words, “What is it?”

                  Merlin presses his lips tight, glancing over, “A holy place.”

                  As expected, the man draws back, head lowering in reverence, “A shrine?”

                  “A city,” he answers, remembering faint dreams, “The high priestesses once held their empire from its court, and crafted all their arts upon its stones. It was cast to ruin generations ago and has not suffered the touch of mortal life since,” he shuts his eyes, an echo of pain heating his chest, “I killed Nimue there.”

                  “The sorceress who served Uther?” Lancelot asks, voice drawing tight, “You never told me how she-“

                  “A lightning storm,” his voice comes out flat, “It does not matter. I thought Nimue to be the last of the High Priestesses, but now we must consider Morgause was as well, and has trained Morgana. I fear what dark work she wishes to accomplish there.”

                  The knight digests this, expression grim, “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

                  Merlin nods at the man, trying to apologize for his earlier anger, “Thank you. I know you are.”

---

                  He finds himself once again in the great hall, trying to keep his attention on the court and failing utterly. It didn’t help he knew every word of Arthur’s speech by rote. It was penned by his hand, after all. The pitcher was heavy in his hands, and he longed to put it down, or at least charm it lighter, but he didn’t dare with the room drawn to such stillness.

                  “Samhain. It is the time of year when we feel closest to the spirits of our ancestors. It is a time to remember those we have lost and to celebrate their lives before their passing.”

                  Arthur continues to drone on. He knew he was being unfair. The prince really was a moving speaker, but the night was late, and his feet ached from scrambling through the castle all day. In the back of his mind, he gnawed on his worries, turning over again the things he could not control. He looked to see Gaius with his eyes fixed forward, raising his cup. Lancelot, across the hall, was doing the same, his friend watching with shining eyes. He’d told the man all he knew of the legends, of all Arthur would become, and Lancelot had believed every word. He served the prince with a powerful devotion that eased some of the strain in Merlin’s heart. As long as Lancelot stood beside him, however strange his reasons, he was not alone.

                  “To the king!”

                  And then the world shifts.

                  The unease he’d been beating back rises fiercely, and the sense turns from an uncertainty to a sudden wrongness, a horrible, gut-twisting sensation that leaves him gasping.

                  Time distends around him, not at his will, but another’s, and there she is.

                  Hooded in shadow, all that shines out of the lumpish frame is pale moon skin and bright eyes, lips pulled back over gleaming teeth and hair ragged lengths of snow. She is something like an old woman, an ancientness to her presence that ought to stagger him. A claw wraps about a white staff, the long shaft whittled down from the bones of a creature he knows has never existed.

                  “Emrys.”

                  He wants to scream, to hide, but he can only stand before her. Her aura rises, filling the room, the air. He fights against it, uncertain how, but recognizing pieces of himself that meet her soul in answer.

                  “Emrys.”

                  It is more power than he’d ever dared take hold of, more than he consciously knew lived inside him. As she claws out at the members of court, his gift shields each, his strength directly opposing hers and demanding she cease.

                  Her smile is terrible, and he suddenly knows that he does not stand before her, but she before him, her voice hailing him as she pays her due diligence before she walks for the first time in centuries in this world.

                  “Emrys.”

                  The syllables fade, and she’s vanished as quickly as she came. Merlin, body scraped raw and head pounding as it attempts to process, promptly falls to the ground, vision fading dark before anyone can glimpse the raging, golden song in his eyes.

---

                  Lancelot lays Merlin on the bed. He was trying not to be afraid, but removing his fear only turned him to his anger. The prince had done nothing but roll his eyes when his manservant fell, as if he’d passed out due to drink or some other nonsense when Merlin was never in any position to do more than serve the wine, much less have any himself.

                  He pulled the covers up gently, helping the physician tend to the boy as they tried to restore sluggish blood flow and warm stiff limbs.

                  “I’ve never felt anyone so cold.” Gaius mumbles, feeling his nephew’s breath with a slight shiver. The old man’s comfortable aura -deep green and speckled with blue- ripples nervously with his mood.

                  Lancelot begins massaging his friend’s hands, wincing slightly as the icy sensation seeps into him. He’s not overly surprised Merlin’s body was shutting down. The moment before Merlin had fallen was the darkest he’d ever seen his light. Even now, it was barely there, a memory of its usually already faint self. Had he not known to look for it -always looked for it- he would have feared it’d been taken away entirely.

                  “We’ll have to make excuses to the prince,” Gaius says softly, laying another blanket down.

                  Lance scowls, “Did you see him, Gaius? He looked angry his friend had collapsed, as if Merlin had chosen to spoil his pompous speech.”

                  The physician sighs, beginning to mix and grind things together in a small bowl as he settles into a chair, “His highness has always had difficulty conveying his emotions. I am sure he cares far more than he let on.”

                  “He thought it was the wine!” The knight protests, “Merlin is ten times more likely to collapse from being overworked than he is to alcohol. I’ve tried to get him drunk before. He responds like it’s water.”

                  “I believe you, Sir Lancelot, but for now we must focus on Merlin’s health.”

                  He falls quiet for a moment, then sighs, “I’m sorry. I know you’re right. It’s difficult for me to have faith in everything Merlin’s told me. I want to believe in Albion, truly, and I do see things in Arthur that make me think it possible, but then his character falters and I wonder why Merlin bothers with such devotion. He is so good, Gaius, so amazing and selfless and kind when he does not have to be. Can you even comprehend his power from all his tales? He could raze the citadel to ash and weave it together anew in a single breath, yet he spares us all.”

                  The physician chuckles lightly, “I would say my nephew has a tendency to exaggerate his stories, but I will agree with you on his heart. He is a good lad.” he smiles at a far memory, “The first day I met him he claimed to have stopped time. Can you imagine that? I think he was so eager to get away from home he forgot this is not a simple village eager for his fables.”

                  Lancelot frowns, pausing and then leaning forward, “Gaius, do you know what a syneseer is?”

                  The man stills in his work, frowning, “You are saying…”

                  He nods, “I was given the gift many years past. When I say your nephew could turn mountains to desert with a wave of his hand, I am speaking truly.”

                  Gaius takes a breath, brow furrowing, but before he can respond Merlin takes a gasping breath and sits up suddenly, long limbs scrambling before he takes in the familiar faces and flops back down, groaning and rubbing his eyes, “My head is killing me.”

                  “One moment,” The physician ducks out.

                  Lancelot scoots closer, “You alright, Merlin?” The light is back now, still weak, but pulsing in a comforting glow.

                  The man scrubs at his face and shakes his head, staring up at the ceiling. He sits up when Gaius returns with a tonic, wrinkling his nose and downing it in one quick gulp before thanking him. He thunks back against the meager headboard.

                  “You collapsed at the feast.”

                  “I remember.” He answers dryly, staring forward, “Arthur’s going to be upset.”

                  “Forget Arthur for now,” Lancelot protests, “You’re clearly unwell.”

                  Merlin studies him, then draws back inside himself, eyes resuming their haunted cast, before he turns to the physician, taking a sharp breath, “There was a woman.” He frowns, “Something like a woman. Clad in shadow with a face…” He shakes his head, eyes screwing shut, “Pain existed in her eyes, and her voice came from a place below, shuddering up through a thousand years of stone and soil to match her mouth. Do you know her?”

                  Gaius sits very still, staring at his nephew with quiet alarm, “The Cailleach. The gatekeeper.” He nods to himself, “You passed out on the stroke of midnight of Samhain’s Eve, the moment when the veil between world’s is at its thinnest. It cannot be a coincidence.”

                  “Was I the only one to see her?”

                  The physician glances at the knight, “You have great power, Merlin. For someone so gifted, such visions are not uncommon.”

                  “No,” the manservant shakes his head, then shoves the covers off, pacing to his feet and ignoring their protests as he makes a cage of the small room, “It wasn’t a vision. She knew me, spoke my name.”

                  Gaius pales as Lancelot gapes, “She called you?”

                  The boy pauses, frowning and tilting his head back, “Emrys.”

                  The room fills with the word.

                  Lancelot watches as the physician rises shakily to his feet, “Gaius? What does it mean, do you know?”

                  “Emrys is…was…” the old man chokes and cuts off, “Did she simply say the word for you to hear?”

                  Merlin shakes his head, “She was trying to push me, I think. She wanted to touch some of the people around us, but I wouldn’t let her. When she spoke, I knew she was addressing me, and that was all she said. Emrys. The druids have used it before as well, but I’ve never found it in our books.”

                  “It’s oral tradition,” Gaius answers weakly, “from a time when magic was new. It means, well, in simplest terms Emrys is another name for magic itself.”

                  “I don’t understand.”

                  “We use all sorts of names for magic today. We say spell and enchantment and life and charm. In the ancient tongues, Emrys was a way to herald all such things,” Gaius answers softly.

                  “That doesn’t make sense.” Merlin protests, “That’s not a name, that’s a concept.”

                  “It’s you.”

                  Merlin’s gaze snaps to Lancelot, who looks not at him but at that place in his chest he always claimed the light was.

                  He repeats himself, “It’s you.”

                  The manservant stands a moment longer, scowling, then in quick strides is out the door, “I’m going to go see if Arthur needs me.”

                  “Merlin, you’re unwell!” Gaius protests.

                  “I’ll be back soon!”

                  Lancelot stares after him. He was long used to Merlin’s habits of going to the prince for comfort, of seeking him out in times of stress only to come slinking back to Lancelot when Arthur had nothing to offer. The knight lets out a long breath, “This gatekeeper, I expect our time of peace is ended?”

                  The physician sinks heavily down into his chair, still dazed, “Yes, Sir Lancelot. If the Cailleach has come, then someone has torn the veil between worlds.” He presses his head into his hands, “Goddess help us all.”

---

                  Lancelot walks heavily up the winding stairs, something low and sick inside him. The old physician had not been wrong in his predictions, if all they’d seen in the peasant girl’s village was true. When Drea had come, she’d been met by scoffs and chuckles, a hysterical woman disturbing the court, but Arthur had heard her, and spoken earnestly to her, and the tale she told chilled them all to silence.

                  The knight muses it had been one of the few times he’d seen the prince’s light shine so true. Usually it was muddled, hidden in shadows or swept over entirely by dark thoughts and festering insecurities, but as he’d listened to the voice of one of his people his true self had shone to the forefront, an even glow along all his lines that had made Lance take a steadying breath as his heart began to race with fierce pride. The man Arthur was in that moment was the man he longed to serve.

                  Going to the village had been a mistake. In the time it took for them to verify the story, coming face-to-impression with the twisted creatures that swept through the land, the citadel had been nearly swept under by terror. The prince had been scrambling to catch up with the chaos, and the speed in which his decisions were made had left him no time to doubt his instincts. He would give them all shelter, any who came, and would do all he could to see this blight ended.

                  Lancelot had been nearly torn off his feet helping, going where Leon directed as the head knight had done an admirable job of organizing his prince’s directives. Now, though, the hour was late, and in a fit of irritation he’d dragged himself up to stand outside the physician’s door. Gaius, he knew, would be on the lower floors, giving aid as quickly as he could with a team of assistants pulled from volunteering servants that had basic experience in medical care. Lance had seen him send Merlin up hours before to rest, but he knew his friend too well to think he’d be sleeping.

                  He knocks and lets himself in, scanning the room and quickly finding the manservant in the chair by the fire, feet planted and chin on his fist, eyes piercing the flames with an intensity that would have been frightening to bear if turned on him.

                  He doesn’t bother announcing himself, knowing if he was here it was because he’d been allowed to come. Merlin knew every footfall that settled on the tower steps.

                  He glances about the room, setting about tidying small messes and putting away what he can. He’d spent enough time up here to almost be considered a physician’s apprentice himself, even if most of his knowledge came from the tidbits Merlin dropped in his flurried wake, rushing about for antidotes and poultices whilst shouting madly for ingredients.

                  Finally, as the silence stretches, he settles down on the rug, leaning back against a stack of ragged pillows and studying his friend.

                  Slowly, Merlin takes a breath, “My magic didn’t work on them.”

                  Lancelot presses his lips into a thin line. The monsters had been…terrible. They were the sort of fear that came only from unknown things, a presence skimming on the back of your neck or the far-flung disaster that came hurtling down the line of time. They were dread in a form nearly physical, and the part of Lancelot that was mortal and frail only wanted to cower before them.

                  For Merlin, who would never know death, it had to be horrific.

                  “Why?”

                  The manservant shrugs, tearing his eyes from the fire, “Gaius says it’s because the dorocha are dying creatures, and magic is a spirit of life. As long as they are near, my gifts will fail me.”

                  Lancelot lets a small grin slip up his features, attempting levity, “I suppose you could take up a sword in the meantime until your powers return.”

                  “It’s not about power!” Merlin snaps before quickly plunging into distress, peering at him earnestly, “I have to protect Arthur. Do you understand? I’ve told you before, Arthur is the most important thing in this world, our King.”

                  Lancelot noted the plural use of our and slowly nodded. Yes, he supposed that as he considered himself a servant to Merlin, he was also a servant to the prince, the man his god declared to be a figure of legend and prophecy that had spanned nearly all recorded time. He speaks quietly, taking the words as command, because as Arthur was now, he could not truly offer allegiance, “I understand, my lord.”

                  Merlin flinches back, shutting down instantly, “Don’t.”

                  The knight frowns, frustrated again at this old argument, but moves past quickly, “What are you going to do? You can’t go with him to the veil.”

                  The manservant’s eyes flash, “Watch me.”

                  “No! Merlin, you are as mortal as the rest of us without your power! You are too valuable to risk!”

                  “Where Arthur goes, I go.”

                  Lancelot tries not to fall into exasperation as Merlin folds his arms and slumps like a petulant child, “I’m his knight! I will protect him! You’re his manservant, he should never expect you to go on his quests at all! If you didn’t have magic, you’d be dead a hundred times over. As far as the prince knows he’s dragging you into life-threatening situations every time he wants to hunt for supper! It’s irresponsible and you have no obligation-“

                  “I have every obligation!” he snaps back, eyes flickering and the fire roaring up for a single moment as his control slips, “I’ve told you everything of Arthur’s story, of all he will be! If I must lose my life to forge his dream then so be it!”

                  Lancelot stares, a cold pit curdling in his stomach. Eyes flinty, he moves to his feet and bows deeply, knowing it would aggravate the man, spitting his words, “As you command.”

                  He storms out, ignoring Merlin’s call after him and nearly running down the stairs. One fist grips his sword hilt, and he tries not to acknowledge it’s trembling. Merlin could not be lost. Not ever. Arthur may be the priority to the kingdom and the court and bloody Albion and even Merlin himself, but Lancelot could see more of the world than any around him and knew how precious true beauty and love and goodness were. No.

                  As far as he was concerned, fated kings and storyspinning dragons could go fly off the nearest cliff. To him, Merlin would always come first.

---

                  Merlin keeps his head down as he does a last check over the horses, fingers fumbling more than they should. It was day now with no spirit to haunt him, but he still finds himself clinging tightly to his magic, nervous he should reach for it and find it again slipped away.

                  Lancelot steps up beside him to mount his own horse, nodding. Merlin looks from him to Gwen’s retreating figure, having heard their brief conversation, “You swore your life for her promise.”

                  “It’s an oath I already carry.” The knight murmurs, “I saw no harm in speaking it anew.” He looks about to say more, then thinks better of it and swings onto his horse.

                  Merlin hurries to his own, ignoring Arthur’s impatience and running a last check through his own supplies. Llamrei was a good horse, and he patted the creature idly, finding it vaguely aggrieving such a noble creature would be brought into danger. He hoped nothing happened to him. Maybe he should’ve packed a few sugary bits as treats for the courageous steed.

                  They head towards Daobeth at a quick pace, the prince determined to reach the old fortress by nightfall. Merlin endures his gentle ribbing and tosses back a few insults of his own but is too nervous to let them fall out properly. He’s never been at risk before, not truly. Each time he stepped into danger he knew that even were he to stumble to the brink of death, his magic would rise up to save him. That it would mean the ending of all he worked to build was no small matter, but it had been nice to have the guarantee of physical safety.

                  The mood grows somber as the hours pass. Occasionally they’re forced to dismount and pick their way through collapsed groups of men and women, their skin iced over with frost, perfect save their unnatural stillness. Merlin saw Arthur’s hand clench on the rein of his horse as he led the animal forward, and even Gwaine had the sense to keep quiet.

                  “I knew they were dangerous from all we’ve seen,” Elyan murmurs dumbly, “but to see so much death laid out before us…has no one survived?”

                  For the first time in long hours, the prince speaks, “I spoke with Gaius at length before setting out. No mortal has ever survived their touch.”

                  The men exchange worried glances, but they are true knights and will allow no petty emotion to turn them from their task.

                  The fortress was already abandoned before recent events, a part of an old age of Camelot when the kingdom had closer borders, but it made the place no less eerie. They set about collecting firewood as dusk comes in, torches raised high. Though they’d certainly brought more wood than normal for such trips, there was only so much extra weight the horses could take without sacrificing precious time, and in their haste to reach the cold grey towers they had not taken up enough from the forests they’d traveled through. By the time they’d gathered together for the night, each man knew they did not have enough to guard them till morning.

                  They eat their meal in a quick hush, Percival and Elyan telling them a spirited tale of rescuing three children in the lower town. Perhaps if the same dangers had not been so imminent, it would have been more heartening. The prince sets them to rotation, sleep something no trained soldier allowed himself to avoid.

                  Finally, Gwaine throws a last log on the fire, “We should draw lots.”

                  Merlin is awake because Arthur is, and he wastes no time scrambling out of his bedroll when Arthur volunteers, “You’ll need help.”

                  “You, Merlin?” Arthur asks, doubtful.

                  “Since when have you known how to gather firewood?” the manservant quips, slipping the lit torch from Gwaine’s hand and nodding to Elyan. Behind them, Percival and Lancelot do not stir in their blankets.

                  Merlin wanders further into the castle, refusing to let his nerves best him. He feels Arthur behind him, and though he cannot quite shake his fear, he feels safer knowing his king is watching out for him.

                  He has a harder time quieting his terror when the dorocha comes.

                  It’s there suddenly, a shriek of wind coalescing, and then Arthur is tackling him to the side and pulling him up into a sprint. They charge through the dark corridors, feet stumbling over blind obstacles and bumping into corners as they take them without slowing. Suddenly Arthur snatches him by the collar and hauls him into a side room. They bar the door together and retreat, their breaths loud in the silence.

                  They crouch along the wall. Merlin sees blood on Arthur’s sleeve, and with a soft noise he pushes the tear of cloth aside. It must’ve snagged on something. The prince blinks and turns as Merlin removes his neckerchief, winding it around the gash and knotting carefully.

                  He looks up, bewildered by the prince’s stare, and Arthur flushes, “It’s cold. You’ll get cold.”

                  Because…he doesn’t have his scarf. He nods slowly, “Right.”

                  “You’re not cold?”

                  He shakes his head, then flinches as a low whistle outside passes by. They both know they can’t stay here. They need to get back to the others and find something to burn.

                  He’s busy considering the best way to escape when Arthur interrupts his thoughts, “You know, Merlin, you’re braver than I give you credit for.”

                  He blinks, completely thrown, “Was that a compliment?”

                  “Don’t be stupid.”

                  They both grin, and an ease sweeps between them that Merlin leans in to. Arthur was so odd at times. He’d earnestly ask Merlin’s opinion on his reports and then turn around the next day and scold him for leaving a shirt on the floor. It’s like whiplash, and there are days he’s come back exhausted, bruised from being tossed into walls and bitter at being forced to kill another of his kin, only to face his scowling king and feel the impact of a goblet on the back of his head. It hurt, but then…there were the times Arthur spoke to him like he was doing now, and he knew there was something more, something trying to fight free from the prince’s upbringing and bloom into a man worth his crown.

                  Arthur’s staring at the floor, expression tight, “All the things I’ve faced… I never worried about dying.”

                  Merlin nearly laughs, because he’s glad, because Arthur should never worry and Merlin will always be here to protect him, “I don’t think you should now.”

                  “Sometimes you puzzle me.”

                  He tips his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, “You never fathomed me out?”

                  “No.”

                  The silence lingers, and he sighs, and dreams of wistful things, “I always thought…if things had been different… we’d have been friends.”

                  Arthur’s staring at him, “Yeah.”

                  He takes a sharp breath and forces them back into the moment. They are in mortal peril, after all, “That’s if you hadn’t been such an arrogant, pompous dollophead”

                  The prince laughs weakly.

                  Merlin turns to him, conviction strengthening his tone, “We will defeat the dorocha, Arthur, together.”

                  “Well, I appreciate that.” Arthur seems taken aback, “You know, you’re a brave man, Merlin. Between battles.”

                  He gives the obligatory laugh, but his heart twists, “You don’t know how many times I’ve saved your life.”

                  It’s the closest he can come to the truth, the edge he cannot take his leap of faith from. He believed in Arthur, knew him to be good, but he could never quite hand over that last smidge of trust and offer his king his secrets. He wasn’t ready for Arthur to see him that way, and maybe he wasn’t ready to know himself as that either. The powerful sorcerer everyone seemed to expect. He didn’t want to be…Emrys. He wanted to be Merlin.

                  “Ha. If I ever become king, you can be my jester.”

                  They both still as another faint scream rises and falls outside the wall.

                  “You will be king. The best this land has ever known.”

                  Arthur doesn’t answer, and unease spikes through him.

                  “Arthur?”

                  The prince sighs, running a hand through his hair, “I asked Gaius how to seal the rift before we left. There is a woman who guards the gate, the Calliach, and she demands a blood price for closing the tear.”

                  “Arthur.”

                  “I will sacrifice myself.”

                  “Arthur.”

                  “I’m the crown prince, Merlin, I cannot ask any of my people to die for me, not when I’ve sworn to protect them-“

                  “Arthur!” Merlin feels like he’s going to snap in half, heart pounding as the stupid prince reveals his stupid plan to go and stupidly die after all he’s done to keep him alive, “You are sworn to protect the citizens of Camelot and you do this through those who are sworn to protect you. Your knights put their lives to your use every day, you have every right to ask them to do this in your place. Any one of them would-“

                  “Just because they’re willing does not mean I will accept such a loss!” he retorts hotly, “They are my men! To die in the heat of battle by the clean cut of a sword is one thing, to be damned to a pit of spirits is not in their oaths. And who would you have me ask? Leon who has been nothing but faithful to me? Elyan, and face Gwen when I return without her brother? Or perhaps Percival who works hard and diligent on any task I give him. Or Gwaine who stays in the citadel for your sake. Or Lancelot? What of him? You would have me ask your dearest friend to die?”

                  Merlin’s staring at him, open-mouthed and nearly sick. Outside the walls, the scream rises in pitch.

                  “Ask me.”

                  Arthur blinks.

                  “Ask me, Arthur.” He can feel his hands shaking, ignoring the howl as the door rattles, “I would give my life for you a thousand times over and walk into any hell you bid me.” I have lived in hell for you a thousand days already, what is another eternity?

                  “No.” Arthur whispers.

                  There’s a shatter as the door breaks open, the dorocha snaking through, hissing in high tone. Merlin’s up before he can think, standing between it and his king, raising his hand even as he feels his power abandon him.

                  Cold fills him, and he can’t breathe, and his limbs are afire, and something hard is behind him, and there is no light. There has never been light in this place. It does not exist. He cannot breathe. He cannot think.

                  He unravels.

Chapter Text

                  Lancelot puts an arm on his friend’s shoulder, flinching slightly at the icy touch. His light has nearly vanished, only the softest of glows emerging from the frost sealing his shirt to his skin.

                  “We have to get him back to Gaius.”

                  Lancelot looks up at the prince, the man’s expression grim, fists tight at his side. Leon speaks first, though it clearly pains him, “And abandon the quest?”

                  “It’s Merlin!” Lance snaps, but Arthur waves a hand for him to quiet. They’ve returned at dawn’s light to their abandoned camp, the sun’s touch casting away nightmares and leaving only ruin behind. The knight knows he needs to keep his tone civil, but all he can think is that the manservant, unarmed and helpless, had no business being forced to gather firewood in the middle of the night.

                  “He saved my life. I won’t let him die,” Arthur shakes his head. “If we don’t get to the Isle of the Blessed, hundreds more will be lost. He meets Lancelot’s eyes, “I need you to take him back to Camelot.”

                  Lance pauses, ducking his head, counting out the long days such a journey will make and setting his will. The quickest way was the Valley of the Fallen Kings. It would be dangerous, but it was Merlin’s best hope. It was a miracle he was breathing still, and the knight had no doubt it was due to the man’s divine nature alone that he’d been spared.

                  “Gladly, sire.”

                  They tie Merlin to Llamrei, his weak protests ignored. Lancelot shakes hands with the others, wishing them a sincere farewell, each offering hope to the other. He returns to his own steed, looking away to try and give the prince a moment of privacy as he spoke softly to his manservant, but suddenly Arthur’s light is flaring bright and true and he cannot help but turn.

                  “This is my fault.” Arthur murmurs, golden light streaming from his hand where it rests over Merlin’s.

                  In some unfathomable show of strength, the manservant turns his own hand and curls his fingers ever so slightly, trembling with effort, “Take me with you. Please.”

                  “I’m not letting you die.”

                  “You don’t understand, Arthur, please,” he croaks, voice nearly lost in the slight wind.

                  The prince chuckles softly, light slowly fading down, “Do you ever do as you’re told?”

                  “I have to come with you!”

                  Arthur stares into the other man’s eyes, and something silent happens between them, part of that odd connection the two would never admit they possessed but was obvious to anyone who saw them laughing at each other’s sides, “I’m sorry.”

                  He steps away, and Lance takes his cue, coming forward and bowing to his prince, “I’ll be swift, sire.”

                  “Be safe.” Arthur cautions, and then there’s the slightest edge of something hard in his tone, something desperate that had never been heard from the old king’s mouth, “Do all you can for him, you understand? I’m putting his life on your honor.”

                  And the light blazes out, surging up and brilliant and golden and Lancelot finds himself bowing down, an oath of service and severity on his lips.

                  Arthur claps him on the shoulder and strides away, never turning to look back. Merlin tries to twist his head after him, a near whine escaping his lips before he slumps back down again.

                  “Sleep if you can.” He turns to his own horse and leads them away, taking cue from the prince and not turning to watch behind. Eyes ahead, he moves deeper into the woods.

---

                  The knight stumbles through the growth, helplessly anxious. Dusk had come and shadows had begun to flit about between the trees, sliding the man’s nerves to a frenzy as every snapping call became a villain with a slashing blade. He forces himself to breathe deep and keep moving. There should be a river ahead.

                  He tries to lose himself in the forest’s beauty. When he’d first been given his gift, he’d found places like this nearly overwhelming, but as he’d become accustomed to his new viewpoint, he’d found himself seeking them out as a comfort. The lights of men were muddied and varied, changeable and often bitter, but in places like these, untainted by civilization’s creep, he found the life around him to be simple and earnest. The trees were softly green, shimmering up lines along their bark, the canopy overhead a pulsing mesh of intertwining shades as all shared and sang and joyed together. Little sparks of mushrooms padded through eternities in the soil, red and pale, while sneaking small animals raced their way through shades of grey and blue. Every so often a thin, golden tendril of magic would drift by, slow in its own current, snagging at branches while passing through others.

                  The stream rushes white ahead of him, and he reaches it gratefully, glad to have a smooth spot to rest for the night. He lifts Merlin’s limp frame, startled by how little he weighs, and lays him along the stream, fingers lingering over the awful frost that still clung patch-like to his skin. Worried, he lays his cloak over him, uncertain if such things were helpful but determined to offer all he could.

                  He slips his gloves off, bending down to the river and drinking deep. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Merlin twitch, and he looks up in time to see the man’s hand fall into the waves. Silver light flows from him, and suddenly voices drift upward.

                  “Lancelot…”

                  He gasps, jerking back as small spheres rise from the water, the river’s flow slowing to a creep, “We bear you no harm, noble one. We wish only to help our lord.” He peers at the shifting impressions in the droplets, eyes reading faces that change in slow turns, “We are Vilia, spirits of brooks and streams. The veil’s sundering has upset the balance of all things, and we suffer as our lord does.”

He takes a moment to compose himself, and then offers, “Prince Arthur is riding for the Isle of the Blessed to heal the tear.”

                  Their voices are as changeable as their faces, a woman’s notes ringing young to coy to sweet again, “The Once and Future King needs you both for his quest to be successful.”

                  “Please, can you help Merlin? I’m trying to bring him back to the city-“

                  They pulse with light, “Emrys is stronger than even you know, syneseer. His future has been written since the dawn of our world when he drove the first snows from the mountains and let us free into our valleys. Do not worry. Even now, we give him our strength.”

                  And indeed, there’s a soft layer of silver playing over the manservant’s form, something akin to light dappling over a lake’s surface.

                  “You must rest, noble one.”

                  He shakes his head wearily, “This place is dangerous. I must keep watch over him.”

                  “We will watch over you both and protect you from all harm. Our light will hold the spirits away till the sun slips up again from her slumber. Sleep, mortal child, and let the waters of the earth care for you in accordance with our lord’s will.”

                  Relenting at last, nodding dumbly in his awe, he lays himself down on the loose sands and gives his mind over in trust.

---

                  He wakes slowly, a warmth over him in the dawn’s light and an easing in his heart he had not known since reports first reached the city. Lancelot opens his eyes and sits with a long stretch, turning to find his friend gone.

                  He scrambles to his feet, “Merlin? Merlin!”

                  “Shh!”

                  He spins round to a sight that leaves him gasping. The manservant is perched above the stream, feet balanced delicately on bobbing stones that seem to have risen for his use, arms stretched out gracefully as he grips a long pole. Light flows over his skin, streaming in his hair and twirling about his fingers, and in that moment, he is more divine than Lance has ever known him, adorned by the forces and spirits that love him so.

                  Suddenly, Merlin hops back to land, twirling his staff and showing him the fish he’s caught with a happy grin, “Breakfast!”

                  The knight can’t catch his breath. He realizes he’s on his knees, the light coming out of the manservant brighter than its ever been before, “Merlin, what…? Why are you…?”

                  The other man blinks at him, not understanding and seeming unsettled as he doesn’t move to his feet, “What?” He asks, voice vaguely defensive.

                  “You’re meant to be…” Enthroned. Anointed. High Above. Yet here you are among mortals, pretending to be one of us. He swallows down the words, choking out a new ending, “dying.”

                  The manservant smiles again, and reaches out to help him up, steadying him and handing over the long spearing stick.

                  “What’s this for?” The wood is warm to the touch. He can see traces of color where Merlin’s hands had wrapped around the shaft.

                  “You look like you’re going to fall over.” Merlin grins, wiggling his eyebrows.

                  The knight blinks and laughs, and then swings the staff suddenly, thinking to catch him off guard. The air before him condenses, slowing his swing, and the manservant steps back nimbly, smile taunting, “You’re not as quick as Arthur.”

                  Ah. And Lancelot wonders if it’s his speed that’s in question, or the way the wind itself tried to hold him back. Would the elements dare work against the prince whom Merlin loved so dearly?

                  Merlin starts off, “Come on, we need to catch up with the others.”

                  The knight frowns, “No. You’re going back to Camelot.”

                  “You might be.” He answers lightly, swinging on to his horse.

                  “Merlin.”

                  “Say hello to Gaius for me!”

                  He starts off, but Lance jogs forward and snatches the horses’ bridle, scowling up at his friend, “Merlin!”

                  The man doesn’t look at him for a long moment, eyes fixed forward, and then a weight seems to come over him and he looks down, meeting his eyes, “Arthur can’t finish this without us.”

                  Gooseflesh jumps over the knight’s skin. His certainty rings out like a bell, and he steps away with a nod. In short order they’re racing through the undergrowth, Merlin’s magic clearing their path and speeding the steps of their steeds. Lancelot keeps a hand to his sword and tries to process all he’s seen.

---

                  Merlin ties up Llamrei, giving the animal a last pat before glancing about the deserted clearing before uncertainly following Lancelot into the clay home. It’s not unlike his mother’s house, and he feels sick at the thought of taking from those who need what little they have.

                  The knight is paused inside, and Merlin cannot help but gasp at the man sitting at the table, his body frozen stiff. Lance speaks firmly, “Out.”

                  The manservant listens, backing out quickly. When Lancelot lets him return, the bed in the far corner is lumped with a long sheet thrown over.

                  “We can’t stay here.” If he had his wish they would run to Arthur and never look back.

                  “There’s nowhere else.” The knight gathers the last of the man’s wood, piling it in a grate.

                  He goes to light it, but Merlin simply waves his hand, heat bursting up in an eager jump and making the knight startle. Merlin cannot help but grin at his surprise, “Not entirely useless, y’know?”

                  He settles down, ignoring the way Lancelot’s eyes linger.

                  “I know.”

                  They don’t have much as far as rations left, but Merlin lifts an old stick from the ground and runs his hands over it in long sweeps until he’s grown them supper, snacks of plums and pears and grapes in heavy bounty. He thinks little of it, having done this since he was a child, but he finds himself self-conscious as Lancelot stares like he’s performed a miracle.

                  Sensing his discomfort, Lancelot clears his throat, “Don’t let Gwaine see you do that. He’d never leave you alone if he thought he could get an unlimited supply of those apples he likes.”

                  Merlin smiles softly, peeling an orange, and finds his humor fading, “You don’t need to come with me, you know.”

                  “Try and stop me.” Lance says, laughing, and it’s like they’re at Gaius’ workroom fire again, telling tales for each other.

                  His fingers tangle and confuse themselves. He tries to speak what has him so unsettled, “Why are you doing this? Because of your honor as a knight? I heard what Arthur said to you before we left. He cannot command your honor. It’s not a thing to be given or lost at a man’s word.”

                  Lance pauses, seeming to think for a long moment, “But is Arthur a mere man? I’m not certain I believe all you say of him, but even I know his light is different than other men’s.” He shifts in his chair, “Even so, that is not why I’m here.”

                  “For Gwen? For your promise to her?”

                  “I told you before, my oath to her is no different than my knightly vows. I am to protect my prince.”

                  “You don’t have to worry.” Merlin protests, “I’ll keep Arthur safe. I always do.”

                  Lance bows his head, and Merlin thinks suddenly the man looks tired beyond his years, voice quiet with emotion, “And who will you keep you safe, Merlin? You nearly died, if you were not,” he waves a loose hand, “anything other than what you are, we’d all have lost you.”

                  The manservant looks away, “I don’t understand why you care so much. No one else does.”

                  “Merlin!” Lancelot cries, angered and afraid, “Merlin the entire world cares for you. The wind dances to amuse you and the earth softens her soil for your step. I have watched in these last days as the forest stretched out to embrace you. The river gave itself to heal you! And if that were not enough then think of Gaius who lives each day in terror of losing you. Think of Gwen who speaks of you kindly to all who ask. Think of the servants in the castle who rely on you and support you and count you as a friend. Think of your mother if you will not think of me. You’ve read me her letters.”

                  Merlin does not answer.

                  “Or is it,” the knight says lowly, “that Arthur does not care, so you cannot imagine anyone else doing so?”

                  His eyes flash, and a sharp, stinging anger rises up in him before he can conceal it. The grate snaps in half, metal shrieking as its rent in two, the fire vanishing and plunging them into the dark.

                  Merlin finds his voice after a moment, and it shakes, “Do not speak of him that way.”

                  In the shadows, he can just make out the knight lifting his chin, his shoulders setting, “As you wish, my lord.”

                  The moment breaks, and he lets out a frustrated sigh, having had this argument a thousand times over, “I’m not your lord!“ he hisses, “and I am not a god!”

                  “You-“

                  He’s cut off as the scream of the dorocha strikes through the air.

                  Gasping, words left empty between them, the two men leap to their feet and race for the door, charging out into the night as the creatures follow behind. Merlin races ahead, Lancelot’s armor slowing him. The howls begin to grow, combining as their pursuers multiply. Panicked, he does the only thing he can think, “O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd hup anankes!”

                  Behind him, Lancelot stumbles. Merlin grabs his arm and drags him up, trying to recover distance as the spirits close in.

                  Suddenly, with a roar that shatters through the monster’s screams, a great fire falls from the sky and consumes the air behind them.

                  Merlin stumbles to a stop, catching his breath as the forest begins to burn. Beside him, Lancelot leans on his knees, visibly shaken, “I thought you couldn’t use magic around them?”

                  “I didn’t” He straightens up and lifts his hands, drawing his arms in a separate arc and pulling them together, the flames shooting into his hands until a spark of fire rests above his palm, “Come on.”

                  They go back to the clearing, and Merlin lets out a breath of relief as he sees his friend again, “Kilgarrah!”

                  Lancelot gives a curse, yelling and stumbling backward as he tries to draw his blade. Merlin settles a hand on his shoulder, stopping him, “Peace. Kilgarrah is an old friend.”

                  He steps forward. Lancelot follows, hoping his legs aren’t trembling as much as they feel. The beast before them reaches a height far above Camelot’s walls, glimmering golden scales shining even in starlight and making the nearby house seem a shabby toy. The light pulsing out of him is deep and strong, cast red with old blood and orange with long passion. To his never-ending horror, the animal opens its maw and gives something that must be a grin, teeth as long as the knight’s arm curling over its lips.

                  And then Lancelot watches in mild horror as the terrifying creature lowers its head and draws up a leg, wings spread out as far as they can be in the clearing, a great, rumbling voice with an unplaceable accent coming up its throat, “My lord.”

                  The knight nearly breaks his neck turning to look at Merlin, the man standing there in his dirty clothes and mussed hair with a spark of white fire in his hand and a dragon bowed before him as a servant to a king.

                  His legs really do give out then. He lands in his rump and sits there unmoving, sprawled out and gaze fixed not on the behemoth above them but on his friend’s wiry frame.

                  “Who’s this?” The dragon asks, almost idly, as though such meet ups are a casual thing for them.

                  “Lancelot.” Merlin turns, looking amused, “Lance, meet Kilgarrah. Kilgarrah, Lance.”

                  “Ahhhh.” The beast nods, and Lance flinches, watching the tunnel of a throat bob in human manner, “Of course, the syneseer, the noblest of the table, guardian of the High King.”

                  He forces himself to his feet as two pairs of golden eyes bore into him. He gives a hasty bow, voice a slight bit too high, “I’m- I’m not sure that’s true.”

                  “We shall see.” The beast rumbles, turning again to Merlin, “For now, there are more pressing matters at hand. The dorocha wreak havoc and cannot be allowed to remain. The veil must be resewn.”

                  “We’re following Arthur to the Isle of the Blessed.” Merlin explains, “He intends to heal it himself.”

                  Something in the creature’s eye sharpens, “At what price?”

                  Lancelot feels more than sees Merlin glance to him, “The spirits demand sacrifice.”

                  The dragon’s head lifts and falls like an agitated horses’, and the knight takes an unconscious few steps back, “It is the Cailleach who sets the cost. She is a lesser spirit, appointed in ages past to wait before the door.”

                  Merlin takes a breath, “Arthur intends to sacrifice himself. I cannot allow this.”

                  “Merlin…” Lancelot begins, but he’s overridden as the dragon leans down close.

                  “You must not do this,” he thunders, worry riding through his words.

                  “I have no choice.”

                  The beast draws back, and nods slowly, and fixes its eyes forward, speaking in a near recital, “It will be an empty world without you.”

                  Lancelot fights not to react, chills rolling up his spine as he recognizes the words.

                  “From the moment I met you, I saw something invisible.”

                  The words echo twofold in his ears, the goddesses’ voice twining with the dragon’s, filling his mind and memory in parallel.

                  Like the finishing of an oath, Kilgarrah intones, “Now it is there for all to see.”

                  The knight stands frozen. He stares up at the strange creature, thinking it’s almost purposeful the way those eyes never move to land on him, as though not daring to implicate. Lancelot understands, though. Those words were about Merlin, but they’d been said for him, to tell him what he must do, what will be lost if Merlin chose to cross to the other realm.

                  An empty world…

                  Lance thinks of the river spirits and the stream roiling in grief, a flood drowning the forest. He sees the playful wind howling in anguish, spinning itself into fury and tearing up homes. Flames refusing to catch, sparks jumping to bite fingers and never wood. Magic, all the threaded together love of the world, gone.

                  He pays little notice as the two say their goodbyes, feeling his heart climb to his throat.

                  Merlin cannot be lost, nor would he suffer Arthur being so.

                  Lancelot must cross the veil.

---

                  They ride out in the morning. Merlin had made a torch with the dragon’s fire, explaining no wind would put it out. He’s set it strategically in the saddlebags so it can be snatched up quickly, a small shield about it keeping it from burning the Llamrei’s flank.

                  They head over the road to Aelbeth, Merlin taking them unerringly straight and simply willing obstacles before them from his way. Lancelot had watched in awe as the man had reached out and caressed an old lump of a hill, and the mound had grumbled and rolled to the side like a grandfather in his sleep.

                  With the sun high overhead, he takes the food merlin passes back to him. They make brief conversation, but his thoughts turn, and he finds himself asking, “Do you really intend to sacrifice yourself?”

                  Merlin looks over sharply, then shrugs, “What do you want me to say?”

                  Lancelot studies the back of the man, “I look at you, and I wonder about myself. Would I knowingly give up my life for something?”

                  The manservant slows, bringing his horse beside the knight’s and considering the question, “You have to have a reason. Something you care about. Something that’s more important than anything.”

                  “Someone.” Lancelot corrects absently, “Arthur?”

                  Merlin hesitates, but nods, “Arthur.”

                  “Merlin…why does he mean so much to you? You’ve told me what he will be, how he’s destined to unite the land of Albion and rein over it as high king, and you’ve called him the Once and Future King before, but I’m not sure you know what it means, and I don’t-“

                  “I know what it means,” Merlin interrupts, staring ahead.

                  “Then tell me. Please.” He wants to know what he’s dying for.

                  He sighs, “Arthur is…was…” he pulls his horse to a halt and Lance does the same, “Albion is Arthur’s kingdom, but Albion has been before, and will be again. Albion is as much a desire as a place. It is where the true heart of men is revealed and renewed. In the old ages of the world Albion rose and fell. In the next, it will do so again. Arthur’s legend will live till the end of this time and be written again in the time after. Do you hear me? Can you?” and Lancelot blinks against the brightness shining forth, “Arthur is high king of men. All serve him. He is worth serving. And in serving him, men find their honor.”

                  And he cannot help his protest, “You are not a man.”

                  Merlin laughs, light and gentle, “So you always say. If I were a god as you claim, my friend, then you do not understand divinity.”

                  And with that, he sets his horse to a trot and leaves the knight to hurry after.

---

                  They reach the old fortress at midday. The smoke rising above drawing them closer, and Lancelot takes the lead into the hall, Merlin watching behind them with wary eyes. He hears the dull murmur of familiar voices and begins to grin, hurrying ahead and bursting into an open courtyard to see his prince and friends.

                  Arthur steps forward, worry tight on his features, “Lancelot? How’s Merlin?”

                  He cannot help but laugh, “Bad news, he’s still alive.”

                  At that moment, Merlin comes through the archway, having tied up the horses. He takes one look at Arthur and is near sprinting forward, shouting his king’s name and throwing his arms around him. The prince harrumphs and pats him awkwardly, but no one misses how tightly he holds on.

                  Lancelot greets the knights, clasping arms and clapping shoulders, jesting. Percival’s hearty back pound nearly sends him to the ground. He feels far more at ease among a group, even if it meant hiding things away again.

                  He turns and finds himself face to face with the prince. Arthur stands uncomfortably, then extends his hand. Lancelot takes it after a moment of hesitation. It’s the handshake of an equal and it humbles him, the light of Albion’s true king a gentle presence. The glow is not bright, but it’s steady.

                  “Thank you.” Arthur says quietly, blue eyes intense.

                  The knight steps back, a bit awed by the glow, “I’d have done it for his sake alone.”

                  “That’s why I sent you.”

                  Feeling an odd emotion, Lancelot bows deeply, pressing a hand to his heart, “I went for him, but I return for you, my lord.”

                  He rises, and Arthur nods, and then they are distracted again as Merlin gives a yelp as Gwaine pulls him up onto his shoulders. The prince shakes his head, already clutching his side with laughter, and Lancelot watches Elyan elbow Leon until he hands over a pouch of coins. Lance frows and then calls out to the two as they roughhouse, “Gwaine, where are your socks?”

---

                  Merlin stirs the fire without much purpose, having slipped a bit of the dragon flame into it earlier. No one had commented if the glow was oddly bright, and he knew he ought to rest easier for having it to defend them. Sleep should have come hours ago. Instead, he found himself keeping his eyes open against recent memories, the cold touch of the Dorocha seeming to leech at him even here. He’s not sure why he hadn’t died. At first, he’d thought it to be his magic, but his gift was useless against the creatures, and so he had no explanation for his survival. The river spirits had done him a great kindness in speeding his recovery, yet he could not help but wonder if such help had been necessary. He does not think death would have dared come for him, not when he was needed by his king.  

                  He doesn’t start as Arthur settles down beside him, leaving Gwaine to take perimeter watch. He turns, studying his king. He couldn’t see what Lance could, no burning light or beautiful golden shades, but when he looked at Arthur, he saw everything he knew of himself reflected. He’d shaped himself around the man. Merlin would never have become himself without him.

                  He also saw the deep creases under his eyes, “You should sleep.”

                  “As should you.”

                  There’s no reprimand in the words, and the silence is as easy between them as it’s always been. Still, he cannot help but seek to ease his fears, “Everything’s going to work out.”

                  The prince rubs a hand over his face, glancing at his manservant and seeming to recognize there was little point to hiding his worries, “I know.”

                  “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself.” He’s trying to explain, to say goodbye somehow or apologize for the grief he’ll bring. Whatever Lancelot said, he knows Arthur will grieve for him. He needed someone who could do what Merlin did…muck out stables and change sheets and polish boots.

                  “I am doing this to save my people. Camelot cannot continue as things are.” He answers, voice tight.

                  And suddenly, he wants him to know, the desire almost painful in its intensity. Arthur has no idea of all the wonders Merlin has worked in his name, all the shadows he’s strangled and the forces he’d brought forth to give his mighty kingdom its strength, to give Arthur a free life. He wants to be seen, “I will take your place.”

                  They’re both stubborn. Intractable at the best of times. Their firm will tended to rebound off of each other in equal waves, refusing to dissipate as they scowled and snapped back and forth. This is no different, though he is unprepared for the violent start that runs through Arthur’s frame at his words, “You will do no such thing! Gods help me Merlin if you say that again I will order you back to the city and have Lancelot tie you to your horse again.”

                  Merlin feels his mouth sour. He knows his friend would be only too happy to oblige. He tries to explain. Arthur is to be king. Without him, the threads of this unravel and Uther’s madness spreads unchecked to gorge itself in blood and grief. “What is the life of a servant to that of a prince?”

                  He’s expecting some joke. It is Arthur’s way, after all, to brush aside his devotion with humor. Now, the prince meets his eyes firmly and becomes his king, unyielding, “The life of one man is an easy paid price for the life of a kingdom.” He swallows, “The life of a true friend is worth more than all I could ever rule. Merlin, do not say such things.” Merlin’s eyes drift down as the prince speaks, and he notes the slip of red cloth Arthur is toying with, tucked up his sleeve where none could see, “I lost you once. I go easier knowing I will not again.”

                  And he thinks for a moment that this is what Lance must mean when he describes Arthur’s light. Merlin does not move, warmth spilling through him, feeling his eyes water with tears -he knows by the prince’s sigh that he’s calling him a girl again-  and he makes a vow deep and binding, that he will never allow Arthur to take one step beyond this earth. He will root his soul down in the deep waters if it means his king will be king eternal. Undying.

                  Arthur touches his shoulder and leaves him to sleep, and Merlin returns to his thoughts.

---

                  The Isle of the Blessed is all Merlin described it as: incomplete, a shuddering gasp of ancient towers and tumbled-down walls forming a labyrinth of a citadel, and something missing from its history that held itself like a bruise on the still waters. The knight gazes upon the grey stones and wonders at the dark curls of energy he sees flitting along its shape.

                  The ferryman asks for payment. At Arthur’s startled look, Merlin steps forward subtly and shakes his head at the hooded creature, a motion Lancelot doubted any but him notices. When Arthur frowns and reveals himself, the shape bows and allows them to cross the smooth lake.

                  The wyverns weren’t too much of surprise. The grey mud of their energies had him flinching up with his blade long before any claws could scrape at him. He kept his step even to Merlin’s, and when the group is slowly separated, he takes care to stay with the king and manservant as the call of the beasts fades back.

                  In time, with Merlin’s unerring and somewhat unnerving guidance, they stumble into an open courtyard at what must be the heart of the city.

                  Lancelot’s heart skitters, and for a moment all his hard-won courage fails him. Before them is a great rending, a place where the air cannot enter and lights of colors he’s never known slide ominously together in the dark. Its high above them and lapping at the stone, stretched and frayed, and as his eyes fall on the woman who stands before it, he realizes he has known death as a concept without ever fully understanding.

                  She is as Merlin described her, snow and strange, hunched like a crone and curved in posture and smile, pearls of teeth gleaming horribly in small rows.

                  “Visitors.” She croons, and Lancelot flinches and forces himself to step forward with the others. Her voice lodges below his collarbone, carried up from a place beyond below. And of her voice is her dark light, her form carrying no tinge save when her syllables roll forth.

                  Lancelot looks to his friends, and suddenly knows that all Merlin has said is true, because Arthur is shining as he never has before and his heart has made himself a crown, a band of stars that rest over his brow and nearly sends the knight to his knees.

                  Of course.

                  Of course.

                  Merlin had tried to tell him. He’d tried to listen. He knew, in a way, that Arthur had come before and would come after, but it meant little to him, a creature of single time. He had not thought him any different than the other little kings of men, save for an uncommon goodness. Now, though, it came together, because while Arthur’s strength was indeed the sort that let him face down monsters and creatures of old, it was also the strength of waking and facing the days before you, of stretching out a hand to one who hated you, of laughing when tears had been moments before.

                  He embodied something Lancelot barely knew how to describe, and with a lump in his throat he sees what Merlin long has. When Arthur was forgotten, so too would be kindness, and nobility, and courage.

                  In serving him, men find their honor.

                  And Lancelot believes.

                  “I demand you heal the tear.” The king says, voice resonant, his true self hovering around him like a mantle.

                  The vile thing only lifts her chin, “I did not create this. Why should I mend it?”

                  “Because innocent people are dying.”

                  And Merlin’s voice is weirdly small among them. His light is far too dim. They are not the right words.

                  A slow cunning draws itself along her features, “Indeed.”

                  Arthur’s voice cuts through her laugh, “I know what you want.”

                  “Oh? And you will give a soul to me? Command your little servants to my embrace?”

                  Arthur steps forward, and this time her grin stretches around the curves of her face, up along her ears in a slash of pleasure, “Yours?” she purrs, “How…sweet.”

                  They’re speaking around a slab of stone, stained and old. Lancelot is left behind, trusted to guard their retreat. He knows it shouldn’t be so easy to slip forward past their notice and wonders if she helps him, wrapping him from their view. Either way, his resolve does not fail. It seems strange. He’s had blades at his neck before, had tapped knives along his wrists in vague curiosity, but never has he been so certain of an ending. Of cessation.

                  At the opening, he sets his feet and looks in. It tugs him, his clothes motionless but his fingers twitching forward. He looks back, and in the same moment Merlin sees him.

                  He watches the manservant’s eyes widen in shock, then terror as he reaches out desperately.

                  His light is so faint. Never frail but buried deep. Lancelot had wanted to be there when it broke free. He wanted to hear Merlin tell his stories while Gaius grumbled in the background. He wanted to go to the Rising Sun and try once again to get his friend drunk. He wanted to see Arthur crowned and his kingdom forged. He wanted to watch Merlin mouth insults at the prince’s back and hear the king respond anyways. He wanted to sneak faces at council meetings. He wanted to laugh with his friends as they trained and turn to see Merlin with a rueful grin. He wanted to live out all the years ahead of him as the knight he’d always dreamed of being with his best friend at his side.  

                  But Arthur was to be king, and Merlin was bound to this plane.

                  He offers a smile and takes a moment to be grateful.

                  He has found not just one someone worth dying for, but two.

                  And lets himself fall in.

---

                  He stands before the place the veil had sealed, hands shaking in the air, heaving. He’s not sure how he came over here, vaguely remembers sprinting over the stones. Arthur’s somewhere behind him, watching. The prince had tried to hold him, to calm him, but he’d screamed and torn himself free and was left clawing and finding no friction, no thread to pull loose.

                  Lancelot.

                  He was an idiot, a fool, a disaster. He’d given the man all the information he needed to sacrifice himself, to take the choice away from them both.

                  He should have known.

                  Shaking, he collapses. He’s still crying, sobbing his friend’s name. He retches and curls about himself and stares at the darkness between his head and his hands, certain there will never be light again.

                  Arthur was safe, but Arthur would never know what this meant. He saw Merlin grieving for a friend, but he would never know Merlin had driven him there, never know it was his stupidity that had urged the knight to his choice. Lancelot had known. Lancelot had known everything. The worst and best of him, laid out and seen, and still the man had never judged him or turned away. Sobbing, seeking escape, Merlin buries himself into his magic, uncaring if it made his eyes glow or the night brighten. From the moment they’d met, Lancelot insisted Merlin had a goodness inside him worth protecting, a light-

                  He falters, fingers curling into the stone, as something inside him stirs, a memory surfacing.

                  You look human, but here

                  His hands sink down to the wrist into the old courtyard, chest heaving as cracks snake up his wrists, hair lifting against gravity. His magic surges and whines and demands its freedom from this emotional shell, and he wonders why he ever considered it separate from himself.

                  There is something else.

                  It was not his magic any more than a common sorcerer owned the energy he moved.

                  Something more.

                  It was himself. His body. His identity. His existence.  

                  He draws himself upward, opening his eyes and knowing they’re burning, seeing what he could not before, sensing what he had denied himself.

                  Blinking away golden tears, he reaches out and slips his hand inside the air.

                  A rush of pressure recoils around him, the wind’s shriek drowned out by his own scream and the horrible, wretched tearing that slashes into a cut as thin as his palm. He presses his other hand into it, turning them, feeling blood pour down his skin as the sharp edges press in, slicing more than flesh, and pushes outward, fingers curling to grip the gate and wrenching it as far as his arms will stretch.

                  It is a god’s light.

                  “LANCELOT!”

                  The knight’s name is torn from his throat, raking through the dark place, and in one motion he is reaching in and falling out, tumbling back painfully onto the stone as a resounding slam echoes and a shudder climbs the air.

                  He’s tangled and hurt and desperate, but the man beside him slowly opens his eyes and he begins to laugh, joy rolling out of him. Delicate white flowers begin to poke up through the flagstones, and he scrambles to pull the knight to his feet, searching for injury.

                  He looks dazed, blinking repeatedly, mouth opening and shutting. Merlin grips his arms, grinning, “Lancelot!” he savors the name, then scowls, “Don’t- Don’t ever do that again!” The wind shudders through the air and somewhere behind them a wall topples.

                  “Merlin?” Lancelot asks, peering at him as though from a great distance.

                  He deflates, concerned, “Did you hit your head when you fell?” Anxiously, he steps forward, “Let me see.”

                  The knight dips his head forward for him to check, but then keeps going, kneeling at his feet, “Thank you for restoring my life, my friend, my lord.”

                  Merlin stills, and then takes a moment to notice himself. He’s the same, he thinks, except there are energies now, and knowledge he’d long forgotten, and an awareness he’d learned to suppress. He looks down at the soul of the man before him. It’s simple, little difference to it from the thousand other mortals he’s known, but with a spark of gentle promise he found beautiful. Lancelot never had to be a knight, or a defender, or a friend, but he’d chosen to be so, and Merlin loved him for it.

                  He crouches, taking the man’s calloused hands and holding them, meeting his tear-stained eyes, “Thank you for waiting with me. For having faith I would find myself.” He reaches out and tucks a stray hair back into place, “You are the truest friend I have ever had.”

                  Lancelot clutches tightly, “And you mine.”

                  And now comes the harder part.

                  He gets to his feet, turning to face his king.

                  Arthur is standing a few yards back, a stricken expression on his face, a fist clutched tight around his sword, “What are you?”

                  “Magic.” He says, the simplest word he can offer, bright flares of power flicking out and setting cracked stones to seal and old gardens to bloom. He smiles gently, “Emrys.”

                  The king tilts his head, “I know you.”

                  “You do. You are the Once and Future King,” he feels his voice go rough and strange, “I gave you my place in Avalon at the beginning of time, when I saw what you could become.”

                  Arthur looks away, frowning, jaw working as he tries to fight through his emotions.

                  Merlin steps closer, “I am your servant, as I chose to be long ago, as I choose today.” He takes one further and brings himself to his knees, bowing at Arthur’s feet, “Shall I tell you again the oaths I swore on the fields of Rowan, or repeat the binds at the siege of Herondel? Of Caravast? Bid me, and I’ll call forth all the ancient names no voice has spoken save yours and mine, of times before this generation of iron. You know me, my lord king.”

                  “You are magic.”

                  He looks up and meets his eyes, correcting carefully, “Your magic.”

                  Arthur stares down at him, pale, chest heaving, and then suddenly looks elsewhere, speaking hoarsely, “Lancelot.”

                  The knight comes forward, “My lord?”

                  Arthur motions to Merlin, “Tell me of this.”

                  Lancelot dips his head, “He is a god.”

                  “Gods do not bow to men.”

                  “He has always bowed to you.” His voice is certain, “Only you. Look at him, my lord. He is as much Merlin now as he was hours ago.”

                  Emrys looks into the eyes of his king, and watches a slow understanding come to him. Arthur hesitates, seeming torn, and then reaches down. At once, he takes the offered hand, pressing it reverently to his forehead, feeling all that he knew bound them renew itself once more, “You know me.” He repeats.

                  “I do.” He answers, voice small, and then he’s on the ground beside him, gripping his arms, “I don’t know how, but I do.” He kisses the top of Merlin’s head, and it’s a greater anointing than a crown, voice low, “Show me.”

                  And he does, the memories passed between them in quick transition, and the king sucks in a sharp breath and sighs gently and laughs helplessly and small, then gets quickly to his feet, pulling Merlin up after and embracing him before turning to his knight and holding out his hand, “Do you see all I think you do, Lancelot?”

                  The man swallows, taking it and bowing low, “I do, and I know you as my lord.”

                  “I would have you at my side, in my council.”

                  “Where you bid me, there I shall always be.” The knight murmurs, voice thick.

                  “Then come with me,” Arthur smiles, and Merlin cannot help but grin at the knight, certain now his choice was well made, and he would serve nobly and well, and be true always, “and help me build my kingdom.”

                  Lancelot smiles so wide his eyes water, his oath easy to give as their true lights shine forth, suns in a world that would be empty without them, something invisible, yet there now for all to see, “Gladly, My King.”