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Lancelot is dead. And then, he opens his eyes.
Penance, he supposes. Doomed to haunt this earth, for all of his sins. He did not ask to be raised from death by Morgana, but it was still his hands that committed the betrayal.
His vision clears, and Merlin is here, looking at Lancelot. Not a ghost, then? Simply dreaming, before death reclaims him.
Merlin has tears in his eyes, but a smile on his lips. If Lancelot wasn’t dead, he’d marvel at how he’s able to contain so much love for one man.
He lifts his hand to Merlin’s cheek, and the warmth he finds there feels like more than just memory.
“Merlin… Thank you.”
“For what?”
Everything. “For staying with me, before I go.”
Unexpectedly, Merlin laughs. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Lancelot wishes dearly that were true.
Merlin takes his hand and entwines their fingers, gazing intently. “Don’t you feel it?”
“All I feel is you.”
He expects another laugh, but Merlin’s golden eyes soften. He tugs Lancelot’s hand down, until it’s pressed against his own chest. “Lancelot,” Merlin whispers, with his brilliant smile, as Lancelot’s fingers are met with the thrum of his fiercely beating heart, “You’re alive.”