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From what he knew of Merlin’s past romances, Merlin’s love life was a graveyard. And if Merlin’s was a graveyard, then Lancelot’s was a wasteland. On the rare occasion Lancelot dragged Merlin out of running in a thousand different directions from chores and Arthur and destiny, he dared to ask if there had ever been someone in Merlin’s life, someone who had meant as much to him as his destiny and Arthur. “There was a girl once,” Merlin had said. He went quiet and looked down at his cup and Lancelot soaked in the uncomfortable silence that followed.
Merlin had managed a smile after a beat. He started to say, “Gwen used to —” but then his smile dropped and his gaze lowered guiltily. “— ah, nevermind.”
“What?” Lancelot asked him. He refilled Merlin’s cup without prompting. Merlin took another deep swig and looked up at the ceiling.
“I don’t think that,” Merlin started, then shook his head. “…um, maybe we shouldn’t. Er. So training. Is Arthur still making you all carry around those extra sacks of bricks on your back?”
Considering Merlin survived by lying every day of his life, he was remarkably bad at it. And terribly unsubtle. Lancelot stared him down over the rim of his own cup and quirked his brow teasingly. “You’re just making me more curious, you know.”
Merlin refused to meet his gaze. He squirmed a bit and batted off the rest of Lancelot’s questions for the rest of the evening. Later, Lancelot realized Merlin had been under some misguided apprehension concerning Lancelot’s feelings for Guinevere. He thought he was protecting Lancelot in that scenario, that Lancelot was still so wounded by his unreturned affections for the woman who was now Arthur’s wife and his queen.
Merlin had always been rather oblivious in that way.
Lancelot’s routine varied from day to day. Though of late his mornings began with a trip to Gaius’ chambers. Gaius offered him breakfast more often than not, though Lancelot made it his own responsibility to help out the old physician where he could.
Gaius greeted him with a scowl. Lancelot’s heart stuttered. “No luck yet?” he asked lightly. The physician sighed and let him in. They shared the bowl of warm greyish gruel — Merlin always complained it was the most flavorless meal Gaius could ever make. Lancelot swallowed it down without tasting it at all. He was sure Merlin was right, but Lancelot’s appetite hadn’t returned to normal. Even Cook’s best dishes tasted bland and ashy in his mouth of late.
He grabbed Gaius’ bag as he left. The first few mornings, Gaius had told him off for meddling, but Lancelot ignored his protests. “I can handle your deliveries,” Lancelot had reminded him. “You need to be here. Looking for answers.”
Gaius’ shoulders had dropped and he replied somberly, “I appreciate your kindness, Sir Lancelot. But I know the answers we seek will not be found in these chambers.”
As the weeks passed, Lancelot’s optimism hadn’t left him, though it had dimmed considerably. As he finished the deliveries he stopped in the courtyard. The stone statue was as he left it; a tall thin figure reaching out with one arm, his expression caught in a mixture of surprise and relief.
There were flowers and offerings piled up at the statue’s feet. Lancelot knelt and cleared out the old flowers, the rotting food, and straightened the bundles of fresh flowers after the other grave goods were cleared away. There was fresh bread stacked among the flowers, still warm to the touch. Lancelot’s hand wavered. The Cook had sent something fresh down every morning to replace the stale bread from the day before.
It was a testament to Merlin’s reputation and well-liked status in the castle that there were so many grave goods at the statue’s feet. Even though the food was still fresh, if not a little dusty from sitting out on the ground, the offerings were left as they were. No one had attempted to steal them, not that Camelot had left its citizens to starve, or that there were many children left with empty stomachs, but Lancelot was always surprised at the amount of care and respect the city people gave the statue.
Lancelot forced himself to lift his head. Merlin’s brow was caught in a wrinkle, that half-smile frozen in stone. He caught himself before he touched the surface of the stony surface of Merlin’s cheek.
Errands completed and his morning ritual at Merlin’s statue completed, he forced himself stiffly to his feet and towards the council chambers as the first bell rang out. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Gwaine’s red cloak sweeping out of view.
The council meeting was brief. Lancelot wondered if Arthur and the others knew Merlin was still alive, despite all appearances, they would have executed all their available energy and resources into finding a cure.
It was a point of contention for Lancelot and Gaius, beyond the deliveries and mother-henning, as Gaius called it. Lancelot had demanded him, after the first few days had passed, and Gaius failed to find a solution in his secret tomes. “Why can’t we tell Arthur?”
“That would have killed any normal person,” Gaius told him. “But not Merlin. I don’t want to give Arthur or the others any reason to suspect Merlin or his…abilities.”
“But instead they’re doing nothing,” Lancelot had said. “You won’t tell them.”
“It seems unkind to offer hope when it can so easily be snatched away,” Gaius had answered. “False hope is a cruel consolation.”
The king spoke softly as the knights and the council members recalled their patrols, changes in the castle, the status of stores, and their plans for the upcoming cold season. Their voices echoed around Lancelot, passing in and out of his ears as he sat there, his throat suddenly tight and his face hot.
Guinevere was in the chamber that day. She kept her hands folded over her lap, her eyes dull and sorrow painted her face. Gwaine was missing from the council meeting, but Arthur had yet to reprimand him. Lancelot imagined he was in the privacy of his rooms, slowly working through his secret stash of ale hidden in the chest under his bed.
Lancelot would join him, if it would do either of them any good. Mead and shared misery wouldn’t fill the Merlin-sized gaping hole in their lives. Gaius didn’t approve of that either; “Merlin would say a problem shared is a problem halved,” though Lancelot refrained from pointing out both Gaius and Merlin’s hypocrisy on that subject.
His rooms were clean and swept, the bed made, and the shades drawn for privacy. Lancelot didn’t look back as he shut the door to his barrack chamber, heavy-hearted, but also nearly light headed and dizzy by hope.
He left without a word to anyone in the castle of his intentions or where he was headed. It was an otherwise normal, unremarkable morning. There was nothing extraordinary or different from that morning to the next. That was deliberate, at least to leave then on Lancelot’s part. He didn’t need his absence noted sooner than needed. He passed off word to the stable boy as he saddled his horse that he was going hunting, and would return sometime after dark. The stable boy nodded, barely listening, and passed off the reigns.
His departure was barely planned, even by himself. He woke up that morning and thought: he couldn’t do it anymore. He completed his routine as usual. He attended to Merlin’s statue and cleared the old offerings away.
That day he left his first and only offering: he unsheathed the sword at his hip and moved aside the other food and flowers until the sword was covered beneath it. Where he was going, he had no use for a sword. It was Arthur’s sword; a sword belonging to a knight of Camelot. Lancelot had no claim to that title, as deserters lost all their rights to their sword and all that came with the title.
By the time anyone would realize he wasn’t coming back, he would be far enough that any knights Arthur sent after him wouldn’t be able to track him down. Too far to follow, and too far ahead to catch up.
To himself, Lancelot unforgivably reminded himself that he had left no note either. Not even a message for Gaius, to tell him to keep hope, or to Guinevere, or to Arthur to explain the true reason for his departure. It would be a betrayal to them either way, but he never wanted any of them to assume he had lost hope. That he had abandoned them, as they had all unknowingly abandoned Merlin. If Merlin were there to comment, he would have probably expressed his disappointment that Lancelot had turned his back on Arthur when he was at his most vulnerable. He would have wanted Lancelot to remain and protect Arthur in his stead. That was what an honorable man would do.
Well. Nobody was perfect, and Lancelot certainly wasn’t any exception.
Unfortunately, the druids were about as helpful as Gaius. The group Lancelot stumbled into was especially small, without any elders in sight. There were young children in their camp; the women kept their newborns swaddled around their chests and regarded him warily, even though he had long abandoned his crimson cloak and longsword. Over his two weeks of travel he had ‘borrowed’ a new sword, though the make was of low-grade, and not as balanced as he would like.
Lancelot introduced himself as he entered the camp. The group’s leader went by Anawydan, who warily but kindly let him into the main tent to discuss. All Lancelot had to say was ‘I come bearing news about Emrys’ and he was let in. They were an otherwise friendly, open, and trusting group of people.
The leader pulled back their dark cloak and Lancelot blinked. He had hoped the leader would be at least a little older than the other individuals in the camp, but Anawydan looked about as old as Merlin. He held a perpetually harassed appearance, similar to the one Merlin bore as he ran from chore to chore as the King’s manservant and also Gaius’ assistant, with far too many responsibilities and lives resting on his shoulders.
His eyes went as wide as plates as Lancelot explained their predicament. “What curse was this?” Anawydan demanded.
“It was meant for King Arthur,” Lancelot answered instead. “You will have to forgive me, but I am not well versed in magic. I don’t know what spell it was. I was assisting the Court Physician but he unable to determine the exact curse or how to break it.”
“I see,” Anawydan said quietly, biting down on their soft bottom lip. “…and Emrys has been gone for weeks? In this state?”
“Six weeks,” Lancelot answered. Anawydan frowned. “Is he even alive?” Lancelot asked the druid leader. He ignored the tightness in his own chest. All those weeks of research, all of Gaius’ discrete tests, and neither of them knew for sure.
“He isn’t dead,” Anaywdan said after a brief hesitation, but his voice was firm. “Emrys is forever. They are not gone from this realm. They are Emrys.”
“I know that,” Lancelot replied patiently. “But he’s a bit…lost, at the moment. How do we reverse it? How do we bring him back?”
“I do not know of anyone who is strong enough to break an enchantment that Emrys themself couldn’t defeat,” said Anawydan. “Nor many brave enough to travel into the heart of Camelot under the King’s nose to attempt it.”
Lancelot nodded. He didn’t suggest that idea lightly; most were not as daring or brave as Merlin. And certainly not so stupid to walk into the middle of the lions den. Still, he couldn’t help the flare of disappointment that curled dispassionately in the bottom of his stomach. He offered his thanks to Anawydan and bade him well; the druid leader offered him to stay the night, and to whatever food or whatever he needed.
The camp was small. Anawydan’s cheeks were sallow, and the people around him were thin and moved tiredly. Lancelot thanked him but departed ways.
Travelling alone made for long days and even longer nights. Lancelot wasn’t even entirely sure where he was going. If Merlin was there, he thought, but then he squashed it before he let it wander further than that.
After two long months Lancelot finally returned to Camelot. He was dirty, tired, strangely hollow, but also strangely hopeful. Hope was a dangerous thing, and now he understood why Gaius called it cruel. His hope was a glittering amulet buried in the bottom of his bag.
He slipped in just as the guards turned over for the night. With his cloak pulled over his head and his messy hair and unkempt beard, he doubted the guards would even have recognized him, though he was still too recognizable. If they did a double-take, his cover would be blown.
The courtyard emptied as the hours dragged on. There was no moon that night. Lancelot sat in the dark, listening for the shuffle of feet and the muted shrieks of metal armor bending and warping as the guards marched.
Now abandoned, Lancelot slipped free from the gap where he had hid and crossed the courtyard stones with silent steps. He didn’t need any light from the moon to know where the statue was.
Despite that, he tripped over the uneven stones, which had shifted in his absence. His hands flew up and he braced himself on the solid stony surface of the tall figure that had remained in place. In the dark he couldn’t tell for sure, but the air around him held the heavy floral perfume of dozens of flowers.
Lancelot wiped at his eyes. Maybe Camelot hadn’t forgotten Merlin as badly as he feared.
Unclasping his cloak, he shrugged off his travelling bag free from his shoulders and let both fall to the ground. He knelt. Clumsily, he felt around for the smooth cold round amulet and pulled it free.
Some weeks after he left Anawydan’s group he ran into another group of druids. The elder there had pointed Lancelot in the direction of some caves where ancient sorcerers had been buried, with sufficient warning that he should not disturb those who rested there, but that there would be something inside to assist him on his quest. She could offer no more specifics, but Lancelot thanked her. It was a direction. It was something to do.
When Lancelot had returned with the amulet the elder’s sorrow-lined face deepened. She had turned it over in her hands, considering, studying it wordlessly. “This amulet,” she had said, then stopped.
“Will it help Merlin?” Lancelot demanded her.
“Yes,” the elder agreed after a significant beat. Lancelot watched the deliberation across her face. She hadn’t wanted to tell him, that much was clear. “But…there is a price, Sir Lancelot.”
Lancelot hadn’t cared about the price, and from her hesitation, it was clear that price would be on his head. He would have paid any price if it meant saving Merlin. He would have begged with the Triple Goddess herself if anyone could tell him where to voice those petitions. If it meant Merlin would return, then it would be worth it. “Tell me how to use it.”
Alone, in the middle of Camelot’s courtyard, Lancelot withdrew his borrowed sword and neatly sliced across his palm.
He pried open the amulet and dropped his blood inside. Carefully, he held it aloft and lowered it around the statue’s head, until it rested in the middle of the statue’s chest.
The druid elder had practiced the words with him until Lancelot could form the syllables without stumbling. “Ic i céape blódgeótes, Ic i céape dómas.”
Nothing happened. The druid elder had warned him that Lancelot possessed very little natural magic talent. But he repeated the words, and prayed.
The amulet glowed a dull orange. Lancelot raised his hand and cupped Merlin’s stone cheek, and he nearly wept as the skin there slowly turned soft and warm under his touch. But the feeling his fingers slowly drained away as the amulet’s magic took hold. Even if he wished to weep for joy, he could not, even as the dust collected under his eyes.
Merlin awoke cold. It was dark; his back profusely ached with protest. Had he slept on the floor? It certainly felt so. Maybe he fell off his bed. On other nights his sleep was so disturbed he had found himself halfway off the bed or so strangled by his threadbare blankets, like he believed himself attacked by an invisible assailant in his sleep.
There was something soft and warm around his shoulders. Merlin leaned into it and grunted. It smelled like sage and smoke and sweat. But it was achingly familiar. There was also something cold and heavy around his neck, and something smooth pressed up against his chest. Merlin sleepily pushed it aside so it no longer rested on his skin. He was exhausted. Just five more minutes, Gaius…
“Oi, you!” A voice said above him. Merlin rubbed the sleep from his eyes and forced his eyes open. He blinked in a moment of acute disorientation. He wasn’t in his chambers. “You can’t be here.”
Merlin heaved himself upright. The morning sun crested over the eastern tower and he squinted as he adjusted to the sunlight. “Whas’,” Merlin slurred, confused. He coughed. His throat felt like he had swallowed a desert. “Wher’ am I?”
The man who had addressed him crouched and pushed something off Merlin’s shoulders. A cloak? Merlin blearily squinted back at the man and Gwaine’s surprised features slowly swam into view.
“Merlin?” Gwaine demanded, but a relieved grin broke over his features. “Merlin!” He frowned and looked at something over Merlin’s shoulder. He blanched. He repeated Merlin’s name for a third time, slightly more worried. “Merlin. What happened?”
“Huh?” Merlin mumbled. “I dunno. I jus’ woke up. Can I go back to sleep?”
Gwaine glanced over his shoulder. His face smoothed out. “I’m going to get you to Gaius,” he announced. “Come on. Up you get.”
Merlin’s limbs were barely coordinated even on his best days, but his legs and arms were worryingly stiff and refused to obey his commands. His legs trembled as Gwaine half-dragged, half-carried him towards the steps.
Merlin paused at the top of the steps, his eyes burning as he stared back at the bright courtyard. Someone had put a statue in the middle, placed slightly off-center, with their arms outstretched. Merlin wracked his memory as to when Arthur had ever any sort of appreciation for the arts or a memory of its installation and drew up a blank. He said as much to Gwaine. Gwaine’s expression flickered.
“Gaius will explain,” Gwaine said after a long moment. His eyes held an aching amount of sadness, though Merlin was also puzzled over the cause. “Let’s get you to him, alright?”
Merlin nodded. But his gaze was drawn back out to the courtyard, where that statue remained. A pool of flowers and offerings were laid out at its feet. Then he turned back and followed Gwaine into the cool, shady corridors of the main citadel, and let Gwaine lead him towards the physician’s tower.