Chapter Text
Part 1: The Rise
Chapter 1: The Peasant
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Lancelot, fifth son of Lord Eldred-“
“No, Merlin.”
“-of Northumbria. Oh, so you don’t want to be a knight then?” He curls the vellum back up, tauntingly really, turning and feigning a march to the entrance to Gaius’ chambers. Lancelot drops the apple Gaius had palmed on him an hour ago – he’d been brutalising it more than anything else, and he suddenly has a much better outlet for his energy.
“Of course I do.” And he does, more than anything. He knows his desire is selfish, that there are a hundred ways he could serve his Kingdom and honour his people without joining the most revered group in Albion, but the idea had stuck so firmly in his head as a child that he refuses to relinquish it. Knighthood is meant to be a way to prove himself, to redeem his failings in the name of his people and his family. There’s no redemption in a lie.
“But what, the rules don’t allow it?” Merlin cannot understand the real reason, of course. He sees this as a simple problem with a simple solution. Lancelot wants to be a knight, only nobles can be knights, therefore Lancelot must become a noble. Never mind that Lancelot has never been north of Camelot in his life, and most probably has no resemblance to this Lord Eldred – as plans go, it’s an utterly foolish one.
“But it is wrong, Merlin. How can I expect any of the knights to trust me if they find out I have lied about everything I am? If I have to make up stories of my childhood instead of sharing the truth? And what happens if I am caught?” Because he’d heard stories of Uther, the good and the bad. As much as the people respect him for the relative peace of his reign, the plentiful food and shelter he’s allowed for, they fear him for his brutal temper. Lancelot has no doubt he’d be executed for his deception, and if he’s lucky, it’ll be the headsman instead of the pyre. Or the vat.
“You won’t be, it’s a perfect copy. Look, see?” He unfurls the scroll, shoves it so close to Lancelot’s face that he has no choice but to step back, and the gesture does nothing to reassure Lancelot of his new friend’s competence. Still, the seal looks perfect… it would be so easy to take it, to live his dreams, even if for only a short while. “You’re just as good as any nobleman, Lancelot. You deserve this.”
And that’s it, isn’t it? He doesn’t, not really. He may be handy with a sword, but there’s far more to knighthood than that. Merlin is sticking his neck out for him, risking his job and his place in Camelot, possibly even his life, because Lancelot just so happened to shove him out of the way of a beast that nearly killed him. Had Lancelot fought it off then perhaps he’d have some right, but he didn’t – he ran, the way he always does. Accepting might finally give him a reason to stay in one place for longer than a season, but what would it make him if he did? A liar, taking advantage of the kind nature of a man who offered him treatment and shelter. Whatever Merlin claims, there is no debt between them – they saved each other, and he won’t ruin Merlin’s life the way he has ruined his own. “No. I won’t do it.”
Merlin’s face falls. “I swear to you, Lancelot, you won’t be caught. Camelot needs you.”
“I am sorry to say your talents have been wasted, Merlin. If I cannot be a knight, then I must find some other way to honour my people.”
“But-“
“Thank you, Merlin, but I have some work to do.” And so, Lancelot pats Merlin on the shoulder and leaves the room.
*
Lancelot feels heavier as he wanders the busy corridors, head aimed resolutely at the ground. He’s proud of himself for resisting temptation, sure that it was the right thing to do, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. Unfortunately, his hopes to find a quieter place to mourn the death of all his dreams are dashed by the presence of a dark haired, pale woman, who places a hand on his arm as he passes.
“Hello there. I haven’t seen you around here before. Care to introduce yourself?” She sounds warm, but there’s a hint of threat there – as though she expects him to tell her of a nefarious plot to destroy the kingdom. He realises there’s no chance of a quick escape.
“My name is Lancelot, my lady. I’m a guest of the court physician.”
She stares at him, the warmth fading almost entirely. “Really? I didn’t know Gaius had space for guests. Nor, for that matter, that he kept company with one so young.”
“Not with Gaius, my lady, with Merlin – his ward, do you know of him?” The woman softens slightly, and waves at him to go on. “We had- an encounter, shall I say, in the forest, and he took me back to Camelot for treatment. I have been sleeping with him ever since.”
The woman hardens immediately, and Lancelot wonders what he said wrong. “You- he- you’ve been sleeping with him?” she asks incredulously, and oh no. No no no.
“In his room, my lady. I have been sleeping in his room, while I have been recovering. That is all, I promise.” Perhaps this woman is his girlfriend? If so, kudos to Merlin – she’s clearly a noblewoman, and stunningly beautiful besides. “May I ask for your name, my lady? It is only that any friend of Merlin is a friend of mine, and I would be honoured to know those who hold his regard.”
“Indeed. My name is Morgana, I’m the King’s ward.” At Lancelot’s raised eyebrow, she looks immediately annoyed. “Did Gaius teach you that? Is there something on my face?”
“No, my lady. I was merely- ahem, is the King, uh, aware of, the nature of your relationship with Merlin?” Lancelot is blushing, he knows it, and to his surprise Morgana throws her head back and laughs. Beside them, two guards share a smirk, and Lancelot figures he’s really stuck his foot in it now. Would the King’s ward have the authority to execute him?
“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Lancelot. My feelings for Merlin are purely friendly. It is, in truth, a friend of mine – ah, here she comes.” Morgana smirks conspiratorially at Lancelot, before waving behind Lancelot’s head. “Oh Gwen, dear! Come meet my new friend.”
Lancelot turns and is immediately confronted by possibly the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen – nay, to have ever lived. Her warm eyes sparkle beneath a mop of curly hair, and not even the hefty stack of linens she carries detract from her regal bearing. She looks like a princess in pauper’s clothes, like the old stories Lancelot’s father had shared with him during long nights back in his village. She walks towards them, and Lancelot instinctively moves to alleviate her of her burdens – she smiles gratefully, and Lancelot feels his heart flutter as his scarred hands brush hers – cracked, rough, but still gentle. He returns her smile.
“This is Lancelot, Gwen. He says he’s a friend of Merlin’s, but I’ve never heard him mention a Lancelot before. Tell me, Gwen, have you spoken to Merlin today?” Morgana’s ability to cycle through warmth and contempt in moments would be impressive to Lancelot if she wasn’t possibly blowing his chances with Venus herself.
“I have, yes. He asked me to help do a favour for his new friend. He says he saved his life.” And at this, Gwen turns back to him. “I’m assuming that’s you then? I’m Gwen. Or Guinevere, if you prefer, although generally only the Prince-, I mean-, it’s nice to meet you, Lancelot. If that’s who you are.” At this she blushes, and lowers her head. Lancelot feels utterly enamoured.
“Yes, well, welcome to Camelot, Lancelot. Gwen and I need to have a long talk about Merlin now, so if you don’t mind, we will see you later. Come along, Gwen.” And so Morgana sends Lancelot a look of warning, as if to say touch her and you die, and honestly, Lancelot has done nothing to deserve this.
“I hope to see you soon, Lancelot.” Gwen says, and offers him her hand. In a fit of fancy, he grabs it, and lays a kiss on it.
“I am counting on it, my lady.” And so, no longer wishing to bear Morgana’s increasingly scathing stares, he gives Gwen back the linens stacked neatly atop his other hand, turns, and walks away, though he has no idea where he’s going.
*
Training must have concluded for the day, but the sight of the near empty training fields, available for any who wish to practice their skills in combat, remind Lancelot of his goal. He feels at a loss, with his dreams so cruelly ripped from him, but that’s no reason to get rusty – swordcraft is his life, and he’s always found solace in the calming motions of his daily practice. It’s all that’s kept him sane, when the memories of his mother’s screams and the accusation in his sister’s eyes as she was felled running towards him make him wonder if maybe he should just give up and join them after all. If he’s to get past this feeling, this gnawing pain in his chest, it can only be on those fields.
Of course, he has to purchase a new sword first, and so he asks the pikeman at the entrance to the palace for directions to a good blacksmith. The man frowns at him, but eventually points him towards a man named Tom, in the lower town. Lancelot takes the time to appreciate the sights the sojourn through the town affords him – he’s never been anywhere so lively. There are cloth salesmen and cobblers and entertainers crowding around every corner, and it’s a far cry from the idyllic woods and lakes of his childhood home, let alone the near total isolation of Percival’s farm.
The pleasant odours of meats and pastries from street sellers cause a rumble in his belly, and he suddenly longs for the apple he abandoned in Gaius’ chambers. But Lancelot cannot risk emptying his coin pouch until he has a sword in hand, and so he walks past the smiling faces straight into the hot forge.
“Hello then, what can I do you for?” Tom is a pleasant man of perhaps forty, with a kind smile. Lancelot feels himself liking him immediately.
“I require a sword. I regret to say my last one… shattered.” Lancelot blushes and looks at his shoes, feeling like a child. “It wasn’t – it was a beast, and it was a good sword, I took good care of it-“
“Mustn’t have been that good, if it could shatter at all. Tell me son, can you afford a new one? It’ll be at least ninety silvers. More if you want it decorated.”
“A plain sword will do fine.” Lancelot pulls out his coin pouch, fervently thankful for Merlin for keeping it safe in his convalescence, and empties it onto the counter in front of him. Tom frowns, but he counts out three gold pieces from the misshapen pile, and shoves the remainder back at Lancelot.
“You a sell-sword, then? Can’t imagine how else you’d be getting gold pieces, in your position.” Tom seems a touch disapproving. “I don’t want my swords going to bandits.”
Chastened, Lancelot moves to reassure him. “I worked as security for minor nobles and tradesmen travelling into Caerleon. I would never harm an innocent.”
Tom continues to look suspicious, and if he denies Lancelot, honour and nobility be damned, he will fall to the ground and sob right here. His trusty sword has been his one companion all his life – it’s all he managed to save from his village as a child, and he’s only barely managed to accept its loss with the knowledge that it will be easily replaced in Camelot.
Luckily, there’s no need for that – Gwen walks in, looking utterly at home, and Lancelot immediately realises why he trusted Tom so easily. “Dad, you forgot your lunch- oh, hello Lancelot.” She smiles at him, and Lancelot jumps at the opportunity.
“Hello Gwen. I was hoping to replace my sword?” At this, he shoots her a helpful look, and it takes her only one glance at her father to realise what the issue is.
“You mean since your last sword broke when you were saving Merlin’s life?” Gwen says innocently, and immediately Tom’s face turns appreciative.
“That was you? Merlin’s a good lad, if he vouches for you then I’ll make you a sword right away, my friend.” And with a smile at his daughter, he takes the tied package from Gwen – his lunch, Lancelot supposes – and disappears into the back of the forge.
Lancelot turns to Gwen and beams, and Gwen blushes. “My father is the best blacksmith in Camelot, Lancelot. I’m sure you’ll make a fine knight with one of his creations in hand.”
At this, Lancelot’s face falls, and he glances, again, at his shoes. “I cannot become a knight, my lady. It seems I do not qualify.” Lancelot attempts to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but it’s difficult, the reminder of his failure sapping all of his confidence.
He looks up as Gwen lays a hand on his shoulder, and sees her looking at him sadly, pityingly. The man who isn’t good enough to be a knight, and who’ll never get the chance to prove otherwise. “You will get your chance, Lancelot. I can feel it.” She strokes his cheek – a caress, really, and once she realises that she immediately removes her hand as if burned. “I just- I mean- you saved Merlin, and so you’re already a hero to me.” At the mention of Merlin, Gwen looks almost embarrassed, and Lancelot feels a very different kind of pain settle in his chest.
“Are you and he…” he waves a hand weakly, but she merely raises an eyebrow, and he finishes “Courting?”
Gwen laughs, and it’s astonishing, the way her entire face lights up. “No, no. I mean, I kissed him once,” and isn’t it funny, how he’s known this woman perhaps an hour and this already drives a spike into his heart, “But he had just almost died, and he clearly wasn’t interested, and- no, not Merlin.”
“Good.” Lancelot says, even though he couldn’t possibly imagine anyone not being interested in Gwen. “I just mean-“
“I know what you mean, Lancelot.” Gwen brushes his arm, grants him one last smile, and walks out regally. Lancelot’s eyes follow her out, his hands resting on the counter behind him, and he feels like even if his dreams may have died a painful death, coming to Camelot was definitely the right decision.
*
Lancelot leaves Tom with a promise to arrive bright and early the following morning to collect his finished sword, and buys himself a pair of meat pies from a gap toothed woman who eyes him appreciatively when he approaches. She winks at him as she hands him the bag, and he looks inside to see she’s slipped him an extra. He knows better than to turn down free food, so he merely smiles warmly at her and promises to return the next day.
He hands Gaius one on his way back into the man’s chambers, though the man is so lost in a dusty text that Lancelot merely places the plate in front of him and waits patiently for him to look up.
Merlin shows no such courtesy – he bounds into the room so loudly that the door slams against the opposite wall. Gaius, to his credit, merely looks up and raises an extremely disapproving eyebrow. So that’s what Morgana meant – the look cows Merlin immediately. Gaius looks back down and, seeing the pie, finally notices the other occupant of the room. “Ah, Lancelot. When did you get back?” He pokes at the pie, appreciative, and Lancelot answers both his spoken and unspoken questions.
“A few minutes ago. The pie is for you – a way to say thank you, for your hospitality.” Gaius grins toothily, and Lancelot can see a slightly jealous frown on Merlin’s face. A frown that becomes a beaming smile as Lancelot presents him with the second pie. “And this is for you, Merlin. For I would surely be dead without your aid.”
“And I would be dead without yours, my friend. Have you thought about my offer?” Merlin is persistent, he’ll give him that, and so Lancelot merely rolls his eyes and produces the third pie. He sees Gaius beside him direct a supercilious glance at Merlin, and he realises that Gaius has no idea what Merlin offered him. He feels strangely touched.
The three of them munch in silence, as Lancelot informs them of the day’s exploits. At the mention of Morgana, Merlin looks almost amused, and mentions that she – along with half the castle, apparently – believes that he and Gwen are in love. “I may have admitted to sorcery to try and save her life,” Merlin says casually, and Lancelot feels his eyes bug out. “But no one believed me, because Arthur decided the only way to stop me was to tell the King I was in love.”
“Merlin, my friend, you are either the bravest or the stupidest man I have ever met.” Merlin nods at that, as though he accepts the judgement completely, and Lancelot has to clarify. “So are you?” Merlin looks confused, so he continues “In love with Gwen.”
“No, Lancelot, I am not in love with Gwen. She is a good friend, and I don’t sleep with my friends, regardless of what Morgana seems to think.” The smirk in his eyes tells Lancelot that he’s somehow heard of Lancelot’s conversation with Morgana earlier that day, and he feels at once relieved and embarrassed. “You two have my blessing, and I certainly don’t see you as, what was it? Ah yes, some upstart pretty-boy here to steal my woman.”
“Up- what?” Lancelot feels more confused than angry at the phrasing, which he’s sure Merlin is repeating from somewhere. “Gwen is not property, she cannot be stolen.”
“Morgana can be surprisingly old-fashioned when it comes to romance. It’s all those novels she reads – Uther indulges her.” Gaius seems amused, and along with the deeply appreciative noises he’s making as he eats his pie, Lancelot’s sure that this has been a very good day for the man, despite Lancelot’s unexpected intrusion.
And so they sit together, the three of them, as both Merlin and Lancelot assist Gaius in the crushing, cutting, and grinding necessary to prepare elixirs and potions and poultices aplenty. Merlin leaves briefly to give Arthur his dinner, and in the meantime Lancelot assists Gaius in preparing theirs. When he returns, Lancelot has moved on from the fairly brief tale of his day, and onto far more interesting stories of his adolescence. Merlin joins in with his own childhood exploits, just him and a friend named Will in a village far too small to contain them both, and even Gaius shares an amusing anecdote of the day he met King Uther.
It is, in short, exactly the remedy Lancelot needed, and as he curls into sleep that night – sharing the bed with Merlin, because neither would allow the other to take the floor – he finds himself truly happy for the first time in a long time, even as his failure continues to sting.
*
The sword is perfect. It feels almost disloyal to his father’s memory to say so, but it makes his old sword seem clunky and unbalanced by comparison. Lancelot grins at the sight of it, and Tom sends him off with an indulgent chuckle.
Lancelot heads to the grounds and, finding them empty, begins the parry, slash, parry, stab practices of his youth. He loses himself in the motions, striking against an armoured target until a cough from behind him breaks his concentration.
Lancelot turns, and immediately blanches, for behind him is Prince Arthur. The man is exactly as the bards described him – beautiful, blond, perfectly proportioned, standing tall and proud. The sun reflects on his shining armour and bright hair in a way that makes him appear almost angelic, and Lancelot falls into a bow immediately. He rises, and sees that Prince Arthur is not alone – the sun has risen high in the sky, and there are twenty men looking at him, mostly in admiration, though there is annoyance in the faces of some. Lancelot immediately recognises his mistake.
“My apologies sire, I lost track of time. I will leave you to your training.” Lancelot wishes his first impression with Prince Arthur had been a little better than this, but he knows when the only option is to cut and run, and he has no intention of humiliating himself further.
“No need. That was some extremely impressive swordcraft if I might say. Tell me, what is your name.”
“Lancelot, sire.”
“Lance-a-lot?” Prince Arthur seems almost amused by his name, and Lancelot scowls instinctively – there is nothing wrong with his name, and if Lancelot just so happens to be a fine jouster, that is no one’s business but his own. “I’ve never seen you around here before. From where do you hail?”
A cough interrupts him, and Merlin makes himself known, appearing from behind the prince. “This is my friend, Arthur, the one I told you about?”
Prince Arthur looks immensely pleased at that, and Lancelot can see the hint of admiration in his eyes grow. Clearly he’s fond of Merlin, and Lancelot finds himself inexplicably annoyed by it. “Well, it seems for once that my useless servant is correct about something. You are a fine swordsman, Lancelot. May I see your seal of nobility?”
Lancelot glares at Merlin, who doesn’t even feign contrition. “I do not have one, sire, for I am not a noble. I had intended to try for the knighthood, but upon learning of your First Code, I have realised that that is not possible. If you will excuse me, I need to go find work.”
And so, with nary a glance at the prince whom he had just rudely brushed off, Lancelot walks purposefully towards the town.
*
Lancelot finds work quite easily, in the end. It seems that Merlin’s good will with Tom extends far enough for the man to offer him a small stipend in exchange for assistance at the forge, as well as the promise to put in a good word with the prince and his knights about the quality of Tom’s swords. Much to his chagrin, word of Lancelot’s inadvertent demonstration has spread quickly in the town, and he finds himself the subject of a great deal of giggling as he wanders the streets in pursuit of lunch. Tom has informed him that he can man the forge on his own most days, but he requires additional help during the mornings and early afternoons, telling Lancelot to return the next day to begin. The money isn’t much, but it should be sufficient to pay for his room and board – assuming, of course, that Merlin is willing to share.
He agrees enthusiastically, much to Lancelot’s relief. “I’ve always wanted a brother,” he says cheerfully, as they set up a second sleeping pail in his room. “Just, uh, help me with the cleaning, maybe?” Lancelot has already done so that day, but he imagines that mess of that size would have a tendency to reappear.
The two depart after setting up the pail – even low and straw filled, it’s the softest bed he’s ever had, and Lancelot realises that Camelot is the closest he’s felt to home since his village fell. Merlin has to relieve Arthur after training, and Lancelot intends to get some more practice in before night falls, so they walk together amiably, passing a suspicious looking Morgana on their way towards the training fields.
Once there, they see that the trainees have long since absconded, and Prince Arthur is standing alone on the training fields, half of his armour abandoned around him but his mail still on. He smirks at the sight of them, and for a moment Lancelot wonders if it’s a family trait before remembering that Morgana is of no relation.
“Ah, Lancelot,” he begins, completely ignoring Merlin beside him. “I was hoping for a favour?”
“Anything, sire,” Lancelot says immediately, elbowing Merlin when he mockingly mouths the same at his side.
“I want you to kill me,” he says, and charges at Lancelot with a sword. Lancelot, surprised, moves half a step back before pausing, realising that this is a test. He waits for Prince Arthur’s approach, as the man swings his sword showily. Utilising a trick that had always availed him well in adolescent spars with Percival, he strikes firmly at Prince Arthur’s sword near the hilt whilst ducking beside him. He follows this with an elbow at Prince Arthur’s passing form and feels himself land a satisfying blow before turning to face his now winded opponent. The two meet in a clash of swords, as Prince Arthur takes the aggressive role. Lancelot parries and ducks, realising that unlike his adversary, his sword is sharpened, and therefore he seeks only to disarm.
It's hard to tell how long they fight one another, each landing hard thunks against one another’s torsos, the prince with blade and Lancelot with pommel. Lancelot feels somewhat annoyed that he’s only in his tunic whilst Prince Arthur is in mail, but he supposes that’s a fair trade off for his sharpened blade. The longer he fights, the prouder he feels, and when he sees the prince trip infinitesimally, he begins to believe he may even win this fight. It’s not the sort of mistake one expects a trained swordsman to make, but nonetheless Lancelot takes full advantage, pushing himself into the fore and using Prince Arthur’s forward momentum against him. He shoves hard at Prince Arthur’s back, sees him fall into the dirt, and aims his sword directly over the prince’s neck. “Do you yield, sire?” he asks.
Prince Arthur looks incredibly annoyed, but more than that, he looks impressed. “I yield, Lancelot.” He turns quickly, accepts the hand Lancelot offers him, and when he’s gracefully risen, he clasps Lancelot’s forearm – a gesture he’s seen before, from knights on patrol. “You fight well. You would make an incredible knight.” The words are kind, but there’s frustration in his eyes as he departs - though it seems to lessen as he aims an elbow at a grinning Merlin’s stomach.