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Lancelot looked into the wide room – too wide when empty. Arthur, standing there, looking down at the engraved wood of the Round Table, seemed almost lost in the immensity of the place. His heavy gloves and his helmet were sitting by his side, he looked ready for battle. They had been back for almost seven months since the victory in Agned and again Cennalath the pict was trying to push his advantage in the North, leading attacks against the old forts near the Hadrian wall. Cennalath did not concede defeat that easily and peace was not a concept known to him, neither was it likable, as if some dark God had created him only for war.
Lancelot's steps echoed loudly in the room when he walked in and Arthur looked up, giving him a weak smile.
"Still no news?" Lancelot asked.
Arthur frowned, stroking nervously his newly grown beard. "I was not expecting any."
Lancelot nodded. "Indeed. If you say so."
The silence stretched uncomfortably between them, until Arthur finally threw the heavy bible resting beside him. The precious volume hit the nearest wall, written pages scattering all around. "Why the hell is he not back yet?" Arthur yelled. "It has been two months now! He should be back!"
Merlin's retreats had become customary – he needed them to restore his strength. This time though he had been away much longer than usual, and Arthur had grown more and more nervous. Lancelot cleared his throat. "Merlin needed some peace of mind. Tranquillity after Agned. And you know he dislikes crowd and honours."
Arthur glared at him. "I know he is bored with me and does not care any longer about what I do."
"You are a great king, Arthur; he knows the wisdom of your decisions. Merlin trusts you; he loves you." On that he left and Lancelot decided to forget the name that had troubled his sleep.
If wisdom was a quality Arthur possessed, it was not showing right away. "He should be here, by my side. Share my triumph, support me – it is his duty. I need him. He is failing me."
Lancelot winced – Arthur sounded childishly stubborn and whiny; a chance they were alone. He was about to say something when Arthur added, "Do you think…" and paused for a couple of seconds, hesitating. "Do you think he might have someone?"
"No, I don't think so, Sire. I cannot very well imagine Merlin falling for anyone." Other than you. Of course there had been Vivian who had nearly been Merlin's undoing but he had been strong enough to resist her – Arthur should not be worried of losing him. And he still had Morgana to warm him up during cold nights.
"Find him, Lancelot," Arthur said, his voice very low (Lancelot remembered hearing the same cold determination in Uther's voice, way back when the old king was still alive). "Try to know what the bloody warlock is scheming."
Lancelot nod was lost; Arthur seemed to be completely engrossed in the contemplation of a pale vein in the precious wood the table was made of.
"Should I bring him back?"
"No! Just… Check on him, that is all."
"I shall leave now, then, and be back in a couple of days."
Arthur nodded impatiently and waved him away, his eyes still down.
*********************
It took Lancelot five hours to reach the wide forest of Coit Celidon – he could have sworn it had not been that vast neither that dense the last time he had been there. The path was so narrow, the vegetation so thick that he thought of dismounting and walk - but the place made him uncomfortable; the magic in the air heavy like a drug. A moment came though when his horse reared up and neighed at the thickness of the bushes and thorns blocking the way, closing before them. Lancelot had no choice then. He tied the horse to the nearest tree. The ground was supple and wet with the latest rainstorms, coated with very green moss. Lancelot wormed his way across the vegetal barrier, sunlight dimming as he progressed, foliages as thick as a wooden ceiling. He was about to turn back when a clearing opened in front of him. Birds were singing and the sunlight peered across the high foliages, scattering a carpet of dead leaves and timid primroses. Sitting cross-legged against a trunk, Merlin was asleep, so still and pale that for a moment of terror Lancelot feared that he was indeed dead.
"Merlin," Lancelot called, crouching by the sleeping man. "Wake up, my friend."
The head lifted and pale eyes, much too old for the young face, opened. "Lancelot?" Merlin asked in a hoarse voice.
Lancelot nodded and sat by his side. "It is incredible," he said playfully, "how this forest has thickened in a few months. I was about to give up."
Merlin smiled weakly and looked around in surprise, then at Lancelot. "How long," he croaked, "how long have I been here?"
"Two months."
Merlin's incredulous look met his. "What?"
"Two months, Merlin. One plus one. Don't you feel the passing of time any more?"
Merlin shook his head, nonplussed. "I thought… A week maybe."
Lancelot picked up a twig and started drawing forms on the ground. He liked Merlin a lot, really. He was fond of the dedicated, enthusiastic, stubborn young man who had once helped him – albeit with unwanted results. The warlock part though made him uncomfortable. In such moments he realized how different Merlin's world was. Space, time, were different to him. Only in Lancelot's human world were minutes and miles permanent bearings. Merlin's powers could distort them at will, still them or accelerate them. Change things that had seemed until then unchangeable.
"I had a very uncomfortable dream," Merlin said, averting his eyes.
Lancelot pulled out a flask of water and a piece of bread. "Drink. It is fresh; the water of a stream nearby. And eat. You are so thin I can almost see through you."
Merlin glanced at him thankfully and started eating and drinking with his usual enthusiasm.
"Do you want to tell me about your dream?" Lancelot asked, stretching his legs.
"I saw Arthur dead, his army defeated. The fields were scattered with dead soldiers, knights dying, blood flowing freely. The sight of it…" Merlin shook his head. "I remember running wild across a deep forest. This one maybe. I remember losing my mind." He spoke so flatly that it took Lancelot a moment to realize the depths of his friend's panicked grief.
Laying a gloved hand on the trembling fingers, he said, "It is a dream, Merlin, nothing else. It means nothing. We all have nightmares."
Merlin looked at him, shaking his head. Lancelot knew that in Merlin's world dreams were not just some eccentric fantasies of a wandering mind. But what comfort could he offer other than solid common sense?
"Besides," Lancelot continued, "all men die. We all grieve and mourn for lost friends."
Merlin shook his head. "Arthur is the other side of me. He dies, I die."
Reaching a decision, Lancelot rose from the trunk and said, "You are tired and hungry. You need to rest. I am taking you home."
The offer met no resistance. Merlin rose, unsteady as a foal, and followed his friend to the place where he had left the horse. "Can't you make the path easier?" Lancelot asked after tearing his vest upon a particularly thorny bushes. The obstacle vanished and again the familiar path was here, wide and smooth, the forest loosing its ominous atmosphere. The horse looked up at them and shook himself, eager to be freed.
"I remember a name for the place. Camlann."
Lancelot shook his head, keeping the horse still while Merlin mounted. "I never heard of such a place."
Merlin said nothing and Lancelot got into the saddle with supple grace, started the horse. Later on the way he felt the weight of Merlin's body resting against his back, his forehead pressed against Lancelot's shoulder. Merlin was crying. Lancelot's heart constricted at the sound.
"Who was the enemy?" he asked.
"I could not see clearly. I knew none of them; only that the magic was strong. I was there too late; Arthur died." A silence and Lancelot waited. As usual Merlin was not telling him everything. At last though he heard the young man's voice whispering, "Do not tell anyone. Not Guinevere and certainly not Morgana. Not Arthur."
Lancelot nodded. "Arthur would not listen anyway."
"Right. He is a very stupid king; never listens to me." The silence settled, filled with birds singing and dogs barking in a distance, and the horse's slow pace. "It was Mordred," Merlin said eventually, reluctantly. "Arthur's tactic was flawed. If you happen to be in such a place, Lancelot, you will have to tell him."
A shiver ran down the knight's spine. What happens to me in Camlann? Lancelot did not ask, did not dare, did not want to know. "Cling to Arthur and nothing will happen," he said more brusquely than he wanted.
"I am only human, Lancelot. I make mistakes. Arthur makes mistakes. You make mistakes."
"But you must protect him; it is your job. Isn't it what you keep saying? Anyway, I bet it was just the usual ominous meaningless dream, born of exhaustion after our last campaign. Nothing that a good rest and plenty of food won't cure." And Arthur, Lancelot thought, blushing inwardly at the thought.
He felt Merlin's weak nod and the journey continued in silence until the moment they came in sight of Camelot.
"Anything new in town?" Merlin asked, his tone light – it sounded forced. "How is our King?"
Lancelot smiled. "He misses you," he said, and thinking of something, he added, "oh and he grew a short beard."
"What?" Merlin squeaked.
"King Arthur sports a beard. He pretends that women like it a lot. I heard Morgana say it was as soft as silk. Arthur thinks it suits him. Makes him look older. More mature."
Merlin's laugh exploded behind him. "Older? More mature? I bet it looks ridiculous on him."
But Lancelot felt how impatient Merlin had grown, and curious. They had barely entered the castle square when he dismounted swiftly, surprising both the horse and Lancelot, and started walking to the main stairs, his black cloak flying around him like wings, the wind playing in his too long hair – and for a second Lancelot felt a twinge of desire inside him, burning low – the image of Merlin's lean body, his skin almost golden in the firelight, narrow hips, long legs, sensuous mouth. Wide changing eyes staring into his soul… He quelled the unwanted lust immediately, thinking of his undivided loyalty to Arthur, and turned back, riding the horse to the stable. From there he saw Arthur's silhouette framed in the doorstep and how Merlin ran to him, climbing the stairs four at a time and throwing himself into his King's arm with unrestrained enthusiasm. Lancelot could imagine Arthur's embarrassment and his joy. Looking away he forced his attention back on the horse.
Two days later Merlin came to Lancelot as he was preparing his new sword for the battles to come.
"Thank you," he said gravely. "For pulling me out of the retreat where I had forgotten myself."
Lancelot shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. "Arthur was worried." But too proud to go himself.
Nodding, Merlin said, "I know. Thank you all the same. Oh and he was right, Lancelot. The beard suits him."
"What about the dream?" Lancelot could not help asking the question - Merlin's nightmare had kept him awake at night.
Merlin shrugged carelessly. "Again you were right. It meant nothing. I must have been very tired and missing Camelot."
On that he left and Lancelot decided to forget the name that had troubled his sleep.