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For once, the ending is pleasant: Lancelot lives, and Merlin gets to keep him.
At the Beltane feast, lords raise toasts down every table: to a mild spring! Flowering garlands, and scattered petals adorn sills, rafters, hallways. For weeks, servants will be sweeping up.
Merlin clings to Lancelot, who clings back—never more than paces away.
They nudge shoulders through Arthur’s opening speeches, and hold hands as minstrels play a cycle of minuets. They gossip while Arthur and Gwen dance together for the court (newly married and thrilled to be).
Afterward, the celebrations diffuse in all directions: courtiers gather in private solars; knights traipse tavernward to gamble; lovers retreat to shared beds. All of Camelot sings.
And Merlin and Lancelot—with goblets of wine—join their friends in the courtyard, sharing a bench to watch the main bonfire ignite: massive, dazzling, spitting sparks into the sky. Merlin hollers and cheers as the wood goes ablaze, still unjaded to spectacle.
“You’re lovely, my lord,” Lancelot murmurs, kissing the delicate spot above his ear. And a miracle occurs as Merlin blushes in a rush of flickering heat:
For the first time since Lancelot spread his arms and fed himself into the Veil, Merlin feels at peace.
He’s been remembering how to hope for things, remembering to let himself love. He’s finding the resilience he used to have in spades (it bled from him like youth with every death). This time, fate is being kind. This time, Lancelot is returned. This time, he’s lucky.
“You do keep saying that,” Merlin quips, as if considering it. Lancelot scoffs, and clinks their cups.
“Joyous Beltane,” he says, as they finish their wine.
The shade-curse is broken; the nightmares are fading; laughter comes easier to them both. Merlin closes every wound Lancelot sustains, and this time, he’ll be stubborn. Nothing will take this from him. As the seasons turn, he spends every night falling asleep held against Lancelot’s chest.
“Joyous Beltane,” Merlin says, grinning.
Overcome with love, he leans over, kissing Lancelot in the open sight of everyone: even those who might disapprove of a public display. He doesn’t care. He’s savouring him, erasing their edges, making up for lost time. Shedding the man who wept and wailed as Lancelot’s loss scraped him hollow. Tonight, he will be whole again.
When they separate, Lancelot is ever-perceptive, and touches his cheek, searching him.
“What is it?” he whispers, Merlin leaning into his palm; Lancelot’s steady touch belongs everywhere on his body.
“I want it to be like this always.”
“Me, too.”
Across the courtyard, they watch Elyan and Gwen join hands, dancing a village romp. Arthur is nearby, fending off a very-drunk Gwaine, who is trying unsuccessfully to entice him into something similar.
“I’ll refill our wine?” Lancelot offers, detaching just gently.
“Not yet.” Merlin surges at him for another kiss. “Stay.”
They collide with clumsiness that sets them both snickering, Lancelot giving lips to lips and nose and dimple and brow.
“Alright,” he says. “I will.”