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When Lancelot was a child, his parents always told him that only the truth will bring you peace. Maybe it was a way to get him to never lie to them, but he took their words and held them close to his heart. As long as he had lived, twenty-two winters now, that had always brought him peace. Lying is not something he can do without it weighing him down. Yet, he finds himself wishing he lied in Camelot. Wishing he let himself take the victory against the griffin and become a knight of Camelot. He wonders if doing so would’ve brought him peace, because the truth had not done so.
Four months after he leaves Camelot, it begins.
Merlin visits him in his dreams. He’s so vivid, as if he’s actually there with him. The messiness of his dark hair and the brightness of his blue eyes. Always so expressive, especially when he smiles. Lancelot nearly leans in every night to kiss him, but he holds back somehow. He’s never deserving to kiss Merlin, who just walks alongside him. There’s no speaking or interacting, really.
Merlin is never the focus of the dream and rarely is he involved. He’s just there with Lancelot, filling in the empty spot desperate to be filled. His dreams are fuller when Merlin is there with him, as if protecting him.
His travels bring him near the Camelot border. He won’t go back. He’s not worthy enough to be here, even if Merlin disagrees. Even though he’s not heard Merlin’s voice in months, he can still hear him scolding him for not believing in himself. Merlin once said he’d never give up on Lancelot, and Lancelot selfishly wonders if he meant that. He wonders how he meant that.
The dreams of Merlin only grow more frequent the closer he gets to Camelot, and part of him wants to keep seeing Merlin. He wants to have that time with him, even if they’re just dreams. It’s always ridiculous things—things that only happen in dreams—but Merlin being there brings him comfort.
He’s passed a tavern when he realizes he’s only a half day's travel from Camelot. There’s a pull to go back, but he fights against it. It doesn’t matter if he dreams of Merlin, he does not belong in Camelot. Traveling alone and using a sword to survive is where he belongs. It’s his fate. He can’t drag Merlin into his disaster.
Lancelot sets up camp before nightfall so he can have a fire and it not completely give him away. It’s grown colder the last few months, and the need for a fire throughout the night is severe, but bandits have set up their home here. Close enough to the king but far enough not to immediately be caught. Maybe that’s why Lancelot is here. He’s close enough, but also far away.
As darkness creeps over him, he tells himself he’ll kill the fire soon. He just needs a few more minutes, though. His hands shake from a chill when he puts them closer to the fire. Just until his hands begin to thaw.
“Lancelot,” someone says, and Lancelot turns to see Merlin standing 20 feet away. His hair is more unruly than he remembers, most likely from the wind. His face is tinged pink from the cold, as if it’s been biting at it. His clothes are crooked as if he hurried here.
Lancelot is on his feet before he can even process what’s happening. “Merlin.” He blinks as a deep breath leaves him. “Is it really you?”
Merlin nods as he grins. “It’s me.” He walks towards Lancelot, but he doesn’t come too close. He’s beautiful. It’s not the first time Lancelot has thought that, but it’s so intense right now. He’s nearly ethereal. “You’re… you’re back.”
Guilt immediately festers in Lancelot’s chest, because he’s not. He may be close to the border, wondering about those he left behind, but he can’t go back to them. He’s not who they think he is, and he can’t face them realizing that.
Merlin’s smile fades the longer Lancelot is quiet. The crackling of the fire is just barely louder than Lancelot’s breathing while Merlin is eerily quiet. He just stares at Lancelot, only 15 feet away. So close, yet so far away. Almost like how they are to Camelot.
“You’re not coming back, are you?” Merlin asks, and Lancelot’s mouth is filled with cotton as he shakes his head.
“No,” he chokes out.
Merlin is not weak, Lancelot has never thought that, but he clearly isn’t now. He stares at Lancelot with such a fierce look, as if he’s ready to take Lancelot on without regret. Not that Lancelot thinks Merlin would regret it. He’s too sure of himself.
“Do you realize how patiently I’ve waited?” Merlin asks, voice sharp. It cuts Lancelot deeper than the winter air. “Do you know how unfair you are to give me false hope?”
Lancelot closes his eyes, unable to look at Merlin anymore. It hurts more than how the air scratches his throat raw. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to speak. He hopes not.
“I’m sorry,” Lancelot says, and he is. He’s lived a selfish life, only ever looking out for himself—attempting to be a good person to hide who he really is. He can’t hide forever, even though he desperately wishes he could.
“Is that all you have to say?” Merlin asks, his voice wet. Lancelot can’t look at him. He can’t. “Look at me!”
Lancelot’s eyes fly open, and the image in front of him will forever be burnt in his memory. Tears coat Merlin’s cheeks, his eyes rimmed red, and his messy hair is somehow worse. It’s an unbearable sight, but Lancelot can’t look away. He can’t even close his eyes.
Merlin walks closer to him, and the despair in his eyes stabs Lancelot in the chest. He’s never wanted to hurt Merlin—it’s the last thing he’s ever wanted—but he has. He’s hurt Merlin to where he’s become a mess.
“I will be the greatest loss of your life,” Merlin says slowly, every word coming out clearly. “Not losing your chance at becoming a knight.” He shakes his head as he walks closer. “Not leaving Gwen and Arthur.” They’re so close Lancelot sees the curl of Merlin’s eyelashes. “Me.”
Lancelot slowly nods, and Merlin continues to stare at him. Tears burn in his eyes, but he can’t cry. He can’t cry when he’s hurt Merlin. He doesn’t deserve to cry. Lancelot deserves to suffer in silence, just like he was taught to as a child.
And it all makes sense. Merlin being the greatest loss of his life. Someone who risked so much just to help Lancelot. Using magic to give Lancelot a chance at his dream and then again to save the day, only to give Lancelot every bit of credit. Someone who showed so much love and care for an absolute stranger when there was no need to. He refused to let Lancelot sleep on the floor and always made sure Lancelot ate. Close by his side, even when Lancelot strayed away from him to Guinevere.
“I know,” Lancelot says, and the dam breaks. He’s crying and struggling to breathe. “I know. I’m sorry.”
They’re so close that they could kiss if he moves forward just a couple of inches. He doesn’t deserve that, though. He doesn’t deserve Merlin. He’s broken an innocent heart. He deserves to have his own heart broken.
“That’s not enough,” Merlin says, and his tears are so thick his voice is wet. “Being sorry isn’t enough.”
“Then what do I need to do?” Lancelot asks, nearing a beg. “Tell me, and I’ll do it.”
Merlin stops, and Lancelot coughs through tears. Every moment he’s needed to cry hits him now. Merlin has given him the opportunity, even when he doesn’t deserve it.
“But you won’t,” Merlin says, voice detached. “You won’t do it, because you don’t want to.”
He didn’t need to go back to Camelot to be seen through. He just needed to be close enough to be found. Merlin is no longer viewing him as honorable, but viewing him as the way he truly is. It’s like a sword being driven through his chest repeatedly. It’s his worst fear.
“Please,” Lancelot says, even though he’s not even sure what he’s asking for. Forgiveness? Direction? Both? Maybe something entirely else?
Merlin shakes his head as his jaw clenches. “No, you—you don’t get to just say please. You don’t get to…” He turns away as he grips his hair. Lancelot finds he can’t move. He’s frozen in place, forced to stare at Merlin. Merlin turns back to him. “Why?” Lancelot stares. “Why are you running away?”
Because I don’t deserve you itches to be said, but Lancelot can’t. He can’t even open his mouth. All the words are clogged in his throat, unable to escape. This is another level of torture he simply can’t escape, because he has nowhere to go. Night is just about on them, and it would be idiotic for either of them to try to navigate the forest in the dark.
Merlin surges forward, faster than Lancelot ever expected, and grabs Lancelot by the tunic. They’re so, so close, and Lancelot’s pulse hitches. He’s dizzy, and it’s pathetic. He shouldn’t feel like this just because they’re this close, especially when Merlin is so upset.
“Do you regret it?” Merlin asks, and Lancelot can’t think when they’re close like this. It reminds him of when Merlin first brought the forged document, so close to him that Lancelot had to force himself to think. “Going to Camelot? Saving me?”
“No!” Lancelot says, eyes wide in horror. “I’d never regret that! It’s one of the few things I will never regret.”
“Then why are you running away from me?” Merlin asks, his knuckles white as he clutches Lancelot’s tunic. “Why?”
Lancelot’s parents always taught him to tell the truth, but how could he when it will destroy the person in front of him? How could he when it will destroy himself? Where does he find the peace in that?
“Because I can’t be around you!” Lancelot screams. His eyes burn and his throat is raw. Emotion spills out of him like a fountain. “Being around you gives me hope I’m not allowed to have! I can’t do it—it hurts, Merlin! Being around you hurts!”
Merlin falters, but he doesn’t let go. He still holds on tight, but color comes back to his knuckles. He’s a mess with teary eyes and snot on his face. It rips Lancelot’s heart apart, and it’s what he deserves for saying those things aloud.
“Then I should go then, shouldn’t I?” Merlin asks, and he’s not longer angry. He’s a blank canvas as he stares at Lancelot with vacant eyes. Fear claws at Lancelot’s chest with such vigor he may vomit.
“No—don’t leave,” Lancelot pleads, and Merlin lets out a deep breath. Something like a chuckle.
“Then what do you want, Lancelot?”
To not feel this way. To be happy. To be happy with Merlin in Camelot pursuing his dreams. He doesn’t know what he wants at this moment. He’s not sure if he ever truly knows what he wants. Lancelot has never been allowed to have what he wants ever since his family died. It’s how life is, and he’s been forced to accept that.
“I don’t know,” Lancelot says, his voice cracking at the edges. “I don’t know.”
Merlin pulls him closer slightly, as if by accident. He doesn’t push Lancelot away, though. The fire crackles loudly in his ears, and he’s overwhelmed with nausea. He hates that Merlin is just staring at him like this, as if he doesn’t know him. A vacant look in his blue eyes that Lancelot doesn’t recognize.
The silence is overbearing—suffocating. Then Merlin pushes him back, his fists unraveling, and Lancelot falls. It’s an endless sort of fall that has him squeezing his eyes shut as he anticipates hitting the ground. It shouldn’t take this long to hit the forest floor, but he’s flinching and his eyes open. He’s laying down, the fire still burning next to him when it shouldn’t be, and he knows none of that happened. It had been a dream—the first one Merlin ever had an actual role in.
He sits up quickly, killing the fire as fast as he can as he thinks it over. How would Merlin even know where he was? There’s no sense to it, but that hadn’t been a thought in his dream. His thoughts had been about Merlin there in front of him. That’s all that had truly mattered. But now he’s alone. There’s no one at his camp, and he doubts there will ever be anyone. Merlin had been right about being the greatest loss of Lancelot’s life. That included being ruined for other people, because no one will ever be Merlin.
Lancelot wonders if Merlin will come again tomorrow night. He wonders if he’ll be able to apologize and have all the right things to say. He wonders and wonders as he lays back down and stares at the sky. Wondering won’t do anything, though. It’ll only leave him with more questions.
When tomorrow night comes, and he’s ready to sleep, he prays for a moment that he will see Merlin. He holds onto seeing him in his dreams, even if Merlin eventually strangles him. It’ll be a well-deserved death. However, when he wakes in the morning, there were no dreams. Just darkness.
The next night is the same, and the night after that. Every night becomes nothingness as if Merlin took his dreams away from him. Lancelot wouldn’t blame him if he did. He doesn’t deserve the chance of seeing Merlin again—doesn’t deserve the chance of being happy after waking up.
As he travels farther away from Camelot, the nothingness becomes faded dreams. He doesn’t remember much of them, but he knows Merlin isn’t in them. He knows Merlin isn’t coming back to him, just like he won’t go back to Merlin.