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A wind picked up that night, tearing over the tall wild grasses of the Northern Plains. A storm; it had teeth to rip plants out by their roots. Inside the walls of a ruined castle, Lancelot and Merlin sheltered, and heard it howling: picking at the crumbling mortar, scraping against the dilapidated battlements. But here would have to do, for now; it was too dark to ride any farther.
In one of the towers, Merlin cleaned blood off of Lancelot’s face with a wet rag. Lancelot didn’t feel the cold on his skin, but stared straight ahead, treading through his own mind like a man clawing his way out of a house fire. The cloth stung Lancelot’s cut lip, and he flinched.
“Are you back with me?” Merlin said. Lancelot heard him from far away.
The storm—forced through arrow slits and windows built for sieges—whistled in alarm. They felt the gust, too, in Camelot, where Arthur looked out over the lower town, and watched one by one as lights were snuffed and shutters closed. And meanwhile, in the ruined tower, Lancelot saw Merlin as if for the first time: the cloth, Merlin’s hand, his raw-red wrists. He reached up to touch him: quickly, but un-harsh—in no way other than as a lover.
“…Lancelot?” Merlin said.
“Merlin.” He startled. Shook himself. “I’m… I’m sorry, I don’t know what…” The fog over Lancelot started to lift. Merlin’s hand was in his, and he examined the shackle-marks on Merlin’s skin, and winced, then released him.
The glooming tower was indifferent to its guests. It had seen battles and refugees and bandits. Had sheltered travelling innocents and fleeing murderers alike, and it cared little about the two men huddled in it now: on its rotting benches, lit by the bleak cast of a miniature glowing moon. Merlin’s doing.
“I’m sorry,” Lancelot said, shaking his head. “Something was over me. It’s… it’s clearing.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m… I’m alright, now.”
“…Yeah,” Merlin said. “You were a bit… I don’t know. You weren’t yourself.”
“I… I know. But I’m fine now.”
Merlin wasn’t convinced. His brow was furrowed, examining Lancelot’s face. He wiped away one last smudge below Lancelot’s ear, then called that finished and lowered the cloth.
“I found somewhere for the horse,” Merlin said. “On the lower levels. And… and here seemed best for us to spend the night. So.”
Lancelot looked around, evaluating the turret room. He did his best to seem discerning, but Merlin knew him too well. He saw walls, and dust, and heavy curtains on tarnished rods, and felt distinctly swallowed by something bigger than himself.
“Are you hurt?” Merlin said.
“No.”
“Let me look.”
He let him, willingly. They didn’t speak as Merlin undressed him; he was practiced at disrobing a knight, especially Lancelot. Removing his belt with sword and scabbard, mail, gambeson. He peeled up Lancelot’s shirt, and found an ink-spill of bruises, so dark he could’ve wet his fingertips. Merlin frowned, prodding at Lancelot’s ribs.
“Can’t you feel any of this?”
“No.”
“You’re not in pain?”
“No.”
“…Shock,” Merlin decided, and pulled the shirt back down to cover him. He got up to fetch Lancelot’s cloak, and drape it around his shoulders. “You need to rest. You’ll feel it soon.”
Lancelot watched him go across the room, and return with the knight’s cloak. He felt like that man again: choking in the dirt of his yard after escaping the burning house. Parched, and begging for a drink.
When Merlin leaned down to adjust the cloak on his shoulders, he couldn’t help surging up to kiss him. Merlin startled, but surrendered as much as he could, and kissed him back.
They clutched at each other with shaking hands, breathing the same air. Finally, they broke apart—staying close, touching foreheads, shuddering. Merlin was taut as a bowstring, and Lancelot traced his shoulders, his chin, his arms. Got soot on his fingers.
“I didn’t sleep all last night,” Lancelot confessed. “I feared I’d fail. That you’d be—”
Merlin shushed him. “No. No, it’s alright.”
“That I’d have to watch…”
“I’m alive.” He held Lancelot’s face and made him see him. “Because of you. I’m still here.”
“Thank God,” Lancelot said, even though he’d given up praying years ago. “Oh, God.”
They embraced. Sometimes, he still offered praise upwards, for lack of any alternative direction, and imagined bits of his faith disappearing across a vast, empty sky.
Clouds moved fast above the castle, silent, and Merlin and Lancelot held each other; Lancelot pressed his face to Merlin’s chest, and Merlin bent over and clutched him. Like a bird on a branch, engineered by nature to hold tightest to its perch while exhausted.
“They won’t come after us,” Merlin said. “Not until Arthur can… can work through what’s happened.”
He knew, because Lancelot had left utter carnage in his wake, and Arthur would be reeling. In Camelot’s courtyard, over a dozen corpses waited for burial under furiously rippling white sheets. Men were already talking of hunting, of justice, of revenge.
“This is wrong,” Merlin said. “It’s all—this wasn’t supposed to happen…”
“Merlin…”
Merlin inhaled sharply, and held his breath to stop tears from coming, but it was a lost cause. He shook, and swallowed hard. Lancelot tried to soothe him, and leaned upwards. Kissed his cheeks, tasted salt.
“This’s my fault,” Merlin said. “I was stupid. I was…”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I should have seen—And Agravaine is back there, still. Arthur doesn’t realize the danger. What if he—what if now that Camelot is vulnerable…? And now I’m… we’re…”
“Arthur will be alright,” Lancelot said, forcing steadiness. “He’s smart and capable, and as soon as we can come up with a plan, we’ll put this right. We will, my love. I swear.”
“You can’t promise that,” Merlin said, miserably.
Lancelot had no response.
“It’s all ruined,” Merlin said. “All of it.”
He put his forehead on Lancelot’s shoulder, and shook and shook. The angle was wrong and his neck ached, but Merlin didn’t care. Lancelot’s hand went to the nape of his neck, stroking carefully. He smelled of steel-polish, and sweat, and rust; Merlin breathed him in in gulps.
“Tell me what happened,” Lancelot said. “No one would speak with me long.”
Instead of answering, Merlin tangled their fingers at the base of his skull. Four days ago—which could well have been a different life—the two of them were close just like this, and Lancelot had made Merlin promise not to get into trouble while he was away. Merlin thought how he was exposed as a solemn liar twice in one wretched week.
“When did you get back?” he said, in a small voice.
“Yesterday.”
“How was your hunt?”
Lancelot laughed, mirthlessly. “I don’t think that matters now.”
“Tell me, anyway.”
Lancelot paused, then indulged him.
“Sir Gareth shot three hares,” he said. “I shot five.”
“Hm. Braggart.” Even though Lancelot was many things—arrogant, dead last.
Lancelot should’ve had some quip to serve in return; at least, he should’ve laughed. When he did neither of these things, Merlin pulled away, bracing himself. He didn’t want to be the one to start.
“They said you’d attacked Gwen,” Lancelot said. He’d known it wasn’t true—and Merlin knew he knew. Still, Merlin’s face crumpled. He sat on the bench next to Lancelot, and gripped it so hard that his fingertips hurt on the peeling wood. Their shoulders touched.
“It was Agravaine,” Merlin said. “I’m sure of it. He—poisoned her. I practically saw him administer the cursed nightshade.”
“Cursed nightshade?” Lancelot was grave. “When was this?”
“The day you left, she collapsed in the corridor. Elyan found her. I saw Agravaine the day after that, by her bed. Arthur had had her moved to Morgana’s tower, and he had no reason to be in there.”
“He was poisoning her?”
“When I caught him, he left in a hurry. A vial fell from his pocket, and I took it to Gaius. The poison—it was this… this enchanted tincture of nightshade. Could only be cured by magic.”
Lancelot nodded, slowly. “So… you did what you had to.”
“I… I thought I was.”
In the hours after this conversation between lovers—once the sky turned black, Agravaine would sneak from the castle, and take a horse galloping out to the thick of the woods. And Morgana would wait, pensive and unsleeping, for news to celebrate to. She would hear of what had happened, and laugh.
“I snuck past the guards after sunset,” Merlin said. “I should’ve realized that there weren’t enough in the corridor—not while Gwen was sick. Arthur cares too much about her. But I was stupid. And I got in there, and everything was so still. I couldn’t even see her breathing, Lancelot. I just—I should’ve checked. I should’ve been more careful. But I didn’t. I went to her bed, and tried to cure her. With—with sage, and…”
“Like you did with Uther?” Lancelot said.
“Yes,” Merlin said, very quietly. “It was like that.”
And while Morgana was laughing, Arthur would bolt awake to the sound of a windstorm, seized with terror and pain, and climb the stairs to where Guinevere waned with grey pallor. He would sit at her bedside all night, until the morning came and nothing wrong in the world was yet different.
Merlin went on, “The sage was smoking in my hands. It was working. And then I felt this—this hand, on my wrist. And somehow, I knew it was Arthur, before I’d turned around. I didn’t want to face him, but there was nothing else I could do. And when I looked around, it was—it was Arthur. The room was so dark. For a moment, I thought he was doing some spell, because the magic in my eyes was so bright it reflected in his. I didn’t realize they were like fires.”
“They are,” Lancelot said. “Every time.”
Merlin curled over, shaking. Undone by the tenderness in Lancelot’s voice.
“It wasn’t just Arthur. Agravaine was behind him. And Leon, and a dozen other men. They’d been hidden behind the damn curtains. The same place I hid the Druid boy, once. I hadn’t even checked—I was such a fool.
“I should’ve fought, but I didn’t. I let—I just let Arthur arrest me. Held out my hands when he told me to. I felt—felt numb. He wouldn’t even look at me. Mostly it was Leon, giving all the commands. And Agravaine, he said something like, there you have it, sire. We’ve found the traitor. And I couldn’t even say anything. I just stood there like a coward. Or—or like a traitor. I suppose. I suppose Arthur thought that’s what I was.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Lancelot struggled to take it in, and Merlin hung his head. It hurt that, even now, Lancelot stayed with him like he was natural to love. It felt like another way he was forced to lie about who he was and what he was worth.
“It was a trap,” Lancelot said, finally.
“Yeah,” Merlin replied. “I only saw that after.”
“You can’t be blamed, Merlin…”
“They were ready—even had special irons. The cuffs, they stopped my magic. I was powerless.” And he’d been terrified, but he didn’t say that part. Lancelot heard it, anyway.
“Agravaine was clever,” Lancelot said, at length. “He must have forced Arthur to assign all those men, so he would have no choice but to arrest you with them watching.” Merlin shifted uncomfortably.
“He arrested me because he saw that I have magic.”
“I know,” Lancelot said, “but if he had been alone. If it had just been up to him, he wouldn’t have—”
“You don’t know that,” Merlin said. Lancelot started to protest. “You don’t know. In case you forgot, I’ve been lying to him for years, for all the time I’ve known him. Every time I’ve told him to trust me; I’ve been betraying him. Men or no—he had plenty of reasons to put me in chains.”
“Merlin—”
“Just stop! There’s no point saying it could’ve been different!”
Then there was silence, and in one of the lower rooms, something fell over and crashed—succumbing to the wind. Lancelot received Merlin’s shouting, and his expression turned stony.
They didn’t get angry with one another—they’d never practiced and didn’t know how.
He stood up—perhaps to go somewhere else until he was wanted. Merlin broke.
“Wait—” He reached for him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—please.”
In Camelot, Elyan and Percival shouted at each other, perhaps would’ve come to blows if the day hadn’t already seen such violence.
“You’ve been… you’ve been nothing but good to me,” Merlin said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”
It was easy to stop Lancelot from going. He sighed, and sat back down, near-imperceptibly shaking. Fatigue was setting in; shock was wearing off.
Merlin put his face in his hands. “I’ve been so stupid,” he whispered.
Lancelot bloomed with hurt: the bruises, and Merlin’s despair. It was wrong that Merlin should cry and Lancelot could do nothing for him. He tried anyway, and embraced him.
“I’m with you,” he said. “My love. My lord.”
“My knight,” Merlin answered, hollowly.
Maybe he thought Lancelot was right, but it was too painful to admit: things could have been different, another way. In another life, his magic was presented in a planned, private audience. In another, it spilled out on a whim while Merlin did his chores. In another, he saved Arthur’s life in a frightening show of power, and left bodies on display. In yet another, he confessed weeping over a war-wound he couldn’t prevent or heal.
In this life, none of that.
“What… what was it for you?” Merlin said. “Tell me what happened when you got back.”
Lancelot took a deep breath.
“I heard from Leon that you’d been arrested, for sorcery, and that there would be no trial because it was witnessed. But he wouldn’t say any more. And Arthur wouldn’t speak to any of us. I heard he was shut in his chambers.”
In another life, Lancelot stood behind him while he told Arthur, and his secret was accepted quietly, peacefully, while Arthur mulled over what concessions he could make in the law. In another, they argued and argued until it became clear that no matter how they raged against each other, they were bound like binary stars. In another, Arthur became terrified of him, and in another, the whole ordeal ended at a lake.
In this life, “I was allowed to visit Gwen, but the guards were ordered not to let me see you,” Lancelot said. “Even after I tried to pull rank. Apparently, they had been instructed specifically to keep me out.”
“I was missing you.” Merlin swallowed. “I wondered where you were. If you’d heard.”
“I had,” Lancelot said, grim. “And then, last night, Agravaine came to my chambers. He said he knew that I’d tried to see you. And he threatened me.”
“He threatened you?”
“He said it would be a shame if Arthur had to discover you hadn’t acted alone. I was angry. I wanted to strike him. It was a near thing.”
It scared Merlin, Lancelot’s anger. It was a new shade to him, and made him foreign.
“And…” Merlin said, “what happened this morning?”
“I remember looking into the courtyard, and seeing the pyre,” Lancelot said. “And… I remember thinking to take a horse, and supplies. Thinking… thinking I had to prevent it all. And then… I don’t know. It’s like something possessed me—I don’t remember. I know I fought for you. That’s all I know.”
He reached for those hours in his memory, and it was like staggering through mist towards the edge of an unseen cliff. Shuffling his feet and listening for any signs: scattering pebbles, rocks breaking down bluffs. Anticipating the drop.
“The guards came to fetch me at dawn,” Merlin started. “When they brought me out into the square, I looked for you. But I wasn’t sure you’d come back at all, so… so. I kept imagining you’d return after it was done, and someone would have to tell you what had happened. I’d been thinking that all night.
“I looked for Arthur, and saw him high up, on the king’s balcony. Everyone else was there. Leon, and Elyan, and Percival. But they weren’t right up against the pyre. More… more outside the crowd. I don’t know who stationed them there, or why. And maybe they tried to look at me, but I don’t know. I couldn’t look at them. I didn’t want them to see… to see…”
“See what?”
“That I’d been crying.”
Hours behind them, in the aftermath, Arthur collapsed to his knees in the courtyard, burning his eyes on smoke and staining the knees of his trousers in blood. He almost wept openly, but was aware of his audience of injured knights, and didn’t.
Merlin shuddered. “My ears were ringing. I couldn’t hear anything as the man tied me to the pole. And then, just as he lit the pyre, there was a sort of—commotion. I couldn’t see what. The air was thick from the heat, and it was starting to smoke around me. A horse came bolting into the courtyard.
“People tried to get out of the way, but I think it trampled many of them. The rider was going so fast. And then… then I realized it was you. When you drew your sword, and the fire reflected in it, you looked like an angel in wrath.
“The townsfolk scattered, but the knights—Arthur’s men—they drew their swords to stop you. There was chaos. I thought something was wrong when one of them knocked your helmet off, and you barely flinched at the blow. I’d never seen you fight like that. You must have killed nearly two dozen men, all on your own. Leon led the finest against you.”
“Even Percival?” Lancelot said.
Merlin heard him, and hesitated, then nodded.
“You fought him. And Leon, and Elyan. And—Gwaine. You wounded Gwaine. Badly, I think. Very badly. It was as if you didn’t recognize them. I saw Arthur rush inside, off the balcony, once he realized what was happening. He had his sword drawn, but… I didn’t see him in the courtyard.”
Here was the precipice. Lancelot went over it, plummeting blind.
“I remember pulling you onto my horse,” Lancelot said, stricken. “Your hand, your weight. I remember thinking, I can’t let him fall off the horse. All I remember is you. Everything else is… is…” He trailed off. Merlin touched his shaking hand.
“Sometimes,” Merlin said, “men go to war, and don’t remember the things they do on the battlefield. I’ve seen it, once or twice.”
Lancelot went quiet. “It’s like when I was a boy,” he said. “I don’t remember seeing my parents cut down. I remember seeing one of the raiders approach them with his axe. And then, nothing. I only remember the bodies.”
There was no proper response to that, and Merlin let the words be, holding Lancelot’s hands, which were white in his lap. Neither of them spoke; the wind redoubled, and the massive structure around them heaved in cold breaths.
In Camelot, several knights gathered in the council chambers without Arthur knowing. They were furious, and wanted Lancelot punished. In the morning, they would band together, and pressure the King to declare Sir Lancelot and his sorcerer consort prime enemies of the kingdom, whose capture was the highest priority.
“Gwaine wasn’t with the rest of them,” Merlin said, after a long moment.
Lancelot looked at him, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“Before you arrived,” Merlin said, “I saw him standing aside. He seemed angry, but not at me. I s’ppose I’m being stupid—but when the wood was lit, I saw him reaching for his sword. I think he wanted to do something. Help me, I mean.”
Understanding dawned on Lancelot.
“It was only when you went at Percival, that Gwaine…” Merlin went quiet. “Only to defend him, I think.” Lancelot waited for more, but there wasn’t any.
“…I harmed him,” he said. “And I shouldn’t have. You think I shouldn’t have. That’s what you’re saying.”
Merlin blinked. “That’s—not what I meant.”
“I see how you’re looking at me.”
“I—what? How am I looking at—”
“I don’t know, Merlin. How are you looking at me? After seeing what you say—seeing what I did. What do you think of it? Of me?”
His tone was sharp, and Merlin was taken aback. If Lancelot was angry at him, he couldn’t stand it. He was all Merlin had.
“I… I don’t…”
“I didn’t see—” Lancelot said, “I mean, I didn’t know. If I’d known—”
He needed to move, and stood up from the bench. Every muscle in his body protested, but he forced himself to stand. And he paced like a caged creature. His eyes landed on his sword, sheathed and carefully set on the floor, and it occurred to him that if he’d done everything Merlin had said, the sword would have blood on it. Blood he hadn’t had the presence of mind to wash off. Blood belonging to his friends.
In a burst of panic or anger or fear—he couldn’t say which—Lancelot picked up his sword and threw it across the room, scabbard and all. It hit the wall and clattered loudly. Merlin flinched; his eyes were wide. Lancelot was a dangerous man, and somehow, he was just now realizing it.
“You were tied there!” Lancelot said. His voice broke. “You looked afraid. You looked—looked vulnerable! And—and—and—I remember putting my sword so hard through something, that the blood got on my knuckles. The tip of it broke bone. And someone screamed. Someone… someone… oh, God. Someone—”
“Stop—” Merlin said. He didn’t want to hear this, and he didn’t want to fight. “Just—stop, alright? I wasn’t saying anything. I wasn’t—I didn’t mean anything.”
“I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean…”
All at once, his body gave out, and Lancelot collapsed to his knees, wracked and unsteady. At the same time, leagues away, Camelot’s court physician rinsed out another blood-soaked cloth, and tended his patient. All the while, he prayed to any Old gods who would forgive him: begging them to keep Merlin safe.
“How badly was he wounded?” Lancelot said.
Merlin was silent. “Gaius is a good physician,” he said, hushed.
“Merlin.”
“He’ll save him. I know he—”
“Merlin, please.”
When they met eyes—Lancelot on his knees, Merlin standing at the bench—Merlin’s eyes were wide and manic. He choked on his words:
“Your sword went through him.”
Lancelot blinked as that hit him. He floated for a moment in a cushioned, distanced calm. Then the blow found its mark, and he lurched, clutching his middle because something had gone wrong inside him—it must have, to feel like this. Lancelot folded over, unable to get enough air.
He stayed there for a long time, shaking badly.
Merlin went to him, and knelt, and wrapped his arms around him, desperate to do something, anything useful. He cast around.
“Are you cold?” he said. “I’ll find wood somewhere… start a fire.”
“I love you,” Lancelot rasped, but it didn’t sound sweet. It wasn’t affection, but an excuse: pleading not-guilty because he wasn’t in his right mind. He was in love: an affliction as dangerous as any curse.
Merlin felt so, so lost. “I love you, too.”
“I couldn’t stand any harm coming to you.”
“I know.”
“My life would have been worth nothing if—”
“Don’t talk like this.”
“—if you’d burned. If I’d done nothing.”
“Stop, please.”
“I swore I’d be yours. What kind of man would I be?”
Merlin was frustrated. He didn’t care about Lancelot martyring his honour for him. Maybe Lancelot thought it was romantic, or hoped it was. Needed it to be. But for Merlin, it was simply more guilt he didn’t want on him.
“Your life wouldn’t have been worth nothing,” Merlin said. “Don’t say that.”
At last, Lancelot went silent. Crouched on the ground, any heat either of them had bled out to feed the aging stones. Perhaps Merlin should’ve started a fire after all. It was freezing in here.
Lancelot waited for Merlin to give up, and let him go. He thought, eventually, Merlin would see his actions for the horrors they were. He would become disgusted: in an hour, a week, a month. Abandon Lancelot somewhere and flee. When it came to that, Lancelot resolved to leave first and save Merlin the trouble.
The little moon hanging above them began to dim, and Merlin looked up at it: stared until his eyes glowed like kindling. Reluctantly, it grew brighter in another long quiet.
Lancelot breathed raggedly, then too-fast, and finally he settled.
“Do you… remember the Isle of the Blessed?” Lancelot said, soft. He drew himself up better, to sit on his knees, and Merlin frowned. “When you fought the Cailleach, and forced her to close the Veil. And no one had to die? It was a miracle.”
Merlin remembered. “Afterwards, that’s when you kissed me.”
“I did. I realized I’d wanted to, for a long time.”
“Me?” Merlin said. “I’m nothing special. I’m just…”
Lancelot kissed him, tenderly and sweet, to show him what he thought of that. When he pulled away, he smiled the way only dead loved ones do, in memories.
“I was going to die for you,” he admitted. “If you couldn’t prevail… if a sacrifice had to be made. I was going to make sure it was I.”
What could Merlin say to that? He shook his head, lips pressed tight.
“I’d never considered dying for someone before,” Lancelot said, “until you talked about finding something more important than anything. Merlin, you were everything I wanted to be. I was enamoured by it. I knew then, I would die for it.”
“Don’t,” Merlin said.
“I love you.”
Merlin didn’t want to talk about death and dying and sacrifice. He shook his head again, firmer. Touched Lancelot’s chest. He closed his eyes tight, because he couldn’t cry again; he was too exhausted to do this.
“Go back to talking about afterwards. Please,” Merlin said, voice thin. “About why you kissed me.”
Lancelot heard him, and paused. He couldn’t deny him, and sighed—long and deep and worshipful.
“After you vanquished the Cailleach,” he said, obliging, “you seemed like a god. There was a storm above your head, like a black crown. I thought how my mother told me once that the Devil would come in disguise, like something beautiful. And I understood, just then. You seduced me with the dark specks on your cheeks, standing tall like something wild.”
“Poet,” Merlin whispered.
“But later, at the feast, you seemed a different sort of deity. The kind that blesses harvests and puts life in flowers.”
“…Yeah?”
“Setting up for the feast where I was honoured for your deed, I saw you drop a spool of ribbon, and you got this… this look on your face. You watched it roll like it was made of gold, and you were resigned to a fate of ruin: having to ravel it all back up. It was only ribbon, but you looked so grave that I laughed aloud. I don’t think you noticed, but I’d never felt anything so pure for anyone in my life.”
“Because I dropped a spool of ribbon?” Merlin couldn’t feel charmed, or indignant, or incredulous; he couldn’t feel anything but cold.
“I wanted to go over and wrap both our hands in it,” Lancelot said. “I wanted to kiss you right there.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I should have.”
Lancelot fell silent again. Merlin’s chest ached so hard he lost his breath, and he reached for Lancelot. They locked together, like if they could strain fiercely enough, their edges would disappear. The wind wailed.
In Camelot, Arthur and Percival sat around the bed in Merlin’s abandoned room, where Gwaine lay slack-faced and white-skinned, breathing shallow and shallower.
“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Lancelot said.
“Yes.” Merlin sounded faint. “I think he’ll be alright.”