Chapter Text
Lancelot du Lac believes that there are certain events in a person’s life that change them in fundamental ways, for better or worse.
The raiders’ attack on his village when he was a young boy is one of those moments.
Amidst the wreckage of his home, ash filling the air and choking his lungs, the taste of copper on his tongue, he swore to become stronger, to no longer be helpless and use that strength to protect those who couldn’t defend themselves. That new purpose had driven him to rise from the ruin that the world had abandoned him in and eventually led him to Camelot.
The second event had been the night the griffin was slayed. As he stood over the beasts’ corpse he felt the same heaviness in his heart he had felt as a young boy, and he knew he had reached another crossroad. As Arthur and Uther argued about his future, he knew it didn't matter what they decided, not really. The important decision had happened in the shadowy corner of a hallway, far from prying ears, where he had gripped Merlin's forearms and stared into his stormy eyes laced with fear, and whispered a promise to protect his secret.
Since that day, magic began to occupy his thoughts more and more. Although magic was not technically persecuted as severely outside of Camelot’s borders, the Purge had still made its way to other kingdoms and magic was rarely spoken of or practiced. It hadn’t disappeared though. Now that he was paying attention, he heard of talks of magic and legends in whispers at the tavern, or witnessed a quickly exchanged token for protection or luck. It was curious: despite Uther’s war on everything magical, he couldn’t fully be rid of it. Magic lived on in such a mundane way that Lancelot had a difficult time imagining who exactly it was that Uther had been fighting.
His friend, Merlin, he realized, was brimming with magic. In those rare moments that Merlin felt safe enough to show him his power, or he used it in some magical mission Lancelot had managed to follow him on, Lancelot swore that the world around him was transformed in ways he maybe couldn't see, but definitely felt. The world would stop to listen, and then would answer his friend's call. How that clumsy twig of a man did not explode from the magic contained in him he did not know.
Magic was everywhere, magic was in the heart of Camelot itself.
Uther was definitely turning in his grave.