Work Text:
Merlin realized too late that he’d left the city without his list. It was undoubtedly still on the workbench between the empty vials awaiting their tinctures and potions, long forgotten. He remembered most of it: the usual staples: rosemary, chickweed, dandelion root, things Gaius was always in need of. Herbs whose names Lancelot knew he’d remember forever from the weeks he’d spent in Camelot that first time, spending his days training and his nights bottling stems of flowers and grinding leaves into pastes for poultices. Anything to help. along with peppermint, yarrow, and...he couldn’t remember the last one and started muttering to himself, throwing out a colorful curse every now and again as he desperately tried to remember. Peppermint, yarrow, and….dammit! Peppermint, yarrow, and…
It was cute, the way he was fretting, worrying the edge of his tunic between his fingers as he paced back and forth, the way his tongue dimpled his lip when he bit it, darted his tongue out to wet the seam of his mouth.
“Elderflower?” Lancelot offered. He’d waited patiently while Merlin thought it through, paced along the edge of the field back and forth so many times he was concerned he’d dug a trench in the ground with his shuffling feet.
“Elderflower! That’s IT!” Merlin cheered, smile wide as he walked over to him and clasped their hands together, thumbs rubbing circles the junction between Lancelot’s thumbs and index fingers, touches that shot ripples of sensation up his arms even through the thick leather gloves. “You’re a lifesaver, truly. Gaius would have killed me!”
“Yarrow, elderflower, peppermint,” Lancelot said, thinking out loud. Faintly, he could recall Gaius mentioning the three in conjunction with each other, a cure for a cold if he remembered correctly. “Would you like any help?”
Merlin smiled, gleaming brightness that could put the sun to shame. “No, thank you,” he shook his head as he poked around in a patch of herbs beneath the shade of a tree undoubtedly older than Camelot itself, selecting the one he wanted and placing it in his basket. He looked back at him, only a quick glance over his shoulder and a wink. “I don’t want to pick too much, or they won’t grow back. That’s what Gaius says.”
While Merlin gathered herbs around the perimeter of the clearing Lancelot busied himself with some gathering of his own. Here there were colors so splendid he was sure he’d seen their like only in dreams, only in the rainbows that spanned across the sky after a summer storm. Leaving his gloves in the saddlebag, he walked a slow circle around the clearing collecting wildflowers. He found foxglove in a purple deep enough to rival one of Gwen’s fine gowns, irises a rich yellow, like broken egg yolks. A few sprigs of lavender, richly fragrant and vibrant to behold. A few flowers he didn’t recognize but he picked them anyway: small, white flowers like tiny clustered clouds, a delicate bell-shaped flower whose purplish hue reminded him of something from a sunset. Cradled in his hands it looked a bit lackluster and foolish and he wondered if Merlin even liked flowers, but just then Merlin jogged back across the clearing to meet him and he looked delighted.
“For you.”
Merlin took the bouquet and Lancelot was pleased to see a blush spread across his face, the barest dusting of flush red over his cheekbones as he looked it over. Softly, he looked up from the flowers in his dirty hands and said “You know, I told you I didn’t need any help,” as his lips quirked into a grin. He pulled a cluster of the white flowers from the depths of the bouquet, picking a tiny ant off of one of the petals and watching it march around the pad of his fingertip before he knelt to place it safely on the ground. Holding the flower out towards Lancelot he explained “Yarrow.”
There was something so endearing about the way Merlin cradled the life of a creature as small as an ant that tugged at his heart. Merlin, whose power could bring the whole of Camelot to his knees, who could make the earth quake with the force of his power marveling at the skill of an insect. Lancelot took Merlin’s hands clasped around the clustered white flowers in his own, holding them. Soft and delicate, but capable of so much goodness when allowed to grow and thrive, to shine. Slowly, he raised his gaze from their hands to Merlin’s face and holding his gaze, he reached around him, hand ghosting over his hip beneath the tunic until he could place the flowers in the satchel he’d slung over his shoulder.
“I’d say that’s normal for us,” Lancelot teased, “you tell me you need no help, but I am honor-bound to give it.”
Merlin huffed out a laugh and secured the satchel of herbs on the horse to keep them safe. They weren’t planning to return for hours still and he wanted them safe, fresh and uncrushed by the time they made it to the shelves of Gaius’ workshop.
As for the flowers, Lancelot pulled a jar from the packs of Merlin’s horse and poured a bit of water into it. Enough for the flowers to drink. Gently, he placed them into the jar and arranged them until it was a fan of color and fragrance in his hands, a perfect centerpiece to the picnic Gwen had packed for them - a full basket of cold chicken, fresh cheese, even some grapes she’d talked Arthur into sharing. He pulled a stalk of lavender out and twirled it between his fingers, smiling when it caught Merlin’s attention.
“That’s useful, too,” Merlin told him, eyes flicking to the flower in his grasp. “Lavender makes a great essential oil,” and then, shyly, “that’s actually what I’ve been using for us.”
Lancelot’s body flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the midsummer’s heat. “I knew the scent was familiar,” he said, added quieter “it’s a comforting smell to me, now.” Lavender, a rich, heavy smell that tended to cling in the air. Lavender, which he now associated with the smells of heated skin, of lovemaking. Things he associated with Merlin after the times they’ve shared.
Merlin made himself comfortable on the blanket Lancelot had laid out, curling long legs underneath him until he was sitting cross-legged with the book he’d dragged along balanced on his knees. Lancelot watched him, marveled at the easy grace that he didn’t think Merlin even knew he possessed. The way he ran his finger down the spine of the spellbook, thumb flipping through the parchment pages until he found the one he wanted and made a soft, pleased sound in the back of his throat as he cracked the volume open. The charming reverence with which he treated magic even though he’d had it all his life, the reverence with which he himself should be treated. Reverence which Lancelot fully intended to treat him with.
Small things, he committed to memory. The movement of Merlin’s lips as he murmured incantations under his breath, practicing, letting the words swirl over his tongue. Tasting them, learning the power they held, the power he held. Power that Lancelot could feel in the air around them, like the crackle of lightning before a storm, the tug of some ancient magic. A swirling vapor drawn to the two of them as if even the world’s natural magic couldn’t resist the presence of its most favored sorcerer.
Lancelot has loved Merlin since the beginning. He has loved him since he curled up behind him in a narrow bed for lack of space and warmth, has loved him since their mouths met, since their limbs entangled. He’s loved him since the first time he ever set foot in Camelot and he loved him even more in an old, damp castle heavy with the lingering power of old spells, loved him so fiercely his heart hurt when he saw the way he’d protected his king, his friends, the kingdom that Lancelot knew would one day be as much his as it was Arthur’s. Sometimes he thinks he has loved Merlin since before they even met, like he saw him in a dream, eyes a piercing blue in the darkness. Phosphorescent pools in hidden caves, hair as black as midnight. A creature of the witching hour. Something ethereal, otherworldly. Beautiful and too good for him.
Merlin must have felt Lancelot’s eyes on him, because after a few moments he looked up and met his gaze. Gifted him with a smile, something Lancelot had burned into his mind, kept tucked in his pocket on days nothing felt right. Merlin’s smile, wide and awestruck; Gwen’s eyes, warm and loving. Things that had gotten him through the years since he’d last been in Camelot, things he never wanted to stop seeing. “Is everything alright?” Merlin asked, suddenly concerned.
Lancelot leaned forward and kissed him, chaste and tender, and just as Merlin’s breath started to fail him he pulled back, bringing his hand up and tickling a sprig of lavender along his brown, down the bridge of his nose and across his lips. Merlin’s nose crinkled and he sniffled, pushed Lancelot’s hand away and bent his head to look over his book, convinced now that his lover was alright.
“No,” he said. “Everything is wonderful. And he meant it, the same way he meant the way he whispered I love you into Merlin’s hair, the way he meant his feelings to be perceived when his hand came to rest atop Merlin’s on the blanket, lacing their fingers together.