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Lancelot spent a lot of time observing during his knighthood.
He liked to watch the people of Camelot go about their days. It helped calm him when the kingdom was at peace, giving him reassurance when the nightmares reared their heads. Their people were resilient, and it gave him hope for the future.
He watched the council with a keener eye. The council members were made up of lords and knights with the occasional lady thrown in. They were some of the most powerful people in Camelot, which made them dangerous. As they made laws and played politics, they put real people’s lives at risk. If any of them turned against their people or their king, Lancelot wanted to know.
Lancelot also paid special attention to the ladies who sat on the council; Guinevere, beautiful and confident, in particular. Their romance sputtered out around the time Arthur decided to court her. When that romance burned out, Lancelot watched on. He did nothing to step forward and throw his hat into the ring as a suitor. He wouldn’t put his sovereign through that, nor would he pray on Guinevere’s hurt feelings. No, he observed and protected and cared from afar.
These, however, were not the things he watched the most.
The person he watched the most — the person he cared for the most — was Merlin.
“Let me carry that,” Lancelot said when Merlin stumbled past him, carrying a laundry basket far too full.
“Here, I can help,” he said when Merlin looked particularly haggard and snuck out the back gates at night, startling when Lancelot appeared from the shadows.
“I’m coming with you,” he said when Merlin saddled a horse, intent on hunting down the newest magical threat rumored to be near the city.
“Are you all right?” he asked, when Merlin limped back into the physician’s chambers in the wee hours of the morning, having gone missing the night before.
He said nothing as he bandaged, stitched, or cauterized the worst wounds. He sat in companionable silence while Merlin studied. He let himself be a test subject for his new spells. He hovered and insisted and watched and cared, giving whatever Merlin would accept.
That’s why it infuriated him when he watched Merlin interact with Arthur.
Only moments ago, when Merlin warned Arthur of the treachery of his uncle, Arthur threatened him. He didn’t apologize for believing Gaius, Merlin’s own uncle, was a sorcerer. He didn’t offer his condolences, even though Arthur believed that Gaius snuck out in the middle of the night to run from the accusation without saying goodbye. He didn’t listen, no matter how many times Merlin came to him with the truth.
The burning anger in Lancelot’s chest made it hard to breathe.
He sank into a shadow when Arthur came striding out. And he waited while Merlin let the blow land and breathed through it before following him. The determined stride said Merlin would do something stupid, something ridiculous, something dangerous. And Lancelot was more than done letting him do those things alone.
If Arthur wouldn’t support him, Lancelot would. But, this time, he knew they needed help.
So, he went to the only person on the Round Table who would follow Merlin into danger just as blindly as he would. The only other knight that cared for him even half as much.
At the Rising Sun, nearly ten minutes after Merlin and Arthur split up, Lancelot slipped into the chair across from Gwaine at his regular table, ready to present his case.
The world was still way too clear when Sir Lancelot-of-the-most-noble-bastards slid into a seat across from him. Gwaine grimaced and took another gulp of ale, hoping against hope that he could drown out whatever the stick-in-the-mud wanted.
“We have a problem,” Lancelot said in a low voice, dark eyes serious and steady.
“Gimme a sec, I’m not drunk enough to listen to this yet,” Gwaine said, tipping his ale back. He couldn’t drink it fast enough.
A hand caught his wrist and lowered it. The slow, dangerous look Gwaine leveled at him was warning enough for most people, but Lancelot wasn’t most people. He was a knight of Camelot, trusted more than most by the king himself.
The bitter part of him cared more that Merlin trusted him more.
“It’s about Merlin.”
The words had Gwaine tensing. He set the mug down and shook off Lancelot’s hold. They spoke all of a dozen words to each other a day, all focused on passing weapons or targets or orders. They weren't friends. They weren't close. If Lancelot came to him with this, it had to be bad.
“Is he okay?” Gwaine demanded, leaning forward.
Lancelot twitched, a flash of something there and gone on his face so quickly Gwaine couldn’t read it. “Physically, yes. But this business with Gaius is upsetting him. And…”
Gwaine raised an eyebrow when Lancelot trailed off and scanned the pub around them.
He chose the Rising Sun for a reason. The other knights came occasionally, but not often. The council members wouldn’t be caught dead here. And the regular clients all knew to keep their heads down and not repeat anything they might hear. They would stuff their ears with cotton before listening in on a private conversation, especially one with Gwaine. They knew the result if they wagged their tongues to the wrong person.
But Gwaine still waited while Lancelot observed their surroundings. He knew letting it happen would get the man to the point faster than interrupting.
“And he talked to Arthur about Agravaine again,” Lancelot finally admitted, content they weren’t being listened to.
Hissing out a breath, Gwaine could just imagine how well that went.
No one really told him not to trust the bastard. Over the years, Merlin’s openness with his funny feelings had diminished due to the Princess never listening. It was a damn shame. Gwaine always knew when to be on edge by the way Merlin sat up in his saddle or straightened from his slouch or stared too hard in any particular direction. So, Gwaine kept an eye on his friend and adjusted his behavior accordingly.
Agravaine got the same reaction again and again — suspicion and fury.
But Arthur wasn’t about to listen to anyone badmouth his only remaining family member. And he tended to take out his frustration and anger on Merlin, which wasn’t fair or just or honorable or any number of things a knight was supposed to be.
Gwaine thought Arthur was better than that, or he wouldn’t have accepted the knighthood when it was offered. The fact that he wasn’t meant he had no qualms about whatever Lancelot was here to ask him to do. He came to Camelot for Merlin. And he would leave for Merlin just as easily.
“He’s going to go after Gaius, isn’t he?” Gwaine said, because that was the next step, wasn’t it? Merlin followed them on quests all the time. He disappeared at the most inconvenient (or was it incredibly convenient?) times, and he always came back with injuries and dark shadows in his eyes. Merlin knew how to complete a quest and was the only reason Arthur hadn’t died a dozen times over.
If he went after Gaius, Gwaine was sure he would find him. The question was: what came after that? Did Merlin return as he had every other time, dejected and broken, just to be re-broken by the Princess? Or was this the time he turned the other way and fled into the larger world?
“I think so, yes. And I’m going with him. But we could use help,” Lancelot admitted. He watched him with those fathomless eyes, eyes that held Merlin’s secrets in an iron grip.
Nothing Gwaine could ask would be answered.
He had his suspicions. He wasn’t as honorable or as just as Lancelot. He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he eavesdropped when it was offered. But nothing he heard ever really made sense.
He heard the servants admit they often covered for Merlin when he went missing, sending the knights on wild goose chases if they started asking about him. He learned that George took over serving Arthur without ever asking why and did so until Merlin could drag himself back to work. His excuse was that it was necessary for the continuation of their great kingdom while the other servants covered for him because Merlin helped them whenever they needed it.
The guards were more loose-lipped but made altogether less sense: Merlin caught the latest assassin and clubbed him over the head with a wine jug, but Ewan got the credit because it was his turn in the rotation. Ewan still felt guilty for the commendation from the king he received for that one. Merlin was the one who found the poison the new kitchenmaid slipped into the king’s wine, but Angharad drank some and ended up almost dying, so he’s getting the credit — and a swift boot to the arse on the way out of the city because Merlin said it wasn’t an accident. Merlin needed a distraction, so Peredur winced and threw a chest plate down the staircase and drew the attention of everyone in the citadel, but he accepted his punishment with grace when Merlin grinned at him afterward.
What did the people of Camelot know that the knights didn’t? That the king didn’t?
It didn’t much matter. Gwaine would keep Merlin’s secrets just as faithfully as Lancelot if he would let him.
“You want me to come?” Gwaine asked slowly, because he hadn’t expected Lancelot to invite him. Ever.
Lancelot narrowed his eyes, then leaned closer. “I love Merlin. He’s the closest thing I have to a brother, and I will die to protect him. His secrets are his to tell, and I won’t betray them, but you must know that I would never keep him from the other people who care for him. You’re also his best friend. And I know you can be trusted to help us and keep his secrets, if he ever gets up the courage to tell you.”
That gaze saw far too much, Gwaine realized. He scoffed anyway and ignored the way the words did help, a little. “When do we leave?”
Lancelot grinned. “As soon as we find Merlin.”
Grabbing his drink, Gwaine downed it and pushed out of his seat. If they wanted to catch Merlin before he disappeared — a talent Gwaine hated as much as he admired it — they needed to go now.
He vowed that he would show himself more trustworthy than Arthur with Merlin’s secrets. No, better. He would prove himself just as trustworthy as Lancelot.
And he did.
“Thank you,” Merlin said softly to both Lancelot and Gwaine after a successful quest, seated before the fire he started with his magic, having finally admitted the truth to Gwaine.
Lancelot smiled at him. He could do nothing else, even though he didn’t deserve thanks for going with him and helping save Gaius. Neither of them did. And, to his surprise, Gwaine waved off the thanks as well. “Course, mate. You can always trust us.”
While Lancelot didn’t exactly like Gwaine, he knew it didn’t matter. Their relationship wasn’t what was important. Because, when it came to Merlin, Gwaine would do whatever was asked, no matter who asked it of him. He showed it when he followed Lancelot back to the castle and out into the night with Merlin leading them.
“It’s true. I’ll always help you,” Lancelot told him, the same words he’d said a thousand times. The same words he hoped Merlin would one day hear and trust. But he knew, intimately, why it was so hard for him to take them to heart. “Arthur should have listened to you too.”
The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them, sincere and intense. He wanted to eat them back up as soon as they made it into the world. There was one thing he knew he couldn’t push, and it was Merlin’s relationship with Arthur. He meant more to him than anyone. It wasn’t healthy or intelligent, it just was. And Lancelot respected Merlin’s feelings, even if he didn’t agree with them.
But, this time, instead of snapping, Merlin watched him quietly before saying, “I know.”
“You do?” Gwaine asked, skeptical.
Lancelot kicked his boot and shot him a dirty look. This was progress, even if he didn’t realize it. It took Lancelot over a year to get Merlin to admit that Arthur was sometimes unfair in his treatment of him. Admitting Arthur should have listened to him, that he was wrong, was a big step.
“I do. And I…” Merlin trailed off and glanced at where Gaius slept. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, before he looked back at them.
Lancelot sat up a little straighter. He knew this would be important.
Merlin’s eyes were filled with tears. “I don’t think I can go back to Camelot. Not after this.”
The words tore through Lancelot’s heart.
Next to him, Gwaine sucked in a breath. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Lancelot thought hard. He scanned his own heart quickly to figure out his response.
And he remembered the townspeople’s wary stares as a commoner wore the knight’s uniform in their city. He remembered the council members shoving through a new tax, supported by Agravaine, that depleted the outer villages of their meager belongings. He remembered beautiful Guinevere, who spent more and more time with Leon these days, her smile always focused on him. He remembered the way Merlin’s face had been pale and bruised and heartbroken in equal measure when they found Gaius.
He remembered the way he felt, having to sneak after the bravest man he had ever known, watching as Camelot destroyed him.
“Where are we going?” Gwaine asked with a casual grin that Lancelot envied terribly. Gwaine was someone who went with the flow so easily. His knighthood meant nothing to him, a means to an end and a nice distraction for a while. He didn’t have a real attachment to anything but Merlin, and that made the choice easy.
Lancelot, on the other hand, admitted that his knighthood meant a lot to him.
Just not more than Merlin.
“You… want to come?” Merlin stared at Gwaine like he’d grown a second head.
Lancelot laughed, low and deep. Then, he met Merlin’s gaze when he turned to him. “We helped Arthur to begin with because you asked us to, Merlin. You’re the reason we’re both in Camelot. What’s left for us when you leave?”
Lancelot, at least, had no one else. Oh, he had friends among the knights and a rapport with some of the servants. He’d built a stable life in Camelot, as he had always hoped. But he had no family there. And the Round Table wasn’t what Lancelot thought it could be — what he thought it would be, when Arthur first introduced it. He still remembered the pride that burst through him when Arthur drew Merlin forward and sat him at his right hand.
He would never forgive Arthur for removing Merlin from that spot as soon as Camelot was under his rule again.
“You have friends, lives, knighthoods! What will the people do when two of their strongest supporters run off with a servant?” The way Merlin spit the word ‘servant’ showed Lancelot exactly why he wouldn’t return to Camelot or the king.
Servants were people worthy of respect, a belief Lancelot held tightly in his grip. He knew that the people of Camelot were made of peasants and servants and farmers. The lords and ladies forgot who they ruled, but Lancelot didn’t. And he knew that many of those people were worth more than all the lords in Camelot. Merlin certainly was. And Lancelot would never let him question that.
“I think the people would be proud to know that two knights gave up their knighthoods for the sake of a friend,” Lancelot said softly. He hoped that the people would be happy to know that, at least.
Merlin’s face crumpled; and he burst into tears.
Gwaine scrambled to try to cheer him up, almost falling into the fire in his haste. In the moments before Lancelot moved to join them, he made a silent vow to himself: some day, he would make sure Arthur understood how immensely he screwed up here.
Until then, Lancelot followed Merlin, just as he always would.