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"Hey, big guy!" Gwaine called the giant over.
Separated from the initial group, Percival stood lost in the dusty, ruined hallway. Footsteps echoed from the upper floor, but the nearest staircase collapsed in the earthquake.
"Looking for something?" he pried as he came closer.
Percival's face lit up: he truly must have been lost. Gwaine couldn't boast of better knowledge of the castle, but he at least knew some parts and vaguely remembered the way from the prison cells to the physician's chambers.
"Yes, Sir Gwaine," the man made the newly-fleshed knight chuckle. "I hoped to find Lancelot. Something must have gone wrong with his and Merlin's mission."
"Arthur has already sent a group toward the warning bells," Gwaine reassured him. He walked forward, and Percival fell into step with him. "If they're not there, then they're licking their wounds at the physician's."
"And that's where you're headed?"
"Yeah."
They walked around the remnants of the staircase and climbed over the ruined ceiling. A ragged-looking servant was staring at them through the hole from above, and Gwaine waved at them with a wink.
"I'm looking for Merlin myself," Gwaine grunted as they climbed a slightly less ruined staircase. "Elyan lives with Gwen in the Lower Town, and Leon might still have his rooms in the other wing. No such accommodations for us, I'm afraid." he looked at the vaguely familiar hallway and chanced a turn on the left.
"Are we... supposed to have them?" Percival followed unsurely.
"Sure. The king must provide his knights with appropriate accommodations if they stay at his castle. It should only be a matter of time. With all that," he waved at the hole in the wall, providing a charming view over the bloody courtyard.
Their surroundings grew more and more familiar, and Gwaine walked on with sure strides. Percival had no trouble matching it, looking curiously about.
"You know the castle well," Percival commended offhandedly.
"Not really, just some parts," he explained. "The physician's tower, mostly. I roomed with Merlin for a day before I got banished."
"And you're planning on rooming with him again," Percival figured it out, lightly stepping over the banishment issue.
"Got that in one," Gwaine nodded. "You and Lancelot should stay at the tavern. They've got the good ale in there, and you can stick the bill to Arthur's name," he chuckled at his own advice and led them around a corner.
The physician's tower stood remarkably untouched by the elements. Gwaine expected it to be overrun with wounded residents, yet it met them with peaceful quiet, the door to Gaius's chambers left slightly ajar.
The main room looked just as ransacked and abandoned in a hurry as it had a few days ago. The medicine table was a mess: all manner of powders and liquids and wilted flowers littered its surface; overturned bottles perched precariously on its border. Books piled on the dirty floor near the shaken shelves, but the glass shards were swept into a corner, at least — Merlin must have been by.
Gwaine traversed the ruined room to the antechamber. He thought he heard some noise from behind the door and swung it open, Merlin's name almost out of his mouth before he caught it.
The noise must have come from the forgotten window. It let in a gust of wind that whispered through the parchment on the floor and the herbs hanging on the walls. A few small birds gathered on the sill, conversing quietly.
On the other side of the room, rolls of bloody bandages littered the surface of the bedside table, and Gwaine caught the heady smell of medicine and spirits escaping through the open door.
Merlin's figure was slumped in bed. It was hard to tell where the bandages ended and his white sleep shirt began — his whole torso was wrapped tight in them. Across half of him, entwined as tightly as the bandages, lay Lancelot. The knight had foregone the shirt altogether, as it was left a torn, bloody mess at his side on the floor. Bandages covered the man's shoulder, bleak red spots showing through.
The two men slept uncomfortably on the small bed; the thin blanket rumpled and lost somewhere between their knees. Stone dust found a home in their hair, greying it ridiculously — they must have been too exhausted to wash it off before crumbling asleep.
Percival came up behind him on the steps and looked over his shoulder before huffing.
"You seem to be out of the room," he whispered through a grin.
"Yeah." Lancelot, the rascal, got here before him.
Gwaine quietly closed the door. Given the pair hadn't even heard it swinging open, they wouldn't have minded the noise, yet it wouldn't hurt to be careful. They moved down the steps and walked out of the empty physician's room.
"Just you and me now, big guy." Gwaine grinned at the new friend.
"And the tavern?" Percival turned his head in an invitation.
"And the tavern."
As they strode off in the direction of the Rising Sun, and such roads were always familiar to Gwaine in every settlement, Percival finally asked what had been nagging him for a while.
"So how come you got banished?"
"All the best people are," Gwaine huffed. "You can consider it a compliment if Uther banished you. But it all started with a tavern brawl..."
*
By evening, Leon was at his wits' end.
Arthur had ensconced himself in Uther's chambers, taking the rest of the day to untangle the mess of secrets and Morgana's betrayal between them. Leon wished him luck in such an endeavor, but he doubted he would find much sense in Uther's lost eyes and scrambled words.
With the King and Prince unavailable, the mess of the Citadel fell upon the First Knight's shoulders. He made himself available to receive reports of the damage across the castle, sent the troops to free the trapped residents, and provided an ear to the whining of the lords, who stood beside Morgana only a few days ago. He directed the misplaced servants and tried to remember which rooms might still be available, appropriate to use, and out of the way of the crumbling top floor.
A third of it should be the Queen's job, or at least the Consort's, but they didn't have one for more than twenty years, and ever since, such jobs were juggled between the steward, the King's manservant, and the Prince.
Then half of it should be the steward's job. Unfortunately, the steward, along with the King's manservant, paid the price of the knights' failure — Morgana slaughtered them where they stood without even a hint of remorse, as punishment for Leon's refusal to submit to her will, as the lords did.
Maybe it was guilt that led Leon to run himself ragged, to take on his late subjects' duties, trying to silence the people's screams in his head, to work through the helplessness binding his arms.
It was not sustainable, and by evening, Leon trudged through the hallways in surrender, seeking Merlin's help. It was only natural to come to the Prince's manservant next. Leon had long since memorized Merlin's handwriting on Arthur's reports, and he had no doubt that Merlin could fill the steward's shoes: he had the knowledge and the rapport with people.
Leon stepped into the physician's chambers and winced at the mess. It was better than some other places he'd seen, but those places were not as important as the healer's room.
Gaius quietly greeted him from a mostly clean dining table. The chamber was washed in shadows, and only a few candles banished the darkness, casting hard lines of exhaustion across Gaius' wrinkled face. Leon stopped short and turned to him in surprise.
"Gaius," he replied with a pale smile. "I was not aware you returned."
"I kept out of the way. The road was tiring."
"You could have waited for us to escort you," he muttered. "Is Guinevere back as well?"
"I'm afraid I had to leave her alone at the castle," Gaius shook his head.
Leon was puzzled by the turn of events, but he'd come here on a mission and, unfortunately, had no time for idle talk. It was good to know they would need one less horse for the next morning's excursion, allowing them to set out much earlier than he'd thought. He strode to Merlin's room and, seeing the door left slightly ajar, took a curious look inside, his hand raised in an aborted knock.
It was dark. The door betrayed him with a creak when he opened it further, a call for Merlin frozen on his lips.
He made out two figures. One was definitely Merlin, and the other seemed to be that of the new knight, the one Merlin had sent for. They snuggled comfortably in the small bed, merged along the line of Lancelot's back, a blanket covering them up to their shoulders. The soft sound of their joint breathing whispered across the room, and a small part of Leon envied their peaceful rest. He averted his gaze.
A stray candlelight found its way inside and caught on two swords, propped in the nearest corner of a wardrobe. One was plain, well-used, and sharp, but the other caught his curious gaze: the golden decorative markings seemed to swallow the light and glint with power before the room descended into darkness again.
Blinking a strange vision out of his eyes, Leon's gaze returned to the bed.
He sorely needed Merlin's help, but faced with his sleeping form, he couldn't find the heart to wake him.
Leon had respected the servant for a long while — for always going beyond what was asked of him in the spirit of loyalty, for unearthing Arthur's good heart that led them here. Yet the past few days made Leon see Merlin in an entirely new light — that of the brave, strong man, just as reckless as all of them, and Leon quietly wondered what made Arthur knight the other commoners but not the man who had been with him through thick and thin.
He could wake Merlin, tear him from the friend he must have sorely missed, and ask him to do even more for the kingdom despite exhaustion trailing his steps even long before Morgana betrayed them, despite his master's disappearance for the day, and the healer's duties awaiting him in the morning.
Merlin seemed to flinch suddenly in his sleep. Whispering something unintelligible into Lancelot's nape, he pressed closer, stilling once again.
Leon closed the door.
Gaius's tired eyes met his. All of them were impossibly tired, and yet the sense of duty, of guilt, steeled his resolve and forced Leon to power through, to handle the rest of the day himself, if only to let the others — Arthur, Merlin, Gaius — rest. In the morning, Arthur would take over. In the morning, they would set out for Guinevere, just as knowledgeable and even more liked among the people than Merlin. She would make a stellar stewardess, in the absence of her duties to Lady Morgana.
"Should I pass a message, Sir Leon?" Gaius asked him.
"No need," he shook his head, his lumpy curls getting into his eyes. "Just tell him... that he's doing a good job."
Gaius smiled gently, kindness wrinkling the corners of his eyes.
"You too, Sir Leon, you too."
*
The morning sun shone brightly through the windows and the new holes in the castle as Arthur strode fast toward his manservant's rooms.
This morning, he woke up to the bustling sounds of the Citadel: heavy masonry had fallen a few floors down, and people were shouting amid their work to clear it from the main hallway. His manservant was nowhere to be seen, and Arthur had to dress himself and was on the hunt for Merlin: either Merlin would find breakfast for them, or Arthur would have him for breakfast.
With the new holes in it, the castle seemed draftier than usual, and Arthur felt a slight chill in the area of his back. He paid it no mind, and soon he was climbing the steps to the physician's tower. It was as messy as he remembered it: clearly, his lazy servant had neglected his duties to both him and Gaius.
"MERLIN!" he shouted on his way to the door before opening it with a bang.
As he caught sight of another figure, a glimpse of a naked shoulder, Arthur stopped in his tracks: he did not think Merlin might have been busy entertaining company. He always reprimanded Merlin for not knocking, yet here he was, barging into a couple's room.
Arthur distinctly remembered that Lancelot stayed with Merlin all those years back. He just didn't think they were this close, hadn't considered the logistics of living together in such a small room. He should have known: it had only one bed. Forgive him for thinking, after being at Merlin's home village, that Lancelot slept on the floor.
Inadvertently, his eyes fell upon the two men sharing the cramped space. They fit together seamlessly — limbs entwined, hearts pressed close. Lancelot's heavy arm draped over Merlin's waist, holding onto him in the narrow bounds of the bed. Soft morning light caressed the curve of their bare skin and got lost in Lancelot's dusty curls where he lay on Merlin's clothed chest, his hair getting more tousled with Merlin's every breath into his forehead.
Arthur had seen knights sleeping beside one another after long campaigns. He had seen men share blankets around a campfire, exhausted and heedless of propriety. But there was something undeniably different about Lancelot's tight hold on Merlin, something that urged Arthur to avert his gaze and retreat from the room; yet he remained frozen in place, caught between stepping back and standing firm, heat creeping up his neck.
Lancelot's eyes fluttered open, and he stared at him, bleary and confused, from his place on Merlin's chest. In a few slow blinks, he seemed to come to his senses and scrambled to sit up.
"Sire," the knight greeted him in a parched voice.
As he moved, the blanket slipped from his shoulders and pooled at his waist, exposing the broad, bare expanse of his chest. Arthur quickly averted his gaze toward the window, his pulse quickening, not daring to let his eyes wander any lower in wonder if the bare skin went any further.
"Wha—" Merlin croaked, waking up as well. "Arthur."
The servant had never had any of Lancelot's respect for him, and seemed content to stay in his bed, while Arthur stood scrambling for words.
"You're up," he observed through squinted eyes, the slits glinting at the sun. "What are you doing here?"
Merlin's words never failed to infuriate him into action. Arthur's gaze snapped back to him, carefully staying on his sleepy form and not on his bare-chested guest.
"What am I— What are you still doing here?"
"Sleeping? Until you showed up."
The impertinence made Arthur gape at him.
"Everyone else has been up since sunrise, Merlin, hard at work. You should be too! Where's my breakfast?"
Merlin slowly opened his eyes as he seemed to have closed them during his speech. Barely looking around the room, he returned his sleepy gaze to Arthur.
"Not here?"
"I can see that. Go and find it."
"Why?" Merlin climbed higher on the bed, resigned to continuing their talk, and propped his back carefully on the wall, suppressing a wince. "It is your breakfast."
Lancelot still sat at Merlin's side, fingers wringing the flimsy fabric of the blanket, eyes flitting back-and-forth between them. If not for his presence, Arthur would have surely wrung Merlin's neck, pulling him forcefully to the floor. It would have pulled the blanket from Lancelot as well, and Arthur stayed his hand, but not his tongue.
"Have you lost your mind?" he whispered dangerously.
"Have you forgotten your equality speech at the Round Table?" Merlin shot back from the bed. "Must be hard to remember, with me not writing it for you."
Lancelot cleared his throat, breaking their argument.
Arthur took a deep breath. He had more pressing matters than arguing with his servant. Just this morning, barely a moment after Arthur left his chambers in search of Merlin, Sir Leon appeared at his side. The shadows under his eyes were frightening, yet his voice was quite chipper as he pushed a load of work back onto Arthur's shoulders and reported the details of the knights' quest for Guinevere; he seemed exhilarated to get away from the hostile halls and Camelot's many problems.
Then a servant caught him, bearing a loaded message from Lord Geoffrey: the Council was awaiting the Crown Prince to shape the future of the kingdom without its king. He would need Gaius there (when had he returned?), but he would also need his trusted manservant to keep him sane throughout the dreadful meeting.
It was going to be a long day, and both Merlin and Lancelot had better hurry to just make it. He told them as much.
"Leon is expecting you in the courtyard — you set out in a candle mark." Lancelot nodded briskly. "Merlin. Find my breakfast and bring it to the Council chambers, or else," he let it hang.
Not that he could do much to punish him, especially not after the unmatched loyalty he had shown over the past few days. Merlin seemed to come up with his own punishment and grumbled in agreement, shooing Arthur out of the room.
Finally, Arthur managed to escape. Swiftly striding out of the physician's tower, he brushed the awkward morning from his mind, with Camelot's concerns taking precedence.
He quietly vowed to knock on Merlin's door ever since, and moved the task of finding accommodations for his new knights to the top of his list of priorities.
*
Lancelot bolted out of the castle, hair still damp from a hurried wash, his bright new red cloak billowing wildly behind him.
The others were already mounted and waiting in the courtyard. He spotted Percival among the small crowd, and the larger man greeted him with a massive grin. After a flurry of rushed greetings, Lancelot hoisted himself onto the spare horse, and the party finally rode out of Camelot's gates.
Glancing at his companions, Lancelot noticed they all were fighting back smiles of their own. It was a bright, crisp morning, and they, just as he, must have felt exhilarated at joining the ranks of knights and embarking on their first quest.
As their horses' hooves beat a steady rhythm over the courtyard stones, the fragile sense of belonging crept unerringly into Lancelot's heart: the previous days' newborn camaraderie was shakily standing up on its own two legs. He couldn't help smiling back.
Once they cleared the gates and hit the road, Leon — the First Knight and the only nobleman among them, as Merlin had mentioned that morning — spoke up.
"Slept well, Sir Lancelot?"
The others exchanged sly grins, and a few even let out muffled snickers. Lancelot froze in his saddle, heat crawling up his neck; a slow realization dawning on him: it would seem that their upbeat mood wasn't just morning excitement — it was entirely at his expense. Self-consciously, he raked his fingers through his curls, trying to tame the sleep-mussed hair.
"Much better than on the road, Sir Leon," he offered cautiously, keeping his tone cordial. "And you?"
"Could be better." Leon hid a yawn, eyes scrunching up above the deeply set shadows.
"I think he's trying to say that not everyone had a person-shaped pillow tonight," Gwaine butted in. The knight was oddly chipper, a stark difference to his previous gloominess.
Heat rose to his cheeks (when did it get this hot?), the thought of last night conjuring pleasant phantoms across his back and arms, his skin humming in places where he and Merlin had merged together in their exhausted sleep. Lancelot was all too used to the harsh mattress of the cold ground and a thin bedroll, and he had sunk into the real bed like a drowned man, falling asleep the instant his head touched the soft pillow, Merlin's breath warm on his cheek.
It was the best sleep he had in years, and he woke up sated and languid, caressed by the morning's gentle light, with Merlin's warm body tucked safely under his arm. He couldn't savor the brief moment for long, as the hairs on his neck stood on end at someone's gaze, and Arthur's conflicted posture was the first thing he saw as he opened his eyes.
Despite the jittery upheaval of their waking, it didn't take long for Merlin's soft gaze to return, his touch feather-light on Lancelot's wounded shoulder: it healed miraculously in the night under Merlin's care, leaving but a silver-lined memory on his skin.
He could get used to this, to stumbling into Merlin's room after another dangerous quest, to the close, heated whisper of the Old Religion igniting his torn skin, to waking in Merlin's arms: the sun glinting in his eyes, his smile shining bright. It was a dangerous thought, his worn heart told him, yet it couldn't help beating a stuttering, resigned rhythm — after all, there was nothing but danger in Merlin's life.
The knights must have caught some glimpse, or Arthur must have told them (which Lancelot doubted but couldn't disregard the possibility, considering how easily Merlin had riled him up). He had to stop their chatter from derailing into the road he wasn't yet ready to tread.
"We are good friends," claimed Lancelot.
"I always let my good friends spoon me in bed," Gwaine mock-agreed.
"And put our bedrolls together in a large castle," added the First Knight.
Elyan perked up in interest. "Oh, were they—?"
Leon shook his head. "I gave them space; I did not look."
"You are such a bore," Gwaine grumbled in disappointment.
Percival cleared his throat, and Lancelot looked to his friend in hope. Percival held a profound pause before betraying him as well.
"Lancelot had us running to Camelot even before finishing his sweetheart's letter."
"Letter?" Gwaine spoke up in the resulting awed quiet. "How come you got letters, and I didn't? We are good friends as well."
"Apparently not that good to share his bed," Elyan wedged in.
"No," Gwaine laughed. "The last time I was in his bed, it was mine alone."
There was no escape from these (un)deserved allegations, and Lancelot let their continued banter fly over his head.
Squaring his shoulders, the leftover ache pulling bittersweet, he pressed his heels into his horse's flanks, clucked his tongue, and rode fast ahead of their group. The other knights couldn't let him be, and the rest of the journey to the ancient castle went quickly between racing across the fields and diverting the good-natured bickering away from his person.
On the return journey, with Gwen safely with them, the men thankfully buried the war hatchet in a more appropriate conversation at Leon's harried initiative to ask for Gwen's counsel on the castle's matters.
Soon, the Citadel's gates opened wide before them, and Lancelot's heart swelled with familiar jubilant hope for the future. It seemed fate had granted him another chance to return to Camelot, to his dream, and to his dear people, all of whom had gathered in the courtyard.
As the knights settled into their new duties and the busy life of Camelot, the question of their accommodations remained unsolved for a long while — and for some unknown reason, even longer for Lancelot, but that did not upset him in the slightest, as each morning he continued to wake up in Merlin's arms.