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The ache in his chest has become something to endure wordlessly; something that never leaves, never softens, never ends. Merlin has become used to aches like these.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and watches as the grief swallows Gwen whole, and he only sees her silhouette against Lancelot’s pyre. “I’m really sorry.”

He isn’t sure who he is talking to—to Gwen, or to Lancelot, or perhaps to himself. But Merlin has never allowed himself much time to contemplate his loss, or what he has given up. He is afraid the thoughts might bring him to ruin.

Gwen weeps for her dead knight, and it is Merlin’s fault, and this is his price.

~*~

There’s a hole in the place where Lancelot used to walk. Merlin turns around, sometimes, to tell him a joke, or perhaps a secret—he blanks on what he wants to say when Lancelot isn’t there, the surprise still overtaking him right before the sense of loss does. It isn’t just him; Leon leaves a space next to him when they are training before he seems to realise that the knight who used to take it up is dead. Percival still dutifully moves to grab two swords from the weapon rack before he freezes up and only takes one. Arthur—

Arthur is stone-faced, snapping at everyone, and mostly at Merlin. He has lost knights before; losing knights is not unusual, but Lancelot is the first knight that Arthur had once made his own, and the first one of the Round Table they have lost. His absence gnaws like the cold, slow and numbing and continuously creeping along the edges of Merlin’s periphery.

It is guilt, Merlin knows, and lets Arthur take it out on him, because he feels that same kind of culpability eat him away where he stands. The thought of Lancelot, and that kind smile on his face, are too much to bear at times; Merlin dreams of him, or perhaps they’re nightmares. He wakes up in sweat, and he cries, and he goes towards another day of Arthur’s protection.

Love is not enough, he now knows. Love is not enough to protect any of those he holds near his heart, and he cannot lose any more. Lancelot gave him Arthur; Lancelot offered him life. Lancelot never valued himself in the same way that Merlin did, and didn’t know—

Merlin can’t think about it. Maybe that’s where the guilt stems from.

“Where is your head?” Arthur snaps at him, three days after Lancelot’s death, and immediately pales when Merlin looks at him and doesn’t answer.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” is all he murmurs. Arthur opens his mouth and closes it again, a complicated expression settling on his face. Merlin can’t lose him; can’t lose anything else. Perhaps he’s already lost too much.

“Merlin…” Arthur starts, and bites his lower lip. 

“I’m fine,” Merlin says, because he can tell that Arthur is about to overcome his usual inability to comfort him, and that must only mean that Merlin is looking utterly miserable. He doesn’t want that kind of pity; it doesn’t belong to him. “I’ll make sure to listen to your usual prattling.”

Arthur scoffs at that, and perhaps he’s glad for the distraction, as well. But when he passes Merlin, he grabs his shoulder and squeezes for a second, and then he’s gone. Merlin is left to stare at him, and then out of the window to see the knights training.

Three days past, and he wonders how long he will be cradling the pieces of his own heart, or if the sharp edges of it will cut his lungs open.

~*~

“Did you love him?” he asks Gwen one day, because he has to know how large the grief  that could have been avoided is. If he can cup her pain inside his hands or if it will seep through his fingers, like his own is doing.

How many hearts he has broken, and if they are ever to mend again. All Merlin does is break; he can’t recall the last time he saw her smile. Lancelot has been dead for a month.

Gwen doesn’t need any clarification. She bows her head, the curls falling over her face and shielding her expression. Merlin takes her hands; her fingers are cold against his palms, her nails short from her labour. Lancelot loved her, and for that, she had taken the blame of his death.

He can’t stand it, suddenly.

“Of course I loved him,” Gwen says, hoarse. “Of course I did. He was—”

He was a great many things. Merlin tightens his hold as she tries to tug away from him.

“It’s not your fault,” he tells her, because it must be said. It is his grief to carry, and his guilt, and his burden. Lancelot’s death is on him, and he cannot have her hold it for another minute. It is his, his, his, the way that Lancelot never was. It is jealousy curled up in his breaths, dark and hungry, and it is grief clawing at the chance to be something of Lance’s that Gwen never was.

His murderer.

“But I asked him,” she says, pressing her lips together as she looks up at him—hooded eyes, dark eyes, with uncried tears sticking to her lashes. Lancelot’s life might have belonged to her, but not his death.

So Merlin tells her the truth of it. “I knocked out Arthur,” he says in a rush. “I was planning to walk through the veil—” At the mention of the veil, his throat tightens; he can feel the sense of death reaching for him, reaching, and if Merlin had been less afraid then, Lancelot might still breathe, “—but I was distracted. Lancelot beat me to it. He didn’t do it because you asked him; Arthur was already saved. He did it for me.”

Gwen is quiet for a moment. Merlin lets her hands slip from his.

“That is the kind of man he is,” she says quietly. “Was.”

“It should have been me,” Merlin insists.

She presses a kiss to his cheek; a warm apology, absolute, rendering him wordless. It is not absolution, but it is the nearest he can come.

“No, it should not,” she says gently, and slips away in the night.

~*~

Time heals all wounds, or so the saying goes. Merlin has seen the truth of it many times; the way that pain softens into an irritation before it leaves entirely. The same is said of grief, even though it tends to linger—it spikes unexpectedly, at sudden moments, and Merlin sees the truth of that as well.

Gwen laughs, and then sometimes she turns around and the smile fades. Arthur moves to make a command to a knight, and flounders for a second before he picks someone who is not Lancelot. The knights close up the gap in their midst that leaves them open for attack.

Merlin isn’t sure when the grief will start to fade for him, because it hasn’t yet. It leaves him just as breathless as he was that very first day. Sometimes, he thinks he is stuck in that moment in time, as he watches Lancelot turn around and walk away from him, the way that Lancelot always walked away from the life that was his to grasp. Merlin’s feet have moved, and his heart has beat a million times from that moment.

But his eyes are still there, and his hands are still outstretched, and the same scream is stuck in his throat, and only comes out at night.

“It’s been a year,” Merlin says quietly.

Gaius sits opposite him, stirring his stew. “A year,” Gaius agrees mildly, and looks at him. “And you still think of it every day, my boy.”

“He was my friend,” Merlin says, feeling a tad defensive. It’s not lost on him that he is supposed to have moved on, and that he is still lost, as if he isn’t sure where to move towards. He had a life before Lancelot, did he not?

A life before he caused the death of his closest friend.

“So he was.” Gaius drops his spoon in the stew. “I am worried for you, Merlin.”

“I lost him,” Merlin says quietly, and bows his head as the tears prickle annoyingly at his lashes. One of them falls into his stew; it ripples for a moment, and he stares at the dish. He isn’t hungry, really.

“He would have wanted for you to be happy,” Gaius says, his voice kind and low. Merlin feels as though he’s a wounded animal, hiding away in the corner and shying away from all hands that want to help him—he can’t be helped. Lancelot was his friend, and Merlin couldn’t lose him, but he did.

And now he’s surrounded by ghosts, and Lancelot is the only one who is clear in his mind.

“I think I need a walk,” he announces, and stands up so suddenly that Gaius blinks at him.

“Merlin—”

“No, really, I just need a walk,” Merlin says, softening. “I’ll be back before midnight, I promise. It’s just—today’s a hard day, and I need to clear my mind.”

Gaius waits for a moment, and whatever he is trying to see in Merlin’s face, it must be enough, because he nods. “Very well,” he tells him. “But you must let him go, Merlin. For his sake, if not your own.”

Merlin’s nostrils flare for a second—for his sake, as if Lancelot would be in this mess if Merlin hadn’t been too slow. Merlin should have realised what he would do; he knows what Lancelot believed in. He should have been less preoccupied with himself; for his sake, as if Merlin doesn’t owe it to Lancelot to put him first.

“I’ll try,” he says, and grabs his jacket before he leaves the safety of the castle.

~*~

The lake glitters in the moonlight, untouched by the turmoil in Merlin’s thoughts. It rests calmly, unbothered by the delicate motions of his grief.

Oh, what a large grief. It should have shrunk—it should have folded itself away, day by day, until so little remained of it that Merlin’s heart would have plenty of space for other people. Instead, it has stolen away every little inch that was left of it, only ever growing, hungry, starving. Look at that grief, so large and looming over everything; grow smaller, Merlin commands it, and it just churns in his stomach instead.

He dips his bare feet in the cold water and throws back his head to look at the stars. So distant, like everything else is these days; so uncaring, and so unreachable, and yet touching everything Merlin can see. 

“Merlin.”

He closes his eyes and lets his fingers graze the cold surface of the lake. It feels like a touch.

“You’re not here,” he whispers, and bows his head. “You left me.”

There’s not a single sound, and Merlin looks up. There’s nothing there but the gentle touch of the wind on his cheek, colder than it ought to be. He is crying, he realises. He is sitting by himself, and sobbing without sound, and there is no one—

“Merlin?”

His head whirls around, and there is a luminescent, golden form by his side. Lancelot smiles at him, and it is a smile full of hesitation; he reaches out, and Merlin scrambles back and falls arse-first in the lake. His breath has all been stolen, and so he coughs loudly as he resurfaces, his hair dripping wet and his eyes wild.

Lancelot is still there, the same golden ghost of him.

“You’re not real,” he says frantically, and wades further back into the water without losing sight of that—imitation, because that is all that Lancelot can be. But the crook of his smile is so real, and the shine in his eyes, and the way his eyebrow pulls at his expression—

“Merlin,” Lancelot says again, a bit helplessly.

Merlin laughs. “I’ve gone mad, haven’t I?” he says, and throws up his hands just to splash them back into the water. It’s midnight, and it’s only a few days past mid-winter, and he is going to freeze to his death, and rightly so. He should have died a year ago. “You’re not real, and I’m mad, and this is just—just a ghost, just something my mind has made up—”

“I’m quite real, I assure you,” Lancelot says, and with a look of determination that Merlin hasn’t seen in a year, he steps into the water, right in front of Merlin. “I am not entirely sure how to convince you of that notion, however.”

“Can’t,” Merlin says. “You’re dead, and—you stepped into the veil, you—you idiot! You’re dead, and I am losing my mind, and I think it’s best we all accept the reality of the situation.”

Lancelot stares at him. “You sound rather calm about losing your mind.”

“It’s all a bit inevitable, isn’t it,” Merlin says, and rubs a hand over his face. When he is done with that, Lancelot is still there, right in front of him. Glowing golden. As if Merlin needed any more proof to know that he is only a conjecture of his mind. “First I lost you, and then Uther died, and it’s not as if Arthur is ever going to accept magic after I failed to save him. And I can’t save anyone, apparently, so it’s just… it’s not enough, what I do.”

Lancelot tilts his head. After a year of that aching loss, that large, gaping lack of love that has been eating away at everything else, Merlin can’t stand the sight of him. He turns his head away.

“My death was not your fault,” Lancelot says quietly. “In fact, I’m not entirely sure… that I’m dead.”

Merlin presses his eyes closed. The first sob breaks out—loud, echoing over the lake. It’s the first time he’s cried so loudly in a year, and he covers his face in his hands. It shakes his frame, and he is freezing cold, and the water lapses at his side. Merlin has no idea if it wants to calm him or drown him, and he isn’t sure which of the two options he chooses.

He bawls, and he doesn’t want to look at Lancelot anymore, at that maddening, realistic vision of the man he failed most of all. Merlin cries, and the salt of his tears mix with the sweetness of the lake, and when he finally looks up again, Lancelot is gone.

And it’s just like losing him twice.

~*~

Time moves on, and wounds are healed. Merlin must be the exception to this rule, and he has come to accept this with only the barest sting to it; it is his fault, no matter what the Lancelot of his dreams tells him. 

A year and a half after Lancelot’s death, there is a knighting ceremony. It is not the first since then, nor is it the most impressive Merlin has ever seen—when Lancelot was knighted, there was far more cheer and booze. They have all grown up, he thinks, watching Arthur’s careful smile, not nearly as bright as it once was. They have all changed.

“I didn’t see you talking to the knights,” Arthur says to him once the ceremony has ended, and Merlin is helping him undress. “Is something the matter with you?”

Merlin hums, and focuses on neatly folding Arthur’s cloak before he hangs it over the chair. “Me? No, I’m fine.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, more sharply, and Merlin looks at him.

“What?” he asks, a bit baffled. “No, I don’t—what are you asking?”

Arthur sits down, and gestures for Merlin to do the same. He’s rarely so solemn, and Merlin frowns as he takes the seat opposite Arthur. He is just wearing his white tunic, and it exposes his chest as he leans forward.

“I’m really not quite sure what to do with you,” Arthur says, and takes a breath. “Merlin, you haven’t been the same since… Lancelot’s death. None of us have failed to notice, and I thought I’d just give it time. But I have given you too much time, perhaps, and you aren’t—you’re not the same as you were.”

“Are any of us?” Merlin asks bitterly.

Arthur smiles thinly. “I suppose not. Will you tell me?”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Merlin taps his fingers against the table restlessly. “He was my friend, and I wanted—I was going to walk through the veil. I wanted to, and I had… I shouldn’t have told him that I intended to. It’s my fault, and he was my friend, and I couldn’t lose him, and I did.”

“Was he…” Arthur pauses, and looks down. “More than your friend, perhaps?”

Merlin blinks, and the question tingles all the way to his toes. More than a friend—for Merlin’s count, in a way, but only because Lancelot was one of those precious few who knew both sides of Merlin. The only one, perhaps, to know him so wholly.

Is that what love means, then?

“No,” Merlin says, and has to force his throat to work. “We weren’t—he had Gwen.”

Arthur’s eyes are dark on him, and Merlin wants to shudder under the force of it. He has never been worried about Arthur, not truly; but Arthur has grown up, just as Merlin has, and he has grown up kind, with a thirst for justice warring with the values his father instilled in him. At any given day, Merlin can’t be sure which one of the two sides of Arthur is winning that ever-ongoing battle.

Arthur is no longer that vain, arrogant boy, and suddenly Merlin worries that Arthur can read all the secrets in the guilty lines of Merlin’s face. Arthur isn’t a fool—and if he can read this secret, so closely guarded, then there are other things he might yet learn.

Merlin ducks his head. “Is that all, my lord?”

It can’t be; there are still heaps of clothes in the corner of Arthur’s chambers, and his sword is unsharpened, and new wood should be thrown on the fire to keep it alight throughout the night. 

“Yes, you can go,” Arthur says, and oh, Merlin wishes that they both knew how to talk a little bit better, because Arthur truly is his friend. Merlin flees, and doesn’t take the stairs to Gaius’ chambers; instead, his feet wander towards the courtyard, and beyond.

~*~

There’s something calming about the lake. Merlin rarely has time to visit these days; Arthur’s kingship isn’t a burden just on him. It’s a joy to see him grow into his power, though, even if Merlin doesn’t hold much faith that Arthur will ever lift the ban on magic.

Still, Arthur is a king of peace, golden and glowing, and he will do great things.

“Hello,” Lancelot says, and Merlin jumps into the air.

“What are you,” he hisses at the apparition, and lifts his hands. “I can’t be going insane just here. I’m not—who are you?”

Merlin stalks around the can’t-be-a-ghost. It glows gold, just as it did last time, even though the luminescence is far less bright; perhaps because it is a summer night, and the sun is only just setting. It’s still so clearly Lancelot, and Merlin’s heart aches with every beat, and in between, too.

Lancelot holds up his hands, exasperation clearly writ on his face. “I told you last time,” he says, nearly apologetically. “I don’t think I’m really dead.”

“You disappeared last time,” Merlin accuses him.

“You were crying.” Lancelot lowers his hands, and they settle awkwardly by his side. “My presence was upsetting you. I thought it best to leave you be.”

Merlin takes a deep breath. Seeing Lancelot one time, at the height of grief—that’s one thing. And it is not as if the sense of loss has faded, but surely he would’ve seen him more often if he truly had been losing his mind. He would’ve seen this glowing picture of him ghosting the courtyard; smiling at Gwen; fighting with Percival; bowing to Arthur.

There’s something else at play here.

“You’re not Lancelot,” he says, stammering over his own words. “You’re—what are you doing here? Are you tormenting me? Do you know who I am?”

“Merlin,” Lancelot says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I’m not sure how to explain it to you, but I swear to you that I am telling the truth.”

Lancelot is the noblest man that Merlin has ever known; he knows very well what truth looks like on Lancelot’s face. The only lie that Merlin has ever seen him tell—has ever seen him comfortable with, despite his distaste for deceit—has been to keep Merlin safe. 

Merlin bites the inside of his cheek. “You can’t prove that.”

“No, I truly can’t,” Lancelot says quietly. It is quiet for a moment, and the wind picks up for a second. It tugs at Merlin’s hair, but it doesn’t at Lancelot’s. Lancelot is immeasurably still, wearing the same armour he did when he died. He looks exactly the same.

“Tell me,” Merlin demands. “Tell me what—what happened, and I’ll—” He falls quiet. He can’t make any promises, because he doesn’t dare to hope. There’s something that is wrong, and he hopes the ghost will trip up over its words.

Merlin should know Lancelot by the form of him, by the very cadence of his voice. Not knowing the truth of the matter is unsettling.

“Do you remember,” Lancelot starts instead, frowning to himself, “when you jumped at the dorocha to save Arthur’s life? I was intent on bringing you back to the castle, because I thought—you had to be saved, I thought, even though Gwen had asked me to look after Arthur. I was breaking that promise, then, but then the spirits in the river healed you, and you insisted on going back. You meant to look after Arthur, too.”

Merlin’s breath hitches. “Go on.”

“You are so passionate, and you know your goal in life so well,” Lancelot mutters. “You were so willing to give up your life for it—and I couldn’t let you. Not when Arthur needs you, and that future you’ve been fighting your entire life for needs him. So I took your place. I stepped through the veil, and there was—darkness, for a while. A long time, I think.” Lancelot swallows; Merlin watches his Adam’s apple move in his throat. “I’m not entirely sure when I came back, but it must have been weeks later, at least. There is a limited number of places I can go. Somehow, they’re all near bodies of water. I’ve been… waiting. It’s been a little lonely.”

It’s an understatement, or it must be. Merlin stares at Lancelot, and thinks about a year and a half of solitude; of wandering around like a ghost, uncertain of its boundaries.

“How do I know that’s true?” he says. “If that’s true—we left you for dead, and then…”

“I can’t explain it,” Lancelot interrupts, and strides towards him. “I thought I would be dead, but I woke up, and I can’t touch. It’s as if I am in this half life…”

“Like the dorocha,” Merlin mutters.

Lancelot stares at him. “I suppose—yes, like the dorocha. But I’m not one.”

That is not up for debate, really. Merlin remembers the dorocha very well, and he knows exactly how they tug at his magic and his soul. They suck all life away; the only thing he senses near them is darkness and death. Lancelot, or this would-be ghost, is an utter blank to his senses. He doesn’t sense him at all, which is odd in its own right, because Merlin always senses the life around him.

He isn’t sure how to sense something that is in between life and death. But Lancelot walked the veil—he should not be in between anything. He should be firmly on one side—death.

“I need…” Merlin starts, and stares at Lancelot. “I need to—Gaius’ books. Gaius will have books, and I can figure out what you are—if you’re…”

“Merlin,” Lancelot says, and he sounds so uncertain. “I understand you need to leave, but will you stay? Just for a few more moments?”

Lancelot has never asked for a thing in his life, but Merlin has always tried to give it to him nonetheless. The utter loneliness in Lancelot’s voice tugs at the gaping hole in Merlin’s chest. It doesn’t matter if this ghost is not Lancelot; it doesn’t even matter if it’s a machination of Morgana, made to destroy Merlin.

Merlin can think of no better end than to be destroyed by Lancelot, and he sits down.

“Can I—” he starts, and reaches out.

Lancelot shakes his head, and Merlin’s fingers curl and fall, mere inches away from Lancelot’s face. “It will go right through me,” Lancelot murmurs. “I am truly sorry, Merlin. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come to you. Perhaps I should have let you mourn and continue your life—”

“No,” Merlin chokes out, and shakes his head. “No, never. I’ll fix this. If this is—if that’s you, then we’ll fix this, and I’m not going to… I’m not leaving you behind, Lancelot. Not again.”

~*~

Oh, grief. It’s the largest emotion Merlin can think of; it is love, twisted and balled up, combined with all the regrets. Oh, grief, you odd, lonely thing. It can be shared, but it can never be halved—it can only fade in itself, like a shadow fades when the sun has set, drowning in the darkness of the night.

But then day comes, and the shadow is back, all the blacker for the brightness.

“I need to know more about the veil,” Merlin demands, returning late at night only. He’d sat with Lancelot until midnight—when he’d nearly fallen asleep, Lancelot had told him to return. Merlin hadn’t wanted to leave.

Oh, grief. It means being forced apart, and he had no say in it the first time, and he doesn’t have any option now.

“Merlin,” Gaius says, and rubs his eyes. He is still up, but it seems only barely. Merlin knows better than to bother him at this hour, but it’s about Lancelot. “What are you doing?”

“The veil,” Merlin repeats. “The one that Lancelot walked through. I need to know—does it actually kill someone? Is it possible that he’s still alive?”

Gaius looks at him quietly, his eyes glinting with a sadness that Merlin has come to recognise all too well. Merlin takes a step back.

“Merlin, Lancelot is dead,” Gaius says gently, and stands up. “There’s nothing we can do. He has been dead for a year and a half.”

Oh, grief, that odd, quiet regret that can drive a man mad. But Merlin saw him, and he’s certain of it. He saw him twice, and he has not lost his mind—only his heart, but that has always been a lost cause, and here is Lancelot, standing on the periphery of life and death. 

“Just give me any books you have,” Merlin says steadfastly. “You don’t need to believe me, just let me—just tell me, Gaius, please. I need to be certain.”

“The veil is the portal between life and death.” Gaius takes a deep breath. “To step through it is to die. It is a painless death, Merlin, fast and quiet. It is more than many men get. And Lancelot chose that path, and you must respect it.”

“I’m not considering necromancy,” Merlin protests. There’s a line he won’t cross; has never even thought to cross. Any Lancelot that is raised like that is not the same one that Merlin knew, and what death has touched, it does not let go. “I want to know if there’s a way to go through the veil and—remain in this between-state. Not alive, and not dead.”

“There are no such states,” Gaius says. “Merlin, what is this about?”

But there must be, Merlin considers. Somehow, in some mysterious way—Lancelot might have crossed, and been stuck in between. There must be an explanation for how Merlin is able to see him, and what happened to him.

Or it really might be as obvious as Merlin losing his sanity. He hasn’t entirely ruled it out.

“Nothing,” he says. Gaius won’t believe him, and Merlin must do his own research. His skin is itching to return to the lake, and to ask Lancelot every question he can think of. The glowing, warm sense of hope flickers in his chest, casting its light over the shadow of Merlin’s grief. 

“Merlin—”

“Sorry to have bothered you,” Merlin says quickly, and takes the stairs to his room two at a time. “I’m going to sleep. Good night, Gaius!”

“Good night, my boy,” Gaius says in exasperation, but Merlin has already thrown the door closed behind him and lets himself fall on his bed. The blanket scratches his chin when he pulls it over himself without bothering to undress. 

Tomorrow, he decides. Tomorrow, he’ll see Lancelot again.

~*~

“A midnight meeting,” Lancelot muses when Merlin arrives. “I was wondering if you were still coming.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Merlin wheezes. He’s run all the way here; it had been a busy day, and his lack of sleep had been paid for dearly in additional tasks. Arthur had a council session that ran long, and he’d needed a friend afterwards to discuss the meeting with, and Merlin couldn’t abandon him. He had been itching to leave, but Arthur…

Well, Merlin has a duty towards him, and it’s not as if he could have explained why he couldn’t do what he normally does for him. Arthur might still have noticed Merlin’s inability to sit still, though. He’d had a pillow thrown at him for his restlessness.

“I don’t mind.” Lancelot smiles at him; the golden glow of him makes it seem even brighter than usual, or perhaps that’s because Merlin has gone so long without the sight of it. “I’ve been waiting for far longer. I’m just pleased to see you.”

“Right,” Merlin says, pressing his lips together. “Sorry. About the long wait, I mean—”

“It’s not your fault,” Lancelot says pointedly. And it really is, but Merlin decides not to argue that. Even if this isn’t Lancelot, he has his mannerism down pat, and Merlin doesn’t think he can live with the guilt flaring up.

“So,” Merlin starts, and can’t entirely meet Lancelot’s expectant gaze. “Gaius can’t help.”

Lancelot raises an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

“He might…” Merlin rubs the back of his neck, “think that I’ve kind of lost my mind from grief. It’s not—well, if you aren’t real, that’s a distinct possibility, but you’re… I don’t really know what you are, because I don’t know how you could have survived the veil, but I want to help.”

“Lost your mind from grief.” Lancelot sounds sceptical. “Over me?”

“Over you,” Merlin murmurs, and claps his hands together. “But now there’s the very real possibility you might not be dead, so we should focus on that!”

“Merlin—”

“I’m not going to tell you about that,” Merlin says firmly. Lancelot’s face drops, and he takes a careful step closer. Merlin stays where he is, even though it’s hard to breathe like this, with Lancelot’s face so near his. 

“I’d hoped there were no secrets between us,” Lancelot murmurs. “I never wanted to hurt you, Merlin. It was my intent to save you.”

“Save me?” Merlin asks, and takes a step back. He can’t be this close—not when Lancelot was alive, and not when he is dead. “Save me? I was ready to give up my life for Arthur’s, and I always have been! That is my duty, that’s why I’m here! But you—you had Gwen, and you had a whole world of people who admired you, and then it was my fault you were dead! I couldn’t even breathe without thinking about that, and to realise that you didn’t even tell me—”

He presses his hands against his face.

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot says quietly.

“No more secrets, right?” Merlin says bitterly. “But you didn’t tell me what you were going to do, and then I had to live with that.”

“I had no idea it would be so hard for you,” Lancelot tells him, and sits down on the grass, looking up at Merlin. “I’m sorry, Merlin. I thought there were so few choices—it was you, or Arthur, and I couldn’t let either of you die. I thought… it would be easier for everyone.”

It is Lancelot. It must be Lancelot, with that naked pain on his face, the utter uncertainty about the value of his life. Merlin wants to scream at him, wants to throw something at him, and wants to never let him go again. 

“It’s not easier,” Merlin says. “It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“It wasn’t for me,” Lancelot tells him, and looks past Merlin—maybe it’s just as difficult for him to talk about it, Merlin realises. Maybe it breaks his heart to think back to that moment as well. “It was the easiest thing in the world to trade my life for yours.”

Merlin’s breath hitches. “I’m going to get you back,” he promises. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know if he can at all—but he must. He will. 

Because it is Lancelot, and Merlin will never leave him again.

~*~

It becomes a bit of a tradition, over the next couple of weeks.

At midnight, he meets Lancelot at the lake. They’ve both agreed it must be some trick of magic that has placed Lancelot in this position. Merlin has looked through the few magic books at his disposal to find out more, but Gaius’ words rang true: the only thing he can find about the veil is that passing it means to die.

But Lancelot is here, and he’s not alive, but he’s also not dead.

“I’m not sure it’s the Priestesses’ magic that is the cause of this,” Merlin muses. He’s lying on his bare back, the grass tickling his skin, his tunic drying on a branch while his trousers stick to his legs. They had attempted some magic in the lake to see if it made a difference—it hadn’t. “I think that’s not the kind of magic that they usually do.”

“But you weren’t doing anything, were you?” Lancelot asks. 

“I didn’t have time,” Merlin says, and frowns. “I don’t think it’s because of me. My magic has reacted instinctively before, but… I would have noticed, wouldn’t I?”

“Perhaps,” Lancelot says. “But if it isn’t the Priestesses, and it wasn’t you, I’m truly at a loss of what caused me to still be here.”

“It must have been either one of those,” Merlin muses.

Lancelot makes a noise. “If it was the magic of the Priestesses, then it might be only Morgana who can undo this situation.”

“And that’s not very likely,” Merlin finishes, and presses his eyes closed. The moonlight is blueish against his lids, and then there’s a faint golden glow above him. He opens his eyes again to see Lancelot hovering above him, eyeing him uncertainly. “I promised you that I’d find a way to help you,” Merlin continues. “Even if it’s got something to do with Morgana, we’ll find a way.”

“I’m mostly worried you are spending too much time on this,” Lancelot says, a crease on his forehead. “How have you been sleeping?”

Not as much as usual, but also with fewer interruptions of nightmares. Merlin doesn’t want Lancelot to know he’s been waking up screaming for the majority of nights, so he just thinly smiles instead. “I’ll sleep when we get to the bottom of this.”

“Merlin—”

“What’s something else that might keep you bound to this world?” Merlin asks, loudly, over Lancelot’s words. “An unkept promise? A love untold? That’s the usual kind of stuff, you know—I’m not entirely sure what else might be powerful enough, but you… you’re very genuine.” He swallows hard. “It might have been enough for you.”

“I don’t think so,” Lancelot says quietly.

“Oh, but it has to be, doesn’t it?” Merlin says. It can’t have been him; he would have realised. He would have known how tightly he was holding onto Lancelot. It can’t have been him, to both kill Lancelot and keep him in this solitary state of the between. “What about Gwen? You’ve let her go, but you still love her—”

“What if I don’t?” Lancelot asks.

Merlin waves it away. “But you do, so that doesn’t matter. You let her go, but you still love her, and it might have been powerful enough—”

“Merlin, it isn’t Gwen.”

Lancelot stares at him. He is ethereal like this, with that glow to him; unreachable, like the stars. Merlin inhales, and it feels like a lifetime before it leaves his lungs again. Something is growing there, alongside the grief and the hope.

“But it must be Gwen,” he says dumbly.

“I’ve accepted where her heart lies,” Lancelot says quietly. “I did that a long time ago. If I loved her—it was the shape of her, and a dream I was abruptly woken up from. I’m fond of her, but that is not love. It’s nothing so complete as that. It isn’t Gwen, Merlin.”

Merlin pinches his nose. “Okay,” he says, his mind whirling. “If it isn’t Gwen… it wasn’t love, then, that kept you here.” Or it wasn’t Lancelot’s love, at least. “Then it must be the Priestesses, perhaps.”

“Or it was you,” Lancelot tells him. He is so near, suddenly, as if Merlin could reach out and touch him. Merlin’s heart stills. 

He would have known, had it been him. He would have known—just like he knew the depth of his affection, surely, as if that didn’t hit him like a stone to his lungs only after Lancelot’s passing. His heart may be hidden, but Merlin knows his own magic. He would have known.

“I have to go,” Merlin says frantically. For all the time he wished Lancelot was back, suddenly he can’t be far enough away. It might even be harder to have Lancelot here and wish for him to be back; it is another kind of grief that has opened up in him. It might have been easier to long for him when he was dead, and so utterly unreachable.

But now the stars have come to be between his fingertips, and there is still no way to touch; the only thing Merlin can do is burn his fingers, and cry out in pain when he is scorched.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I?” Lancelot calls out after him, and Merlin doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to; he could never leave Lancelot behind. 

But Merlin only survives because he hides, and it might not just be for his magic.

~*~

“You are distracted,” Arthur comments. 

“Hm?” Merlin lets his cloth run over Arthur’s sword for the umpteenth time. There must be something to Lancelot’s words; perhaps it was Merlin’s magic. That guilt may fester alongside everything else, but at least it means Lancelot can be saved.

But Merlin has tried all the spells he knows. If there was anything he could do, they would have stumbled across it by now. It must be something he can’t see yet, even if it has to do with him.

“Merlin.”

“Sure,” Merlin mutters, and grabs Arthur’s boots from where he’s put them under his chair to polish them. With the same cloth, he starts rubbing the toe of the boots, thinking about the spells they’ve tried. Lancelot can’t tell him what has happened, which gives him no idea where to even start. Merlin isn’t even sure why Lancelot always appears at the lake, of all places—

A hand is suddenly in his hair, forcing his face towards Arthur’s annoyed expression.

“I’m so glad you’re paying me so much attention,” Arthur says, and Merlin blinks. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for five minutes, but you’re so stuck in your head that you can’t even hear me, can you?”

“Erm,” Merlin says.

Arthur lets go of him, crossing his arms, displeased. “What can possibly be so important for you to think about this deeply?”

“Water,” Merlin offers sheepishly. “Erm, I just meant—I was thinking about lakes.”

“Are you going on a trip?” Arthur says, and scoffs. “And what, exactly, about lakes requires this much thinking about them? I can’t even remember the last time you must have seen a lake—except… Merlin.”

“What?” Merlin asks defensively. Arthur is staring at him oddly. Of course, he can’t know about Merlin’s midnight trips to the lake, but Merlin isn’t entirely sure what he is thinking of.

“The Isle of the Blessed,” Arthur says. “You’re not thinking about that, are you?”

Merlin’s mind blanks. The Isle of the Blessed—the isle in the middle of a lake, certainly, and with magical propensities. And Lancelot had said he could only go near lakes… and the Lake of Avalon certainly has its own powers. Perhaps it’s magical bodies of water; perhaps there is some sort of connection there.

“I wasn’t thinking about that, but now I am,” Merlin says slowly. 

Arthur sighs and rubs his forehead. “I thought you were getting over this, Merlin. I know you’ve grieved Lancelot for a long time…”

“Oh!” Merlin says, and jumps up. “I have to go. Thanks, Arthur!”

Arthur stares at him as if he’s gone insane, but that’s certainly not the first time, and Merlin definitely doesn’t have the time to care about it. He has a theory; far-fetched, very likely doomed to fail, but a theory. It’s more than he’s had so far, and he needs to see Gaius.

~*~

“I need to talk to you,” Merlin says, and throws the door behind him. He is pacing, hand in hair as he tries to make sense of his own thoughts.

Gaius raises an eyebrow at him. “Sit down, and I’ll try to help you,” he says. “But I can’t focus if you’re walking around like that.”

Merlin shoves himself into the seat opposite of Gaius, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The ball of his foot is tapping wildly on the ground, and Merlin bites his lower lip. 

“The Isle of the Blessed,” he starts, and holds up his hand when Gaius opens his mouth. “Wait for me, Gaius, I’m going somewhere with this, I promise. The Isle of the Blessed, that’s been used by the Priestesses for thousands of years, hasn’t it? But it hasn’t since the Purge.”

“You are correct,” Gaius says slowly.

“Magic is life,” Merlin says. “I’ve always known that to be true. The Priestesses’ magic comes from that, too, even when they use it for death. And it might not be enough to have kept Lancelot alive when he walked through the veil, but it might have softened the power of that death magic, doesn’t it? The veil was opened for there, but—”

“Merlin, it can’t have faded enough for that to have done anything for Lancelot,” Gaius says. “Now, a spell used to cast death spells might not be as powerful as it has been in the past, but the dorocha still came through. The veil was deadly.”

“Not if my magic got involved as well,” Merlin says. “Perhaps it was enough to turn the balance. Except I’m still not sure how the Lake of Avalon is involved in this.”

Gaius is frowning. “Why don’t you tell me from the start, Merlin?”

“You’ll think I’m mad,” Merlin says, but he’s smiling. “Lancelot isn’t dead. He isn’t alive, no, but he’s—lingered. I’ve been meeting him at the Lake of Avalon every night. He can only appear near bodies of water, but I’m not sure why. But if he’s here, I can bring him back.”

“Are you sure—”

“Absolutely,” Merlin says. “Without a shadow of doubt. It’s him, Gaius. It’s him.”

Gaius purses his lips together, and pensively leans back. “I don’t think something like that has ever happened,” he says slowly. “But the magic of the veil against your power… Well, that would be a grand match, wouldn’t it? Perhaps it is enough to keep him in between.”

“But then what’s going on with the Lake of Avalon?” Merlin presses eagerly.

“It’s a portal of magic, just as the Isle of the Blessed,” Gaius explains. “He might be able to switch between the two because of the connection of magic, that’s all. But if you are to revive him… I am not entirely sure what that would take, Merlin. It’s not so easy to give a life instead of a death.”

Merlin frowns. “So you think it can’t be done?”

“I don’t think that is true,” Gaius says, and turns around to grab a book. “I have an idea, but—Merlin, it might be best to leave it alone. This has never been done before, and the Cailleach who opened the veil will be displeased. This is a game of gods.”

A game of gods, and all for the life of a man.

“Just tell me,” Merlin says. 

~*~

“You are worrying me,” Lancelot says, and his eyes are dark on Merlin. Although the gold fits him well, Merlin misses the brown of his gaze; the depths of them. Soon, he thinks giddily. If Gaius’ theory pans out, Merlin might see them again soon.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Merlin dismisses. “We’ll see you at the Isle of the Blessed, and we’ll get your life back. I know exactly who to make my sacrifices to.”

“I don’t like the fact that there are sacrifices involved,” Lancelot points out. “And even less that you’re refusing to tell me what they are. No one is going to die, Merlin? You’ll promise me that?”

Merlin gives him a look. “No one’s going to die,” he says. “In fact, if everything goes to plan, you’re going to live again. I promised you I’d fix this.”

“I’m familiar with the way you deal with problems,” Lancelot says dryly.

“I know,” Merlin admits, and softens. “But you trust me, don’t you?”

There’s a moment of quiet, and not one in which Merlin doubts that Lancelot will agree. But Lancelot looks at him oddly, and Merlin can’t entirely meet his gaze for the heaviness of them—like something that Merlin can’t bear, or doesn’t know how. It’s the antithesis of grief, but Merlin has experience with only one side of the equation.

“I trust you, Merlin,” Lancelot tells him, and Merlin straightens.

“Midnight,” he reminds him. “I can’t stay tonight—I have to make arrangements. But I’ll see you at the Isle of the Blessed, Lance. I promise.”

“I’ll see you there,” Lancelot repeats, his voice quiet. Merlin tells himself that all he is planning to do will be worth it; will be worth Lancelot’s life. The simple truth is that Merlin should have sacrificed himself the day that Lancelot died.

Anything that Merlin can give is only what comes a year and a half too late.

~*~

“I need you to do something for me,” Merlin says to Arthur. His heart is beating loudly in his chest—seven years of secrecy, and it all comes down to this. After today, none of the secrets will matter. “And I need you to do it without asking me why.”

Arthur was scribbling a letter, but he stops to look up at Merlin. He puts down his feather, and narrows his eyes. “You’re asking a lot, Merlin.”

“I am,” Merlin admits. “And I haven’t asked much of you before. I’ve known you for seven years, Arthur—I’ve served you with all the loyalty I know. After this, I’ll never ask anything of you again.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Just for me,” Merlin says humourlessly.

Arthur is quiet for a few moments. “Alright.”

He had hoped that Arthur might acquiesce this easily, but he hadn’t expected it. Merlin blinks, and tilts his head. “You’re sure?”

“Well, of course I’m not,” Arthur says, “but you just told me I can’t ask any questions, and that this is a dangerous matter for you. So I suppose I have to trust you on your word, don’t I?”

“You don’t always do that,” Merlin says.

Arthur sighs, and stands up. “And it’s rarely good to ignore you,” he says wearily. “Just tell me, Merlin, and if it’s in my power, I’ll do it for you. Just—please tell me you haven’t gotten into trouble with powerful men who want your money. Gambling’s a dangerous hobby, and I hope you haven’t fallen into it.”

“What?” Merlin says, and decides not to wait for an answer. “No. We’re going somewhere, and I need you to be there as well. It’ll all make sense when we get there.”

“A trip,” Arthur says, and shakes his head to himself. “If this is a way to get a day off, Merlin…”

“I wouldn’t have invited you along,” Merlin says, and jostles his elbow against Arthur’s to offer him a smile. “Thanks, Arthur. You don’t know what it means.”

Arthur just looks at him with the same concern etched on his face as he’d seen on Lancelot’s. And Merlin wishes he could tell him the truth of it all—but he’s learnt before that love cannot protect the ones he holds most dear. Lancelot wasn’t safe from it, and neither is Arthur. Merlin must do what he can, and what he can do is this.

He just hopes they’ll forgive him for it.

~*~

It’s usually Merlin who trails after Arthur whenever they leave Camelot. It’s odd, to be the one leading their party of two. They have two horses and supplies for three days—it’ll take them most of one day to get there, and then Merlin has no idea what’ll happen.

As long as they make it there by midnight. He hasn’t thought beyond that.

“We’re travelling through the Isle of the Blessed,” Arthur says, after they’ve travelled most of the day. At most, it’ll take them a couple more hours to reach the isle.

Merlin takes a bite of an apple. “Yes,” he says eventually. “We are.”

“And why are we travelling there?” Arthur asks impatiently.

“I told you that you can’t ask why,” Merlin reminds him, but they’ve been on the road for most of the day, and Arthur has been uncharacteristically quiet for most of it. It’s not as if Merlin thinks he’ll turn back and leave, so he might as well say it. “Gaius and I’ve figured out a way to bring back Lancelot. It turns out that he didn’t actually die when he walked through the veil—he is in some… state in between life and death.”

Arthur stares at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Well, it’s either that, or I’ve gone insane,” Merlin says. “I’ve considered that option, really, but I truly think it’s him. Gaius agrees with me.”

“But he died,” Arthur says incredulously. “How did you even figure this out?”

“I’ve been talking to him.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Talking,” he mutters to himself. “Merlin, you’re an idiot. Why didn’t you think to bring any of us to him? And how are we even going to help him, even if he isn’t dead? Opening the veil requires a death, last I knew of it.”

“But we’re not bringing death,” Merlin reminds him. “We’re bringing life. And I have a plan.”

“And pray tell,” Arthur says. “What is this plan, then?”

“You’ll see when we get there.” Merlin rubs his sleeve along his nose. “And I didn’t bring any of you to him—because I wasn’t sure he was real, and I really didn’t want anyone to think I was insane. And then…” The magic they’d tried to use on Lancelot had made it hard to bring anyone along. Besides, Merlin is a little selfish, maybe.

He’s never had Lancelot to himself like that. He never will again.

“Fine,” Arthur says, but the displeasure hasn’t left his expression. Merlin just shrugs to himself and spurs on his horse. With every second, they get closer to the Isle of the Blessed, and closer to midnight. He dreads it as much as he can’t wait for it to arrive.

~*~

The Isle of the Blessed is cold, even though it’s late summer. Merlin shudders and huddles into his coat. Arthur seems unbothered, but he is just as focused on the Isle as Merlin is. Merlin is glad to see him take it so seriously; he hadn’t been entirely sure if Arthur would believe him.

“Back to the same place?” Arthur asks, and Merlin nods. It’s a short trip, but it feels the same as when the dorocha were still around. The wind howls around the dilapidated stone, and Merlin tries not to think of the last time he was here.

The way they left, entirely numb. The scream that had been stuck in his throat, even after he’d woken up Arthur. The thought of Lancelot walking through that veil—the last time he smiled, and then he’d disappeared, and Merlin’s world had been swallowed in one blink of an eye.

He fervently hopes he hasn’t actually lost his mind and imagined all of the last few months. It’s a little hard to believe, standing here.

“Well, here we are,” Merlin says, his mouth dry when they find the same tomb again. He runs his fingers over it. There is no sign of the Cailleach, but he can sense the cold of death. Gaius had told him that his plan should work on the Isle of the Blessed, but Merlin has a hard time holding onto the hope and life he usually feels.

“There’s no one here,” Arthur says aptly. “I’m not sure what you’re planning, Merlin, but…”

“Merlin?” And there’s the golden glow of Lancelot’s silhouette, and Merlin wants to cry from relief. He is here, and he is real—it isn’t just a trick of Merlin’s grieving mind. “Arthur?”

“Lancelot,” Arthur whispers, and grabs Merlin’s arm. His nails dig painfully into Merlin’s jacket. “It’s really true.”

“Nice to see you, Arthur.” Lancelot smiles carefully, and then tilts his head towards Merlin. “I hadn’t realised you were bringing anyone else, Merlin. Is this all part of your mysterious plan, then? You’re sure it’ll work?”

“He hasn’t told you either, has he?” Arthur says, and turns towards him.

Merlin swallows hard. “It’ll work,” he whispers. “If the sacrifice stands.”

“The sacrifice—” Arthur tugs Merlin towards him, his hold unflinching and ungiving. Merlin winces at the bruising grip. “Merlin, you swore this didn’t require a death. If I find out that you are planning on sacrificing yourself—”

“Not that,” Merlin defends himself, and yanks his arm free. He takes a few steps backwards, just enough to put a few paces between Arthur and himself. Arthur looks at him, brows furrowed in confusion and a hand that nearly reaches for him. He will never do that again after this, Merlin realises, and allows the pit of grief to settle in his stomach once more.

“Won’t you explain, Merlin?” Lancelot says gently. “You promised me no one would die.”

“It’s not a sacrifice of death,” Merlin says, nearly falling over his own words. “It’s a sacrifice of life. All the days you would have had, the way that a destiny is carved out. I am not giving up my death. But I had a life, and it’s been written, and I’d hoped—but I lost faith in that a long time ago. I’m giving up that life.”

“Merlin…”

“I’m giving up my magic,” Merlin says, and presses his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to see their faces—Arthur’s, betrayed and without any understanding; Lancelot’s, who knows what that means to Merlin. “I’m calling on Airmid, the goddess of healing and resurrection—to take the life that should have been mine, and to replace it with another instead. A life that should never have been taken by your sister.”

“My sister’s domain is not mine,” a new voice says, and Merlin takes a shuddering breath and looks.

Right in between Arthur and Lancelot, a glowing form stands—far brighter than Lancelot’s gold, and Merlin can barely look at her. Her hair flows down like a river, and she smiles at him kindly. 

“But Lancelot isn’t in the Cailleach’s domain,” Merlin says, trying to sound steadfast. “I kept him here, didn’t I? I used my magic to keep him in between, and now there is a stalemate. He isn’t anyone’s.”

She looks at him, and Merlin feels faint. Airmid’s presence is overpowering, and so full of life. It is both beautiful and dreadful to be in her presence, and it’s all Merlin can do to even remember what he wanted to say to her. Lancelot is just staring, and Arthur is covering his eyes.

“You want me to take your magic, and the destiny that was written out for you,” Airmid says slowly. “Because your magic is your life—it is the reason you were born, Emrys. It is what gives you greatness. You were written to save your kin, and to stay by Arthur Pendragon’s side. You would give up the life that lies at your feet, closer to freedom every day?”

“I’ll give it up,” Merlin pleads, turning his palms upwards towards her. “It’s not worth it if I can’t save anyone. It’s not enough.”

“It kept your fair knight here, so you could save him.” Airmid walks towards him, and takes Merlin’s cheek in her hand. Merlin sobs, and he falls to his knees. She catches him, and it burns, it burns; but then her touch heals, and she runs a hand through his hair. 

“I don’t want it,” Merlin cries out. “If I can save him—take it, take everything you must. But give him back to me. Please.”

“You love your magic,” she says quietly.

“More than life itself,” Merlin tells her, and bows his head. “But not more than him.”

“Your life, then,” Airmid mutters. “You’ve brought me a fair deal, Emrys. If anyone should meddle with the gods, I suppose it always would have been you. A bargain is struck—your life for the life of Lancelot, the noblest of knights.”

Merlin can barely believe what he hears. Airmid steps back, and leaves Merlin on his knees, the small pebbles of the floor digging into him. “Thank you,” he breathes.

“Don’t be so quick to thank me,” she says, and then she’s gone. Merlin has to blink to get used to the sudden darkness, and he reaches out his hands. He feels as if he might have gone blind, but then there’s two hands on his own, warm and familiar.

“Merlin,” Lancelot cries out, and then Merlin is being embraced, the smell and sense of him so familiar. His nose is pressed in Lancelot’s dark hair, and then Lancelot’s rough, calloused fingers press against his jaw. For a second, Merlin catches Arthur’s eyes behind Lancelot’s back.

And then Lancelot is pressing their mouths together, and Merlin is a little preoccupied with the sense of Lancelot—alive, alive, so preciously alive, and Merlin sobs in between Lancelot’s kisses, trying hard to breathe in order to stay here.

“You’re back,” Merlin says, and he is shuddering from exhaustion. Lancelot is here, and Lancelot is—pressed against him, still, and Merlin isn’t entirely sure what to make out of it, but it is so dearly wanted that he can’t think about it. Lancelot was a star, far in orbit and unreachable, and now he is in Merlin’s arms.

“You’re so brave,” Lancelot says, and kisses the tip of his nose. His eyes are brown, and deep, and lovely. “I thought I’d lost you. I wasn’t sure what she’d do to you, but I was so afraid… and your magic, Merlin—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice rough. “It’s gone. It’s gone now, and it was worth it.”

“Merlin?” Arthur asks quietly.

Lancelot hoists Merlin up, holding onto him tightly. Merlin eyes Arthur warily. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I needed you—I was… you needed to see. Because my magic, that’s always been for you, and it’s not fair to you that I’m—I wanted you to know the truth of it. Even if you’ll kill me for it.” He smiles bitterly. “But I’m technically not a sorcerer anymore.”

Arthur looks between them. Merlin can’t read his expression; he knows Arthur so well, most of the time, but he can’t tell what this is. 

“You gave up your magic,” Arthur says slowly. “For Lancelot.”

“There was a destiny about you and me,” Merlin clarified slowly, but his head is aching, and he isn’t entirely sure how well he can explain it. Lancelot’s hands around Merlin’s middle tighten. “But it wasn’t—we’re free of it now, Arthur. Both of us. You don’t have anything you don’t want to do.”

“And that would’ve been?” Arthur hasn’t stopped looking at him for even a second.

“Legalising magic,” Merlin says wearily. “Uniting Albion. But you’re a great king, Arthur. I’ve always believed you would be. And I had to do this.”

Arthur rubs a hand across his eyes, his shoulders slumming. “I don’t even know what to make of any of this,” he says. “To know that you’ve been lying all this time, and that you’re—we’ll deal with this in Camelot. You’ll tell me everything?”

“Everything,” Merlin vows, and watches as Arthur looks at him for another moment and then turns around. Merlin drops his head against Lancelot’s shoulder. He never thought he’d be here; his lips are still feeling bruised.

“I can’t believe you’d do that for me,” Lancelot says quietly, and brushes his hand along Merlin’s forehead. “I’m—I never asked you. I’m sorry if—”

“Don’t be sorry for anything,” Merlin says, and smiles up at Lancelot. “Anything I could give you, Lance, it was worth it. I wanted to do it. And now… you’re here. You’re back. That’s all I wanted.”

Lancelot returns his smile hesitantly, and presses a lingering kiss to Merlin’s forehead. “It was always you, Merlin,” he says quietly. 

Merlin presses himself into Lancelot’s neck, and cries.

~*~

“So, your magic.” Arthur is tapping the desk impatiently. Lancelot, under the table, has his ankle pressed against Merlin’s. It might be the only thing that has given Merlin the bravery to explain the past seven years to Arthur. “All those things you’ve done… and now it’s gone?”

“It’s gone,” Merlin confirms. It’s a solitary feeling, to be without it, but he has Lancelot by his side. It was worth it.

“Are you sure?” Lancelot tries. 

“You’re here,” Merlin says. “That’s the deal I made with Airmid. You can’t ask the gods for something without giving up something in return. I asked for Lancelot’s life, and I gave my magic.”

Arthur frowns. “She said your life,” he reminds Merlin. “Not your magic.”

“Magic is life,” Merlin insists. “Look, if I even try— brynne—” A flame flickers up, easily as anything, in Merlin’s palm. He stares at it. “What?”

“Perhaps you’ve changed your destiny,” Lancelot reasons. “The life that you would have lived, which was changed when you decided to save me. You’ve altered set events to make a bargain—you have changed it.”

“That’s not how that works,” Merlin says, and falters. How would he know what deals with the gods involve? Perhaps the greater price is to have to work to bring his destiny around. He stares at the flickering flame in his hand.

He could ask her, he thinks. But then again, the gods rarely answer. Perhaps it’s Airmid’s idea of a joke. Perhaps it’ll be gone tomorrow. He closes his palm, and the fire disappears—but it’s still there in his veins. He can sense it. 

He looks at Lancelot.

“So,” Arthur says. “A sorcerer, still.”

“I suppose,” Merlin says slowly. “So what’s next, then?”

Lancelot’s eyes are dark. “We’ll leave, if we must,” he says, turning his head towards Arthur. “I’ll take him away, and you never have to see either of us again. But Merlin has been loyal to you beyond what you can imagine—you cannot put him on the pyre.”

“I’m not going to,” Arthur says, and stares at them. “I have another idea.”

It’s the same tone he uses when he gives Merlin an annoying task. The dread grows in Merlin’s stomach, and he bites the inside of his cheek. “What’s that?”

“A First Knight,” Arthur says, nodding towards Lancelot, and then towards Merlin, “and a court sorcerer. Because I’ve seen how much protection we need from magic, and I’ve realised that there are some changes that need to be made. And the two of you—that’ll be the perfect price, then.” He smiles faintly. “Build Albion with me.”

Merlin’s heart beats fast. Under the desk, he grabs Lancelot’s hand and entwines their fingers. He never thought he could convince Arthur; by himself, he doesn’t think he’d ever have the heart for it.

But he isn’t alone. He never has been alone.

“We’re yours to command, my lord,” Lancelot says, and grins at Merlin, squeezing his palm.

Merlin smiles back, and feels his lungs fill up with hope.