Work Text:
Lancelot's village was slaughtered in winter after a poor harvest. The raiders were hungry and cold themselves, and they filled their bellies with blood and warmed their hands with money. There were no survivors, except for him.
Lancelot took care of the bodies, his eyes cold and dead, just like winter. He ate the last of the food, and he dug the graves, the shovel hitting the frozen ground with mindless precision.
Lancelot survived because he hid and because he killed the one who found his hiding place. Later, he cleaned the sword with snow. Later, he left his empty home, where blood still bloomed on the iced ground. Later, he forgot the road back home because home didn't exist anymore.
He shivers in winter now.
Still, he cleans Merlin's bloody hands with snow, the gold in his eyes slowly seeping back into the icy blue.
Merlin survives because he hides and because he kills the ones who find his hiding place.
Later, Lancelot will dig a grave for the body. Later, he will follow Merlin back to Camelot. Later, he will touch Merlin's hands with a prayer on his lips that he would never forget his way back Home.