Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So, as you can see, I’ve been quite (sorry for that smudge, I had something on my sleeve) busy with the preparations for the tournament. Don’t laugh, but it feels amazing to be part of someth history—you know, history that I can actually tell people about? I’m a bit jittery, of course—this may give some people IDEAS—but mostly excited. So many people have come. I just wish Well, I’d better get some sleep (aren’t you proud of me for being so responsible? Sh, I’ll just assume you are). I’ll add some highlights from the first day tomor later today.

Merlin put down the quill and stretched with a yawn. It really was quite late—or early, depending on how you looked at it—but writing down a few lines to Lancelot before bed was a routine he skipped only when he absolutely had to. His letters were thus a jumble of mismatched notes and impressions, sprinkled with afterthoughts and unrelated comments, their tone changing from one paragraph to the next. (If Lancelot couldn’t make head or tail of them sometimes, he was too nice to say so.) At first, Merlin mostly relished the fact that he was able to share his ‘daily struggles’ with someone who knew his secret and could therefore understand, just a little, what life in Camelot was like for him. With time, however, he began to care more about the opportunity their exchange of correspondence gave him to get to know his friend better. Because even though Lancelot did not consider himself a topic worthy of putting quill to parchment, still Merlin gleaned a lot from the things he did write about. And so he was constantly looking forward to the next letter, eager to read about the things Lancelot saw that he thought would interest Merlin, about the people he met and stories he heard, about the smallest details that he inadvertently included, which painted a picture of a brave, caring, loyal, modest, honest…

His chest constricted with a sudden longing, and he shook his head to clear it of the images of Lancelot smiling at him—hopefully, excitedly, giddily, and, of course, reassuringly. Your secret’s safe with me. Merlin had been both too shocked and relieved at that moment to recognise the other feeling blossoming underneath, but he remembered thinking, as they lay back to back in his narrow bed later that night—the last night before Lancelot left—that he was letting something special go. Still, he didn’t lose Lancelot like he had lost Will, Freya, or his father, and that should have been enough… Only sometimes it wasn’t.

With morning barely a few hours away, he drifted off to sleep thinking, So many people have come. I just wish–

«»«»«»

Merlin stopped in the street just outside the tournament grounds and looked around. He was carrying a piece of Arthur’s equipment that he had forgotten on purpose earlier. He had assumed (correctly, as it turned out) that with an armful of armour, he wouldn’t be able to see much of what was going on, so he engineered an opportunity to have a few minutes to drink in all the sights, smells, and sounds, and make a mental note of any curiosities to relay them to Lancelot later.

Just ahead, a portly woman in a blue apron was selling buns with the Pendragon coat-of-arms on them.

‘To give you strength in battle, noble sirs!’ she touted.

I hope they’re not meant to actually drain the strength from the Pendragons, Merlin thought wearily. That would be just his luck.

Across the street, two kids were pretend-fighting with wooden swords.

‘Do you submit, Sir Leon?’

‘No!’

‘You must! I’m Prince Arthur. That’s the rules!’

Merlin chuckled to himself, recalling Lancelot’s test for a Knight of Camelot. Some would probably call his victory a little underhanded, but the fight itself had been quite spectacular…

Suddenly, a tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the doorway to one of the inns caught his attention. Or, rather, his chainmail did because it differed greatly from those worn by the people around him. It looked old, though was obviously kept in good condition, and had no sleeves.

‘Wait,’ Merlin breathed. He had never seen such a thing… but he had read about it.

Could this be–? Did it mean–?

Forgetting about everything else, he started scanning the crowd for the mop of unruly dark hair and a smile that could lit up the whole of Camelot. His heart was beating wildly in anticipation, both of the thrill if he was right and the crushing disappointment if he was wrong. He was so engrossed in looking for a particular face, he didn’t notice that the sleeveless man had come up to him.

‘Excuse me… Are you Merlin?’

Without really thinking, he replied, ‘And you must be Percival?’

The man smiled.

‘It seems we’ve both heard about each other.’

Merlin’s mouth suddenly felt very dry. His eyes went back to roving eagerly over the people milling around.

‘So… are you here with–?’

‘No.’ Percival sounded a little disgruntled. ‘No, I’m here on my own.’

‘Oh. I see.’ Merlin felt his shoulders sag. Whoever had first described disappointment as ‘crushing’ had definitely been onto something.

An awkward silence followed, and then they both spoke at once.

‘Well, what brings you–?’

‘Lancelot is–’

The warlock felt his heart jolt and dread trickle down his spine.

‘What about Lancelot?’ he blurted out. Had something happened? Was Percival the bearer of bad news?

‘He’s fine,’ the man assured him quickly, and Merlin released the breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. ‘Lancelot is just… being Lancelot. We came for the tournament together but–’

‘Wait, he came here with you?’ The warlock was sure he had misheard because that made no sense. If he had come (just like Merlin had wished he would), why wasn’t he here?

‘Yes.’ Percival nodded with an apologetic look. ‘But he left this morning.’

Merlin stared at him blankly. But why would he leave without…

‘Why didn’t he find me?’ As soon as the question had slipped out, he dropped his gaze in embarrassment. He tried not to veer into personal territory mere minutes after meeting someone (Lancelot was, once again, a notable exception) but this revelation had thrown him for a loop.

‘I couldn’t say,’ Percival replied gently after a pause, giving him time to compose himself.

‘Is he angry at me for something?’ Merlin couldn’t really bring himself to believe it, but what other reason could there be? ‘I know my letters are always a bit of a mess, but it’s really hard to find the time to sit down and write them properly, what with all the… stuff going on here, but I thought he knew that it doesn’t mean that I care less–’

‘I’m sure he knows that,’ Percival interrupted kindly. ‘When I met him, he had no other possessions but his sword and a packet of letters from you. I think that’s saying something.’

Merlin blinked. He hadn’t really thought about it, but he’d sort of assumed that Lancelot had no means of keeping those letters while on the road (not that he had any reason to do so in the first place—the warlock doubted his ramblings were that interesting). It would be easier now that he was settled in Haldor, of course, but if he had been carrying them around with him even before that… well, it certainly begged the question of what on earth was Lancelot’s deal now. Coming to Camelot and promptly leaving it without at least saying hello to the friend who was important enough to warrant treasuring their correspondence like that?

‘Then why–?’ Merlin paused. He thought back to what Percival had said. Lancelot is just being Lancelot. ‘I mean, even if he wanted to avoid making things awkward for Gwen or being seen by the king, or whatever, he could have, I don’t know, sent me a message to meet him somewhere private…’ He broke off, feeling a flush creeping up his cheeks.

Percival shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat.

‘I fear this is all my fault. I made him come here. He didn’t want to but he did it because I asked. I thought that he would be glad to visit… since he seemed to be missing you all… but perhaps I misjudged what was keeping him away…’ He mused, staring off into the distance. ‘I really wanted to come, and so I pushed him because I didn’t think… but maybe there’s a reason why he never tried to return here before…’

‘What reason?’

Percival blinked at him in surprise as if he had forgotten Merlin was standing there.

‘I think he doesn’t want to risk having his heart broken again,’ he said slowly, and then his eyes went wide.

Merlin stilled. What did that mean? Lancelot knew from his letters how things stood with Gwen and Arthur (the warlock wasn’t trying to rub it in; he just thought Lancelot deserved to know that his self-sacrifice had not been for nothing), so he surely did not harbour any hopes on that front. But that would mean… Could it mean–?

‘Broken by whom?’ he asked, not recognising his voice, but Percival was already shaking his head frantically.

‘Forget I said anything. I didn’t mean– I was just– Look, I wouldn’t even have come over to talk to you, but I saw you looking and was curious…’

Merlin hardly heard him. His vision swam. Was he jumping to an entirely wrong conclusion because Lancelot coming back to Camelot for him, coming back to him, was something he had secretly been hoping for? He had this dream stowed securely away in the back of his mind with the other impossible ‘what ifs?’ and had never expected it to come true. Well, it still hadn’t, but he grabbed at the sliver of a chance that it could.

He was too rattled to feel embarrassed as he blurted out, ‘Does Lancelot have feelings for me?’

Percival bit his lip and looked apologetic again. But was he sorry because the answer was ‘yes,’ or because it was ‘no’?

‘Does he?’ Merlin repeated almost in a whisper.

‘Merlin!’

Arthur’s slightly annoyed call had never been more unwelcome. But maybe it was a blessing in disguise because it brought him back to reality and made him see how absurd it all was. Percival might have accidentally put the thought in his head, but if Merlin really wanted an answer to that question, it wasn’t him he should be asking.

‘How long ago did he leave?’

Percival was so surprised by the change of topic that he replied automatically, ‘Just before dawn, I think.’

‘Right.’

A few hours’ head start was not ideal, but he could probably–

‘Merlin!’ Arthur’s voice, now definitely annoyed, stopped him in his tracks. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Merlin looked around and realised that he had turned his back on the entrance to the arena and had started to walk away from it.

‘I…’ He had no idea what to say because he couldn’t quite believe that a moment ago, he had been ready to rush off to Haldor, everything else be damned.

Arthur strode over and turned him around by the shoulders so that he was facing the arena again.

‘You see that big red tent right there?’ he asked in his characteristic fake casual tone, pointing it out. ‘That very big tent that no one could possibly miss?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then tell me, Merlin, how did you manage to get lost on the way there?’ Arthur barked at him, dropping the pretence. ‘The tournament is about to begin, and my manservant is loitering in the street!’

‘Sorry,’ the warlock apologised distractedly, casting around for Percival, but the man had apparently used the distraction to slip away.

‘Well, come on then!’ Arthur gave him a little shove and then stumped on ahead.

Merlin closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. This was good, he told himself. This was solid ground. Making sure that the Once and Future King did not put his armour on backwards or was not attacked by a sorcerer—it was not all roses, but it was something steady he could hold onto when the rest of his world seemed to be spinning out of control. When he had dared to imagine it, learning that his feelings for Lancelot might be reciprocated was a cause for joy. Now that it had actually happened, however, it left him dazed and confused. And putting his destiny first was the best way to snap out of it.

He was thus uncommonly grateful to Arthur for keeping him busy for several hours. All this fetching and carrying left him little time to ponder on Lancelot’s motives.

But when he found himself alone in his room that evening, the questions assailed him anew. Did Lancelot have feelings for him? Or was Merlin reading too much into this whole thing? He was almost certain that he wouldn’t mind so much if it turned out that there was a completely unrelated reason for Lancelot’s frankly bizarre conduct—it was the uncertainty that was killing him.

In desperation, he dropped to his knees by the bed and pulled up the loose floorboard under which he kept his spell books and other things that were meant for his eyes only. These included a thick packet of letters tied with a string that no one but him could untie. It might have seemed like an unnecessary precaution—Lancelot never wrote explicitly about his magic, so they could hardly be considered damning evidence if read by someone else—but Merlin liked the idea that this was something that belonged to just the two of them.

He usually handled those pages with utmost care, but now he tore through them, looking fervently for any sign, any indication that the answer to the question he had asked Percival was ‘yes.’ It seemed impossible he could have missed anything like that earlier since Lancelot’s letters were a far cry from his own chaotic ramblings; they were clear and precise, without scrawled additions on the margins or blotted out passages that might have concealed something the sender was not ready to share after all. (The reason for this meticulousness—Lancelot had claimed—was that he was still struggling with writing and couldn’t afford to waste the energy and concentration needed for this task on things he didn’t really mean to say. But even when his hand grew surer, even when his handwriting became joined and more legible, still every word seemed as deliberately chosen as ever.) So it was a fool’s errand to be searching for some hidden meaning between those lines, and yet Merlin’s heart was beating wildly as he scanned page after page, discarding the ones he had read so that soon they were strewn all around him.

Unsurprisingly, when he got to the last letter, he had to concede defeat. There was nothing there to suggest that Lancelot felt the same way he did. And yet… And yet… Why else would he have come to Camelot without telling Merlin about it and then left without seeing him? Whomever or whatever he wanted to avoid, there was no reason to hide it from his supposedly best friend. Try as he might, Merlin could not find a logical explanation for that… unless, that is, the answer to The Question was ‘yes,’ in which case it all made horrible sense.

Lancelot has feelings for me, but he doesn’t want to risk his heart being broken again.

Despite his earlier doubts, he now felt certain it was true, and he sagged a little, dazed by the discovery, but then a surge of anger flared through him.

He shoved everything aside and grabbed a clean piece of parchment (how fortunate that he had conjured up an endless supply of it!). He didn’t bother getting up; he just rested the page on his knees and began scribbling furiously.

You stubborn maddening infuriating man! You’re doing it AGAIN you know that? Don’t you realise no really hasn’t it crossed your mind that some things could be if you would just EXTEND ME THE COURTESY of asking the damn question? Don’t I get a say in this??? Don’t we deserve a chance? I don’t know what you would want to call this and frankly I don’t care and I have no idea how it would work but I would have liked to find out with you. But no you had to LEAVE as always! I swear if it weren’t for Arthur and the tournament and you-know-what I’d be on my way to Haldor right now just to shake you.

Merlin threw down the quill, but his anger was already dissipating. He was being unfair. After all, he could understand the fear of rejection, couldn’t he? In his case, it had more to do with Arthur’s reaction to learning about his magic, but the point was that he knew how much courage and faith one needed to take a big step like that. It was especially true for Lancelot who believed—very mistakenly, of course—that he was doomed to want things he couldn’t have. Every one of his dreams so far had turned to dust… Could Merlin blame him for being cautious? For wanting to protect his heart?

He sighed and picked up the quill, rolling it between his fingers. He would have loved for Lancelot to take a chance on him but– He stilled. But why would Lancelot do that? He knew that Merlin would never leave Camelot, and what was waiting for him here except a constant reminder that he was not ‘good enough’ to be a knight? And there was also the question of the you-know-what… Merlin stared at the quill in his hand without seeing it. He had been so selfish… There was only one question he should be asking himself: What could he offer Lancelot besides a life in constant danger of being executed for harbouring a sorcerer?

He picked up the piece of parchment that had slid off his knees and began writing, this time very slowly and haltingly.

You’re right to stay away, Lancelot. I would never break your heart, not on purpose, but I might become the reason it stops beating altogether. Because when I care about someone, that’s a curse. And I do care about y

He paused and rubbed his face wearily. What was the point of saying it? He was just delaying the inevitable. He needed to accept that Lancelot was right and that some things really could not be. There was only one solution: forget about his conversation with Percival (who would hopefully keep mum about it, too) and carry on as before. In time, the feelings would fade, and Lancelot would have a chance of a life he deserved—long, happy, and peaceful. His smile would be lighting up Haldor or some other place where he would feel appreciated and fulfilled, and Merlin would read about it in his letters and be glad for him.

With a last longing sigh, he gathered up the pages that were strewn around him and put them back under the floorboard, together with his unfinished letter from before. Then he set fire to the one that would never be sent.

‘Head over heart, Merlin,’ he whispered as he watched it burn away.