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Arthur’s hair shines in the light of the sun. It catches like the gold on his sword, blinding and kingly, striking and warm. Elyan defends to the best of his ability, but Lancelot knows this match has already been won. It was won as soon as Arthur struck forward, quick like a viper and just as lethal.

He is a work of art. Lancelot isn’t above admiring it; truly, he understands why Arthur is appealing. There’s something princely and arrogant about his grin, but then it softens like the sun in the winter. His words cut like his blade and he is far less inclined to show mercy in the heat of conversation than he is with his sword; but he can rouse men with his speeches and, in the right company, has a dry humour about him that never fails to draw a chuckle from Lancelot.

Arthur is a born king. Anyone with eyes can see it.

Elyan falls to the grass, his eyes wide as Arthur points his sword at his chest. For a moment, there is only tense silence between the two knights and all the ones that are watching—then Arthur smirks and offers his hand to Elyan.

“Well fought,” Arthur offers, but his eyes are keenly sharp. “Why don’t you team up with Gwaine during the next round?”

It’s a carefully calculated offer. Lancelot isn’t prone to boasting, but Arthur and Gwaine are the only ones who can beat him in swordplay. They have their own strengths, of course, but Gwaine and Lancelot are among the strongest knights. Leon often has a chance of his own to strike at Arthur but rarely takes it, so Lancelot isn’t sure if it’s because he can’t make the move or if he would rather lose to his lord.

Leon’s sense of loyalty is one entirely different from Lancelot’s own.

Merlin comes up to the fence; Lancelot has been leaning against it to watch Elyan’s match, but doubtlessly he’ll put to work again soon. He expects Arthur will either spar with him or will assign him to Percival.

“He’s such a prat,” is all Merlin says, but his eyes are far away on Arthur and his smile is indulgent. Next to Arthur, Merlin isn’t nearly as luminous. His dark hair doesn’t match the rays of the sun in the same way, and he doesn’t carry any armour or a sword to reflect the bravery in his heart. 

And yet. They circle around each other, always; when Merlin is there, Arthur’s kingship seems to lose its heaviness on his shoulders and settle somewhere more comfortable instead, a place where he can carry it more easily. If Arthur pushes, Merlin pulls; if Arthur has his eyes closed, Merlin will have his opened.

They have worked in tandem for as long as Lancelot has known them, bodies and hearts and souls. 

“You like him, really,” Lancelot says, and manages to dredge up a smile from a place inside him that has learnt to silence his doubts. “You wouldn’t have still been here if you hadn’t.”

Merlin meets his eyes in a more meaningful gaze than anyone could guess at that comment. Merlin wouldn’t, is the thing; Merlin shouldn’t. Arthur has been king for a year, and he still hasn’t told Arthur about his secrets. A part of Lancelot thought he would.

Another part of him is shamefully relieved.

“He has his moments, I suppose,” Merlin says, which is the kindest thing he’ll openly say about a man he’s devoted his entire life to. Thankfully, he switches to another topic immediately afterwards. “Are you going to the banquet tonight? With the rest of the knights?”

“I am, yes,” Lancelot says after a moment’s hesitation. “Are you?”

Merlin snorts and leans forward on the fence. Lancelot can admire him more freely when Merlin’s eyes aren’t on his own. He’s not ashamed to admit Merlin’s beauty; he’s always thought him a rare find like no other, so ethereal one moment and so joyful the next. Life is certainly never dull with Merlin around. 

It’s just that he’s not sure what he would do if Merlin ever caught his eyes. He thinks he’d rather not find out.

“I don’t really have any choice,” Merlin says. 

“He would let you, if you asked,” Lancelot tells him, because that’s equally true.

Merlin shrugs, and he still isn’t looking at Lancelot. Instead, their eyes are on their king; Arthur stands with Gwaine and Elyan, quietly explaining what to work on. Arthur's face is gentle like this, showing a more thoughtful version of him. 

“He wouldn’t understand,” Merlin says quietly; a bitter smile plays on his lips, as if he knows he’s the one at fault. Lancelot could never blame him, knowing Merlin is the one most to thank for keeping their king safe without even being expected to carry that burden. Merlin carries it nonetheless—without reward, without validation. When every day he spends in Camelot is another day his life is threatened.

Arthur’s holding a banquet in Uther’s honour. Lancelot has never particularly liked Uther; even the knights who weren’t here when Arthur’s father ruled know about Lancelot's exile, that first time he'd attempted to join Camelot's ranks. It rankles, sometimes, but Lancelot knows that the people whose opinion he truly values want him here. It’s enough to make him stay.

This had been his life’s dream, once.

But as much as Lancelot has reason to dislike Uther’s memory—and it’s not really resentment, because even when he sent away Lancelot, there was a part of him that expected to not be good enough for Camelot’s knights—Merlin has to live with the memory that he never had justice under Uther’s rule. The way things are right now, he might not see it any time soon under Arthur’s.

But of course, Merlin can’t explain that to Arthur.

“I can try and step in for you,” Lancelot offers easily. “Tell him you’re not feeling well. I’m sure there are plenty of other servants who are willing to take over for you at a moment’s notice.”

“Arthur won’t take them,” Merlin mutters, and Lancelot wonders how often he’s tried before. Then Merlin shakes his head, and pats Lancelot’s arm. His smile is kind and sincere—it doesn’t take much for Merlin to take faith once more. Lancelot is oddly grateful for his perseverance. “Thanks, Lance. It’s only a banquet, and Arthur has a council session in the morning. I’m sure it won’t last too long.”

It’s only a banquet. Merlin has lived through years of this already; and now that Arthur is king, his life is only looking up. Unless he never tells him. Unless Arthur never knows better.

“Merlin!” Arthur calls, the kind expression of earlier having turned into a thunderstorm upon seeing them. Merlin’s hand falls away from Lancelot’s skin; he shivers as Merlin’s fingers disappear with a gentle, and doubtlessly unintended, stroke. 

“Yes, my lord?” Merlin calls back, and marches away without a proper goodbye. Arthur could never stand to be kept waiting by Merlin.

Lancelot watches them go. 

~*~

The banquet comes and goes, and it’s not as bad as it could be. Arthur gives a speech about Uther and the king he was—he barely even mentions the persecution of magic, his face neutral as he glosses over the peace my father built, and maybe Lancelot is wrong to feel a fragile sort of hope at that—and Merlin barely twitches.

Lancelot asked him once how he managed all those years serving Arthur while Uther was there; when every move would have meant putting himself at risk. It hadn’t been so bad, Merlin had told him, shoulders hunched, and had added, It was for Arthur. The worst of it came only after the relief, Lancelot thinks; he has seen it in other men who are stoic in the heat of the battle and only realise afterwards what damage has been done to them.

Merlin is better when Arthur is king. It’s still not perfect, though, especially when the ghost of Uther hangs over Arthur’s head. Merlin is the one Arthur lets closest when his own doubts creep in, Lancelot knows; he’s glad Arthur has his own way of dealing with his father’s legacy, doubtlessly having been cruel to him as well.

It’s just that he rarely checks up with Merlin; why should he? Arthur has no idea what Merlin has done for him. So Lancelot is the one who does it—is usually the only one doing it, because he is the only one who can know the lengths Merlin goes to in order to keep their world turning the way it is. It is Lancelot who sits up with him when he practises his spells; Lancelot who is asked to keep Arthur away when Merlin and Gaius are fixing something with the use of magic; Lancelot who sees the way Merlin’s eyes droop in exhaustion after a night of learning new spells that would see him on the pyre if Arthur knew.

It’s not that Lancelot thinks he’s entitled to anything. It’s not even that it burns to watch the two people he loves most revolve around a man he highly respects. Truly, it has nothing to do with either him or Arthur, he considers, watching Merlin quietly clean the knights’ swords by the light of the moon.

It’s just that he thinks Merlin deserves better, sometimes.

“Merlin,” he says quietly, his fingers pushing against the door. Its handles creak in protest, and it’s more that sound than Lancelot’s voice that makes Merlin look up. His face is drawn; then he spots Lancelot, and Lancelot’s chest does something complicated at the way the tension drains away from Merlin’s face.

Arthur can't do that.

“Hi,” Merlin says a little sheepishly, looking at the cleaned armour. The armoury isn’t the first place Lancelot expected to find him, but he can’t say he’s surprised either. He thinks Merlin has learnt to take some sort of comfort in menial tasks in Arthur’s service, even though he knows Merlin probably takes more risks with his magic than he really should in order to get out of lugging bathwater and doing laundry.

He can’t really blame him. If Merlin had had any sort of skill with a sword, he’d be one of the knights now. 

“I hope Arthur isn’t making you do all of this?” he asks, just to make sure. He sits down on the ground next to Merlin, leaning his head back against the cold stone wall. Merlin wordlessly offers him one of the swords; Lancelot runs his fingers over the familiar steel. He has grown used to using it without cleaning it himself—he’ll have to be more considerate in the future.

“No, he hasn’t,” Merlin murmurs. He shrugs, and his shoulder brushes against Lancelot’s. “I’m not sure what the problem is, really.”

Lancelot does. “The thought of Uther weighs on you.”

“It’s not really Uther,” Merlin says, and winces. “I mean, I never liked him, of course. Although I don’t think he minded me, most of the time, because Arthur—well. But—does Arthur ever remind you of him?”

“I didn’t know Uther very well,” Lancelot says carefully.

Merlin sighs, biting the inside of his cheek. “No, of course. You’re right.”

“But,” Lancelot continues, dipping his head to offer Merlin a meaningful look, “I think that there are ways in which they can be compared. Arthur was raised by him; I don’t think it is fair to expect Arthur to lose all sight of his influence. But he listens, Merlin. To you, and to Gwen.”

Merlin huffs. “Sometimes, I think he does,” he says. “And then others…”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing, really,” Merlin says, and looks frustrated. He wipes the sword in his hand more aggressively than is called for, but Lancelot lets it slide. “It’s nothing. It’s just—every time I forget about Uther, Arthur does something, or he says something, and I’m just reminded that he still doesn’t know about me. And I don’t even know how to tell him, at this point.”

“Do you want to?”

“You know I do,” Merlin tells him, and leans forward, sword against his knee as he scrapes it carelessly over the floor. “More than anything.”

Lancelot does know that, as much as he fears it. He knows the scenarios Merlin runs through his head; Merlin wants to be able to drop to his knees and give up his secret with his head bowed, offering his life and magic to Arthur. Lancelot knows Arthur, he likes to think; not as well as Merlin or Gwen, but in his own way. 

He dearly hopes, for Merlin’s sake, that Arthur will understand. Mostly, he fears that Arthur’s first reaction will be irrational. If Lancelot isn’t there—and Merlin won’t want him to be—there is no way he can protect him.

And the life of Lancelot’s closest friend will be in the hands of the man who has killed sorcerers for less.

Not that he’ll tell Merlin any of this.

“One day, he’ll know,” he says instead, patting Merlin’s knee. “And he’ll be grateful for everything you’ve ever done for him. You will have everything you deserve, Merlin, I know you will.”

Merlin’s smile is weak but sincere, and the fragile faith in it is enough to break a man’s heart. “And until then, I have you,” Merlin says, and he can’t know how true those words are.

Lancelot feels his own hand, still on Merlin’s knee, burning. “You always will,” he promises.

~*~

Some of the knights have squires to do their tasks for them; others rely on the servants in the castle. No one but the king is as lucky to have his own personal servant, after all, slavishly dedicated to his entire being. Not that Merlin can ever be said to be that—Lancelot thinks Merlin does things more in the spirit of devotion than following every letter of Arthur’s commands.

Lancelot prefers to take care of his own armour and sword. He’s grown more lax about it in recent months, but seeing Merlin quietly taking care of the weapons in the armoury has steeled his resolve to take some work—if only a fraction of it—off the servants’ plates.

He needs a new whetstone, though, and he knows just where to get one.

“Lancelot,” Guinevere says, blinking at him when she opens her door. She is as lovely as she has always been; she is wearing a new dress, he notices, a deep red one with a low cut. Lancelot purposefully doesn’t look.

“Have I come at a bad time?”

“No, no, not at all,” she hastens to assure him, and steps out of the way to open her doors to him. He has only been in her home once or twice, but most of it still looks the same. There are freshly-cut flowers in a vase on her table.

They could be ones she has collected herself. Lancelot eyes them for a moment before his eyes fleet back over towards Gwen; she is staring at the flowers too, her cheeks having gone a hue dark. A gift, then. He can guess from whom they are.

“They are lovely,” Lancelot offers. She shouldn’t be ashamed for having admirers. 

“They are,” Guinevere blurts out, and averts her eyes. “Sorry, I’m not—well, it’s lovely to see you, Lancelot. Is there something I can do for you?”

There had been a time she wouldn’t have asked. That time has come and gone without ever talking about it, and now Lancelot wishes he had. He gave her up in his own way; he thought she understood that.

He had been trying to do right by her.

“A whetstone,” he says awkwardly. “My own is no good, and I know you make swords occasionally—I was wondering—“

“Oh!” Her eyes brighten, and she claps her hands together. “I do have some. If you’ll just give me a minute—“

She rummages around the backroom of her home for a minute while Lancelot stays in the living area. He runs his fingers over the petals of Gwen’s flowers; they feel utterly alive and bewitchingly soft, the way her lips had once upon a time.

Lancelot isn’t sure where they went wrong, but he had a horrendous feeling that it’s mostly his fault.

“I’ve got one here,” she says, holding out a whetstone for him. “It’s a particularly good one, I hope—well, if they’ve run out in the armoury, I suppose any will do for now.”

Of course he could have gone to the armoury. Lancelot feels himself stiffen even as he attempts to smile, and wonders for how long his first thought to any question will be Gwen.

“I am very grateful,” he says, inclining her head to him.

“Oh, don’t be,” she says, and that should be the end of it, but then she presses her lips together and says, “I saw you at the banquet the other day. I wanted to come talk to you, but you seemed—distracted.”

Lancelot breathes out. He had seen Guinevere, of course, quietly attending to Morgana the way Merlin did not nearly so unobtrusively for Arthur. He hadn’t seen her looking, however.

“Not ever so distracted as not to be able to talk to you, I hope you know,” he offers.

She tilts her head. A curl falls into her face, and she absentmindedly pushes it behind her ear again. “I didn’t want to leave Morgana,” she says. “The memory of Uther… well, I’m sure you understand. He didn’t treat you kindly.”

Lancelot would have thought Uther a king worth following if the worst thing he had done was to exile him. As it stands, he can only think about Merlin’s attempts to tell Arthur, always falling short because the fear wins out from the love.

“He wasn’t a kind man,” is all he says. 

“No,” Gwen says, almost laughing in relief. “No, he wasn’t. But we have Arthur now, building his own kingdom.”

On the ashes of his father’s. “He is,” Lancelot says. “Thank you, Gwen.”

“Oh,” she realises, and smiles awkwardly. “Well, if you ever need another whetstone, I suppose you know where to find me.”

“I do know,” he says, and when he stands outside her house again, whetstone in hand, he isn’t sure whether to feel relief or loss. He thinks it’s an odd mixture of both.

~*~

The morning shifts are Lancelot’s favourite. He gets up early anyway—a habit he got into as a young boy, trailing his mother with a wooden sword as she went through her chores—and he has never stopped appreciating the red glow of the sun as it appears.

This one he shares with Gwaine. Gwaine doesn’t like the morning shift; he skips the night in order to be awake for it, most times. Lancelot doesn’t mind; Gwaine has an acerbic sense of wit that reminds him of Merlin and Arthur’s arguments. Lancelot has never been able to emulate that whip-sharp humour.

“Nothing ever happens, you know?” Gwaine complains, peering out through the gates of the citadel as he leans against the wall. “What is the last time anyone identified a threat at the gate?”

“You could have brought the dice,” Lancelot says, because he won’t openly agree. “It would have passed the time.”

“You won’t play for money.”

“It’s not about the money,” Lancelot reminds Gwaine.

Gwaine grins, running a hand through his hair as he regards Lancelot with interest. “You don’t understand the point of gambling, my friend.”

“I understand enough to not give you a chance to cheat,” Lancelot tells him, and can’t help but smile when Gwaine laughs openly. 

He’s sure Gwaine will have his own retort to that—he always does, Lancelot has found—but they don’t get the chance to when a cloaked figure appears before the gates. 

At this time of day, the only people who pass through are merchants who want to set up their stalls early enough to have an advantage. Lancelot’s hand goes to his sword instinctively and he senses rather than sees Gwaine moving to do the same; and then the cloaked figure collapses in front of them and it’s rather more familiar than Lancelot assumed he would be.

“Merlin!” Gwaine cries out and he’s faster to drop to his knees than Lancelot is; Merlin just stares at them, dazed. Blood runs down his head, and Lancelot feels cold.

“Lance?” Merlin murmurs at the sight of him, Gwaine’s hands on his face. Lancelot grinds his teeth as he swaps away Gwaine’s hands to give Merlin more space to breathe. Merlin struggles to sit up; his face is deadly pale, and his eyes are unfocused. 

“I’m here,” Lancelot says, and presses Merlin against him. Clearly Merlin isn’t lucid, and he needs help. He eyes Gwaine. “Go fetch Gaius.”

“Why don’t you go fetch Gaius,” Gwaine snaps, every movement frantic. Lancelot knows he’s not the only one who cares about Merlin; knows he doesn’t have the right to act like he is his only friend in this world. He was the first, though, the first in Camelot who Merlin told his secret to, and it has to count for something. Merlin shouldn't spill something when he’s like this.

“Gwaine,” Lancelot says. “He asked for me. Go.”

It’s harsh to keep Merlin’s murmurs against Gwaine—he looks stricken, and Lancelot’s heart twists for him for a moment. Then Gwaine turns around and runs away, leaving Lancelot with Merlin barely conscious in his arms. Lancelot panics for a moment, because he hardly knows anything about medicine; then the determination sets in, and he tries to find the source of Merlin’s injury.

There’s a gash on his head, still bleeding slowly. It seems like he was hit by something hard, but he doesn’t have any other injuries. Lancelot carefully runs his fingers through Merlin’s hair, mindful of the injury. Merlin’s eyes flutter open while the sun sets, painting his face orange.

“Merlin,” Lancelot whispers, and his heart beats fast as Merlin sluggishly meets his gaze. His eyes are midnight blue; he stares at Lancelot as if he is something familiar, a sight to be reassured by. Lancelot runs his fingers over Merlin’s forehead; Merlin’s lips twitch even as Lancelot feels himself burn hotter than Merlin is.

“Took care of it,” Merlin says, a little sluggish. “Don’t tell Arthur.”

“I never have,” Lancelot tells him. 

Merlin winces, and Lancelot allows him to lean against him. Merlin smells like wood and wild flowers and magic and blood; Lancelot’s nose is pressed against his ear, and he closes his eyes. His friend is injured, in pain and in a fragile situation. He is above this endless yearning for people he cannot have, and he is above this petty desire to be the one to take care of them. Merlin's health is all that matters, not Lancelot's heart.

He tries to pat Merlin’s head to judge how bad the damage is, but Merlin winces whenever Lancelot’s fingers stray towards the injury. He has never inclined towards the arts of medicine, but he thinks it’s a good sign that Merlin stays awake. Surely it means the wound can’t be too deep, he hopes, even as he clings onto Merlin and tries to ignore how matted his hair is. Head wounds bleed more, he tells himself.

“Merlin!” That isn’t Gaius’ voice; that is Arthur's. Lancelot twists, keeping Merlin pressed against himself as he eyes Arthur. Gwaine follows, his expression strained as he takes them in.

“Where is Gaius?” Lancelot asks, trying not to sound too accusing. Merlin needs help, not more people fussing about him. Even Gwen would have been more help, used as she is to lend a hand whenever Gaius and Merlin are swamped with work.

“I sent someone to find him,” Arthur says curtly, dropping to his knees next to them. “What happened?”

Merlin makes a wounded noise when Arthur reaches for him, and Lancelot responds by running his fingers through Merlin’s hair on the uninjured part of his head. He may still be awake, but he is also losing blood and weak; Lancelot wouldn’t be surprised if he fainted any minute now.

“The most important thing is to get him somewhere warm and safe,” Lancelot decides, and hoists Merlin up, taking a careful hold of his head and making sure it rests safely against his own shoulder. “If Gaius isn’t coming to us, we should go to him.”

“Lance,” Merlin murmurs, shifting in his grasp. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and for the first time his concern bleeds through his voice. Lancelot pities him and Gwaine, for a moment, both standing there with their worry open on their faces while he is the one holding Merlin. Lancelot is in no way a vicious sort of man, prone to tearing down others, but perhaps he feels a little vindicated to be the one Merlin is clinging to.

“Let’s move,” Lancelot says, and Arthur and Gwaine stride ahead of him. Arthur falters at times, stopping to look back at Merlin who has grown quiet in Lancelot’s hold. Lancelot walks as briskly as he can, making care not to jostle Merlin in his grip. Merlin’s head is lolling into Lancelot’s neck, his nose cold.

Arthur is the one to open Gaius’ door without knocking; the physician stands behind a desk of vials, blinking in surprise at their arrival. “Sire? What are you—Merlin!”

A frenzy of hurried activity follows, and Lancelot gingerly lays Merlin down on the Gaius’ cot. He almost misses the weight of him, and swallows deeply when the white linen turns red under Merlin’s head. His own fingers are wet with blood, and he draws back uselessly.

He became a knight to protect those he cares for. It was always his dream to fight the evils of the world and to hold those he loves under his sword arm; it is how he protected his mother when he grew up, his sisters, in a way even himself. Merlin refuses to be protected, always the one to draw himself into the shadows as his eyes glow gold. He could have asked for Lancelot's help, and he didn’t.

He didn’t, and Lancelot doesn’t know what to make of Merlin’s friendship with him. He can’t so easily ignore the way his chest twists viciously when Arthur bows over Merlin, gently resting his fingers over his cheekbone. Arthur’s expression is one of a lost man, and Lancelot understands him more than he wants to.

But Arthur has all the things Lancelot has distanced himself for, just to make it easier on his king. Gwaine tugs at Arthur to let Gaius through; Lancelot watches his brothers in arms for a moment, because it is easier than to watch Gaius apply salves to Merlin’s head wound; than to focus on Merlin’s shallow breathing or the age-old worry in the lines of Gaius’ face. Gwaine and Arthur share a hard stare, and Lancelot worries what they have been fighting over.

And then Arthur’s hardness is turned towards Lancelot, not for the first time and doubtfully for the last. It is a different kind of rock-solid sharpness that makes him a just king, though; there is a ragged edge to his voice that Lancelot hasn’t deserved. “Did he say anything? What happened? Who did this to him?”

Don’t tell Arthur, Merlin had whispered, and Lancelot swallows hard. “I’m not sure, my lord,” he says. It’s not even a lie, because he hadn’t even known that Merlin wasn’t in the citadel. He would have offered to come if he had, but Merlin has grown used to doing things in secrecy. “He just collapsed in front of us.”

“Something hit him in the head,” Gaius announces. “It’s a deep wound, but not so much that he is bleeding internally. I suspect he will be concussed, but he should be fine, Sire.”

Lancelot hadn’t even considered that Merlin could not be fine. He has seen Merlin walk off injuries that would put other men in their beds for weeks, pale but with a sincere smile around his lips. Merlin does not need protection, and nonetheless, Lancelot wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

You do not need to do this alone, he imagines saying to Merlin; the Merlin in his thoughts would nod and press himself against Lancelot, but this Merlin, the Merlin that Lancelot has come to know far better than he knows his own soul, will just smile and keep doing what he always has. Lancelot has no idea how to get through to him.

“Why was he outside?” Arthur demands. “It’s only morning. Where could he possibly have gone—”

“He was out for me, Sire,” Gaius says, undoubtedly a lie. “There were herbs I asked him to gather. He may have run into some bandits, or other unruly folk. I doubt you will find them, my lord, and it won’t help Merlin at this point.”

The translation, Lancelot knows, is that Arthur shouldn’t go out to search justice for Merlin. Lancelot suspects there is yet another thing going on that he doesn’t know about and that Gaius is trying to prevent Arthur from finding it out.

“I will come with him next time,” he says sternly, eyeing Gaius with a warning in his voice. Perhaps Gaius will do better at convincing Merlin that he can ask for Lancelot’s help; that Lancelot is more than ready to give it to him.

Gwaine’s head snaps up. “You are going to go with him to gather herbs?” he says incredulously. “My friend, you don’t know Merlin at all if you think he will let you.”

“I can’t waste any knights on following around Merlin’s every move,” Arthur adds, scowling, but he is the one to take the seat next to Merlin’s bed when Gaius moves away for another tincture, removing himself aptly from the conversation. “He needs to be more careful.”

Lancelot doesn’t miss the way that Arthur’s eyes linger on Merlin’s face. Perhaps Arthur is the one who ought to be more careful with Merlin, but Lancelot can hardly tell him that. It is not fair to either of them, and Arthur won’t understand.

“I think it is up to Merlin to decide what he wants,” Lancelot says, and when Gwaine’s expression darkens, Lancelot belatedly realises the way his words could have been taken. He doesn’t begrudge Merlin his friendship with Gwaine—they have only ever been closer because of it, but a dark suspicion forms in his mind, the way that Gwaine’s eyes keep darting towards Merlin.

They really don’t need to be here, all three of them, guarding Merlin’s bed. And yet they are.

“I’ll stay with him,” Gwaine offers, and that is the first time that Lancelot feels the dark beast of jealousy clawing through his chest. He carried Merlin here—he is only now realising that he stepped away from Arthur only to offer something to Gwaine; to Arthur; to everyone, but they don’t know Merlin like he does. If Merlin is refusing to come to Lancelot when he needs help, he will not at all turn to Gwaine.

He loves them; he would trust his life to them. But he can’t trust Merlin with them.

“Gwaine—” he starts, but then Gaius comes back.

“Are all of you still here?” he complains, and waves them away. Arthur stands up as if burnt, straightening his shoulders as his cheeks colour darkly. “Away with all of you! I can hardly have you standing around while I treat him. He needs silence and rest.”

Lancelot smiles tersely as they are shooed out of Gaius’ rooms. The three of them stand in front of a closed door for a few seconds, all equally worried for their friend inside. Gwaine scowls and stalks off, undoubtedly to find a distraction elsewhere, and Lancelot is secretly relieved he didn’t ask for a sparring match.

Arthur whirls on his heels, eyeing Lancelot. “Why did he ask for you?”

“I’m his friend,” Lancelot says, deceptively calmly as he balls his fist. “Why shouldn’t he?”

“You’re not…” Arthur says slowly, and falters. “I didn’t realise you were that close. I’d thought—”

Lancelot doesn’t know what Arthur thinks. Perhaps that he can have it both ways, he thinks bitterly, with the sting of jealousy and a twisted sort of desire for something Merlin can’t give him. That he can send flowers to Gwen and have Merlin by his side every day, and that they will both give him their love, and will not have it divided between other people.

He tries to shake it off. They do love Arthur, both Merlin and Gwen, and he knows Arthur loves them too. Still, something in Lancelot is viciously betrayed by it, and he shuffles and casts down his gaze, and wishes he were a better man.

“He’s an honourable man,” Lance says. “And you do not always give him what he deserves, my lord.”

Before Arthur can say anything, Lancelot walks away.

~*~

“Thanks,” Merlin says wryly when Lancelot wordlessly hands him a glass of water. “I’m parched.”

“It’s important to drink enough when you’re recovering,” Lancelot says wisely.

Merlin eyes him knowingly. “Is it?”

Lancelot shrugs. “I’m sure it won’t do any harm. Will you tell me what you were doing to get your head bashed in? Arthur and Gwaine were beside themselves with worry.”

“Ha,” Merlin snorts, and then winces. He takes a quick sip of his water, and Lancelot takes the seat beside his bed. Gaius is out, but Merlin was awake and willing to talk with Lancelot. He must have only been up for a few minutes, because his hair still stands upright, mussed from sleep and looking impossibly soft. “I doubt it was that bad.”

Lancelot stares at him for a moment. “You really do not realise it, do you?”

“What?” Merlin asks, and presses a hand to his head. “Anyway, remind me not to deal with any more mercenaries by myself. I barely got away from that last one.”

He sounds more annoyed than anything, and Lancelot leans forward. “Merlin, you could have died.”

“I’m not that injured,” Merlin says. “It would’ve been fine, I just didn’t see him.”

Lancelot takes a deep breath and counts to ten. He is a patient man, but Merlin’s willingness to let himself be hurt, over and over, for Arthur’s sake is cutting into that deep lake of stoicism. “Merlin,” he starts. “Why did you ask for me?”

“I did?” Merlin asks, and runs a hand over his face. “I don’t remember, really.”

A splash of disappointment colours Lancelot’s vision. “Right.”

“But you are my closest friend,” Merlin continues, and shrugs lightly, as if it means nothing. At Lance’s face, he adds, “I mean, you knew that, didn’t you? You must’ve known that.”

“Me?” Lancelot asks. “Not… Gwaine?”

“I love Gwaine to death,” Merlin says honestly, “but you’re the one who—well, you know.”

“Not Arthur?”

The silence lasts a bit longer. “Everything I am,” Merlin begins slowly, as if he’s thinking about his words very carefully, “and everything I’ll ever be is because of Arthur. He’s my destiny, and he’s—I do love him, Lance, you know I do. But with him, everything’s so… complicated. I want to stop lying to him.”

And because Lancelot needs to know, he needs to be aware of this, he asks, “And will you?”

Merlin presses his lips together. “Soon.”

“Let me be there when you do,” Lancelot says, and takes Merlin’s hands. He doesn't care how it looks, because he is Merlin’s closest friend, and Merlin is his. “Let me protect you, Merlin. If he tries anything, we’ll go away. I’ll come with you.”

Merlin’s eyes are heavy. “What about Gwen?”

“Arthur loves her,” Lancelot points out. “She will have a comfortable life, full of laughter and joy, as she should. But she does not have my heart, Merlin. She was nothing more than a dream, once upon a time, and one that has faded ever since.”

Merlin licks his lips. “I won’t need your protection,” he says wryly, and squeezes Lance’s hand gently. “But I’ll welcome your friendship, if it comes to that. And I just hope—he won’t take it well, you know. But I hope he will forgive me.”

So does Lancelot, if it comes to that. Personally, he wouldn’t mind hiding Merlin away from the world, or from Arthur. Merlin should not keep risking himself like this, not without Arthur even knowing to what lengths he is going for him.

“I’m sure he will,” Lancelot says, and holds onto Merlin.

~*~

Lancelot doesn’t know Morgana very well, which is perhaps surprising considering her closeness to the two people he regards most highly.

Merlin has never explicitly told him about her magic, clearly doubting whether it was his place—rightly so, Lancelot thinks, knowing how careful Merlin has always been with his own secrets—but Lancelot has heard enough dropped hints to have guessed. Besides, Arthur has been less careful, since Lancelot doubts Morgana would have told him; he sometimes mentions Morgana’s nightmares, or the way she has so keenly predicted something that has happened.

But Lancelot has never felt the need to go to her, and make sure of her intentions. She is Gwen’s closest friend, and whatever sins she’s guilty of in Camelot’s eyes are the same ones that Lancelot has never judged Merlin for.

So it’s surprising when she comes to find him, one afternoon after sword practice. He’s sweaty and uncomfortable, and although Morgana has never beguiled him as she seems to have so many men, he can’t deny her beauty.

“Gwen told me you visited her the other day,” she says conversationally, and Lancelot nearly drops his sword at her quiet entrance in the armoury. “And Arthur told me how valiantly you came to Merlin’s rescue yesterday.”

Lancelot puts away his sword, and feels oddly naked in her presence. “Yes, my lady. I suppose so.”

“You suppose you visited her, or you suppose you were valiant?” Morgana asks sharply.

“I suppose I was valiant,” Lancelot says, and straightens his shoulders. “Although I would have done the same for any of my friends, or indeed, for any citizen of Camelot in need of my help.”

“He didn’t sound so pleased about it, you know,” Morgana murmurs conversationally, and pushes past Lancelot to take one of the swords herself. It has been unused for a while, and its blade glints in the flickering light of the candles. She turns it, carefully running her fingers over the sharp metal.

Lancelot breathes in. “He was worried. We all were.”

“Arthur has always been so careful with picking his friends,” she says suddenly, raising the sword. She still does not look at him at all. “In fact, I wondered if he knew how to make friends at all until Merlin stumbled into our lives. I know he’s not very open with his affection, Sir Lancelot, but I do hope you know whose hearts are on the line here.”

Lancelot’s own heart is beating very fast. “Is that a threat, my lady?” he asks patiently. If it is, he knows he can step away for Merlin's sake. He has done it before, and he would do it again. It just stings, but he’s grown used to that.

Or at least he’s able to bear it.

Morgana meets his eye, her expression twisted by surprise. She returns the sword carefully. “No, it isn’t.”

“Merlin can make his own choices,” Lancelot says more firmly this time.

“Indeed he can,” Morgana says quietly. “That does require him to know he has certain choices, however. And I’m not always so sure that he does. More important, Sir Lancelot—I wanted to know about your choices.”

“Mine?” he asks.

“Once upon a time,” Morgana starts with a wry smile, “you openly expressed some affection for Gwen. Now, she told me you visited her this week. And I wanted to know what your intentions were.”

Intentions. Lancelot swallows heavily. “My lady, I swear that I have no intentions,” he says, and adds, “And especially not for Gwen. That time has passed, as she would be able to tell you.”

“So just Merlin, then?” Morgana asks. Lancelot opens his mouth to answer, and then finds himself unable to say the words. He wants to deny it—he wants to be able to step out of Merlin and Arthur’s way, if that is what they want. And he has seen it, hasn’t he, the way that they revolve around each other?

They share a destiny. Their souls are tied together, more deeply entrenched than Lancelot could ever know. Merlin is even less a choice than Gwen ever was, and yet, he cannot promise her.

Because it is Merlin’s choice, and Morgana is right. Merlin doesn’t know he has one.

“That’s all I wanted to know,” Morgana tells him, and sweeps away again. Lancelot can only watch her go, and wonder who, exactly, she is looking out for.

~*~

Merlin comes to Lancelot’s rooms late at night after his first day back at work.

“He’s such a prat!” Merlin cries out, and paces the length of the room. Lancelot just sits at his desk and watches him wear himself out. “I do everything for him, and he just—he thinks it’s so funny, and he can’t even—I can see that he’s sorry, but he refuses to say it!”

“Merlin,” Lancelot says.

“But he doesn’t stop doing it, does he? I don’t even mind, necessarily, when he’s throwing things at me, because it’s just—one of those things that he’s always done, and we make a joke out of it and it all goes away until the next time he does it—”

“Merlin.”

Merlin stops and stares at him. “What?”

“Have you ever considered,” he says, tilting his head, “that it’s his way of trying to make sure you’re alright? He is roughhousing with you, Merlin. He wants your attention.”

“He could just say so,” Merlin says grumpily, and lets himself fall on the chair opposite Lance’s. “I just wish he weren’t so complicated all the time. I’d rather he—do something nice for me. You got me flowers, and that’s not so hard, is it? Not that—it was very lovely, Lance, but I mean, he could just tell me he’s glad I’m alright.”

Lance leans forward, his heart beating in his throat. Suddenly, he needs Merlin to know—because he can make a choice, and Merlin has never once thought about himself. He should be able to have this, if he so desires. And if not—if not, Lancelot will step away, and never breathe of it again.

“Merlin,” he says. “Arthur likes you.”

“Yes, and I like him too,” Merlin says, blinking at him. “That doesn’t mean—”

“Not like that,” Lancelot murmurs.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Merlin slowly leans back. His brows are furrowed in thought, and he slowly shakes his head, laughing awkwardly. “No. No-o. That’s not—you’re trying to be funny.”

“Gwaine does, too,” Lancelot offers.

Merlin stares at him, pale. “But they’re my friends. We’re friends.”

“You’ve something about you, Merlin,” Lancelot says, and now that he has gone through with this, perhaps it is time he uncovers the full truth. It is what Merlin deserves, after all, because it is not only Arthur who owes him something. “To be entirely honest with you, I only recognise it in them because they are my own feelings.”

Merlin sits still like a statue. He pulls his hands away from the desk, and looks down at his lap.

“So you mean…” he says, taken aback. “Lance.”

“I did not want you to tell Arthur about your magic,” Lance says, “because I feared what he would do to you. But to see you torn like this is breaking me apart even further, and so I will stay by your side. You cannot keep doing this, Merlin. He owes you the truth, and so do you owe him. He is king now. Perhaps it is time to see what kind of king he will be.”

Merlin shakes his head. “You just told me—that,” he says, pointedly, wheezing with a touch of lunacy, “and now you want me to go and tell Arthur about my magic? Lance, please. I need to know… you can’t mean it. You can’t. You love Gwen.”

“No,” Lancelot says. “No, I don’t.”

With a loud scrape of the chair over the tiles, Merlin stands up. “I’m not…”

“I don’t say it with any intention,” Lancelot tells him. “I want you to be aware of your options. I want you to know the degree of my affection, and I thought it fair for you to be aware of Gwaine’s and Arthur’s.” He smiles wryly. “Of course, I doubt they will thank me for it, and certainly they would have preferred to talk to you themselves—if they ever had. But then, I suppose I know something they don’t, do I?”

“I’ve got to go,” Merlin says, and lets the door fall shut behind him. Lancelot sighs, and leans his head against the desk. It had been an impulse, more than anything, to set free the secrets. A part of him feels free, but he wonders if Merlin feels better for his knowledge. If he has been, perhaps, selfish.

But a secret, once let out, cannot be contained.

~*~

It’s bad luck, Lancelot supposes, that causes all the knights and Merlin to have to go on a trip two days after. He hasn’t spoken with Merlin since his ill-timed confession, and Merlin keeps eyeing him with a combination of confusion and trepidation.

Lancelot’s hopes were never high. Still, he isn’t sure the sincerity reaches his smile when he aims it at Merlin.

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot says that night, when they are making camp. Everyone is in boisterous moods, but Merlin is sitting alone by the fire, and so Lancelot has come to join him. “If my words—”

“I need to know,” Merlin interrupts, and turns towards him with an heartbreakingly fragile expression Lancelot has never seen on his face before, “if you meant it.”

Lancelot takes a breath, and uncurls his fingers. Slowly, he drags them over Merlin’s knee. “I would not have said it,” he murmurs, “had I not meant it. But it does not mean you need to act on them, Merlin, not on anything. All I wanted is for you—”

He stops talking when Merlin takes his hand and entangles their fingers. The consternation still is clear on his face, but his lips are set with a stubborn tilt that Lancelot does know very well. He runs a thumb over Merlin’s wrist, and can’t entirely meet Merlin’s eyes.

“I’ve never given it any thought,” Merlin says. “I didn’t know I could.”

“What about Arthur?” Lancelot asks. 

Merlin looks over his shoulder, and Lancelot follows his gaze. Arthur is laughing at something Elyan said, his stance relaxed and his hair golden in the light of the campfire. He does deserve love, all of it he can get, Lancelot knows, but he’s not sure it should be Merlin’s.

Perhaps that is jealousy talking.

“It’s complicated,” Merlin murmurs, and leans forward slightly. “Lance, I love him. I do. But his father has also killed so many of my people, and he’s been complicit in it, and I know he can be better. He is better. I know. But there’s a destiny between us, and I don’t know if it could be any—more. If it wouldn’t be too much.”

“I understand,” Lancelot says, and tries to tug his hand away. Merlin holds onto him, though, and presses together his lips.

“You,” Merlin continues strictly, and frowns at him. “You’ve always supported me, and been by my side, and you have made things so easy for me, even when they shouldn’t have been, Lance. And I thought I felt so comfortable with you because—well, I’m not sure.” He shrugs. “But if you’d have me, I’m not… I do, Lance. And I can’t say that Arthur’s not important to me, but I asked for you. I still would ask for you.”

Lancelot swallows heavily, and pushes his shoulder against Merlin. Merlin smiles privately, utterly sincerely and joyful, and Lancelot wishes they were alone.

“Yes?” he asks, just to make sure.

Merlin sniffles, and makes a show of taking Lancelot’s hand to stroke the lines on his palm with his thumb. “Yes.”

~*~

There’s another banquet when they return from a successful mission. Lancelot sits with the knights, while Merlin stands behind Arthur and serves him. Occasionally, though, Merlin is called upon to fill the knights’ goblets, and Merlin makes sure to brush past Lancelot's back, and smiles secretly at him when he does.

Lancelot just feels giddy with it, with this unexpected joy; at some point, and he doesn’t know when, he’d stopped expecting anything. Gwen had made her choice—or perhaps, Lancelot had made it for her out of fear of losing her, and she hadn’t fought it—and Merlin had seemed so unaware of any affections aimed towards him.

“What’re you so happy about?” Gwaine asks him, jovially elbowing him in the middle of the evening. Lancelot would tell him, but Merlin’s heart may be a sore subject, and it still feels too new and private. 

So instead, he just smiles, and says, “A quest well-completed, of course.”

Gwaine snorts. “You’re absolutely full of it, you do know that, my friend,” he says, and turns back to his cup of ale. Lancelot may have had a sip of wine too much, perhaps, because when the feast is over and he stumbles back to his room, his coordination is nowhere to be found. He is usually not a man given to inebriation, but the circumstances had made it so.

“Easy there,” Merlin says, coming from out of nowhere, sober as he always is. He smiles broadly at Lancelot, though, grabbing his elbow. 

“Merlin!” Lancelot leans on him at once, and they nearly fall over; Merlin’s laugh is infectious as he rights them, putting them back on track. Merlin’s limbs are long and slender, with wiry muscle; Lancelot has admired him before, so willowy and strong. It is a strength he admires, but moreso, he appreciates Merlin’s many skills, the secret ones and the ones that no one seems to notice despite the fact they’re plainly there for all to see.

“I was wondering,” Merlin says, and walks in step with him, slowly leading him back to his rooms, “if you wanted me to stay over. In your room, that is, because with Gaius—yeah, no.”

He makes a face, and Lancelot feels himself sober up at once. Not entirely, but enough for the implications of the question to sink in.

“Are you sure?”

“Are you going to keep asking?” Merlin counters, and runs a hand over Lance’s arm. “Yes, I’m sure. I want to. We’ll be able to sleep in, if you want, and I can run and get some breakfast from the kitchen in the morning.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Lance murmurs, and stops them right in the middle of the hallway to run a finger across Merlin’s cheek. “You are not a servant to me.”

“No, but I want to,” Merlin says, and takes Lance’s fingers to kiss them gently, his face growing pink. Then he smiles again. “Besides, you’ll be cursing yourself in the morning. I’ve seen you hungover before, Lance, and I’m not looking forward to it.”

Lance frowns at the thought. “Neither am I,” he admits, and presses himself against Merlin. “But it will be worth it for tonight.”

~*~

They don’t talk about telling Arthur anymore. Lancelot doesn’t bring it up, because Merlin has been more careful, lately; has kept Lancelot’s worries in mind, and on days where Merlin still has to go out to use his magic to protect Arthur, it helps that Merlin sleeps in his bed at the end of the day.

Lancelot doesn’t want to push it, even though he knows that he should, probably. Their lives in Camelot are better than they have ever been before, and he thinks Merlin doesn’t want to upset that careful balance. They have their friends, and they have each other, and for once, nothing has to give.

That is, until the day Arthur is attacked.

There is a tournament, and Lancelot enjoys the tournaments, usually. They are the pinnacle of nobility for the knights, and he enjoys the competition of it all. It’s a day spent outside among his brothers and friends, and the smell of steel and sweat sharp in his nose. Merlin makes a face at him from the sidelines when Lancelot wins against Percival, and then he claps, tilting his head in a look that says something like, really, that was supposed to be impressive? 

You come try it, Lancelot mouths at him, and Merlin raises his eyebrows in disbelief, and mouths back, No, thank you.

And then, of course, Merlin is hurrying after Arthur again, who’s been steadily winning his own matches. Lancelot knows that they ought to be vigilant of any attacks against their king during these tournaments—he has been privy to more than one of Merlin’s rant about the danger during the matches, even apart from swords being pointy and sharp—but the sun is out, and Merlin secretly looked so excited when Lancelot won his last match against Leon.

So he isn’t paying very close attention until Merlin runs past him, tugging him at his sleeve and yelling, “Arthur, now!”

There is no more need for explanation. Two assassins stands in Arthur’s tent; not even hidden as knights, but simple men, clearly having made use of the excitement of the tournament to sneak in. There is no subtlety, no finesse, but Lancelot supposes that none is needed if you just aim to kill the king of Camelot in the most cowardly way possible.

The first has a sword to Arthur’s throat; the other raises his when Merlin and Lancelot burst in.

“Let go of him,” Lancelot says, his voice low, and raises sword. Arthur is still conscious, his eyes sharp with adrenaline. His sword lies on the ground, abandoned, and he has a cut on his cheek. Clearly the would-be assassins overpowered him, and Merlin and Lancelot came in just in time for the execution.

“I think not,” the second man says, and points his sword towards Lancelot. “He must pay for the death of my son—”

“Lance,” Merlin says, gritting his teeth. It would probably have been best for him if Arthur were unconscious, Lancelot reflects; as it is, Merlin is defenceless. It is up to Lancelot, then, and he darts forwards before the man can even finish his sentence.

There is a reason Lancelot has been winning all his matches. He is one of the strongest swordsmen in Camelot, and he has disarmed the assassin before he even has time to properly block Lancelot’s attack. 

Arthur makes use of the confusion to roll away from the blade aimed at his neck, and tackles the other attacker. He is still on the ground, though, trying to lunge for his sword, but it’s too far away for him to reach in time. Lancelot sees what will happen before he even processes it; Arthur’s fingers reaching for the hilt of his sword, his eyes intent on his weapon, and the assassin’s ruthless swing when he realises he will lose his chance if he doesn’t move now. 

The sword has pierced Lancelot’s side before he’s entirely aware of jumping between them. His own blade is burrowed inside the attacker’s chest, and Lancelot slumps back. His head is woozy at once; he drops his sword clumsily and falls, landing right next to Arthur. His fingers tremble as he closes them over his wound, as if that will do anything: he has known these wounds to be fatal. 

“Oh,” he says, a bit uselessly, and looks up at Merlin.

Merlin, who drops to his knees next to him, a naked desperation on his face that Lancelot has never seen before and never wanted to. He sluggishly moves his fingers up to Merlin’s face to touch him tenderly, because, well.

Realistically, he probably won’t get to again.

“Lancelot,” Arthur says, and grabs hold Lancelot’s head in between his hands. His eyes are stern, and there’s a solemn twist to his mouth that makes him look a bit like his father. “Lancelot. You saved my life.”

“It’s my duty, lord,” he manages. 

“No, you moron,” Merlin grits between his teeth, and presses hard against Lancelot’s wound. His eyes are red-rimmed, and Lancelot is acutely aware of several tear drops falling down from Merlin’s cheeks onto his chest. They mix, pinkish, with the blood from his injury. “You have to live. Lance. Lance, are you listening? You can’t leave me.”

“Okay,” he says, and doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to for a moment; the world is moving so sluggishly, or perhaps that’s him. “Alright, Merlin.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says quietly, and tugs at him, his face grim. 

“No,” Merlin snarls. “I can save him. I can save him!”

Lancelot inhales sharply, tears pricking his own eyes. It makes Merlin’s face look foggy and unfocused, as if he is looking through a haze. He presses against his side, but it feels as if it is on fire, and his arms won’t cooperate.

“Merlin,” Arthur repeats hopelessly. “You can’t.”

Merlin’s eyes are blue, blue, blue, and then they’re not. Lancelot is only vaguely aware of the odd language he hears, and he doesn’t know what the words mean. A vague sense of alarm has settled in his chest, a whisper in his mind that says that he can’t do this, but then Merlin’s hand rests on his brow.

“If you were to live only one more night,” he thinks he hears Merlin whisper, “it would have been worth it. I’ll give it up for you.”

There’s a sharp inhale, and the excruciating pain sharpens and then fades, and Lancelot isn’t sure of anything that has happened. All he knows is that when he finally drops away, Merlin is still sitting by his side, and his eyes glow golden.

~*~

“—all these years, and you never even considered that I might understand—”

“Quiet,” comes Merlin’s voice in an aggressive whisper. “You’ll wake him.”

Lancelot presses his eyes shut in pain. He should be dead, and even the thought of moving is awful. However, he is alive, awake, somehow hale, and Merlin is sitting by his bedside. Even now, he can feel Merlin’s hand casually lying on Lance’s arm, and he focuses on that instead.

And realises that Arthur is there too, and they are talking between themselves.

“—knew me better than that, Merlin.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Merlin admits quietly, and Lancelot doesn’t want to interrupt this. He stays entirely silent as Merlin slowly moves his finger across Lance’s skin. “Especially after your—your father’s death, and everything that happened. You said it was evil, Arthur. It’s hard to get past that.”

There’s a beat of silence. “I could never have believed you to be evil.”

“I wanted to tell you, so many times,” Merlin says a little plaintively. “But I couldn’t know what you’d do. And I don’t want to leave, Arthur.”

Arthur makes an affronted noise. “I won’t make you. Nor Lancelot, by the way, if you were going to ask. Since he so obviously knew already.”

“I won’t apologise for that,” Merlin says quietly. “You would’ve killed me, Arthur.”

“I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

Merlin continues, his voice a low murmur, “And anyway, I didn’t tell him. He figured it out by himself, and it was—a relief, you know? It felt like the only time I could truly be me. With you, I’ve never managed to—we’ve a lot of secrets between us.”

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs. “For what it’s worth, that will change now. You love him, don’t you?”

Merlin’s fingers tighten around Lancelot’s arm, his nails digging into him. Lancelot suppresses a wince. “I do.”

“Then I’m sorry for that, too.” Arthur hiccups out a quiet laugh. “But I suppose I understand why. I have caused you too much grief, even if I didn’t know.”

There’s the sound of ruffling, and then Merlin’s hand leaves Lancelot’s. The absence smarts at once, but Lancelot knows how closely Merlin holds Arthur in his heart. And this time, he cannot feel jealous of it. He has his own place in Merlin's affections, he is quite secure in that knowledge.

"You've got Gwen," Merlin says a little helplessly, as if he doesn't know how to respond to that. It's all but a confession from Arthur, and probably one that Merlin never expected to hear.

Arthur lets out a breathy laugh, pained and insincere. "No, I don't. She and Morgana are very happy together, though. I can't seem to begrudge anyone their hearts."

That silence is heavier than any before, and Lancelot wishes he could see them—could console Arthur, and could spare him the grief of loving and losing. Lancelot knows how hard it is, and his heart constricts. He had thought that Arthur would have Gwen.

He thought Arthur nearly had Merlin and Gwen both, and it turns out he was wrong.

“I do love you, you know,” Merlin admits quietly. Arthur's was a confession—Merlin's is an apology. “In another life, Arthur. In another world, it might have been you.”

“It seems that is true for everyone, at times,” Arthur murmurs, and stands up. “I won’t keep you any longer, Merlin. We’ll have to discuss this at more length—your magic, I mean, not... anything else—but I’ll… a few days won’t hurt the matter. I’ll have George come to serve me—”

“No, I’ll do it,” Merlin insists. “Really, Arthur. Things don’t have to change.”

There’s a shuffle as Merlin rises too, and Lancelot slowly opens his eyes to glance at them. Arthur’s expression is carefully closed shut, and Merlin is biting his lower lip, revolving around him as he always has. But, Lancelot knows, Merlin will return to him at the end of the day.

Arthur smiles wearily. “More has to change than you know,” he says, “but perhaps not everything. Fine, Merlin, you can serve me, if you’re being so stubborn about it.”

“Me?” Merlin says faintly. “Never.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur says, and his eyes flick towards Lance. Lance quickly closes his eyes again, but his heart beats fast, and he thinks Arthur must have seen. He waits for a second, but Arthur doesn’t say anything.

“See you tomorrow,” Merlin says, and Lancelot hears the door click shut behind him. After a moment or two, Merlin resumes his earlier place by Lancelot’s side, and then his finger runs across the vein in the crook of Lancelot's elbow. “I do know you’re awake, you know.”

Lancelot opens his eyes and smiles awkwardly. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re far too noble, has anyone ever told you?” Merlin says, and presses a kiss to the corner of Lance’s mouth. “I’m glad you’re alright. Don’t ever do that again.”

Lance nods slowly, and glances towards the door. “So he knows.”

“He does.” Merlin takes a deep breath, and taps his finger to Lance’s arm. “I should’ve told him earlier. All things considered, he took it fairly well. And sorry I didn’t keep my promise.”

His mind blanks. “What promise?”

“That you’d be there when he found out,” Merlin tells him, and leans back. “Although I suppose you were. We’re… talking about it. Slowly. You can be there for that, if you want. I’m sure there’s still plenty of things you don’t know about.”

“But he’ll be okay?” Lance asks.

Merlin smiles tiredly. “He’ll be okay.”

Lance takes Merlin’s hand again, entwining their fingers. A fear he has held onto since the day he met Merlin is slowly dissipating, as if he can’t entirely believe it yet. Arthur knows, and Merlin is safe. They can have it all. He can see a golden dawn rising, he thinks, as the light of the sun spills through the window. He can feel it, that prophesied age that Merlin wants so dearly—has fought and bled for, and has ignored his own desires for. It is coming, and it will spill across Albion, with Merlin and Arthur leading it together. And Lancelot will be by their side for it, as long as it lasts. Forever.

“And how are we?” he asks, simply because he wants to hear it from Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin huffs out a laugh and presses his forehead against Lancelot's. They can breathe openly, and it is a freedom he has grown unused to. And if Lance feels like this, he can’t quite imagine how relieved Merlin must be.

“Are you jealous?” Merlin asks, a jest and a concern all in one.

“Not anymore,” Lancelot answers honestly, and runs his hand through Merlin’s hair. It is just as fine and soft as he always thought it would be.

Merlin leans in to kiss him, and Lancelot can feel him smiling against his lips. “Good.”