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It started with a cough. Winter had come down harsh in Camelot, burying the roofs under glittering snow and coating the streets in frozen sludge. The cough swept through most of the lower town, and before long the castle staff had caught it too. Though Gaius had his hands full, dealing with the yearly wave of winter chill was a well-practiced routine, and before long the sickness passed and everyone had recovered.
Everyone, except Lancelot.
Unlike the rest of Camelot, he kept getting worse instead of better, to the point that Gaius had Gwaine half-carry him from his chambers (their chambers, really) over to the infirmary. Gwaine complied reluctantly, but he complied. If you asked him, there was no need to worry — it was Lancelot, after all. He certainly wasn’t worried. He wasn’t.
And neither was Lance, if his pouting was anything to go by.
“I’m gonna — be fine,” he said around another harsh cough. “It’s just a cold, Gaius, you — said it yourself. The whole city had it.”
Gaius gave him a stern glare, raised that terrifying eyebrow of his, and Lancelot let himself fall back into the pillow with a dramatic groan.
“It’ll be fine, Tart,” Gwaine promised, taking his hand and linking their fingers. “You’ll be well and back home in no time.”
Lance smiled slightly and squeezed his hand.
Gaius handed him a horrid looking potion, and Gwaine pulled a face in sympathy. He’d be fine. He had been among the last few to come down with the winter chill, and Gaius had no other patients anymore now. Yeah, he’d be fine.
“A common flu? Are you sure?” asked Arthur.
“Yes, sire, quite sure,” Gaius replied.
“Then why isn’t he recovering?” demanded Gwaine. He was pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. It had been more than two weeks since Lancelot had first caught the winter chill, and he was still getting worse. Even Arthur was worried enough by now to call Gaius in for a report — a report that Gwaine had insisted on hearing as well, which in turn had prompted Gwen to demand her inclusion, followed by the rest of the knights who simply tagged along without even asking. Which was how they’d all come to sit in the small council chamber, watching Gaius with varying degrees of concern. Though Gwaine would never admit it, he was grateful for it. Gaius wouldn’t keep anything from the king.
“I do not know, though I do have a theory.”
“Well, out with it then,” said Arthur. “What’s the theory?”
Gaius spread his hands and gave a small shrug. “There are many reasons why patients fail to recover from common illnesses, but the main one is always that they — for whatever reason — have not encountered it yet. Lancelot spent only a brief time in Camelot on his first visit, and it hasn’t been a full cycle of the seasons since he’s returned.
Gwaine frowned. “What about stronger remedies? Potions? Couldn’t those help him?”
“There is a risk that he would become dependent on them, and rather than helping him, the prolonged passive sickness would weaken him only further to the point where he might suffer grave consequences should he stop taking the remedies.”
“So, what, there’s nothing to be done?” asked Gwaine, dread rising like ice in his blood.
“I’m afraid not,” said Gaius. “His body has to learn to fight the illness by itself if he is to truly recover.”
Gwaine slumped into a chair, suddenly too weak to stay standing. After all the ridiculous things this man had survived in the brief time since they’d both come to be Knights of Camelot, this couldn’t possibly be the thing that would bring his down. It couldn’t be. Not after surviving a battle against an immortal army. Not after facing the Dorocha and escaping unscathed, not after they’d somehow managed to close that horrifying veil without any sacrifices. Admittedly, that had mostly been—
“What about magic?” asked Merlin into the heavy silence.
Gwaine’s head snapped up, the tight ball of tension in his chest lurching with a sudden, desperate surge of hope. He swivelled his gaze over to Gaius and noted with dismay that the physician was frowning deeply.
“Magic — especially healing magic — is tricky, Merlin, you know this better than most,” he warned.
“Is it possible?” pressed Gwaine. “Theoretically, is it possible?”
Gaius nodded warily. “Theoretically, yes. However there are many possible approaches, and which of them to use is a question that requires careful consideration if one presumes to avoid potentially devastating consequences.”
“But you could do that, couldn’t you. You’re a physician with decades of experience.” He looked at Merlin, pleading. “And you know more about magic than anyone — you could both consider it carefully. You could save him.”
“Or it could kill him faster,” said Gaius, but Gwaine’s focus was wholly on Merlin. Ultimately, he was the one with the magic, and he was the one to decide.
Merlin wore the same contemplative frown he always wore whenever he was unhappy with all his options. Gwaine’s heart fell at the sight.
“Please,” he added softly. “We can’t let him die, not like this. Not without trying at least.” I cannot lose him, he didn’t say out loud. The unspoken words rang through the silence all the same.
Time slowed as he waited for Merlin’s response, seconds stretching into hours. Finally, Merlin let out an audible breath and met Gwaine’s eyes.
“Of course not. We’ll try anything we can.”
The debate over what exactly the magic was supposed to achieve took three full, agonising days. In the end, they decided that the safest way would be to target the disease directly in Lancelot’s blood. Or maybe it was the part of his blood that fought the disease — Gwaine wasn’t entirely sure. Not that he was the one who had to know in the first place. All he knew was that Lancelot had gotten even worse in the meantime; worse in a way that Gaius wasn’t familiar with, a sickness he had never seen before.
He had fallen asleep shortly after Gwaine had told him about the plan to heal him with magic, and he hadn’t woken since. Even Gwaine knew what it meant; they were running out of time.
“Do you think—”
“Gwaine, for the love of the Goddess: Shut. Up! I need to focus,” Merlin snapped.
Gwaine retreated without another sound, watching worriedly from the other side of the room as Gaius examined Lancelot one more time. It all took so long, it was disconcerting. But Gaius had reiterated that “healing magic is delicate business” so many times over the past three days, even Gwaine had accepted the merit of going slow if it avoided mistakes.
Merlin gave Gaius a serious nod, then, and Gwaine tensed. Gaius moved to Lancelot’s side, while Merlin stood at his head, reaching over to place his hands on his chest.
Gwaine held his breath.
Foreign words spilled from Merlin’s mouth, words saturated with power that turned his eyes to molten gold. A faint brush of a nonexistent breeze, a stray ripple of powerful magic, a whisper over Gwaine’s skin even where it was covered beneath layers of fabric. Merlin’s eyes brightened even further — then the gold spilled from his irises, stretched beyond his eyelids, dripped down his neck, setting his entire skin alight with magic. It shone diffusely for a moment, then it lurched into motion, growing denser and denser as it travelled down Merlin’s arms and pooled beneath his palms, bright and strong.
The look on Merlin’s face was tense, his every fibre focused on the glowing, vibrating power under his hands. A slow breath, then another command in the Old Tongue, and the light bled deep into Lancelot’s chest. It suffused him in gold, albeit in a wholly different manner than the way it had radiated from Merlin’s skin. It sank beneath his bones, projecting their shadows outwards, slipped into his veins to irradiate them with a blood-tinted glow.
It turned him inside out, blazing like a beacon, fragile as glass.
Gwaine was transfixed by the sight. Eerie as it was, there was an odd beauty about it.
His captivation was harshly shattered by a strangled noise from Merlin, and Gwaine’s gaze snapped up to see Merlin’s jaw clenched tightly, his eyes — still burning gold — wrinkled with strained tension.
“Merlin, what is it? Tell me what you feel,” urged Gaius.
“There’s — more. — Something — else,” Merlin bit out. “Magic.”
All at once, Gwaine was doused in ice. Arthur’s voice, ordering Merlin to abort the spell, echoed dull and distant through Gwaine’s head. He vaguely registered Merlin shaking his head, his eyes flaring bright. Suddenly he was at Lancelot’s side, reaching for his hand that still glowed with Merlin’s magic, his only thought that he couldn’t die yet, not without at least waking first.
“Merlin, stop the spell, now!”
“Cursed. — I have — to break—” Merlin broke off with a gasp. The magic around him flared blindingly bright.
The glow faded.
Merlin breathed a ragged breath, took his hands off Lancelot’s chest. Gold-returned-blue eyes searched Gwaine’s, too apologetic for Gwaine to meet them.
No, he kept his own eyes on Lancelot’s face, waiting. Because he couldn’t die, not yet, not like this.
“Gwaine—“
“No.” He refused to look up. Lifted a hand to his ice pale face, cupped his cheek. “Come on,” he whispered. “Come on, Tart, this isn’t funny anymore. Come back to me, love. Come home.”
Lancelot opened his eyes, and breathed.