Chapter Text
“How does it feel?”
Merlin clawed at his throat as if he could pry the burning out with his nails, eyes flicking from Morgana to the shade frantically. Malice twists her features into the picture of cruelty, but something soft and painful still worries at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Even as his pulse fades, that grief in Merlin’s heart weighs heavy and that guilt flares ever higher.
The leaves crunch as he drops to his knees and Morgana steps closer, though the shade behind her remains still and obedient as she speaks.
“How does it feel to be betrayed? Poisoned by someone you thought you could trust?”
Merlin tries to meet her eyes again, but the effort is too much and his head is pounding, so he settles for looking blearily at her feet.
Her shoes are pointed.
They always have been, he recalls, it's one of the few things recognisable from the girl he once knew. On castle floors she walked and her pointy shoes click click clicked– she walked with purpose then.
He thinks he may be dying.
Oh yes, the poison. Morgana.
Lancelot stays still; blurry, in the background; or some approximation of him anyway. A trusted friend and a bit of hemlock in the water.
How poetic.
click click click and Morgana wins, she gets her revenge for the heinous act, the betrayal, the burning lungs closing throats blurring eyes (‘I know what you did.’)
(‘..I would have done the same.’)
“..Wht.. would y’hve done?” The words are strangled, barely cohesive. But he can speak. Already he feels his magic burning away at the poison. No, Morgana won’t kill him. His destiny is not finished. He can’t leave yet, even when he’s so tired.
“What?” Her voice is rough. Angry. She always sounds angry now.
Merlin supposes that's his fault. But what could he have done?
“I cou’dn’t let ‘em die.” He breathes, and oh he can do that now. How sad, for Morgana, who won’t ever get her revenge. He can’t seem to die. Then again, she didn’t either, that girl in his memories. Surely that means they can be even by now, then?
“Oh, but you could kill me?” There’s a laugh in her voice, but she is not amused. She’s hurt and she’s angry. She’s right to be, he knows, but there’s still a part of him, that young boy who came to Camelot searching for peace, that cried for forgiveness—
—It’s not fair it wasn’t my fault I tried I didn’t want to I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
“S’the only way. Break the spell.” I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn't want to.
“That spell? Is that what I was worth to you, Merlin? Leverage, to bargain for the life of a tyrant?”
“Uther wasn't the only one you put in danger that day.” He tried desperately to justify himself, to make her understand.
“Nor was I the only one you would have killed.” She countered, and she was right, probably. She had to be. Why would he feel so guilty if not for the fact that deep down, somewhere he couldn’t reach, he knew she was right? Still, he denied it.
“It's not true, I would've saved them. I did save them.” Did he? Did he not doom them to Morgana's wrath?
“You lie! You wanted me dead because of my magic, you betrayed me!”
“I don’t want you to die.” For the first time in the encounter, his voice didn't crack, shake, or wheeze as he spoke. There was something, then, in her expression. Merlin couldn't read it exactly—but he knew, somehow, she believed him.
She goes quiet, then. Considering, it seems. Or maybe making a judgement.
She looks at Lancelot, or some perversion of him anyway, and Merlin panics. He may be nothing but a puppet for Morgana now, but he wears the face of Merlin’s dearest friend and his magic surges to defend, or attack, or something as it presses against the constraints he keeps it in.
It wasn’t necessary, however, as she says something and then the man is Lancelot, and Merlin can feel it, see it in the way he moves, the way he looks at Merlin with those eyes which have haunted him for years now. As he manages to raise his head, still pounding but mind now clear of the poison, his friend is by his side, sword drawn defensively and although Morgana still stands there, threatening as ever, he feels safer than he has since before the veil closed.
The illusion breaks when Morgana speaks again, a sneering, taunting voice that promises something cruel to follow.
“So sentimental, Merlin,” she says as she skulks backward to the cave opening, “I suppose you'd be happy to die alongside your little dog, then.” She turns and leaves, smirking as she waves a hand. The world around them begins to tremble; then the ceiling caves in.
Merlin has spent many hours defending people—himself, Arthur, Camelot—with little more than his thoughts so his magic was nearly synonymous with his intention now; when he wills the rocks to fall harmlessly aside, the earth complies, forming a pocket of space in the collapse.
He coughs against the cloud of dust filling his abused lungs—god some water sounds nice right about now. Now, Merlin notices the arm layed over his shoulders, and the way Lancelot’s fingers clutch at the fabric of Merlin’s shirt. He peers up at his companion, who’s crouched next to him, breathing heavily in the small space.
“You alright?” He asks as the knight meets his eyes. Merlin searches the look for confirmation that this is him, he’s back and alive and himself.
“Yeah,” Lancelot sighs, slowly loosening his grip on Merlin and allowing his arm to fall. “Yes. Merlin–” The man stumbles over the thought, pausing.
Merlin settles against the rocks, rolling his shoulder’s as he guided Lancelot to do the same, waiting patiently for his friend to find the words.
“I-” Lancelot’s voice crack’s terribly, but he continues with a desperation, as if saying it is more important than the air in his lungs, “I’m so sorry Merlin, I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop it—” His voice trailed off to a whisper, “and you… I’m—”
Merlin did cut him off now; horrified—but unsurprised—that the noble knight would blame himself. “Lancelot, that wasn’t you, I know. There was nothing you could have done,” he kept his tone reassuring, placing a hand softly on his friend’s leg. The look he received in return was filled with such unbridled trust it shocked Merlin. Despite all the self-sacrifice, the betrayals, and everything they have been through, Lancelot believed him. Miraculously, the man seemed to allow the weight of blame to slide off of him. “Besides, I’m alright. You didn’t think a bit of poison could take me out, did you?” Merlin joked, but the relief was layed out plainly in his voice.
Not only did he come out alive, Lancelot’s back with him. Merlin’s reluctant to remove the hand from the man’s thigh, anxiety begging him to stay as close as possible, not to let go, but still he withdraws his touch and folds his arms over his chest.
Lancelot laughs, a beautiful sound which Merlin has missed dearly. He gestures to the wall of rocks around them, “thank you, for saving us both once again. You’ve only gotten more impressive.”
Merlin is struck with the thought that he would very much like to kiss Lancelot.
He doesn’t, of course, because that would be ridiculous, not to mention awkward, but his mind lingers on the thought. Perhaps it was the earnest way he’d spoken the highest praise Merlin’s ever received: thank you slipping off his tongue like it was a given: like it was implied, and still, he’d said it anyway. Impressive. Merlin hadn’t thought it was all that impressive. Yet, Lancelot had claimed it was, eyes fond and appreciative, and Merlin, for all his magic, was powerless to deny him anything. See, you really can’t fault him. It was impossible not to wonder what it would be like to kiss the mouth that said such lovely things—to taste the adoration direct from the source and return it in kind.
That being said, they’re still trapped in a cave-in, as Lancelot so kindly points out: “Any more tricks up your sleeve? Hopefully one to get us back into the daylight?”
Caught off-guard, Merlin startles, “ehm–” he looks around at what little he can see in the tight-packed rubble. “...no.”
Lancelot sighs, though there’s a tinge of fondness to it which Merlin can’t understand. They’re trapped under several feet of rock with no way out, no supplies, and no help on the way. There’s nothing ‘fond’ about the situation, he muses to himself, guilt eating away at his earlier desires until they, too, are buried.
The knight shifts onto his knees, leaning over to peer closely at the walls around them. Merlin stays quiet, trying to think of anything they could do, any spell he could cast, that might help them out of this. No one knew where they were—Merlin himself included—so they couldn’t count on any sort of rescue. The rocks were tightly packed, and any attempt to move them would likely result in the rest of the cave collapsing on top of them. It’s as he’s privately debating whether he could manage to throw the entire pile off of them magically when Lancelot lets out a startled yell, and Merlin looks over to see, to his dread, rushing water flowing out from between the cracks.
“Fuck!” He reaches quickly, eyes glowing gold as he feels for the source. The water pools quickly underneath, soaking both of their knees and swirling with the dirt and grime. To his surprise, it was not some unknown river leagues away from home, but rather the familiar flow of Camelot’s underground waterwells.
He’s quick to inform Lancelot: “it’s good news. If we can move these there should be a way out through the wells.”
“And if we can’t move them?”
Merlin met those lovely eyes. The question didn’t need to be asked; they both knew the answer: it was clear in the cool water pooling around their legs, in the sludge they both slowly sank into. “You’re forgetting something.”
Lancelot smiles, no doubt remembering that whispered conversation as they faced yet another impossible battle. “You have magic.”
“No,” he answers, a cheeky grin blooming across his face: “that I would never let anything happen to my favourite knight.” With that he presses against the rubble, arm charged by magic, and it broke, flooding them with water. Lancelot grabs his hand and pulls him against the flow, into the dark chamber behind. As soon as they clear the boundary, Merlin turns back, repairing the rock so that it wouldn’t continue to drain from Camelot’s water supply. They begin towards the surface.
Merlin has always been the stronger swimmer between the two of them (though, to be honest, Lancelot wasn’t much of a swimmer at all), so he reaches it first. He lifts himself out onto the stone and plunges his hand into the water, finding the back of Lancelot’s shirt, which he uses to drag the man up.
They sit there a moment, shivering in their soiled clothing, before Lancelot rises to his feet and grabs a torch from the wall, lighting it. Merlin stands and follows as they make their way back up.
“You think Morgana’s still here somewhere?” Merlin askes, voice barely above a whisper. He isn’t scared, not when he’s walking alongside his dear friend once again, but it seems appropriate for the moment.
Lancelot hesitates a moment before replying, thinking. “I doubt she would forgo the opportunity to launch an attack on Arthur, with the wedding coming tomorrow.”
Merlin nods. It makes sense, after all. No matter how much Morgana wanted him dead she wouldn’t be satisfied until she had the throne. He watches the man next to him as they walk. The man who should be dead. The man who was dead, not even a week ago. He looks as though he’d never left; every curve of his face was the same in the warm glint of the torchlight as it was in the warmth of Merlin’s memory.
He’s beautiful.