airbaths | BRAVEST AND MOST NOBLE • merlot post

Lancelot is not entirely sure how he is alive at this point. He's tried for several sword masters, defending those in bar fights, helping keep away thieves on journeys. He's honestly surprised he's got all of his limbs.

But now. Now that he's got some training, it's time to keep his promise. How long has it been since he last saw the best friend he's ever had? A small part of him swells thinking how proud Merlin will be. How proud he hopes Merlin will be. He's probably seen all sorts of fantastic things in the heart of one of the greatest cities. Everywhere talks of Camelot.

He's so very near to it, so ready for a rest.

There's a scream-- no, a screech. It's unlike any animal or man ever heard before. It sends a chill right down to him. There's a flash of red running followed by something infinitely larger aiming for it. He has to help. Merlin, you will just have to wait.

He drops everything but his sword, no armor to his name. It will have to do. As quick as he can, Lancelot jumps into action.

The frown then incredibly false smile... They do not sit well with Lancelot. He's not entirely sure why yet. The congratulations is awfully flat, as well. Merlin - always being Merlin - doesn't pay it any mind. Perhaps Lancelot shouldn't either.

Yet, there's something. Something in those little looks that are telling him to put an arm back around Merlin's waist now that they're finished explaining their marriage.

"Thank you," he tries for his own sincerity. It works! Oh, but Merlin is talking. Thus, Lancelot is listening. "Is fire always a common element to these things?"

"Any excuse for a good fire," Merlin says by way of an answer. He settles against Lance as the arm slides around him, slips a hand into Lance's back pocket to secure them together and offers him an amused smile.

"There is a parade," Mordred answers finally. "Which you would know, if you had attended the meetings." His tone is mild, but disapproving all the same. As if he's disappointed rather than angry, like Merlin has let him down in some way.

"Bit busy," he explains, and wrinkles his nose before looking over at Lance again. "You know, newlywed stuff."

Merlin is scrambling through the forest by now, basket dropped in favour of running faster. He trips, back-pedals and is quite sure this is the part where his life flashes before his eyes --

and then it must be doing just that, because the person standing between him and the griffin looks so familiar. The utterly ridiculous person wearing not a shred of armour, waving a sword, and he barely manages to start to exclaim his name before he's being hauled to his feet and they're running --

He's always been lucky, but even Merlin can't believe this. Of all the people, of all the times to turn up.

He sits panting for air, waiting to see if the Griffin will wing back and spot them huddled against the log, but they've made it. Somehow, by some impossible means they've made it. He's alive, and Merlin turns to grin at his friend.

"You were almost late."

Lancelot wastes no time. He does not hesitate for a second. If he and his sword are all that can stand between whatever this is and Merlin, he will defend.

That is, until his sword breaks. There's one very important thing he's learned in his short experience travelling: when to run. There is a difference between being brave and being stupid.

They jump behind a log and try to catch their breath as they watch the griffin soar overhead. It's only then that Lancelot realizes he's sustained a wound and his hand rests on it. He does offer a very weak smile to Merlin anyway. "Told you not... to get in trouble."

That little wound has taken more out of him than he knows. The travel right before didn't help he... he just needs to sleep for a while. Let himself catch up. He'll be fine if he closes his eyes, really...

There are meetings for these sor-- Well, of course there would be. At least he managed to catch himself before actually asking. Lancelot is trying so hard not to eye Mordred suspiciously. It's probably just his imagination. He could hardly be blamed for admiring Merlin, really.

"Yet, still have to go on that honeymoon."

Merlin's proposal and ceremony was so short notice they didn't really have time to plan any sort of holiday, even one to stay at home.

"Will you be in the parade, Mordred?"

It's a potential stupid question he hopes can be forgiven.

He laughs at that, half relief and half exhaustion, and then his eyes flick down.

They catch on the wound and Merlin pales.

"No, no, no -- Lance! Lance, stay awake, please. Look, it's not far, I can get you to Gaius. He can treat you. Can you stand?"

Then Merlin is on his feet, casting around frantically to check the beast isn't doubling back and trying to help Lancelot up. This can't happen. He can't have met his friend again only to watch him die, like this, after saving his life.

Mordred blinks around at Lancelot again, eyebrows raising, and lets out an oddly surprised laugh -- tilting his head in a mixture of surprise and amusement.

"No, I will not." He shoots a look at Merlin again, who smirks a little as if sharing a private joke, then lets out a breath awkwardly and forces another smile. "I should go check on things. Perhaps I will... see you later?"

Merlin nods and grins at Mordred, releases Lance long enough to step forward and clasp him by the arm. He hesitates as Mordred leans forward and whispers something to him, expression slipping to a frown that he keeps even as his friend releases him and starts off back into the crowd. It vanishes instantly as he turns back to Lancelot, expression painting quickly into a perfect everything is fine smile as he loops an arm around him again.

"Right! Where were we, food?"

Oh... Well, yes. He knew that was going to be a stupid question. Lancelot has learned a long time ago to pick his battles. He'll keep quiet about Mordred for now.

Or, he would have. The face Merlin had when Mordred whispered to him isn't anything like Lancelot's seen in a while from his better half. He also knows exactly how to read that placating grin of his.

He gives Merlin a wide eyed look, more curious than anything else. Merlin made it very clear they were together and he did leave.

"What was that all about?"

Lancelot can hear Merlin's voice. He sounds worried. What? Oh right, yes, the wound and monster and everything that had happened. He's just so... Tired... And isn't he dreaming? He dreams about Merlin so often it wouldn't be that hard to mistake.

"I can," he answers without realizing he has at all. He makes no movement to actually offer himself up. He can stand after a rest. A good long rest where he'll dream about Merlin some more.

"Umm. Nothing?" Which is perhaps the most transparent lie Merlin has ever told. He seems to realise this after a moment, wrinkles his nose a little and shrugs. "Druid things?" he offers, which is partially an answer at least, even if he's formed it as a question. Am I going to get away with just saying this? He squirms a little, clearly unsure how to deal with this crossover of Lancelot and... everything else. "Bit complicated," he adds awkwardly after a moment. "Might be a bit weird, too."

As if Merlin is a stranger to weird in some way, and this may come as a surprise.

It certainly wasn't nothing. Anyone could have seen that. Druid things might have been an answer, but it wasn't a very good one. He's asked for every elaboration he can think of. What's to stop from this one? Especially with Mordred... Acting odd like that.

Eyebrows raised, Lancelot gives Merlin a look. "People are running between fires. It's already a bit weird."

For him is the silent implication.

Merlin lets out a miserable moan of distress, struggles to pull Lancelot to his feet with his limited strength.

"Come on," he begs, "please."

If Merlin has to drag Lancelot, though, he will. Camelot is not far, and Merlin is never one to give up on a friend. Especially a friend as dear to him as Lancelot.

Lancelot is bandaged and left to rest in Merlin's bed, Merlin hovering by his side nervously every free minute he has. He can't stand to see him this way, hurt and drawn, and the sacrifice of his own bed is a small one if it means Lancelot will be well again. He ends up falling asleep, arms folded on the side of the bed as he wills Lancelot to be well. To forgive him for getting in trouble and getting him hurt.

Right. There is that.

Merlin hesitates a moment, then drops his arm from around Lance to take his hand -- knits their fingers together and tugs gently.

"Come with me," he says, and flicks a small smile as he starts to weave through the crowd. He catches Mordred's eye for a moment, watching them, but just blinks and carries on -- leading them away from the huddle of people to a quiet area a little way away from the fires and stalls. It's dark here, the light from the festivities not quite reaching, but the moonlight offers them a little to see by and Merlin doesn't seem bothered. He drops to sit on the grass, pulling at Lancelot as if he expects him to do the same.

For a second he just fidgets, twisting his fingers together, then he finally blurts something.

"Don't freak out? Please?"

Which is always a brilliant way to start a conversation.

This seems odd. Are there really super secret sex orgy rituals and Merlin had been wanting to keep it from him until now? Something worse? He can't see Merlin having anything to do with something that might cause harm to another living and thinking thing. He didn't like picked flowers, for god's sake.

He's not sure what to expect anymore, honestly. Movies have lead him completely wrong as far as druids are concerned. He trusts Merlin.

Or at least, he thinks he does. Loves the man to death, but he has a tendency to fumble here and there. Definitely nothing to do with crazy rituals. They're all alone. (All alone, Mordred.)

Lancelot does as he's expected and sits. Yes, wonderful way to begin a conversation. He offers a casual and warm smile, a laugh hinted throughout his words. They're married. What does he think is going to happen? "Depends on what you're going to do."

He lets out a slightly nervous huff of laughter.

"All right," he starts, and takes a deep breath. He can do this. He can have this conversation. They can get through this. "I'm an Ovate. Um. Okay, backtrack. There are different... types of druidry. Grades. Druid, Ovate and Bard. A bard deals with... mundane skills. Artistic talent and academics. A regular druid deals with ceremony, culture, ritual. An ovate deals with... magic. Divination and healing and... stuff. I know it sounds..." Merlin takes a deep breath, looks skyward as if to draw strength and drops his shoulders forcibly. "There haven't been proper ovate teachers for a long time. It's a... dying art. Mordred thinks I should do more with it, thinks I should be helping the druids be something more, but..."

But Merlin doesn't want destiny. Doesn't want to be bound to the fate of the world, doesn't want to fight. He parts his twisted together fingers and plays with the grass, whispers to it half under his breath. His eyes glow for a second in the dark, then white flowers start to snake their way up from the ground and bloom in the moonlight.

All this sounds fairly standard. Weird druid words explained in a way that Lancelot can understand them. Merlin babbling on, And oh, he might be very important. Lancelot is impressed. He's almost ready to comment or ask why Merlin's never mentioned it and taken up the responsibility. It seems like a great honor to him.

And then.

There's a flash of yellow. His mind instinctively thinks: ember? No. They're too far from the fire. They were too perfectly round. Just as quickly as they flash, as Merlin whispers, they're surrounded by something he'd never imagined possible without a green screen and computers or lights or tricks or-- this has to be a trick. It-- There's no other explanation???

If it is, it's the most beautiful trick he's ever laid eyes on. He finds himself smiling in awe as much as shock. He reaches out to touch one. They feel real. "This... this is amazing. How are you doing this?"

Come on, there has to be a secret somewhere.

"Magic?" he repeats, and his expression is lined with nerves as he toys with one of the blooms. "Please don't freak out?" he adds, voice a little higher than is natural for him, and there's something akin to a note of fear now. Lancelot loves him, he knows that, loves him more than anything but that doesn't mean he wants to deal with this. Doesn't mean he wants the burden of destiny and prophecy and unnatural skill that Merlin carries around even when he's just trying to earn enough money to live on top of all that. Just trying to be normal instead of whatever people would ask of him. "Please?" he repeats, and takes Lancelot's hand, breaths in and gently squeezes it -- as much to reassure himself as Lancelot.

Lancelot slowly begins to awake. He doesn't remember last being somewhere with a bed. Actually, he can't remember the last time he had a bed at all. It's been fields and hay and grass for more than a year.

Merlin. Why does Merlin linger in his mind so much stronger than before? Merlin....

"Merlin?" he asks as he wakes and tries to sit up. The pain in his side causes him to wince and wake up much more quickly. The fight, rescuing his friend. He looks and feels relieved, despite the pain, at seeing him safe.

Magic? No really, what is it?

He looks to Merlin's face, expecting some sort of elaboration. He may even expect a grin. Merlin's always been terrible at playing tricks like this. That isn't what he finds. He finds fear and worry. His face falls.

Merlin's serious. Magic exists and his husband is the one (or one of the ones?) who carries it. Perhaps it's growing up in a society where the hope of magic existing saturates nearly every story, especially for children. Films, comics, books, everything. He grew up with stories about knights and elves and wizards. But who would actually expect it to be real? It's the best news he's ever heard.

He squeezes his hand in return, confusion shifting to concern. "Why didn't you tell me this before?" Maybe before the wedding.

"I was always taught to hide it." Merlin shrugs a little miserably, shuffles closer to Lancelot for comfort. "The druids -- they thing I'm going to fulfil this great prophecy, do all these great things, return magic to the land but... My mother, she was always scared about what would happen if people found out. That people would take me away from her. I thought, maybe I could just... keep hiding it. Maybe then I could be normal, could do what I wanted to do instead of what people expected."

Which is the crux of it. Merlin loves magic, loves the incredible feel of being alive it gives him but the burden that comes with it -- the pressure of destiny, the fear of reprisal? That he hates more than anything.

He startles awake at the sound of his name, a red blotch on the side of his face where it had been smushed against the rough fabric of his blanket.

"Lance?" Merlin blinks himself back to consciousness, shakes off the last dredges of sleep and scrambles to his feet -- hands fluttering in the air vaguely over Lancelot as he decides what to do first. "Don't -- don't move, stay still, you'll re-open the wound. Does it hurt? I can get you something for the pain, or, a drink, or, are you hungry? I can get you food, we have food, um, and I should fetch Gaius and --" He trails off, breath hitching awkwardly, then rushes forward the last step again to grab for Lancelot's hand. "I'm sorry, look, this is my fault. You came all this way and then --"

Then Lancelot got hurt, because of him. Merlin feels wretched at the thought of it.

As always, he listens very carefully. More importantly, he watches to see Merlin's expression. So much of exactly what he's thinking is written all over him. How he kept a secret like this for so long is impossible to fathom for Lancelot. He's the worst liar on the planet, his Merlin.

He brings his free hand up to caress Merlin's cheek, thumb on one of those intensely sharp cheekbones. "You didn't think this was important to mention before the wedding night?"

Lancelot should be freaking out. Magic is real, his husband has it, and he kept that from him all this time. But he isn't. Probably because it's so difficult to ever be angry at Merlin. Plus, wasn't this the plot of nearly every superhero movie? You keep it quiet to protect the ones you love, yourself, everyone.

"You never had to keep anything from me, Merlin." His tone is much more gentle now, as is his expression.

He'd almost forgotten about the wound entirely. At least the pain was there to remind him. It doesn't take much for him to heed a little of Merlin's warning. The pain, which he winces from, keeps him from sitting up too far. he observes the bandage as he clutches it.

And, of course, has to deal with Merlin feeling needlessly guilty. Despite it all, he gives a smile for actually getting to see his friend's face. To see him alive and well. "I didn't know you were bait for a giant monster." Really, how was this in any way Merlin's fault?

"What was that?"

"I don't know, I just -- I didn't want this to happen. I wanted us to be normal. I didn't want you to be afraid of me, didn't want you to get drawn into all this."

Only he is now, isn't he? Merlin trails fingers over the soft white petals of the flowers, leans more heavily into Lancelot and takes a steadying breath.

"I'm sorry. I am. It's my fault, not you. I trust you, I do, I was just... scared."

BRAVEST AND MOST NOBLE • merlot post

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