"If anyone can get Merlin back to Camelot, Lancelot can."
Sir Leon's words from a few days ago echoed in his ears as he watched the cape and sword disappear in the flames. Because it was true, wasn't it? Lancelot had always been a perfect knight—kind, noble, courageous—not because he was born into a role and had to be, but because he chose to be. It astounded Arthur. He had to work at being a good man, had to fight against his every instinct and check himself at every turn. And Lancelot made it look so easy.
He rushed in with a torch and vanquished the dorocha while Arthur was sprawled on the floor.
He single-handedly saved Merlin when Arthur failed to do so.
And then, he died.
Lancelot died over a promise, a vow he made to the woman he loved, that he would protect the man she loved. He had given her up because it was the honorable thing to do, and he died for Arthur, the one man standing between him and happiness.
Lancelot had saved Camelot.
Arthur knew he should be grateful, but as he stood before the funeral pier, saw the rows of solemn knights and the tears pouring down his beloved's face, he couldn't bring himself to feel anything except sickly resentment.
Because Lancelot was a hero, and Arthur wasn't.