It felt like the whole of Camelot had turned out to remember Lancelot. A memorial with full honours, the highest commemoration Arthur could give to the man who had sacrificed himself to save Camelot. To save Arthur. To save Merlin.
They stood there and watched as Lancelot's cloak and sword were consumed by the flames, stood and watched in silence as the last remnants of one of the best men to walk these halls went up in smoke. It was the very least they could do.
Merlin stared blankly into the flames. It felt like they were scorching his heart.
Slowly, the pyre burned down. Slowly, people started to leave. The townsfolk departed first, their lives already returning to normal; they had not known Lancelot, most had not even met him. Then went the guards, their duty done. Then the knights trickled away in ones and twos, having done justice to their comrade who had died so bravely.
The Round Table knights, as they had become known, were left alone to share a moment of silent grief. Their bonds went far deeper, but eventually they too departed as one. Gwaine led the way towards the nearest tavern in order to celebrate the memory of their fallen brother the only way they knew how.
Only Arthur, Gwen and Merlin remained. Arthur and Gwen spoke, hushed words and expressions of guilt that Merlin did not care to listen to. All he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears, the slow crackle of the flames that were as close to closure as he was ever going to get.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
Lost in his grief and his failures, Merlin did not notice when Arthur departed, heading back to his chambers for a moment of privacy. Usually, the warlock would faithfully follow his friend to make sure that he wasn't alone, didn't blame himself, but he couldn't. Not today. Tomorrow he could do his duty to his destiny, tomorrow he could be a friend to Arthur, tomorrow he could be goofy, happy, fake Merlin, but today… today was for Lancelot.
Gwen's voice was quiet, barely louder than the whispering flames as she stepped up to his side. "The two of you were close, weren't you?"
Of course Gwen had seen it; she was far too observant not to. Merlin had never worried about her guessing his secret – she was too good of a person to suspect him of having something like magic, something all of Camelot deemed evil – but he had caught her eying him and Lancelot many times when they had huddled together, discussing things Merlin could with no other person. Not even with Gaius.
He loved his mentor dearly, but Gaius always preached caution. If he had his way Merlin would never do any magic that was not absolutely necessary to save either Arthur or his own life, would treat magic with as much caution as everyone else. Oh, his reasons would be different – he would be trying to protect Merlin – but the result was the same. Fear. Suppression. Like his gift was something shameful, something awful, something to hide.
Merlin had believed that for so long. Almost everyone he ever met went on about how evil and corrupting magic was, and so it was difficult for Merlin not to believe them. As a child he had believed he was a monster, and despite the best efforts of Gaius and his mother that mentality had never left him, growing stronger than ever upon coming to Camelot. It was magic that had caused his mother to send him away, and magic had gotten someone executed the first day Merlin had been in Camelot. He had never learned what Thomas Collins was doing to get caught with it because Uther didn't care about intentions, only power. It couldn't have been violent, though, because he was beheaded rather than burned.
Strange that chopping someone's head off had been considered mercy.
Shuddering, Merlin stared deeper into the dancing flames, his heart aching. Lancelot hadn't been like everyone else. He hadn't pressured Merlin to hide, hadn't seen him any differently for his illegal talents.
In fact, Lancelot had done the opposite. He had gone out of his way to talk to Merlin about magic, to urge him to show him, until they both took joy in discovering the beauty of Merlin's magic together.
Before Lancelot, he had never thought of his gift as beautiful. Though he had always taken a warm kind of comfort in what he could do, Merlin had never really considered that something so many people hated could be beautiful. Not before Lancelot had encouraged him. It had lifted a heart Merlin hadn't realised had become burdened and wearied over his time in Camelot, rekindled the simple pleasure in what he could do. With Lancelot, magic had never been something to be ashamed of.
Only Lancelot had ever trusted Merlin's magic, as much as he trusted Merlin himself. Completely. Unconditionally. Only Lancelot had been willing to risk treason as well as all manner of magical dangers to brave the threats to Camelot that Merlin had become accustomed to dealing with alone. Lancelot... Lancelot had been special. Goodness practically radiated from him, and knowing that someone so good knew about his magic and believed in him had kept Merlin going when otherwise he might have faltered.
Just silly little things, like sharing a nod and a wink when a particularly irritating Arthur went sprawling in the mud. A quiet word of encouragement when Merlin was panting with exhaustion having stayed up three nights in a row to deal with a new magical beast. A subtle prod to solve minor problems (like spilling wine on Arthur's freshly washed laundry) in his own special way. Lancelot had been so many things, meant so many things; little things, like better excuses than the tavern and secret smiles and genuine gratitude.
Big things, too. Lancelot had never failed to recognise the times when the weight of destiny was pressing down on him and offering a shoulder to cry on or a day's escape. Big things, like taking him deep into the woods and encouraging him to go wild with his magic. Big things, like refusing to let him fight alone and patching him up without condemnation when he inevitably got burned or clawed or broken.
The two of you were close, weren't you? Gwen had said. Of course they were. You couldn't share such a massive, treasonous secret without being close.
"Lancelot knew me," Merlin said simply. He knew that it would give Gwen questions, but what else could he say? Lancelot knew him, all of him, as few people did. Their friendship had been special. Lancelot had helped Merlin not feel so alone.
Now he was gone.
"I'm sorry," Gwen said, tears trickling down her cheeks. There was such guilt on her face, the mirror to Merlin's own.
"It wasn't your fault, Gwen."
"But it was!" she cried. "I asked him to look after Arthur. I made him promise! He was as good as his word."
Unable to bear Gwen's quiet sobbing, Merlin eased closer to his very first friend in Camelot and pulled her close. The others had long since left, and though it was reckless to do this in a place as open and haunted as the courtyard Merlin suddenly longed to confide in her.
"No, it wasn't," he asserted sternly. "Gwen, this was not your fault. Lancelot knew long before we arrived what waited on that cursed Isle and he made up his mind on his own." He sighed. "He was too good, too noble, to ever have considered any other option."
"But-"
"No, Gwen," Merlin insisted. Then he took a deep breath. "If anything, it was my fault. There was no need to protect Arthur; he was never in any danger."
Gwen's eyes were wide and Merlin knew that she understood then what he meant.
Swallowing, he said it anyway. "Lancelot knew, and he sacrificed himself so that I would not have to. And I didn't stop him."
The words tore from him, overflowing with anguish. Because he could have. He could have stopped it.
If only he had not hesitated when Lancelot looked back, if only he had used the same magic he had on Arthur, Lancelot would have returned home. If Merlin had not forgotten his friend in the face of the Cailleach and the veil and his own fear...
This time it was Gwen's turn to comfort him, pulling him closer. "No, it wasn't your fault. No one could have stopped him. It was Lancelot's choice, and... and we have to accept that. We have to honour him for it."
At least he had succeeded in halting Gwen's awful, grief-stricken sobs, but Merlin's shoulders hunched in on himself. She didn't know. No one knew, now, except his mother and Gaius. If Gwen knew, would she still comfort him the same way?
Magic is evil. How many times had he heard the words? How many times must Gwen have heard them, believed them? She had lived in Camelot all her life.
"We will remember him always," Merlin murmured. "Sir Lancelot, the bravest and most noble of them all." He felt the power in that title, remembered Kilgharrah saying that to Lancelot himself only a few days earlier. The words had a kind of magic all of their own. A silent vow, a legacy that would touch legend.
But oh, how Merlin missed him already. There was an empty spot in the courtyard where Lance should have been, because he would have waited for Merlin and for Gwen until nightfall and then into the next dawn. He would catch Merlin's eye and read the heaviness there and drag him out on a 'herb-gathering trip' and make him let go of it all – magic and grief all entwined together, until flowers bloomed or thunder boomed – and there would be no revulsion on his face.
A single tear trickled down Merlin's cheek. There would be no more of that. No more day trips, no more sharing the joy of everyday magic, no more silent support when Merlin went to the 'tavern' and came home exhausted and bloody to a whining prince.
Loneliness was an old companion, but Merlin had truly never felt so alone as he did standing in that nearly deserted courtyard with the pyre that burned a sword in place of his closest friend.
Suddenly Merlin couldn't bear it. The quietness of the fire crackling, the mundane shifting of flames. The same fire that consumed so many funerals. The same fire that licked condemned sorcerers just as easily as revered knights.
What kind of tribute was that for Lancelot? Lancelot, who had loved magic almost as much as Merlin did, whether it was the burning gold of the warlock's eyes or the simple magic in everyday life, vibrant flowers and dancing steel.
His friend deserved so much better than that. So much better than this. Though there was never a more noble death, still he should never have had to die so soon.
For his friend... Merlin had not been able to save him. But he could do one last thing for him.
Not caring how dangerous it was – for what could Camelot do to him anyway? – Merlin bowed his head in silent tribute and let gold flicker to life in his eyes. He let his magic fill him up and blossom into being, grieving in sorrowful remembrance. Merlin made no attempt to direct it, allowing his instincts to feed the kind of magic that Lancelot had always loved to see.
Pictures took form in the flames. Small, hidden, but clear and coherent and wonderful. A tall figure, white hot flame bright as armour, a skinny servant-warlock, an eagle-headed creature. The griffin reared and charged, and the figures ran, urging each other faster, bound together from that moment onward.
Flame flickered and the scene changed, suggestions of unconscious men among the ashes and the same two figures standing tall. Lance in hand, the knight charged bravely at the griffin, the warlock watching with hopeful desperation.
Blue flared to life in the heart of the pyre but the fire-knight didn't falter. His lance struck true and the blue hue rippled over the griffin until it wavered and twisted back into normal flames. The human figures joined together for a second, united, before weaving apart again to play out a dozen different scenes. In one they faced a crimson-flamed sorcerer, in another an assassin formed by shadows and ash, in yet another a beast with seven heads cast in orange and purple, scales and venom. Yet all the scenes had a common theme; perfect harmony, magic shielding the knight, sword defending the warlock.
Then there were the simpler scenes, playful sparring sessions in which magic compensated for clumsiness, a clearing where flowers bloomed and butterflies danced, mock battles designed to explore the most effective ways of actually fighting sorcerers (rather than getting knocked out and leaving it to someone else).
In all of the scenes, the knight and the warlock twined and twisted perfectly in tune, crimson-cloaked and gilded with gold. It was beautiful magic, a true tribute. Lancelot would have loved it.
Finally, the memories came to an end. The knight stood tall and proud, bowed once, and then scattered into embers. The sparks soared on the wind, dancing freely until they melted into the night. The flame warlock stayed a moment longer, head tilted as if to watch his friend as he twisted a hand over his heart in an ancient gesture of respect and brotherhood, sacred as the Old Religion itself.
He did not scatter into a star-scape of sparks as the knight had but instead faded away into the centre of the fire, passing through the tongues of flame until his outline wavered and disappeared completely. Back in the shadows. Alone again.
Merlin turned to find Gwen staring at where the figures had been only seconds ago. Her hands were clasped tightly over her mouth and there were tears in her eyes. She knew what she'd seen, and it had been hauntingly poignant. It had been magic.
Illegal. Enthralling.
Beautiful.
After a long moment, she turned bewildered eyes on one of her oldest, dearest friends. He knew from the look on her face that she'd seen the core of gold in his eyes.
"Lancelot knew me," Merlin said simply, sadly, and walked away.