"Touched By Magic" (Precious Scars III)

Lancelot's heart thuds painfully against his rib cage as he follows Arthur and the knights into the lower town. He knew to expect the stares, but that doesn't make them any easier. Every person they pass pulls up short and gawps at him. He tries to keep his gaze fixed on the ground to avoid their frightened eyes, but the hushed murmurs and gasps reach his ears. He is a specter back from the dead, visibly marked by the means of that resurrection. Mothers pull their children behind them. Men exchange whispers of sorcery.

Leon and Percival edge in closer to him, flanking Lancelot in a show of solidarity. Gwaine and Elyan walk behind, guarding his back, not that any would dare come near him. Arthur leads the way into the citadel. Someone must have run ahead to spread the news of their return because people are spilling out of the castle. Gwen comes rushing out, as does Merlin, both of their eyes wide with shock.

Arthur smiles to dispel the building fear and claps Lancelot on the shoulder as he says jovially, "Look who we found in the woods."

Gwen brings her hands up to her mouth. "How is this possible?"

"Magic," Lancelot answers, and his voice doesn't carry as far as he would like. "I didn't die when I went through the Veil," he says, telling his story for the second time that day. "The Vilia—water spirits—rescued me, brought me back. I was gravely wounded and they healed me." He flicks a look at Merlin, who blinks out of his stupor as he realizes no one knows he played a role in that rescue, that his secret is still safe.

Gwen moves forward and reaches a hand up to brush Lancelot's cheek. He tries not to flinch. He's seen his reflection in the stream, the way the coruscant scars glint and glitter. He knows why everyone is gawking at him.

"Do they hurt?" Guinevere asks, voice soft with genuine concern.

"No," he murmurs.

Merlin comes over then, shaking his head and eyes watering. He doesn't say anything, just pulls Lancelot into a fervent hug.

"There will be a feast tonight," Arthur declares to everyone. "To celebrate the return of Camelot's greatest hero."

Lancelot cringes at the accolade. The last thing he wants is to be the center of attention.

He's escorted into the castle, his friends sticking close as though reticent to let him out of their sight. He appreciates the buffer between probing eyes but he's also been alone for several months and so he's starting to feel slightly suffocated at the same time.

They lead him to Gaius's chambers, Merlin proclaiming he can stay with them until some rooms are readied for him. Gwen volunteers to take care of it and leaves first. Arthur says he has some business to attend to, and with his departure, the rest of the knights leave as well, saying they have some things to see to also. Lancelot gets the impression they are going to make the rounds to everyone under the sun about his return and the treatment they expect him to receive.

It's just him and Merlin that enter the court physician's chambers, and Gaius looks up from his worktable, expression shifting into surprise.

Merlin checks the hall behind them before shutting the door, then turns to Lancelot. "You have to tell me how you ended up coming back to Camelot with them."

Lancelot shrugs weakly. "They were being attacked by bandits. You weren't with them, so I…came to their aid."

Merlin grins. "And what did I tell you? Arthur doesn't care about this." He gestures to the myriad scars, fingerprints of Merlin's own magic along with the Vilia's.

Lancelot shifts in discomfort, because his friends might have said it doesn't bother them, but he can't be sure a small part of them isn't affected by his appearance.

Gaius clears his throat, drawing their attention. He greets Lancelot with a warm smile and pulls him into a hug. "It's good to see you, my boy."

Lancelot manages to smile back. Of course Merlin would have told him about Lancelot's return from the beginning and so he isn't shocked by the revelation. "Hello, Gaius."

The old man casts a curious eye over his scars. "It's really quite remarkable," he comments.

Lancelot knows it is. He was suffering eternal torment and then was rescued. He should be dead but he's alive. He's grateful, he is. He just wishes he wasn't so self-conscious about it.

The feast that night is a new kind of torment. Lancelot is given fresh clothes and he's seated at the table in his old spot, and Arthur toasts his heroism on the Isle of the Blessed and his miraculous return. But the attention only encourages the stares, and the din of carousing doesn't hide the members of court leaning in close to exchange whispered comments. Arthur may have declared Lancelot an honored hero, and he suspects his friends have made it clear he is not to be accosted, but that is not the same as acceptance.

He would lock himself away in his new chambers, except he is given a new knight's uniform and that means he is expected to perform certain duties. So he joins his friends on the training grounds and on patrols. He is always paired with some combination of Leon, Percival, Elyan, and Gwaine and no one else. He's not sure who the instrument behind that decision is and he doesn't ask. The stares are an ever-present backdrop everywhere he goes, and after a while he begins to simply get used to it.

Touched by magic, they say, in hushed voices where they think he can't hear, as though it's a heinous curse rather than the life-giving blessing it is. Lancelot looks at his scars every day, the tracks of metallic blue and liquid sunshine, and he remembers waking up in the grotto to Merlin's tears. These scars are evidence of love.

He tries to hold his head high after that, joins his friends in their roisterous hijinks and banter. They never look at him with revulsion or fear or treat him differently.

He does catch Elyan looking at him thoughtfully one day as they sit in the sun after a bout of sparring. "What?" he asks, that reflex twinge still simmering beneath the surface. He can just imagine how much the scars on his face are glittering in the direct sunlight.

"You remind me of a craftsman I met on my journeys," Elyan replies. "He repaired ceramics using gold and silver lacquer to meld broken pieces back together. I asked him why he'd use such valuable resources on broken pottery instead of fashioning a new piece, and he told me that broken objects weren't worthless just because they'd been broken. That they were beautiful for it, and he chose to mend them with precious metals in honor of that."

Lancelot drops his gaze. That was certainly how he'd felt, in the beginning. The Veil had broken him in many ways, and it was pieces Merlin and the Vilia had put back together, but he'd never felt that it made him quite whole as he'd once been. But he's beginning to realize he doesn't have to be.

"Are you attempting to woo Lancelot with poetry?" Gwaine interrupts. "Because that was a bit long-winded."

Elyan scowls and throws a glove at his head.

Leon leans toward Lancelot. "The sentiment is true, though," he says.

Lancelot smiles back.

There is beauty in the breaking.

He accompanies Merlin when he goes out to forage for herbs, which requires walking through the lower town. Lancelot is sure the gossip has been rife among the peasants, but they haven't gotten as much of an eyeful of him as those in the castle. Once again, everyone stops what they're doing to stare.

Merlin flashes a discomfited look around. "I'm sorry," he says under his breath.

"It's not your fault, Merlin. And it doesn't bother me as much as it did in the beginning."

They pass some children playing, and one of them kicks the ball wide, sending it sailing out into the street. Lancelot stops the ball with his foot, then bends down to pick it up. A little girl comes running over to retrieve it, only to come to an abrupt halt and blinks owlishly at his appearance. Lancelot offers her a kind smile and hands her the ball. She takes it tentatively, but then smiles back and returns to her playmates.

"I still wish there was more I could do," Merlin says once they leave the town limits and are in open countryside. "You don't deserve the stares and whispers."

"It's alright. People fear what they don't understand. But if I can show them that not all magic is to be feared, then perhaps I can lay some groundwork for you to one day not have to hide who you are."

Merlin stops and turns sharply. "This should not be about me."

Lancelot shakes his head. "It is, though. Everyone thinks it was the Vilia alone who saved me, but it was you too." He lifts his hand, the glistering rivulets of gold and cerulean sparkling in the sun. "Your magic is beautiful, Merlin. And I want everyone to see it the way I do."

Merlin gives him a pained look. "And I want everyone to see past it. To see you. You, who gave up your life for this kingdom."

"I didn't give it up for the kingdom," Lancelot says. "I'm afraid my motives were more selfish than that, which is why I don't deserve the praise Arthur has bestowed on me for it."

"I know why you did it," Merlin replies, eyes glistening. "And it doesn't make the sacrifice any less noble." He reaches out and takes Lancelot's hand, running his thumb over the lattice scarring.

"You told me once these marks are beautiful," Lancelot speaks softly. "Because they're a sign of what I've endured. But they're beautiful because they're a sign of what you did for me. I was broken, and you saved me." He turns his hand over to clasp Merlin's. "Everyone says I've been touched by magic, but the truth is I've been touched by love. And while they may not know your name yet, these scars tell the story of who you are. One I am proud to bear."

Merlin's eyes well with tears. "It's your story too."

Lancelot smiles and nods. A story of friendship, sacrifice, and brokenness.

And one of love, endurance, and the beauty found within the hurt and the healing.