A/N: Thank you SnidgetHex, GuestM Live, and Buckhunter for reviewing!

AU if Lancelot had stayed in Camelot after the griffin incident


No. 15 New Scars | Breathing through the Pain

Thanks to Arthur's vehement defense of Lancelot, he'd been allowed to stay in Camelot after the griffin incident, though he'd been stripped of his falsely obtained knighthood. He was permitted a guard position instead, and Arthur had made a vow to him to change the Code someday. Lancelot didn't hold out much hope for that, at least not while Uther was king.

Besides, Lancelot couldn't take an honor bestowed on him for a deed that wasn't his. But at least he'd hopefully have the chance to prove himself again in the meantime. And so he did his best to fulfill his duties and not make waves.

But it was clear not all were as forgiving as Arthur.

One night when Lancelot found himself at his station alone, a group of knights came down the corridor. Instead of passing by, they simultaneously converged on him, several pairs of hands grabbing him and dragging him into a nearby chamber. His arms were wrenched behind his back and fastened with rope, then the backs of his legs were kicked out so he fell to his knees, but he was still held fast by rough hands pushing down on his shoulders.

"What do you want?" Lancelot asked, whipping his head around in confusion and alarm.

"We're here about what you want," one of them replied, glancing over at another knight standing in front of the fireplace and holding the tip of an iron rod in the flames. A moment later he withdrew it, revealing a glowing hot brand in the shape of the Pendragon crest.

"You want to be a knight of Camelot so badly," the knight went on. "Let's declare to the world who you are."

Lancelot's heart quickened in trepidation as the man with the brand came closer. Another knight leaned down and ripped Lancelot's guard uniform and shirt, then held the ragged flaps to the side. Lancelot began to struggle, but the men behind him clamped down on his neck and shoulders harder. Someone stomped on the back of his leg, further holding him still.

"Don't—" he started, but his words were cut off with a choke as the heated iron was pressed into his skin. The last of Lancelot's muster was poured into not screaming, not giving his tormentors the satisfaction. He focused on breathing through the searing pain as the acrid odor of his own burning flesh wafted up into his nose.

The iron was finally removed, but the scorching agony remained. Someone cut through the ropes around his wrists and he was released. He fell onto his side, gasping and shuddering. The knights sneered down at him as they turned and walked out, leaving him there.

Lancelot didn't know how long it took to collect himself, but he finally managed to get up and make it back to his quarters without running into anyone. Fortunately, it was close enough to the end of his watch that he wouldn't be flogged for abandoning his post. He staggered to the wash basin and the little mirror on the wall, shaking as he angled himself to get a look at the burn. It was red and blackened in places and made his gorge rise.

He dunked a washing cloth in the water basin and tried to clean the burn, but just that little touch was excruciating. His thoughts turned to Gaius, whom he knew could treat it. But the shape of the Pendragon crest was unmistakeable and there'd be no way to explain it away. So Lancelot gritted his teeth and struggled the rest of the way through the cleaning. He was pale, shaking, and sweating by the time he was done, and he collapsed on his bed without changing out of his uniform.

He barely slept, though. The burn continued to pulse and throb rawly throughout the night, and by morning the thought of covering it with a shirt made his stomach churn with bile. He wouldn't be able to go about his duties as normal like this.

So, after some consideration, Lancelot soberly took the fire poker in his room and heated it in the hearth. Then he steeled himself for a repeat of last night's agony and touched the back of his forearm with it. He didn't press hard and counted as he breathed through the searing burn, then yanked the iron away. An angry red burn now bisected his forearm.

He forced himself to put a new shirt on, hissing air through his teeth and reminding himself he'd be getting a remedy soon; he didn't have to endure leaving his chest untreated for long.

He then took himself down to Gaius and showed him the burn on his arm, saying he dropped the fire poker and it caught his arm. The court physician examined it, gave it a little clean, and then gave Lancelot a tin of salve to repeatedly apply to it.

So Lancelot used the salve for both his burns, using more on his chest than his forearm to make it last as long as possible. Both gradually healed, becoming less red, more pink. The Pendragon crest brand still stood out stark against his skin, however. Lancelot made sure to always wear a coat over his shirt, since tying the laces up all the way continued to chafe painfully against the raw new scar.

He didn't dare go to the training grounds to practice his skills anymore, but he wanted to keep them sharp, and so he started going out into the woods to practice on his own, as he'd done throughout his life before coming to Camelot.

It was a hot summer day, so Lancelot took his shirt off to get some relief, which he couldn't do in the city. He went through his sword exercises. It no longer hurt to move and stretch.

"Oh!" someone abruptly exclaimed, and he spun in fright to find Gwen standing there.

Her cheeks flushed hotly and she quickly flitted her gaze around trying not to look at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she gushed. "I was out picking flowers for Morgana's room."

"It's no problem," Lancelot replied, hastily going for where he'd left his shirt so he could pull it back on before Gwen got a better look at his exposed chest.

"What is that?" she asked sharply.

"What is what?" he asked, frantically trying to get his arms through the sleeves.

But Gwen had already closed the distance to him and put a hand on his arm, stalling his scrambling efforts. She stared at the scar, expression blank with confusion at first, then horror as she registered the familiar shape.

"Where did this come from?" she demanded.

"It's nothing," he quickly replied and finished putting his shirt on.

But she captured his hands before he could close the laces and gently folded the hem back. "Did Uther do this?" she whispered in horror.

"No."

Gwen's brows furrowed. "Surely not Arthur…"

"No! Of course not."

Her expression hardened. "Then who?"

Lancelot ducked his gaze. He couldn't think of a lie she would buy, and so he shamefully admitted what had happened.

"You must not tell anyone," he finished pleadingly.

"They can't be allowed to get away with it. Didn't Gaius report it?"

Lancelot avoided eye contact again. "He doesn't know. I've been treating the burn myself."

"Lancelot!" Gwen exclaimed in dismay.

"I was the one in the wrong," he said quickly. "I lied about being one of the nobility."

"That is no excuse for this barbarism," she countered. Her disapproving frown deepened. "You didn't even tell Merlin?"

"No, it would just make him feel responsible." Lancelot took her by the arms and looked at her fervently. "Guinevere, you must promise to keep this between us."

She pursed her lips in displeasure but slowly nodded. "All right."

"Thank you." He let her go and stepped back, and Gwen gave him one last look before leaving.

Lancelot staggered his time heading back to the castle, but no sooner did he arrive that Merlin had tracked him down, a veritable storm in his eyes.

"Let me see it," he said firmly.

There was no doubt as to what he meant, and Lancelot felt the bitter sting of betrayal.

"Gwen promised," he said, sounding unjustly petulant when he was the hurt party in this.

"She cares about you; we both do. Now let me see."

Slumping in dejection, Lancelot let Merlin into his quarters and removed his shirt to show him the brand. Merlin stared at it for a long time, a myriad of furious emotions flashing across his face.

"Don't make a fuss over it," Lancelot weakly begged. "It's done and over."

"The hell it is."

"Merlin—"

But his friend was already storming out, and Lancelot felt even more humiliated.

The final knife in his back was when Arthur came all the way down to the guards' quarters to see him, looking stern.

"Show me."

Lancelot couldn't disobey his prince's command, and so he reluctantly began to pull the collar of his shirt down. "Merlin is making a bigger deal about it than needs to be."

Arthur's expression was tight as he studied the brand, and Lancelot tried not to fidget in discomfort. This was what those knights had intended—to make him a spectacle of mockery.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Arthur finally spoke.

Lancelot hastily laced up his shirt again. "I'm only a commoner…"

"That's no excuse," Arthur said sharply. "No one has the right to treat any man like that, and certainly not the knights of Camelot. Who was it?"

Lancelot shook his head. That was one command he would have to disobey.

Arthur's lips thinned. "I can respect loyalty, Lancelot, but in this case they do not deserve it."

"I only want the chance to prove myself," he deflected.

"You already have!" Arthur responded in frustration.

"Maybe I have to prove something to myself."

Arthur continued to give him a displeased look, but then he eventually nodded in grudging acceptance and left.

However, the next day Merlin came to inform him that Arthur had made the rounds and quietly impressed upon every knight under his command that Lancelot was under his protection.

Lancelot grimaced at the news, hoping it wouldn't make him more of a target.

He ran into Gwen later and found himself still irritated with her. He gave her a curt nod and tried to move along, but she changed direction and followed.

"I'm sorry, Lancelot," she pleaded. "But I couldn't let you continue going about as though this didn't happen. What if they did something worse next time?"

He didn't respond, and she grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Would you keep your silence if something like that had been done to me or Merlin?" she challenged.

He faltered at that, then sagged with a nod of concession. "You're right. I'm sorry, I forgive you."

She gave him a kind look. "Camelot needs more men like you," she repeated. "Who are noble in heart if not birth. Especially since the latter doesn't guarantee the first."

Lancelot's other hand drifted up to hover over the scar on his chest. The Pendragon crest. It may have been placed there with malicious intent, but there was a truth in its message. He wanted to serve, and Arthur had given him the opportunity to do so. And perhaps, one day, he might become a knight as he'd so long dreamed of.

But until then, he would choose to view this brand not as a heinous mark, but as a visible seal confirming the vow he had already made—to Prince Arthur. A man Lancelot would gladly follow and fight for.