A/N: Thank you Buckhunter, GuestM, pallysAramisRios, Guest, and SnidgetHex for reviewing! Maybe I should have called this collection all the ways Aini can fix Lancelot dying lol.
"Precious Scars"
Merlin winds his way through the woods, basket slung over one arm. He casts a look over his shoulder, but no one's following. No one ever does. He's good at sneaking around.
He ducks into a narrow cleft of a tall escarpment and follows the trough between rock and stone until he comes out in a grotto, shielded on all sides by tall scarps camouflaged in lush trees and flora. A stream runs through the sheltered glade and shimmers with soft blue light. Merlin nods to the Vilia as he passes.
There's a massive tree taking up an entire patch of earth between one rock wall and the bank, its branches forming an umbrella over the grotto, though sunlight still filters through its canopy and lands in spots of amber and yellow across the ground. A curtain of ivy hangs over a split down the middle of the trunk, and Merlin enters into the hollowed out center. The interior has been fashioned into a simple dwelling place: a short stool and small rickety table sit in one corner, blankets over a bed of moss lie along one groove at the base of the inner bark, and various tools, books, and knickknacks sit in small wooden crates stacked in another corner. Merlin's done his best to furnish the hollow with things he could sneak out of the castle bit by bit.
Lancelot is sitting on the ground, dressed in a white shirt and brown trousers, tying bundles of herbs together with string. Locks of hair curl around his ears and over his eyes. It's getting long. He looks up at Merlin's arrival and gives him a small smile.
Merlin takes a seat and sets the basket down next to him. "I managed to sneak a pastry today," he says cheerfully and pulls out the blackberry delicacy wrapped in a napkin to hand over.
The offering draws another smile from him. "Thank you."
There's more food in the basket, as much as Merlin could get away with stealing: breads and cheese to supplement the berries and vegetables that grow in a small lot outside and the fish Lancelot sometimes catches in the stream. He'll fill the basket with Lancelot's herbs to take back so no one will suspect what he's been up to. That was Lancelot's idea, always looking out for Merlin even when he was the one in need.
"How are you?" Merlin asks. Lancelot is safe here and he's cared for, but Merlin still worries about his friend.
"I'm fine, Merlin," he replies and takes a bite of the pastry.
Merlin watches carefully for a sign that he's enjoying it. Lancelot is difficult to read these days; there's a solemn melancholy about him, though he never complains about his situation or the necessity of being hidden away out here in the woods. It isn't fair, though.
"I'm sorry I haven't been to visit more lately," Merlin says.
"It's alright," Lancelot replies, his eyes sad yet understanding. "Your life is in Camelot, your work with Arthur and Gaius, not out here looking after me."
Merlin swallows hard and tentatively says, "It's been several months. You could come back to Camelot. We could come up with an explanation for everything, that someone else got you out of the Veil—"
Lancelot sharply shakes his head and looks away. A ray of sunlight through a chip in the outer bark catches the scar on his cheek, lighting up the speckles of gold and cerulean blue like an iridescent crescent carved into his flesh. It's not the only one. There's a scar that curves around his neck and down the back of one shoulder. More criss-crossing in glittering gold and cobalt can be seen through the laces of his shirt. Like rivulets of star and sun dust, one bisects the palm of his right hand while a thin lattice of scarring marks the back of his left. And those are just the ones Merlin can currently see. He knows there are more.
...
"What do you mean he's not dead?"
Floating orbs of light and water bob on the air in front of Merlin. "The Cailleach demanded a sacrifice to close the Veil, but Sir Lancelot's blood was not spilled. He walked through the Veil, alive, and she accepted his life given over to her. Now he is trapped in the realm of the dead, doomed to eternal torment."
Merlin stares at the Vilia in horror.
The water spirits share a look among themselves.
"We have a way to rescue him."
Merlin straightens sharply. "How?"
They return to the Isle of the Blessed. Merlin watches nervously for the Cailleach, but there is no sign of her. She may be powerful, but she is not omniscient; she won't see this coming. Still, they must act quickly before the ripple effects catch her attention.
The Vilia tell Merlin how to create a crack between realms, just enough for them to slip through. It is not the same spell that Morgana used and therefore doesn't require a blood sacrifice. Merlin concentrates all his magic on forcing a wedge into the fold, and then the Vilia are rushing through it. He can hear the screams of the Dorocha from within, but the crack is too small for them to escape through. He stands there, waiting, poised on the edge of a knife as a cold sweat beads the back of his neck. He expects the Cailleach to show up any minute.
Then the Vilia are shouting for him to widen the gap, and Merlin forces it open. Several orbs of light come streaming out, Lancelot somehow carried between them. He falls to the ground and Merlin immediately slams the rift closed before anything else can follow. He runs to his friend and drops down beside him, only for his heart to seize. Lancelot's eyes are blown wide, but they're not focusing on Merlin, and horrible, gurgling breaths are shaking through his rib cage. Vicious slashes have sundered all the way through chainmail and flesh, down to muscle and sinew. He has been ripped to shreds, and now Merlin feels an all new terror, because he can't possibly heal all this and did he just save his best friend in order to watch him die a second death all over again?
"We must leave," the Vilia urge. "Come, we know a safe place."
Lancelot is choking on blood but Merlin knows they're right; no doubt the Cailleach would have felt the disturbance in the Veil and will be on her way. They have to leave.
So he casts a haphazard healing spell, hoping it's enough to keep Lancelot on this side of the living, then pulls his wounded friend up over his shoulder and returns to the small boat. The Vilia stir the water and propel the vessel back to the opposite shore swiftly, and from there they lead Merlin through the woods to a sheltered grotto.
Merlin lays Lancelot on the bank of a stream, and together he and the Vilia work to combine their magic to heal the grisly wounds. Merlin watches amber and blue light flood the gashes and mend the flesh back together. But there's an unintended result.
The healed marks glitter with the remnants of said magic, runnels of scars forged in silver and inlaid with gold and azure.
...
"I'm sorry," Merlin says, voice cracking. "For everything."
For Lancelot sacrificing himself in the first place, for the torture he endured, and now this life of exile because Merlin's magic just isn't enough.
Lancelot looks over again. "No, Merlin, you saved me." His gaze flits down and to the side. "I can still feel it, sometimes, that place."
He shudders, and a spiky lump swells in Merlin's throat. He already knows time passed differently within the Veil; the Vilia told him. What was mere weeks for Merlin was years for Lancelot. It wasn't just the magical scars that had been keeping him in this grotto, but the fact that he had been so damaged, physically and mentally, that he needed a secluded place to recover from it all.
Lancelot gives himself a small shake and lifts his head again. "I would still be there if it weren't for you. I'm grateful."
Merlin shifts onto his knees, leaning forward earnestly. "You would be welcomed back," he insists. "Arthur would look past all this." He gestures to Lancelot and the glittering scars.
But Lancelot just shakes his head again and speaks in a softer voice, "You and I both know there are many others who would see me as a monster. It's better I stay here."
"You are not a monster."
Lancelot's mouth quirks ruefully. "I'm not who I once was. These scars are just an outward representation of what's broken inside."
Merlin scoots closer and takes Lancelot's hand, folding his over the marks. They warm beneath his touch as readily as skin does.
"They're a sign of what you endured, of what you sacrificed to save everyone. They're a sign that you survived, that the spirits themselves decided to fight to bring you home. And you're still you, in spite of the horrors inflicted on you. These don't make you broken; they make you beautiful."
Lancelot gives him a wan smile at that. "Maybe, one day," he concedes. He rotates his hand under Merlin's and squeezes back. "If I am needed, I will come," he vows, then ducks his eyes. "I'm sorry for my cowardliness."
"You have never been a coward," Merlin says staunchly. "And after everything you've been through, you deserve some peace, Lancelot. I would never tear you away from that."
"Thank you," he whispers.
They sit in companionable silence after that, Merlin and the bravest, most noble knight of them all, who sacrificed everything and was shattered for it.
But one day he won't be hidden away. One day the world will see him again, see what he did for them. See what it cost. And they will sing of the beauty in his brokenness.
A/N: Inspired by the art of kintsugi/kintsukuroi: repairing broken pottery with lacquer powdered with gold or silver, for the object is seen to be even more beautiful for the breaking.