A/N: Follow up to "Precious Scars"
"Home" (Precious Scars II)
Lancelot never leaves the grotto. It's sheltered and secluded, and with the Vilia's protection, nothing can get in without their leave. Between them and Merlin's regular visits, Lancelot's basic needs are met. He's not terribly lonely, either; the Vilia are steadfast company and he appreciates their care toward him. He does miss his friends and the life he used to have. But he had willingly given it all up when he walked into the Veil. The fact that he was brought back doesn't change that things cannot go back to the way they once were. He cannot go back to the way he once was.
Then one day some Vilia come bouncing urgently across the water, splashing up droplets in their wake.
"King Arthur is here!" they exclaim.
Lancelot's heart jolts in his chest. "What?"
"He and his knights are in the woods. They are under attack."
Lancelot leaps to his feet at that. "Is Merlin with them?"
The Vilia shake their heads frantically. Lancelot's lungs compress. If Arthur is in danger, how can Lancelot in good conscience not go to his aid? He sprints to the hollow tree and grabs the sword Merlin had brought him. He has kept up his training in his isolation, but it isn't fear of battle that makes his heart race as he prepares to leave the safety of the grotto. He doesn't know how Arthur will react at seeing him after all this time…seeing him as he is now.
But he cannot hide, not when his king and friends are being overrun. And they are, according to the Vilia's rapid updates. Some of them had remained behind at the scene of the skirmish to relay what's happening, and it isn't good. If Merlin was with them, Lancelot is sure the battle would be going differently. But for some reason the warlock is not, and Lancelot must overcome his fear.
He follows the Vilia out of the grotto and up the stream. The sound of clanging swords begins to echo from up ahead and he quickens his pace.
The scene he comes upon is indeed dire. Arthur and the knights are outnumbered, each of them battling two foes at once while yet more come charging toward them. Lancelot takes a steeling breath and leaps into the fray. His arrival catches the bandits off guard and he manages to cut down two before the rest adjust their attack to include him. Lancelot's prowess has not suffered in his exile, but he can tell it's not just the might of his blade that gives these men pause. His appearance is no doubt unnerving.
Lancelot tries to ignore it all and lets the rhythm of battle take over. Within minutes, the tide turns and the knights are able to drive back their enemies, slaying several before the rest finally call a retreat. And then there is silence in the woods. Lancelot stands with his back to his friends, but he knows he cannot postpone the inevitable, so he slowly turns around to face them. He swallows hard at the slackened expressions on their faces as they stare back at him in shock.
"Lancelot?" Arthur finally breathes.
He bows his head and speaks softly, "Sire."
No one else says anything. Lancelot's heart is pounding against his rib cage. He does not regret coming to his friends' aid, but he regrets this moment. He wishes the Vilia could sweep him up and disappear.
Then Percival strides forward and pulls Lancelot into the most fervent hug, the force of it pushing the air from his lungs in a whoosh. He stands there stunned for a second before he lifts his arms and returns the embrace, clinging desperately to a friend he's missed so dearly.
Percival finally pulls back and moves his hands up to clasp the sides of Lancelot's face. "How?" he asks, voice cracking with emotion.
"It's a long story."
Percival's gaze shifts a fraction, and he rubs his thumb over the crescent scar on Lancelot's cheek. Lancelot reaches up to grasp his hand and pulls it down, then steps away.
"I didn't die when I went through the Veil," he explains. "I was trapped there. The Vilia rescued me, healed my wounds, but…" He shrugs and drops his gaze to the ground. "It left its mark."
"How long have you been back?" Leon asks.
"Some months," Lancelot replies quietly.
"Months?" Elyan repeats dubiously. "Why didn't you come back to Camelot?"
Lancelot makes a gesture that encompasses himself because isn't it obvious? "I should go," he says, and he knows it makes him sound like a coward but he can't bear this, so he starts to turn away.
Percival reaches out and captures his hand. "This is why you didn't come home?" he asks, and he sounds hurt as he gently cups Lancelot's palm, angling it so beams of sunlight scintillate along the gold and cerulean scars.
The word "home" makes Lancelot's heart constrict with longing.
"It's a sign of magic," he replies, and he can't help but flick a look at Arthur.
"Lancelot…" Arthur responds, and he looks cut to the core, though whether it's bereavement or betrayal, Lancelot can't decipher.
"I would not bring trouble to your kingdom," Lancelot adds, then looks back at Percival. "I'm doing all right," he assures his friend. "You need not worry about me."
He tries to extract his hand, but Percival doesn't let go.
"Lancelot," Arthur finds his voice again. "We thought you dead. We mourned you. And now to find you alive…you really expect us to just walk away and pretend this didn't happen?"
Lancelot nods. "It's for the best. I would rather be remembered as I was."
"You mean as a hero who saved all of Camelot?" Gwaine finally speaks up. "A hero everyone would rather have back in the flesh instead of an absent memory," he adds with gruff pointedness.
"Not like this," Lancelot argues, and he shoots a pleading look at Arthur to understand. "People will see I've been touched by magic and they'll be afraid. My very presence will cause mistrust and suspicion and I don't want that." He bites his tongue before he can say he's heard things are going well right now; he can't reveal that Merlin already knows about him.
"Anyone who has something to say against you will have to go through us," Gwaine says staunchly. The vehemence surprises Lancelot, though he supposes it shouldn't.
"You're not the first one to be saved by magic," Leon puts in. "It may be more obvious in your case, but you should not feel like you have to hide because of it."
"Aren't you the least bit repulsed by this?" Lancelot asks weakly, tugging the collar of his shirt down to expose yet more of the iridescent scarring. Merlin called it beautiful but he sees the world differently than most people. There are many others who would call him an abomination.
"You're alive," Percival responds. "It doesn't matter how, not to me."
"Nor me," Gwaine echoes.
"And maybe people need to learn not to be afraid," Elyan says. "Maybe…maybe not all magic is evil."
Lancelot looks away. So he is to be the sacrificial lamb once more, offered up on the altar of spectacle for the greater good.
Arthur walks up to him. "Lancelot…" and there's a plea in the way he says his name. It draws Lancelot's eyes up because Arthur is still his king. Arthur's gaze traces slowly over the scars, but there is no disgust or revulsion in his eyes, just a solemn sadness. "Gwaine is right. After everything you sacrificed for Camelot, for me, you should be welcomed back with open arms. You will be, I'll make sure of it." He reaches out to clasp Lancelot's shoulder. "Please, come home."
And there's that word again, that single word that has the power to melt his resolve, because deep down he wants it more than anything.
He has to look away again as the tears come, and then Arthur is pulling him into an ardent embrace.
"Come home," he says again.
Lancelot breaks. "Okay," he breathes. Okay.
The rest of the knights move in to take their turns hugging him, and Lancelot's heart feels fit to burst. He can almost forget that returning to Camelot will present new challenges. But with his friends standing so resolutely beside him, he thinks he may be able to face it.
And if not, there's always the grotto. Lancelot turns to look back at the stream and the dimly hovering lights above the surface. He nods his gratitude to the Vilia and thinks he sees glints of smiles in return. They have looked after him and he will never forget them, but perhaps it's time for him to be where he belongs.
Home.