The day would forever be seared in Lancelot's memory, each time he closed his eyes, flashes appearing, unbidden from the dark recesses of his mind.
He couldn't sleep, his entire being sick at the thought that his fellow knights could sleep soundly, knowing what they had done.
The thought pounded at his head, wiggling and worming, his chest heaving as he tried, and failed to force down the bile which rose in his throat. How?
It had all been so easy, so, so easy as a child, to fantasise about becoming a knight in Camelot, riding off to fight far away battles, returning as the hero.
But the fantasies of a child could be nothing but that, the imaginations not at all comparable to the reality of the situation in which Lancelot was currently faced with.
Everytime he closed his eyes, the red of the cloaks became more like blood, soaked by that of the innocent, full of sound and fury and anger and pain and suffering. But he hadn't known that, had he? When Arthur had knighted him, along with Percival, Gwaine and Elyan, it had all sounded like a fun adventure.
But he should have known. He should have realised.
Camelot had always been known for its hatred of magic. But, the dots hadn't connected, the coin hadn't dropped. No, Lancelot was getting what he had always wanted, a knighthood of the highest order… but at what cost?
The patrol had started out routine enough. To ensure that the new 'common' knights were settling in, Prince Arthur would often split up their inner circle, sending them out on patrols with the other knights. Today had been Lancelot's turn.
It wasn't surprising that many of the knights in the group held a slight animosity towards Lancelot. After all, he wasn't noble born like them, and as far as they were concerned… not worthy to be a knight of Camelot.
He had been relegated to the back of the patrol, despite it being small in numbers, while the haughtiest, and those who believed themselves to be superior rode at the front. Fortunately, Arthur had warned him about this group already, had given Lancelot the reasons for sending specifically him out, and not any of the others. Gwaine, the prince had feared would antagonise them too much, Percival, Arthur still hadn't gotten a good measure of, Elyan had grown up in Camelot, could possibly have past grievances with these knights, and so Lancelot it was…
Knowing what he knew now, Lancelot wished he had called off sick. The patrol had taken them parallel to the Valley of the Fallen Kings, and it was there that disaster struck.
The bandits had appeared from between the trees, running at the knights, and for a few minutes, everything had been going perfectly well… until Lancelot saw the boy.
Wading his way through the bandits, he had made quick work of the rope binding the boy to the horse, his wide blue eyes, full of fear staring at Lancelot, his entire body trembling as he had tried to get away from the fighting.
But the bandits, or slavers, as Lancelot was coming to realise what they probably were, weren't going to give up their prize without a fight.
They rushed Lancelot, converging on himself and the boy, one of their swords making its way past his defence, knicking him in the arm. Wincing, Lancelot had pressed forwards, shielding the boy to the best of his abilities.
But with the other knights thoroughly engaged in their own skirmishes, there was nowhere else to turn, hemmed in on all sides, Lancelot had felt his energy flag.
He had been shoved back, twisting just enough so he wasn't speared by the sword, the slavers already grabbing for the child, when the boy screamed.
The entire world seemed to freeze for a second, before it came crashing down again… quite literally in the case of the slavers surrounding them.
Lancelot's breath had frozen in his throat, as the child had stared back at him, his blue eyes eerily reminiscent of a certain other sorcerer Lancelot knew…
The child had turned to flee, but not before a sword came down, a wet crunching sound as the sword hit flesh, before being withdrawn, coated in a fresh layer of blood.
The next hour was a blur of noise and colour, the other knights congratulating him on finding a sorcerer, and for the sorcerer's subsequent death, but all Lancelot could feel was horror, and a deep unsettling feeling gnawing at his insides.
Just like that, he had become a part of the knights of Camelot.
Lancelot wasn't even sure that's what he wanted anymore.
He had avoided Merlin when they had returned, feigning a headache, only stopping because Gaius insisted that his wounds be looked at, before handing him a tonic to ease the pain, sending him to his chambers to rest.
Hollowly, he had stretched out on his bed, but sleep wouldn't come.
And so he sat there, retching into the chamber pot, eyes filled with unshed tears, and it was there that he finally broke down.
Lancelot hadn't cried like this in years. Great heaving sobs as he tried to reconcile what he had become. How could he have wanted to become a part of this? Why had he wanted to become a part of this?
The boy's blue eyes haunted him… Merlin would hate him. Lancelot could have done more, should have done more, but he didn't.
Wasn't that the whole point of this, to help people? To ensure their protection?
But how could he do that? How could he become like the others, ignorant in what they assumed as 'justified' killings of the innocent? Knowing what he did, what he was now a part of, how could he face Merlin?
Lancelot knew not all magic was evil, knew that it was a tool to be used, just as a sword could be used, had seen Merlin use it for good.
The boy couldn't have been more than twelve summers at most. And yet Lancelot had stood back and let him be killed, surely this made him as bad, if not worse than Uther?
Lancelot had seen the fear in the child's eyes, could imagine that same look of fear on Merlin's face, had seen it when he revealed he knew of his friend's magic.
Was that what it was going to be like? Lancelot had naively thought that the knights of Camelot were revered wherever they went. But that wasn't the truth.
They were feared. Feared by those who did not see them as protectors, but as those who slaughtered, feared by those who were forced to live in hiding, feared by people like Merlin, who just wanted to live in peace, to be able to use their magic for the good of all without fearing prosecution.
And that was the problem. Morgana, Lancelot had no qualms with facing, those sorcerers which meant the people of Camelot of harm, he would also fight… but that boy today? He had just been scared… and the knights had laughed and clapped Lancelot on the back as a job well done, when all he had wanted to do was crawl in a ball and let himself die.
To them it had been the death of another sorcerer, no mind that it was a child. To Lancelot, it was the death of his promise. A promise he had made to himself to protect those who could not protect themselves. It was the death of everything he had stood up for ever in his life. It was the death of everything Merlin had ever promised for a bright future, for how could Lancelot face that future, when he knew that he was now part of the perpetrators keeping the present in the dark?
A thin sliver of light pierced his eyes, and he blinked, trying to make out the silhouette in the doorway.
"Lancelot?"
He tried to stand, but found himself swaying instead, letting himself lean on Merlin, gripping the other man tightly.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered.