"Shade of Oneself"
Lancelot is different. He knows this. Only because the memories of his life before his death and cursed resurrection feel like they belong to someone else, but he feels like himself now. The Shade was banished and Morgana's hold over his mind broken. He's back in Camelot where he belongs, a knight in service to King Arthur. But things are not the same.
He goes through the motions. He can play the part, just as he did while under Morgana's spell. He can carry on a conversation with his friends, can smile at the appropriate times. He keeps Merlin's secret and serves as the warlock's confidante, and it all comes naturally. Everything around him is the same. But something inside is missing.
Lancelot doesn't know what it is. A hole left by the Shade? The mark of black magic that will never wash out? …A piece of his soul that never came back at all?
It takes a few weeks and a few skirmishes, but Lancelot eventually realizes what is missing—the very thing that made him who he was before the Veil, before the Shade.
Sir Lancelot, the bravest and most noble of them all.
He is neither of those things anymore. Underneath all the layers is gripping fear. Fear of death, fear of pain (oh, he remembers the Veil all too well: the soul-piercing cold and abject suffering)—he will fight, of course he will. But he dreads it. His stomach turns to knots that don't let up; his sleep is rife with nightmares.
Sometimes he wants to quit and flee, but he has nowhere to go and the fear of the unknown is just as debilitating. He's trapped, suspended in this life that isn't living but only surviving. When did he become the victim?
After Morgana. After the Shade. He died a heroic death, chose to sacrifice himself for the world and the people he loved. Then his agency was stripped away and he was made a puppet, a tool to be used against the very same kingdom he had given up everything for.
His mind and body may be free now but he still feels imprisoned in this endless cycle of war and despair. He looks to his friends, his king, and wonders how they do it, why he can't seem to regain that fire, that determination to keep fighting. The battle has become a slog rather than a cause.
He confides in Merlin one night. Magic did this; maybe magic can help him.
But Merlin doesn't understand.
"You're yourself," he insists. "You just need to give yourself time after everything that happened."
Lancelot shakes his head. He doesn't know how to explain it because yes, he is himself. And yet…not. And the more time that passes, the further he sinks into this cyclical mire of losing hope. Another piece of himself that's just…gone.
He thinks back to the times in his life when he'd lost everything, even his sense of self. He'd found his way back then, remembered who he was and reignited that fire within.
So why couldn't he do that now?
Morgana makes her move on Camelot, with Agravaine's help. The city is lost and they have to flee. Lancelot gets hit and falls over the wall.
When he finds himself standing in a hazy landscape with no other features, he assumes he's dead. Again. This isn't the Veil, though. There's no chill, no screaming.
Yet.
Something prickles the back of his neck and he turns around, only to startle when he finds a young boy standing behind him. The brown eyes hold a universe of sadness. Lancelot recognizes himself.
"What is this?" he asks aloud.
"This is us," a familiar voice answers.
Lancelot tenses as an older visage of himself comes into view. This one is still younger than him, with longer hair and a boyish smile full of naive dreams. That Lancelot kneels next to the young boy.
"We lost everything too young, left to fend for ourselves," he says compassionately. "But what did we do?"
The young boy looks thoughtful before bending down and picking up a sword from the thin layer of mist covering the ground. The sadness is replaced with determination. The other Lancelot stands.
"We are a survivor."
The boy begins practicing his sword work.
"It didn't work out so well for us," Lancelot points out.
"I wouldn't say that. We met Merlin, after all."
The mist wobbles, and another version of Lancelot appears. This one, Lancelot instantly recognizes. His time with Hengist was his lowest.
"We found our way back," that Lancelot says. "We remembered what we had to fight for."
Guinevere.
"We loved and lost," the war-torn Lancelot of the present says.
"Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all," the young, idealistic version of him replies.
A fourth figure arrives, dressed in full chainmail. Lancelot isn't sure where this one is from.
"I'm the one who found something worth dying for."
Ah.
"That was the end of us," he says. In more ways than one. That was the last time Lancelot was Lancelot.
"If it was, you wouldn't be here."
"I'm not you."
"No," the other Lancelot agrees. "Your soul was sundered and we're the pieces you lost."
So he was right.
"You can take us back, reclaim yourself. You are not doomed to this fate."
Lancelot's eyes prick hotly. He wants this more than anything, but he's afraid, because it feels out of reach.
His recent incarnation gives him a compassionate look. "You are not too far gone," he says.
With that, the young boy practicing to become a knight so that he can defend the helpless against the brutality he suffered turns to Lancelot and spreads his little arms before stepping into him. The two merge. Lancelot takes a breath.
The naive idealist follows, then the redeemed version. That leaves the hero.
"I died for something," that Lancelot says. "Now it's your turn to find something to live for."
Lancelot closes his eyes and embraces the last piece of himself. He feels abuzz and warm, like a fire has been rekindled. And just like that, the person he's been for the past several months feels like the stranger. Like a shade.
The hazy air grows thicker, then dark. Lancelot opens his eyes to a dimly lit cave. He can feel the hard ground beneath the blankets underneath him, and his head is throbbing. He reaches a hand up to feel a bulging bandage.
"Lancelot!" Merlin exclaims and rushes over. "You're awake!"
More people gather around him. Arthur and Gwen, Percival and Leon.
"What happened?" he mumbles groggily.
"You fell and hit your head. We were worried you wouldn't wake up," Merlin explains, expression taut. "Morgana's taken Camelot."
Lancelot nods slowly; he remembers. "What's the plan?"
Everyone glances at Arthur, who looks stricken.
"I don't know," the king admits.
"Just rest," Merlin says quickly. "We're not going anywhere."
No, but they would be. Another battle is on the horizon, but Lancelot is not afraid this time. He remembers all the times they faced insurmountable odds and still emerged victorious.
He remembers how to be the brave and noble knight he is.
He remembers how to hope.