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Lancelot loved the three of them, in different ways, with the same intensity.
After all, his heart was big enough to stand the varieties of time, the threads of destiny that intertwined their lives.
He wasn't afraid of sacrifice, no. He was afraid of falling short, the burning desire to be the protector, to be reliable, to be honourable. Their lives were important in their own rights, and Lancelot only desire was to keep them safe, keep them from shattering, and love them as they grow into figures that would be remembered by Time.
He knew He was the one who had to keep it together, when everything went wrong, when everything when right but at what cost?
He was the one who knew, who cared, who understood.
Who resisted, amid the chaos of justice and freedom that his friends fought with every step.
And he wouldn’t stop loving them for it, even if he could be slowly crumbling away.
He loved Merlin like a lonely wolf long for the moon, never leaving, always the priority he could never protect as he wished. Like he wished for an era of peace and freedom in all the nights he lay awake.
He hadn't thought he could feel this much, care this deeply before meeting him. The fire that have always burnt in his chest seeking justice and freedom took a different meaning, a face he could see in the dark.
Since that moment, Lancelot promised himself he wouldn't let him fall apart, at least not alone.
Lancelot knew about patience, knew about waiting for when the time was right, and he knew about missed opportunities too. But taking care of Merlin was tricky, because he was an ever changing mystery, a broken beautiful contradiction, a miracle, a curse.
A man - a Force - that Destiny couldn't tame to its every wish.
He could say Merlin was sharp, precise and almost ruthless when slaying down another threat to Camelot, to the king, to Arthur.
He could say he saw it, how cold eyes, broken hands, heavy heart, regarded inside his fragile-looking frame the sins he had committed, carrying a burden he accepted to deserve, to pay for it when it was time. The same blue eyes that never waver in his determination to still make the hard, but right choice.
He could say Merlin was all that, but it would be anything but the truth (or the least important part of it)
Because Merlin was shattering, and it wasn’t because of the unlimited power he held over this land, over his enemies, over his friends. No. He was shattering for the curse of being a gentle soul, trapped in the middle of a war he could maybe finish in a single day, but at what cost? How many people he needed to betray?
The battle with yourself is one that never ends. And Lancelot just wished he could be enough for the thunderstorms inside his friend.
He was more patient than he ever could, more humble, just doing things for the good of doing them, without expecting any reward, anything in return.
And Lancelot knew those always burnt before their time.
With loving him, he learnt about trust, about hope bigger than what he could see just in front of his eyes. He understood the beauty of loving something he will never understand. But trust it and admire it and love love love it so much till his dying breath.
The burden of treacherous knowledge never felt so honourable before
So when Merlin let him bandage him one night –slipping past his grasp early in the day, not letting him face the battles at his side like he wanted to- Lancelot touched his broken skin as reverently as a prayer, as an oath, as devotion and understanding. And it was so easy to kiss those scars that told a story his heart ached to know, so right to let him see all the love in this eyes. And oh so easy to let their lips meet, languidly, soft, unhurried, and lay in bed way past sunrise whispering about the future, about Arthur, about freedom, about the world they were shaping into creation.
And Lancelot loved him, as easy as breathing, as right as magic surrounding every place we love.
He loved Guinevere like he loved all that was good.
Since he met her, he wasn’t the same. A brave soul, gentle hands shaping him into the future he wanted with all his heart. Since the beginning, she had given him the armour he needed to continue being brave.
A choice, sacrifices that he would do a million times over, smiles that reassure every part of his soul. She counted on him, she trusted him, in his righteousness and he thanked all the gods to have someone as strong and true-hearted as her in his life.
His goodness gave him solace in his restless nights, just the sheer hope in those brown eyes were enough to protect him from the demons reminding him he could fail. Because some nights he wasn't enough, not even to himself. But it was okay, because arms that knew of strength and loss held him tight, tight enough to mend the pieces that sometimes stop fitting alright.
And Lancelot loved her, love her still for being her alone, for having the courage to become a fair queen. And he was proud of call her my lady, and later my queen.
He learnt with her about duty, about playfulness, about home. One that didn't end even if they stray apart. Because the love that connected them together and to the prince and his manservant run deeper than the understanding of men.
And Lancelot could trust in that.
He loved Arthur as the sun in his face, pushing in his very breath the desire to be better.
In the beginning, He couldn't understand why Merlin thought so highly of him -the prince, sheltered, proud, Uther's son- until he met him. Although, that wasn't quite right. When he met him, he could only see his angry mask, the protective abrasive attitude that prevented his vulnerability to shine, that protected his really soft and lonely heart. But when he saw him, really saw him and stayed around enough to try to understand him, to unweave him slowly, from his eyes, from the cadence of his voice, from heavy hands and shiny swords...
... He knew why
Arthur shone as brightly as the sun, golden in a way that wasn't suffocating but compelling, to follow, to believe, to love. Because he was so good, although rough around the edges, not having any chance to soften them by the loneliness of his upbringing, but willing to try anyway, still caring about others over himself.
Brave, but warm. Sharp, but sincere.
One word, one look into his bright blue eyes, shining with determination to protect this world, and Lancelot would go to the dying ends of Earth for him. His passion, his tenderness after long battles and training sessions, the love shared in a tankard of mead. He loved Arthur like himself, like the ideals he held himself accountable. Because he reached them, and Lancelot wouldn't imagine living his life for another king.
And Lancelot loved him deeply, deeply enough to not hold him accountable. If love could be enough for them, it was enough for him, he thought toasting with himself after their beautiful wedding.
Lancelot loved the three of them, in different ways, with the same intensity.
So he just smiled, while looking back one last time, when his love got to be enough for them all.