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Several emotions streaked across Merlin’s countenance, too fast and complex for Lancelot to read. But he empathized with the strongest emotions of all that lingered in Merlin’s eyes—grief and regret.
After last night, Lancelot now knew what they felt like too.
With trembling fingers, Merlin lifted a heavy pendant on a hand-made woven chain from the box. Wordlessly, he extended it to Arthur, who held it carefully on his open palm.
“The chain is made from my hair,” Merlin murmured, his voice gritty and rough, even more so than usual.
“It will never break. The stone is…”
“A piece of your heart,” Arthur finished his father’s sentence when Merlin couldn’t seem to get the words out.
The red dragon nodded, clenching his jaw. He swallowed hard and clasped a large hand on Arthur’s shoulder.
“I am glad to give it to you…my son,” the last he barely whispered, as if afraid to say them out loud.
“I am honored to receive it, father,” Arthur returned, meeting Merlin’s shimmering gaze.
“Do you still remember the spell, big Red?” Annie broke in, when the air around them seemed too weighed down by emotion.
So many emotions!
Lancelot was practically drowning in them. And they weren’t even his own.
“I will never forget it,” Merlin said, drawing a deep breath as if bracing himself.
Aye, Lancelot knew why. The spell had been carved into Merlin’s hide for decades before Annie’s love made him whole again.
“Hold it over your heart,” the sorcerer instructed Arthur now.
Arthur did, and Merlin held his own hand over Arthur’s, while Annie gripped his other hand.
The selfish part of Lancelot wanted to shout, “Wait! Don’t do it! I don’t want to be free! I want to bound to Arthur forever! And I want him to be bound to me!”
But that moment of mindless panic came and went in the space of a blink.
Lancelotknewhe could never keep Arthur bound to him against the man’s will.
Arthur’s gaze met his own then, as Merlin began to chant in an ancient language.
“Hold his other hand,” Annie whispered, physically drawing Lancelot and Arthur together, linking their fingers.
“When the amulet restores Arthur’s life unto himself, it will release your life force back unto you,” she said in that same hushed voice.
“It will burn,” she warned, her own hand visibly heating up where she held Merlin’s.
Lancelot didn’t look away from Arthur all the while.
Let it burn, he thought.
Let his body feel what his heart and soul did.
There was no greater agony on earth than losing Arthur.
He knew exactly when the incantation began to take effect. As his eyes locked with Arthur’s he saw the dark blue irises of his king gleam with silvery veins, as if streaks of lightning shot through his eyes. His pupils first expanded, then contracted in pain to pinpoints, his eyes so bright now they hurt to look upon.
And Lancelot began to feel the burn himself, radiating from where their hands were joined. Ironically, he was numb there, while the rest of his limbs and torso felt set ablaze. The flames within burned hotter with each passing breath.
Whereas when they’d done this before, funneling half of his life force into Arthur to save his life, and a searing cold had pervaded Lancelot, this time, it was raging heat. Filling him so full he thought he might burst with it.
