[Fic] How Merlin and Lancelot Stole Christmas - for camelotsolstice
Title: How Merlin and Lancelot Stole Christmas
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: camelotsolstice
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Merlin, Lancelot, Nicholas of Myra
Warnings: Not applicable
Spoilers: None, bar the existence of Lancelot, I’ve not seen season 2 yet.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2003
Summary: Tis a noble quest, not bodysnatching in the slightest.
Author's Note: I may have played a bit fast and loose with the history of Lycia (also I’m fairly sure Ireland wasn’t all one country in the 6th century, and may still have been known as Hibernia) but given that they’re on a quest from Camelot that’s probably incidental. Many thanks to the mods for the extension and 'S' for the beta.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
It wasn’t that Merlin didn’t like Lycia. As south European city-states went Lycia was one of his favourites. Their being pleasantly disinclined to burn a lost Albion sorcerer at the stake worked in their favour. However, he suspected they were going to be a tad more judgemental about his companion. Charming though Lancelot could undoubtedly be, it was going to take more than charm and a bit of good swordsmanship to complete this quest of theirs.
The city of Myra had some fine buildings; nearly everyone that had invaded the city over the centuries seemed to have left a temple or two behind. Half of them looked as though they’d been cannibalised to build the other half, but Lancelot, veteran of many more quests than Merlin, assured him this was quite normal. What was wrong with an old fashioned stone circle Merlin wondered to himself. The locals seemed intent on building the latest in this long line at the moment. For such an out of the way, mountainous region it was rather impressive. Clearly they were expecting a lot of visitors and, from the amount of people milling around admiring the work, they were getting them.
The plan, such as it was, had been to come to Myra, once a major force in the Lycian Alliance, now on the wane since they had been absorbed into the empire - the fact that no one seemed to be able to reach a consensus on what to call the eastern swathes of what was still loosely referred to as the Roman Empire had seemed a promising sign of disarray. Once in Myra they were to find the no doubt long neglected tomb of St. Nicholas of Myra, remove his remains and return with them to Camelot, where they would be arraigned in state and have an Abbey built in their honour. This would increase the prestige of the kingdom considerably and doing some sterling work rehabilitating Uther’s reputation, transforming it from one of warfare and destruction, to one more in line with the saint, charitable and pious. Clearly, however, rumours of the city’s decline had been greatly exaggerated. The hill tombs gleamed in the late summer sunshine and the streets bustled with artisans and pilgrims. A new plan was needed.
At night he and Lancelot took alternating watches, Lancelot sat by the fire muttering to himself and sketching plans in the dirt, whereas Merlin allowed himself to worry about their friends back home. This is how they are, the roles they’d given to each other; Lancelot planned and Merlin worried. In the morning Lancelot tells Merlin his careful, elaborate plans and Merlin picks holes and make suggestions until they have something more workable and less likely to end up with one or both of them dead. (If occasionally Lancelot spent his watches worrying endlessly about those they have left behind or Merlin came up with a brilliant and bizarre plan they did not discuss it.) In return Lancelot made oblique references to Morgana’s growing power as a sorcereress, Guinevere’s steadfastness and ability to talk them out of trouble or Arthur’s skill with a sword and bravery. Only after particularly bad days does he feel the need to remind Merlin that no matter how far into the dark Morgana falls, she will not allow harm to fall upon Gwen anymore than Arthur will. Merlin responds only that Gwen can take care of herself, tells amusing stories of Morgana giving Gwen sword fighting lessons in the forest and pointing out Merlin’s errors when she helped him make medicines. He doesn’t speak of the way Arthur had taken over the lessons after Morgana had left, his own furtive instructions on medicine, antidotes and the kind of magic that requires potions and plants rather than any innate power of one’s own or the constant ache that comes from being too far away to sense Morgana and take comfort in it. Nor did he mention the recurring nightmare in which Morgana is burning and Gwen and Arthur stand back-to-back swords in hand fighting off a faceless enemy that they cannot defeat. Lancelot in turn did not mention the way that age has only served to make Uther increasingly intractable, that their quest is as much to keep Merlin safely out of the way of Uther’s increasingly irrational ire, as it is to appease Uther’s desire for prestige. That failure is not an option if they wish to return to Camelot while he still lives. All in all, daybreak and the time to move on can’t come quickly enough.
~ ~
It was surprisingly easy to get into the caves where the relics were kept, though a few minutes walking revealed their labyrinthine nature and explained their lax security. Most body-snatchers didn’t have the advantage of being able to use magic to find their way back out.
“We’re not body-snatchers, Merlin, we’re merely transporting the remains to a more suitable and convenient location for pilgrims.”
“I imagine the pilgrims find Myra quite convenient if there’s enough of them coming for them to build a church as fancy as the one down the hill.”
“There you go then, far too convenient, everyone knows its not a proper pilgrimage if you don’t travel a couple of thousand miles, you’re supposed to travel to distant parts.”
“These parts feel pretty distant to me,” argued Merlin.
“Ah but to people round here Camelot is distant parts. It’d be a proper adventure to come visit and see these relics. Besides there’s tons of saints in these parts they can spare one for us.”
“Don’t we have any of our own?”
“Yes, but I imagine that the druids would be a bit miffed if we started venerating Patrick,” off Merlin’s baffled look he continues, “never hear the story about the snakes in Eire? Rumour has it he made Uther look positively a friend to magic.”
Merlin thought of the monks who had arrived in Camelot the week before the set off. Their leader and would-be abbot, Sir Thomas, was an old friend of Uther’s and had spent long nights talking and arguing with the King about the merits of conversion. About how it would help to banish magic once and for all from Camelot. Feeding each other’s bigotry with their own. Much of the fine detail had been lost in a haze of mead but some ideas had stuck, like this quest for a relic to convince the roaming monks to make Camelot their home.
“They’re not going to take it too well if Uther succeeds in getting those monks to set up an abbey either are they?”
“No, but they won’t need to. Most of the monks may not believe in magic but they have the sense to fear it. They won’t stay in such close proximity to so many Druids, not when they’re as stirred up as they are. Also Sir Thomas might be foolish enough to take on Nimueh, but for all that Morgana’s not as powerful as Nimueh, and I might add a lot saner for it, he sees her as a warrior queen and will leave that fight to another.”
“To Uther? You think war is inevitable.”
“I think the best we can hope for is to hold it off until Arthur becomes King. Then we should be able to get away with a few skirmishes. The druids do not want war; they want redress and freedom from persecution. Besides, Arthur may be capable of continuing his father’s war on magic but I doubt very much he could declare war on you and Morgana.” He pauses a moment before continuing a tad wistfully, “even if he were, Guinevere would not allow it.”
“She’s not even Queen yet and she rules us all so easily.”
Lancelot seems to rally at that thought and continues in a more spirited fashion, “And never was there a finer lady to be ruled by. Come, let us spirit away these bones, else we have to explain our failure to a far less sympathetic ruler.”
“I’m afraid,” said a calm ancient voice, “that that will not be possible.”
“Merlin,” said Lancelot staring up at the ghostly apparition standing guard in front of the tomb, “this one, is all yours.”
~ ~
As the unquiet souls of the dead went, the late Bishop Nicholas of Myra was one of the friendlier ones that Merlin had encountered. It wasn’t that he objected to visiting Camelot, far from it, he’d never had much opportunity to travel when he’d been alive and far less now that he was dead. It was more that Nicholas had been a fairly powerful seer in his day and happened to be well acquainted with the fate of his bones. Namely that they were going to be spirited away from Myra to the city of Bari in four centuries time, and he had a timeline to preserve. Merlin tried hard to convince him on the malleability of the future, citing the many occasions that Arthur’s life had been saved by Morgana’s visions. He was, however, willing to allow them to borrow his hand for a few centuries - he seemed oddly certain that this was something that Merlin would be able to personally ensure, and Merlin looked forward with only a little dread to whatever new skill or spell he was going to learn that would ensure this - in return for a modest fee.
Bargaining with supernatural beings, Lancelot had always found, was a difficult and often dangerous business, likely to bite one in the posterior at unexpected moments. The bishop’s request was as odd as it was easily fulfilled. On their way to the caves they had passed a grove of orange trees, and Nicholas, it turned out, had been terribly fond of oranges. So Lancelot found himself collecting a sack of them, and standing, trying not to feel foolish, in the middle of the cave that housed Nicholas’ tomb, peeling them slowly while the ghost of the late saint inhaled gratefully and chatted to Merlin about his idea for a cross faith winter festival. Lancelot had seen enough of inter-faith strife over the years to mark it down as ‘a nice idea but far too idealistic for the real world’, but Merlin had that look on his face that meant he had a plan that would involve trouble, adventure and other things that Lancelot called fun, so he kept his own council. He had his own plans to make, these oranges for example, might not be quite as good as those he’d eaten on that quest to Seville, but they were still rather good and would travel well with their thick skins. An excellent novelty with which to distract the King, and the perfect gift for the ladies of the court if they happened to return in time for the Yuletide festivities.
~ ~
On the hill above the town Merlin stood holding open a large sack while Lancelot dropped oranges down on him from his perch up the tree. Merlin began to feel quite nostalgic for the days when he and Arthur would spend hours on unsuccessful hunting quests and end up collecting apples on the way home so that it looked like they’d actually done something productive. That was until a large shadow loomed over him, of all the things he missed about Camelot, being attacked by mythical beasts was not one of them. Merlin stared at the griffin; the griffin stared back curiously. Behind him, Merlin heard Lancelot groan and leap lithely from his perch, swinging his sword up from the ground as he went. Reaching out Merlin grabbed Lancelot’s shoulder restraining him, the beginning of a plan forming.
“Lancelot,” he queried, “ever fancied taming a griffin?”
Lancelot stared at him with a puzzled expression for a long moment before a grin spread across his face. It wasn’t perhaps the most conventional of lifts, but as one of its kin had previously eaten their horse, it seemed only fair.
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: camelotsolstice
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Merlin, Lancelot, Nicholas of Myra
Warnings: Not applicable
Spoilers: None, bar the existence of Lancelot, I’ve not seen season 2 yet.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2003
Summary: Tis a noble quest, not bodysnatching in the slightest.
Author's Note: I may have played a bit fast and loose with the history of Lycia (also I’m fairly sure Ireland wasn’t all one country in the 6th century, and may still have been known as Hibernia) but given that they’re on a quest from Camelot that’s probably incidental. Many thanks to the mods for the extension and 'S' for the beta.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
It wasn’t that Merlin didn’t like Lycia. As south European city-states went Lycia was one of his favourites. Their being pleasantly disinclined to burn a lost Albion sorcerer at the stake worked in their favour. However, he suspected they were going to be a tad more judgemental about his companion. Charming though Lancelot could undoubtedly be, it was going to take more than charm and a bit of good swordsmanship to complete this quest of theirs.
The city of Myra had some fine buildings; nearly everyone that had invaded the city over the centuries seemed to have left a temple or two behind. Half of them looked as though they’d been cannibalised to build the other half, but Lancelot, veteran of many more quests than Merlin, assured him this was quite normal. What was wrong with an old fashioned stone circle Merlin wondered to himself. The locals seemed intent on building the latest in this long line at the moment. For such an out of the way, mountainous region it was rather impressive. Clearly they were expecting a lot of visitors and, from the amount of people milling around admiring the work, they were getting them.
The plan, such as it was, had been to come to Myra, once a major force in the Lycian Alliance, now on the wane since they had been absorbed into the empire - the fact that no one seemed to be able to reach a consensus on what to call the eastern swathes of what was still loosely referred to as the Roman Empire had seemed a promising sign of disarray. Once in Myra they were to find the no doubt long neglected tomb of St. Nicholas of Myra, remove his remains and return with them to Camelot, where they would be arraigned in state and have an Abbey built in their honour. This would increase the prestige of the kingdom considerably and doing some sterling work rehabilitating Uther’s reputation, transforming it from one of warfare and destruction, to one more in line with the saint, charitable and pious. Clearly, however, rumours of the city’s decline had been greatly exaggerated. The hill tombs gleamed in the late summer sunshine and the streets bustled with artisans and pilgrims. A new plan was needed.
At night he and Lancelot took alternating watches, Lancelot sat by the fire muttering to himself and sketching plans in the dirt, whereas Merlin allowed himself to worry about their friends back home. This is how they are, the roles they’d given to each other; Lancelot planned and Merlin worried. In the morning Lancelot tells Merlin his careful, elaborate plans and Merlin picks holes and make suggestions until they have something more workable and less likely to end up with one or both of them dead. (If occasionally Lancelot spent his watches worrying endlessly about those they have left behind or Merlin came up with a brilliant and bizarre plan they did not discuss it.) In return Lancelot made oblique references to Morgana’s growing power as a sorcereress, Guinevere’s steadfastness and ability to talk them out of trouble or Arthur’s skill with a sword and bravery. Only after particularly bad days does he feel the need to remind Merlin that no matter how far into the dark Morgana falls, she will not allow harm to fall upon Gwen anymore than Arthur will. Merlin responds only that Gwen can take care of herself, tells amusing stories of Morgana giving Gwen sword fighting lessons in the forest and pointing out Merlin’s errors when she helped him make medicines. He doesn’t speak of the way Arthur had taken over the lessons after Morgana had left, his own furtive instructions on medicine, antidotes and the kind of magic that requires potions and plants rather than any innate power of one’s own or the constant ache that comes from being too far away to sense Morgana and take comfort in it. Nor did he mention the recurring nightmare in which Morgana is burning and Gwen and Arthur stand back-to-back swords in hand fighting off a faceless enemy that they cannot defeat. Lancelot in turn did not mention the way that age has only served to make Uther increasingly intractable, that their quest is as much to keep Merlin safely out of the way of Uther’s increasingly irrational ire, as it is to appease Uther’s desire for prestige. That failure is not an option if they wish to return to Camelot while he still lives. All in all, daybreak and the time to move on can’t come quickly enough.
~ ~
It was surprisingly easy to get into the caves where the relics were kept, though a few minutes walking revealed their labyrinthine nature and explained their lax security. Most body-snatchers didn’t have the advantage of being able to use magic to find their way back out.
“We’re not body-snatchers, Merlin, we’re merely transporting the remains to a more suitable and convenient location for pilgrims.”
“I imagine the pilgrims find Myra quite convenient if there’s enough of them coming for them to build a church as fancy as the one down the hill.”
“There you go then, far too convenient, everyone knows its not a proper pilgrimage if you don’t travel a couple of thousand miles, you’re supposed to travel to distant parts.”
“These parts feel pretty distant to me,” argued Merlin.
“Ah but to people round here Camelot is distant parts. It’d be a proper adventure to come visit and see these relics. Besides there’s tons of saints in these parts they can spare one for us.”
“Don’t we have any of our own?”
“Yes, but I imagine that the druids would be a bit miffed if we started venerating Patrick,” off Merlin’s baffled look he continues, “never hear the story about the snakes in Eire? Rumour has it he made Uther look positively a friend to magic.”
Merlin thought of the monks who had arrived in Camelot the week before the set off. Their leader and would-be abbot, Sir Thomas, was an old friend of Uther’s and had spent long nights talking and arguing with the King about the merits of conversion. About how it would help to banish magic once and for all from Camelot. Feeding each other’s bigotry with their own. Much of the fine detail had been lost in a haze of mead but some ideas had stuck, like this quest for a relic to convince the roaming monks to make Camelot their home.
“They’re not going to take it too well if Uther succeeds in getting those monks to set up an abbey either are they?”
“No, but they won’t need to. Most of the monks may not believe in magic but they have the sense to fear it. They won’t stay in such close proximity to so many Druids, not when they’re as stirred up as they are. Also Sir Thomas might be foolish enough to take on Nimueh, but for all that Morgana’s not as powerful as Nimueh, and I might add a lot saner for it, he sees her as a warrior queen and will leave that fight to another.”
“To Uther? You think war is inevitable.”
“I think the best we can hope for is to hold it off until Arthur becomes King. Then we should be able to get away with a few skirmishes. The druids do not want war; they want redress and freedom from persecution. Besides, Arthur may be capable of continuing his father’s war on magic but I doubt very much he could declare war on you and Morgana.” He pauses a moment before continuing a tad wistfully, “even if he were, Guinevere would not allow it.”
“She’s not even Queen yet and she rules us all so easily.”
Lancelot seems to rally at that thought and continues in a more spirited fashion, “And never was there a finer lady to be ruled by. Come, let us spirit away these bones, else we have to explain our failure to a far less sympathetic ruler.”
“I’m afraid,” said a calm ancient voice, “that that will not be possible.”
“Merlin,” said Lancelot staring up at the ghostly apparition standing guard in front of the tomb, “this one, is all yours.”
~ ~
As the unquiet souls of the dead went, the late Bishop Nicholas of Myra was one of the friendlier ones that Merlin had encountered. It wasn’t that he objected to visiting Camelot, far from it, he’d never had much opportunity to travel when he’d been alive and far less now that he was dead. It was more that Nicholas had been a fairly powerful seer in his day and happened to be well acquainted with the fate of his bones. Namely that they were going to be spirited away from Myra to the city of Bari in four centuries time, and he had a timeline to preserve. Merlin tried hard to convince him on the malleability of the future, citing the many occasions that Arthur’s life had been saved by Morgana’s visions. He was, however, willing to allow them to borrow his hand for a few centuries - he seemed oddly certain that this was something that Merlin would be able to personally ensure, and Merlin looked forward with only a little dread to whatever new skill or spell he was going to learn that would ensure this - in return for a modest fee.
Bargaining with supernatural beings, Lancelot had always found, was a difficult and often dangerous business, likely to bite one in the posterior at unexpected moments. The bishop’s request was as odd as it was easily fulfilled. On their way to the caves they had passed a grove of orange trees, and Nicholas, it turned out, had been terribly fond of oranges. So Lancelot found himself collecting a sack of them, and standing, trying not to feel foolish, in the middle of the cave that housed Nicholas’ tomb, peeling them slowly while the ghost of the late saint inhaled gratefully and chatted to Merlin about his idea for a cross faith winter festival. Lancelot had seen enough of inter-faith strife over the years to mark it down as ‘a nice idea but far too idealistic for the real world’, but Merlin had that look on his face that meant he had a plan that would involve trouble, adventure and other things that Lancelot called fun, so he kept his own council. He had his own plans to make, these oranges for example, might not be quite as good as those he’d eaten on that quest to Seville, but they were still rather good and would travel well with their thick skins. An excellent novelty with which to distract the King, and the perfect gift for the ladies of the court if they happened to return in time for the Yuletide festivities.
~ ~
On the hill above the town Merlin stood holding open a large sack while Lancelot dropped oranges down on him from his perch up the tree. Merlin began to feel quite nostalgic for the days when he and Arthur would spend hours on unsuccessful hunting quests and end up collecting apples on the way home so that it looked like they’d actually done something productive. That was until a large shadow loomed over him, of all the things he missed about Camelot, being attacked by mythical beasts was not one of them. Merlin stared at the griffin; the griffin stared back curiously. Behind him, Merlin heard Lancelot groan and leap lithely from his perch, swinging his sword up from the ground as he went. Reaching out Merlin grabbed Lancelot’s shoulder restraining him, the beginning of a plan forming.
“Lancelot,” he queried, “ever fancied taming a griffin?”
Lancelot stared at him with a puzzled expression for a long moment before a grin spread across his face. It wasn’t perhaps the most conventional of lifts, but as one of its kin had previously eaten their horse, it seemed only fair.