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"Lancelot, I can explain—"
“Who are you?” He drew his sword. There was a reason why he had not run back to that clearing, why he drew his sword instead of throwing it away, and it was that the Merlin he knew would have never let him believe he was dead. For years.
"Lancelot, it really is me," he said, his hands raised. Lancelot swallowed.
"Prove it," he said, because yes, he was that desperate.
Merlin took a step forward. Lancelot adjusted his stance, gripped his sword tighter.
Eyes locked, Merlin's glowed. Hundreds of tiny golden lights appeared around them, like fireflies but warmer.
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Bookmark Notes:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA