His name... MERLIN

Lancelot didn't have an answer for him. He didn't remember. His head felt hollow, scraped from the inside out, as disjointed thoughts echoed in there with a hissing sound. All he knew was that their last adventure left Merlin shivering in his bedroll, hugging himself with scraped arms in a last bid for comfort, as a single silent tear traveled across his cheek.

Lancelot reached out to swipe at it with a gentle hand and, while tugging Merlin's neckerchief to better hide the Fomorroh's scar from Arthur's eyes, revealed something else entirely.

All breath had left him as he stared at Merlin's heavily bruised throat. Cold horror ran through his veins, as hot rage bloomed in his heart at the monster who dared to hurt, to taint Merlin like this, to lay their hands on him as though they could stifle the sun and not be burnt for it.

He put his shaking fingers above the ugly bruises, and they were the perfect shape.

The hunting Merthur has become my obsession in recent days