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Chapter Text

“Where are we heading to?” Little Squirrel's voice echoed in the valley he and the Weeping Monk were slowly navigating down.

The Monk’s eyes did not stop their scanning of the valley walls as he grunted in response. The shrubs were still, the trees silent, and yet.

A feeling.

“I’ve never been this far north. It was always forbidden to leave the village.” The young boy continued, not put off in the slightest by The Monk’s lack of open enthusiasm. “Have you ever been north? To the land’s end?”

Treated with another grunt, Squirrel sighed, a long and exaggerated groan. “Come on Lancelot, even your horse is better at conversations than you.”

The Monk blinked, raking his eyes from the treeline to glance at the boy in front of him.

“Yes,” he replied, voice gravelly.

Squirrel seemed to have been struck by lightning- he started so suddenly that even The Monk flinched.

“Really? What was it like? Gawain told us stories of the ocean. Is it true it’s like a lake without trees on the horizon?”

The Monk considered his options. He sighed. “A thousand times bigger, with swells thrice your height and cliffs the size of castles.”

Squirrel’s eyes were saucers, as they gazed up into The Monk’s to check for any deception. He didn’t seem to find any, as he asked next, “Do you know how to swim? I do! Nimue taught me.” Squirrel grinned, a toothy smile which took up half his face.

“Nimue,” The Monk said, feeling the name roll past his lips.
Squirrel raised his chin proudly. “She’s our Queen.”

The Monk nodded slightly, of course little Squirrel’s best friend would be the Fey Queen, and looked once again at the treeline to the left of them. His nose twitched.

He nudged his horse Goliath over towards the left until they came upon a wide horse path. It crawled along the side of the valley wall in steep switchbacks, the dusty road crumbling behind them. Following it out of the small valley, The Monk looked down at his companion.

“There is a village up ahead. I’m warning you, the sight will be uncomfortable. The Paladins reached it within the past few days.”

Squirrel, predictably, balked at the idea of discomfort and nodded to The Monk, who gripped Goliath’s reins slightly tighter. The boy in front of him had been robbed of his youth, of the days running through forests and listening to legends around a community fire, of his family.

Does he remind you of someone? Abbott Wicklow had taunted. He hadn’t been incorrect. His childhood too had been stolen, replaced by pain and hate and he deserved it all-

“Lancelot?” Squirrel had turned and was looking up at the Monk’s face with something like concern, one hand poking into his shoulder.

“Hmm,” The Monk grunted. The path was as silent as ever, trees perfectly still in the summer heat.

“I’m a knight, you know.”

The Monk’s eyebrows rose at that, and his lips twitched in a hint of a smile.

The pair rode in silence until a foul smell permeated the air- a scent that required no Ash blood to detect. Upon rounding a corner, their eyes fell upon a row of crosses decorated with ash and bones, bits of rotting corpses being nibbled on by birds. Bodies littered the forest floor, still dressed in their colorful robes, now stained with blood.

Beyond the initial sight in front of them lay a cluster of wooden huts, burnt and collapsing.

The Weeping Monk guided his horse to a paddock that remained untouched. He clutched his side as he dismounted, groaning at the numerous pains rocketing through his body. You deserve this, he told himself as he reached out his hands to help Squirrel down. With ease, he lifted and deposited the boy safely upon the ground, who swayed on the spot.

“Stay close to me,” The Monk ordered in a quiet voice, and Squirrel nodded.

They walked past the crosses, past the bodies, The Monk pausing to retrieve a sword that had been left beside an older man’s body. He sheathed the sword- a balanced yet shorter weapon than he was familiar with- in his scabbard.

The pair continued.

“Do you reckon there’s anything left?” Squirrel asked. He ran ahead, to the first hut. It was half collapsed and still smoking, bits of glowing embers scattered the ground inside. Attempting to lift a small plank, Squirrel jumped back and swore loudly. “The bloody thing is still scorching!”

The Monk peered curiously over Squirrel’s shoulder and bent down. “What’re you-” Squirrel began. But The Monk grasped the wooden plank and pulled upwards to reveal a slightly scorched leather sack, not flinching in the slightest. Squirrel retrieved the sack, all the while frowning at The Monk’s hand as he set the wood down.

“Fire doesn’t harm me. Nor does smoke.” He explained simply.

Squirrel’s brow furrowed more but did not speak. He looked through the pack, revealing a satchel of dried meat, a dagger, and a wooden doll. Pulling out the dried meat, he ripped a piece off before offering the rest to The Monk.

For a second, The Monk did not move. He blinked, and slowly reached forward. Then he clenched his hand into a fist and shook his head: “You have it.”

Squirrel ripped off another chunk and stuffed it into his mouth. He then slung the pack around his shoulder, chin pointed up and hand held stubbornly before him. “Don’t be daft, Lancelot. You look terrible. Eat it.”

And so the taller figure once again reached out his hand, and took the food. He looked down upon it, and thought about the last time anyone had offered to share anything with him. Finding no such times in his memories, The Monk popped the piece of meat into his mouth. He could hardly swallow; his throat still bruised and swollen from the fight the night prior.

They searched through the remainder of the huts, finding little other than burnt remains of food and clothes.

At the last hut, Squirrel pulled out a royal blue bundle and handed it to The Monk, who was watching the trees around them. Tearing his eyes away, The Monk unfolded the bundle to reveal a long cloak. He pulled his own grey cloak from his shoulders, the scratchy fabric familiar to his touch, and threw it under rubble nearby.

With a slow movement, The Monk clasped the cloak around his shoulders. It fell to his ankles, a soft and thin fabric. He reached to pull the hood up before pausing. Perhaps it was the fact that the Weeping monk finally had an opportunity to lower his hood that brought upon the thrilling wave of emotion. Perhaps it was that the cloak still had the scent of the last owner, a Fey boy of around his age that caused his heart to burn with sadness. Perhaps it was the young boy looking up at him with a small smile, who nodded his approval before turning away that told his heart that finally, Lancelot was home.

Chapter Text

The sun was nearly set by the time Lancelot and Squirrel had reached a nearby creek. Although within eyesight of the little village, Lancelot’s side had begun to ache with such a passion that Squirrel had to support his weight, and it took nearly half an hour to cover the small distance.

“I’m not sure how your horse can carry you around all the time. You’re so heavy!” Squirrel’s face was red with effort as, finally, he helped the larger man to slump onto a flat rock beside the creek.

The water trickled slowly in a wide yet shallow path, littered with rocks and moss and covered by the canopy of trees above.

Lancelot let out a snort which morphed into a cough.

Leaning over slowly, he scooped his hand into the cool water and brought it to his lips. The first gulp was difficult to swallow, and the second brought a faint taste of blood to his tongue. The third however was as refreshing as the sun after an eternal winter, and he greedily gulped it down.

Looking up, he saw Squirrel scrubbing blood from his sleeve.

“Are you hurt?” Lancelot asked, brows pinched as he searched for any obvious wounds.

“I think,” Squirrel began, “that this is your blood. You’ve been bleedin’ all over me like a stuck pig.”

Lancelot glanced downwards, where, sure enough, his hands and tunic were painted by red streaks. He sighed and began to rinse them. “You try fighting the Trinity Guard.”

“I would’ve!” Squirrel’s eyes were round in earnest.

“I know.” Lancelot nodded approvingly. Unpinning his royal blue cloak and setting it aside, Lancelot pulled his grey tunic and shirt over his head to reveal a blood-spotted grey linen undershirt. Pulling that over his head too, he passed it through the water, watching it stain the area red for a brief moment before it vanished. Setting it to dry on a rock nearby, Lancelot looked down to see his chest angry with cuts and marred with bruises.

Scooping more water, he began to wipe at the blood until it was washed away. As he started the same process with his back, he heard a gasp from the little boy behind him.

Lancelot’s hand flew to the sword’s hilt, ready. But upon turning to Squirrel, he found that the boy’s eyes were not focused on an enemy in the woods, but upon his shoulder, where Lancelot’s back had been a second before.

“What did they do to you?” Squirrel asked, standing to get a better view.

“It’s none of your concern.” Lancelot responded, eyes downcast. He turned so that the boy couldn’t see, and hastily continued splashing water over the wounds.

“Like hell it is! You’re worse off than the Green Knight, and he was their prisoner.”

Lancelot paused. Carefully, he said, “My failures were repented for. I deserved- deserve this pain.”

“Your failures?” Squirrel cried, “Not burning us alive in the tower? Telling them I was no harm?”

The man did not respond, but pulled his damp undershirt over his head to cover himself.

“You’re a bloody idiot.” Squirrel declared. Lancelot broke into a smile.

“What ever for?”

“Well, my mum always told me that failure is a curse to be broken by courage.”

“Do not flatter me, Percival.”

Squirrel scowled at the name Lancelot had used, and made to walk away from the creek. Before he could take more than a few steps, Lancelot snatched the collar of his shirt and pulled him back.

“I’m not jesting.” Lancelot said, eyes imploring, burning into Squirrel so fiercely the boy appeared ready to recoil. All the same, Squirrel crossed his arms and looked back into Lancelot’s face, scanning the bruises, scars, and then eyes dropping to the tear-like marks that trailed his face. “I’m not a good man. Remember what I have done to your home, and multiply that by hundreds.”

“You’ve changed,” Squirrel nodded in earnest.

Lancelot’s heart panged, a shadow of remorse flicking across his features. Above them, birds cawed and the wind blew faintly through the trees. The sky had turned a rich blue, cloudless, and began to twinkle with a few bright stars.

“I’m afraid not many will share that perspective.” Lancelot looked down and released the boy, who did not move.

Squirrel considered his words, then held out his hand to the man before him. “Well then they’re bloody idiots too.”

Lips twitching in an almost smile, Lancelot reached for his other tunic and cloak. As his hand neared the discarded clothes, it brushed a small patch of dirt and began to shift into shades of green. Jerking away, Lancelot turned to Squirrel who was transfixed by the transformation. Not speaking, he gathered the garments in a bundle and began to stand. After struggling for a moment, he took Squirrel’s hand and forced himself to a squat before rising slowly.

Squirrel’s voice sounded far away as he asked, “Did the Paladins know?”

The pair began walking back, and silence remained the only response to the question hanging in the cool night air.

Once the two were situated around the glowing embers of the remnants of a hut, Lancelot draped his cloak around him and exhaled, a long and sad breath.

“Father Carden knew.”

“That proper bastard you talked back to?” Squirrel asked.

“Yes, him. I assume Abbot Wicklow- the man alongside the Trinity Guard- deduced as much too.” Lancelot paused. His eyes followed a spark as it flew from the embers and died a moment later. “The Green Knight knew.”

"Gawain?"

“My hand touched the ground and turned green while we fought.”

Lancelot could practically hear Squirrel’s little mind whirring. “But he didn’t use that against you? Why?”

“He said that all Fey are brothers, even the lost ones.” Lancelot turned to the boy sitting across from him, “If it weren’t for the words we exchanged, and his silence, I would either be dead or with the Paladins now.”

Squirrel’s eyes bloomed with tears then, and he wiped them away quickly. “I’m going to miss him. He was the bravest warrior I ever knew.”

“There was a rumor that the Fey Queen, Nimue, was willing to trade the Green Knight’s life and yours in exchange for the Sword of Power. I have no idea as to if she succeeded or not.”

“What?” Squirrel gasped. “You mean he could still be alive?”

“I do not mean to give you false hope, Percival. It is a possibility, nothing more.”

“We have to go back!” Squirrel jumped to his feet, and marched over to Lancelot, standing over him. “We can’t give up on him! Even if there’s only a chance!”

“No.”

“Fine! I’m taking your bloody horse and going myself!” Squirrel pulled his pack from his shoulder and drew the dagger out. He unsheathed it and pointed it at Lancelot, who remained on the ground before him. His voice broke as he spoke his next words: “I should’ve known you would have no honor. I thought you changed!”

“Percival,” Lancelot spoke slowly, hands raised in a non-threatening position, propped on his elbows, “It’s a day’s ride. You have no food, no plan.”

“I don’t need a plan! I need to rescue the Green Knight!” Squirrel’s arm shook as he continued to point the dagger at the man shrouded in blue. “He’s the only family I have now, beside Nimue. Not that you’d understand having a family.”

Lancelot’s eyes flashed and Squirrel took a step back, seemingly realizing the weight of his words.

“Do you think I asked to be taken from my family and watch as their throats were slit?”

“You didn’t have a choice then. You do now.” Squirrel sheathed the dagger, and threw it in his pack.

A brief pause followed Squirrel’s words, and Lancelot adjusted himself to lean against a pile of wood. He looked at the moon, shining brightly upon him and towards the boy, who plopped himself opposite of the glowing embers. Eyes closing, Lancelot sent a quiet prayer to anyone who would hear him.

With a sigh and eyes still closed, Lancelot said quietly, “We’ll leave at dawn and find your knight.”

Within a second, Lancelot was crushed under the weight of Squirrel who appeared to be pulling him into a hug.

Lancelot froze for a second, unsure of what to do, then gingerly placed his arms around the boy and patted him a few times.

When Squirrel stood, his eyes were glistening once again. He walked back to his side of the embers, and plopped down on the ground. With a stick, he poked a log and it crumbled. A cascade of embers and ash fell, releasing a small crackle as it did so.

“Lancelot?”

“Hmm?” His eyes, which had been watching the coals ebbing and glowing, flitted back to the boy.

“I’m sorry for what I said about your family.”

The man grunted in response.

“Maybe you can be a part of ours someday. Our family, I mean. If you wanted.”

Squirrel took one last glance at Lancelot’s weeping eyes, and laid back, turning away to sleep.

Lancelot did not tell him that, if they were lucky enough to find the Green Knight, Nimue, and the other Fey, and by some miracle was not executed for his crimes, he would like that very much.

Chapter Text

The girl who appeared in Lancelot’s dream was silent.

She stood with her back to him, facing a waterfall, waist-deep in a river. The tips of her long hair skimmed the surface of the water.

He drew his sword- the sword that had been his since boyhood- and waited. His empty hand clenched, and he forced himself to loosen it. The breeze carried whispers, indistinguishable words in a language he did not know.

You can handle one Fey girl, Lancelot scolded himself. Yet before he could so much as form a plan of attack, the girl began to turn to face him.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to realize there was something familiar- off putting even- about this girl.

Gripping his sword tightly, Lancelot moved forward to the very edge of the water, water lapping inches away from his boots. The whispers grew louder.

The girl’s face was paper white, and her blue eyes were glassy and unfocused. As she turned, Lancelot saw her chest, the entire front of her dress nearly red from blood. Two arrows protruded from her body, but her face showed no sign of discomfort. She merely strode forward, eyes unfocused all the while, until she stood less than a horse length away.

Lancelot leaned closer, eyes searching her face for any sign of life; she didn’t appear to be breathing. His boot brushed the water as he stepped forward, and the girl’s eyes snapped into focus, boring into his own.

“You,” She said, voice scratchy and alight with fury. Her eyes, a beautiful sea blue, did not move.

Lancelot raised his sword, but as he did it vanished, leaving him weaponless before her.

The girl stepped forward, and frowned as she drew closer. Her face betrayed her anger, showing confusion. “You aren’t real?” She asked.

Lancelot did not respond, merely looking at the lake, where he noticed something missing: her reflection.

The girl looked down, noticing her red-stained front. “Oh gods.” She mumbled, looking up at him again. “Am I dead?”

He opened his mouth to say something, to share his bewilderment, when-

Lancelot jolted awake to Squirrel shaking his shoulder. “Wake up! Come on, you absolute buffoon! Snap out of it!”

“What?” Lancelot jumped to his feet, knocking Squirrel backwards. His right hand flew to his sword- the sword he had retrieved next to the dead man the day prior- and spun around.

“You halfwit, you were having a nightmare!” Squirrel yelled. He rubbed his head as he stood up. Lancelot did not respond, and breathing heavily, merely sheathed his sword and beckoned for the boy to follow as he turned toward the creek.

The sun hadn’t quite risen yet; mist weaved between the trees surrounding them. Lancelot limped slightly as they walked, hand clutching his side. The pain was infinitely lower than the day previous however, and within a few minutes they reached the water. He sat on the same rock as the day prior, Squirrel beside him.

He watched as Squirrel excitedly gulped down several handfuls, yet Lancelot hesitated, remembering the girl from his dreams.

Giving into thirst, Lancelot dipped his hand into the stream and brought it to his lips.

“I think your forehead is still bleeding. Your hair is all-” Squirrel motioned something akin to a whirlwind with his hands.

Sighing, Lancelot leaned over the water and looked at his reflection. He noted the large gash stretching from his hair to his cheek, and the few bruises that mottled his face. He scanned the tear-like streaks hidden under speckles of dried blood. He looked into his eyes, and found an unreadable blue gazing back up at him.

Lancelot began cleaning the wound and washed the blood from his face. Unpinning the three pins securing the remnants of his bun in place, Lancelot submerged his hair into the water, hissing as the cold rushed around his scalp. He scrubbed it lightly and watched as red droplets trickled from his hair into the creek below him.

Once satisfied, Lancelot ran his fingers through his hair and shook it loosely. He was left with chin length wavy brown hair, and turned to the boy beside him who was giving him an oddly wistful look.

Lancelot raised his eyebrows and Squirrel shrugged. “I could braid your hair if you wanted.”

“Sorry?”

Squirrel mimed braiding in front of him. “You know, the hair style. I would braid Nimue’s hair sometimes back home.”

Lancelot shrugged and nodded. Squirrel scrambled to stand behind Lancelot on his rock, and froze.

He could feel the boy’s eyes staring at the cross carved into the back of his head, and half expected Squirrel to curse him and run off. Instead, the boy began pulling hair from one side and gradually twisted it back.

“Hold this,” he said, “and stop moving, otherwise it’ll look awful.”

Exhaling indignantly, Lancelot held one braid as Squirrel set to work on the other side. His eyes trailed the sun, which was beginning to peek through the trees and scatter the mist.

“Alright, hand it over,” Squirrel said, and Lancelot felt him twist the two braids together in the back. He seemed to fasten them with a piece of scrap material, and stood back to admire his handiwork.

Lancelot turned to face him as the boy opened his mouth: “It, uh, covers the-” he gestured lamely to the back of his head, “-thing.”

“Thank you,” Lancelot said quietly, and peered at his reflection in the water. Although he could only see the sides, Lancelot admired the twists’ crown-like effect, the rest of his hair left down.

“It’s how lots of the men in our tribe wore their hair.” Squirrel explained. Lancelot reached his hand backwards to feel the cross, now hidden under the braid.

“Did it hurt? When they carved it?” Squirrel held eye contact steadily.

“The pain cleanses you,” Lancelot responded automatically, and Squirrel recoiled. He added, “It is designed to bring you closer to His Grace.”

“Well I’m glad you can’t see it anymore. It’s rather ugly.” Squirrel told him matter-of-factly, and squinted at the trees surrounding them. “Do you reckon we can find some rabbits to cook up? I’m starving.”

Lancelot glanced around. “I don’t suppose you found a bow and arrows yesterday?”

Squirrel shook his head. Lancelot stood shakily and, out of habit, pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. Squirrel promptly jumped up and pulled it down again.

“You look all mysterious with it on.” Squirrel muttered. Lancelot merely shook his head, and led them to the paddock where Goliath stood eating grass. As he began to untie the horse, a small rustle disturbed the silence.

He drew his sword and saw Squirrel withdraw his dagger. Putting a finger to his lips, Lancelot ducked his head to see further around the tree where the noise came from. Yet what emerged was not a person, rather, a skinny guinea fowl.

“The dagger,” Lancelot breathed, and Squirrel held it out to him. Taking it by the hilt, Lancelot drew his arm back and threw the knife.

It sliced through the air with a whoosh which ended abruptly with a soft thud as it hit its mark.

The dagger had struck the bird’s lower neck, severing it cleanly. The pair walked over to the animal, which had ceased any movement.

Lancelot picked up the bird, and Squirrel looked up with eyes wide with amazement. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

Lancelot considered him. The boy, who had been willing to face the Trinity Guard bearing only a sword, who had seen him murder countless members of his friends and family, now stood before him asking to be instructed.

He saw the hunger in the boy’s eyes, the need for revenge. He saw himself, so long ago, eager to prove his worth to Father Carden and the other Paladins.

“I would be honored.” Lancelot told him, “But we do not have the luxury of time now. If you wish to search for the Green Knight, we must go.”

He watched Squirrel’s eyes drift to the dagger, still laying on the ground along with the fowl’s head, and watched as the boy hesitated.

“I want to search for the Green Knight.” Squirrel said.

“Very well.”

“But afterwards, you’ll teach me?”

Lancelot nodded slowly.

They walked over to a pile of coals that glowed red even in the morning light. After brushing off ash and skinning and slicing the bird, they placed small fillets on the coals.

While Lancelot stayed with the fire, Squirrel stood and walked over to the bodies still strewn across the ground nearby. Pinching his nose shut to avoid the smell, Squirrel walked around them, searching for a sword or bow he could use. He gave up shortly after his searches yielded nothing more than a renewed sense of hatred, and stomped back to the fire where Lancelot waited for him.

“I hate them! The Paladins. They’re all scum. I’m going to hunt down every last one and skin them alive.” Squirrel paced back and forth as he spoke, his fists clenched and his face tinged slightly pink. At the silence his statement was met with, Squirrel whirled upon Lancelot and crossed his arms. “Well?”

“My boy, you cannot do this alone.”

“I could. But besides, I’m not alone. You’re here.”

Lancelot bowed his head, not looking at the boy. “We must find and return you to your Fey brethren. You will be safe there and may continue the fight from-”

“They won’t let me fight.” Squirrel said firmly. “I don’t want to live to fight another day. If I die, I’d like to take a few with me!”

“Percival, you must live to die another day.” Lancelot looked at him. “Your death is worth much more than a few slain Paladins. Rome will only send more.”

Squirrel seemed to understand this, as his posture slumped slightly.

Once cooked, they ate the bird’s meat greedily and scattered any evidence of their brief stay. By then, the morning mist had fully dissipated and the sun was rising above the treetops.

As Squirrel packed extra meat into his satchel, he grumbled, “I thought you said we’d leave at dawn.”

“We have food. That is more valuable than any time lost.”

Lancelot hoisted himself upon Goliath, then helped Squirrel up in front of him.

Goliath maintained a steady gallop on the way to the small canyon they had ridden in two days prior. Yet once they reached the path that sloped downwards, Lancelot tugged on the reins.

“What is it?” Squirrel asked.

“Too visible.” Lancelot muttered, and instead directed his horse to the edge of the treeline. There, they continued the journey for several hours, Squirrel passing time by asking questions.

“What’s it like being known as the Weeping Monk? I mean, it does look like you’re crying but it seems rather rude.”

Lancelot considered the question. “It holds me to a standard, I suppose.”

“Did you enjoy killing the Fey?”

“I thought I was saving their souls.” Lancelot said.

“Why’d you change?”

He wondered how much to tell the boy, how the Green Knight’s words had rattled his core, how Father Carden’s love extended only as much as Lancelot’s abilities would carry him, how seeing Squirrel brought to Brother Salt’s kitchens had been the spark to send the cathedral ablaze.

“God’s grace had left me.” Lancelot said truthfully. “I felt darkness, and something else.”

“What did you-”

“Quiet!” Lancelot hissed. He tugged on Goliath’s reins, and they paused behind a tree.

Peering around the trunk, Lancelot squinted at a flash of silver fifty or so yards ahead.

“What is it?” Squirrel asked in a whisper. A burst of laughter carried across the forest to the huddled pair.

“Not Fey, by the scent. Percival, stay here. If anyone approaches, take Goliath and run. Understood?”

Pouting slightly, Squirrel nodded.

Lancelot lowered himself from the horse’s back carefully, and began creeping to the noises in front. Ten minutes later, he found himself only a few trees away from a pitched tent and three men dressed in black and silver armor gathered around a makeshift table. They did not wear cloaks or golden masks. Uther Pendragon’s men, Lancelot thought. Only one faced his direction, a middle aged man who held a map.

He listened to their conversation, watching as one pointed to the map in front of them.

“I can’t believe the Paladins dared attack His Majesty’s forces.”

“Well they’ve gotten what they deserve,” said another. “They’ve scattered, moving in two groups along here-”

Lancelot heard the map rustle as he assumed the man pointed to the locations.

“We have the men to press the advantage. And instead we’re sitting here waiting- for what exactly?”

“For the Wolf-Blood Witch, you dunce.”

“Right, like she’ll stroll through the woods on an afternoon walk.”

“Last we heard, she has the Sword of Power.”

“All the more reason as to why we should be fighting the Paladins and not her.”

Lancelot placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. He only needed one alive to question.

He felt a small tug on his arm, and spun around to see Squirrel, dagger ready in his right hand.

Throwing his best glare down to the boy who was grinning broadly before him, Lancelot breathed as quietly as possible, “I’ll go first. Wait for my signal.”

Without giving Squirrel any time to respond, Lancelot stepped out from behind the tree.

“Oy!” One man shouted. “Who’re you?”

“He’s that Monk, the one who cries.” A second responded. Two drew their swords, the third reached for a bow.

Lancelot stepped forward a few paces.

“Not one step closer!” The first man growled. “You’re outnumbered.”

Lancelot paused, giving the men time to let down their guard, and lunged towards the closest man.

Parrying the man’s downward swing, Lancelot spun with the movement of his blade and elbowed the man in the back. He followed through with a stab in the man’s side, and he let loose a terrible howl before slumping to the forest floor.

The second man who approached was bulkier, and swung with a ferocity Lancelot appreciated. Managing to evade a diagonal slash, Lancelot tumbled forward into a roll. While the man whirled around Lancelot slid his blade across his shins, causing him to fall with a thud to the ground.

“Behind you!” Lancelot heard little Squirrel’s yell before an instinct pulled his arm around.

His hand flew backwards as a sharp whoosh sounded out. Yet when Lancelot looked over his shoulder, he saw his hand clasped around the shaft of an arrow. Lips parting in shock, he glanced up at the third, equally confused man with the bow, and only noticed a flash of browns and greens a millisecond before Squirrel had stuck his dagger into the man’s side, the same chink of armor that Lancelot had exploited when facing the first man.

Squirrel withdrew the knife, and as the man fell, Squirrel pressed the knife to his exposed neck.

Lancelot strode over, arrow still in hand, and pointed his sword at the man’s chest for added measure.

“Where’s the Green Knight?” Squirrel asked, his voice clear and backed with fury.

“Who?” The man groaned in pain.

“He was a prisoner of Father Carden. Was part of a trade for the Wolf-Blood Witch and her sword.” Lancelot said, voice airy and emotionless.

The man began to laugh.

Lancelot slid his blade into the man’s stomach slowly. He let loose a cry that cut through the air, that was tinged with the same laugh.

“He’s dead, you vermin.” The man wheezed. Lancelot watched as Squirrel’s hand began to shake. “There wasn’t much left in him after the Paladins dropped him off with us, we took the pleasure of finishing him off.”

Squirrel’s knife now pressed into the man’s neck, droplets of blood bloomed and began to trickle down leaving streaks of red.

“We showed his body to the Wolf-Blood Witch. Unless she can do the impossible and bring him back from the dead he’s gone.” He laughed again, blood bubbling in his mouth. Turning his eyes to Lancelot, the man continued, “Even if she can’t, she killed that Cardiff-”

“Carden?” Lancelot’s eyes snapped to the man before him, jaw twitching.

“Ah yes. Lobbed his head off in front of-”

Squirrel stood, grabbed the sword out of Lancelot’s limp hand, and with all of his might, impaled the man’s neck. The laughter immediately ceased.

The pair stood in silence over the body. Both watched as blood poured from the wound.

Squirrel was the first to recover, pulling the sword from the man’s neck and tugging on Lancelot’s sleeve.

“Come on,” Squirrel said. He tugged on Lancelot’s blue sleeve, but the taller man merely swayed, eyes looking unseeingly at the scene before him. “Lancelot, we have to go!”

Blinking, Lancelot looked around. Satisfied with the movement, Squirrel picked up the bow and a quiver of arrows, and shoved the sword back into Lancelot’s hand.

“Fetch Goliath,” Lancelot said quietly, “I’ll search for anything useful here.”

The little boy scurried off, and Lancelot looked around the campsite.

Father Carden. Dead. He thought, as he searched through the mens’ pockets. Finding a sack that clinked with coins, Lancelot pocketed it and turned to the tent. He had barely pulled the flap open when he felt himself flying backwards as a man tackled his stomach.

The man managed to knee him in his ribs, and Lancelot coughed as he felt his lungs contract. With a strong push, Lancelot toppled the man, and the pair struggled on the ground, each attempting to best the other.

Yet the man was taller than Lancelot, and eventually pinned him down into the earth. The man’s meaty fingers enclosed around Lancelot’s neck as he growled, “You’ll pay for their deaths you-”

Lancelot struggled against the man above him, but the lack of oxygen was quickly causing the world to spin. Was that a gallop he heard in the background?

His fingers brushed the dirt below him and he felt the familiar tingle as they turned green. Before Lancelot could draw from the surge of energy running through his veins, however, an arrow whizzed by and lodged itself in the other man’s eye socket.

Gasping for breath, Lancelot shoved the man off and saw Squirrel atop Goliath, bow drawn and readying another arrow.

“That’s twice I’ve saved your bloody ass!” Squirrel yelled, hopping down from the horse to help Lancelot to his feet.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Lancelot rasped. He massaged his neck as he opened the tent flap to look inside.

“Taught m’self.” Squirrel said, obviously proud. Lancelot nodded in response, looking at the cots and bags in front of him.

“Take what you can carry.” Lancelot told him, and they set about looking through the tent for any valuables.

Five minutes later, the pair emerged with priceless treasures: two waterskins, blankets, and a few wrapped parcels of bread. Snatching the blood-speckled map from the table and retrieving the arrow from the man’s eye, Squirrel turned to his companion.

“Where to now?” The boy asked.

Lancelot considered the question. He and Squirrel mounted Goliath, and for a second, hesitated. To find the Fey? Or the girl from his dreams?

“Away from here, my boy. Away from here.”

Chapter Text

The boy had never been this quiet.

Ever since the pair had left the Pendragon campsite several hours prior, Squirrel had said little more than asking where they were headed. Lancelot was used to his own silence; his voice usually hoarse from disuse had seen more action in the past few days than in the past month. Yet little Squirrel, who usually seemed unable to cease his questions, was silent.

So Lancelot listened. He listened to a bird cawing overhead, trees rustling around them, and the sound of water crashing somewhere to their right. Guiding Goliath towards the sound of the water, Lancelot squinted up at the sun.

Around this hour he and the Paladins would pray, if they were not cleansing some Fey village. If he thought hard enough, he could still hear his brothers’ murmurs as they recited passages, could still see the sea of red in front of him as he stood in the back, never speaking and always listening.

He was no stranger to his own silence. Yet the boy was quiet, and it troubled Lancelot greatly.

Eventually they reached a wide and fast moving river, and Lancelot dismounted. After helping Squirrel down, he led Goliath to the water to drink. Squirrel was crouched, filling his own waterskin.

“I am sorry about your Green Knight.” Lancelot said, glancing at Squirrel’s head which stared resolutely at the water skin before him.

“Are you?” Squirrel asked, voice rising. “You brought him to the Paladins.”

Lancelot schooled his face into a blank canvas as he looked at Squirrel, trying to read him. Only hours previous, he had saved Lancelot’s life, had fought alongside him. Lancelot responded carefully, “I did. Much has changed since then.”

“I want him back!” Squirrel shouted, throwing the waterskin to the pebbled ground. Water spilled from the opening, but Squirrel paid no mind. Fists clenched, he stomped to Lancelot and stopped a foot in front of him.

“I know,”

“You don’t know! How could you know? All you do-” Squirrel drew back his little fist, and swung, striking Lancelot’s stomach with a thump, “-is kill people! You’re a horrible-” Thump. “-person!” Thump.

Lancelot stood there, barely moved by the boy’s punches. He waited, hating that he could smell the grief and anger in the air.

With several sniffles and a gasp, Squirrel looked up at the man before him. His green eyes were puffy and red, face flushed and blotchy.

“Say something!” Squirrel’s voice cracked, and his punches became weaker.

“I-” Lancelot stuttered, at a loss for the first time in his memory.

Before he could begin to formulate a coherent sentence, the fight seemed to leave the little boy, as he slumped into Lancelot’s stomach, arms wrapped around his waist, and began to cry in earnest.

Lancelot hesitated before he placed his arms gently around the boy, and murmured, “I’ve got you, Percival. It’ll be alright,”

They stood there for a while, until Squirrel’s sobs became quieter and eventually stopped. Looking up at Lancelot with bleary eyes, he said, “The Green Knight was supposed to train me and take me on adventures.”

And yet you have me. Lancelot thought humorlessly.

Lancelot crouched down so that Squirrel was slightly taller. He looked up into the boy’s face, at the eyes that, just yesterday, had looked back with something akin to admiration.

“I cannot replace Gawain. Nor will I attempt to. Say the word and we will not sleep until we find your brethren.”

Lancelot waited, looking between Squirrel’s eyes for an indication of anything. But nothing came. Lancelot looked down, and put his head in his hands.

“You said you’d teach me how to fight,” Squirrel said, voice raised at the end as if half asking a question.

Lancelot looked up and nodded slowly. “Are you certain you don’t want to find-”

Squirrel shook his head, wiped his eyes, and said, “I’ll be more useful if I can fight. Besides, you owe me.”

“I can try my best, dear boy.” Lancelot said. Squirrel smiled shakily, and Lancelot continued slightly sadly, “But why me? Of all people? You said it yourself, I’m a horrible person.”

Squirrel hesitated. “I shouldn’t have said that,” He sighed. “I meant what I said a few nights ago, you’ve changed.”

Lancelot nodded slightly, before turning to Goliath. The horse shook his head as Lancelot adjusted the saddle.

“I haven’t forgiven you though. For the Green Knight.” Squirrel added, walking back to retrieve his waterskin.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Lancelot responded, looking out at the river beside them. He watched the water as it roared and splashed against boulders and sprayed a fine mist over the tide below. He turned to Squirrel, who selected a flat stone from the ground and skipped it across the water. “But Percival?”

“Yeah?” Squirrel picked up another stone and drew his arm back.

He stepped forward and grasped the boy’s wrist, forcing him to look up into Lancelot’s face. Squirrel’s eyes dropped below Lancelot’s, tracing the weeping marks.

“If I am to train you, I must know that you trust me. And that in a dire situation, you will listen to me.”

Squirrel frowned, and looked into Lancelot’s eyes. “Alright, I trust you.”

Lancelot raised his eyebrows.

“And I’ll listen to you.”

He let the boy go, and Squirrel chucked the rock into the river with a splash. “For the record, I’ve saved your bloody life twice by not listening to-”

“I will not allow you to die for me.” Lancelot said simply.

“I don’t need your protection.” Squirrel told him. All evidence of his tears had vanished; a look of determination had replaced it entirely.

“Of course not.” Lancelot walked over to Goliath. “Come on,”

They set off on their journey with the river to their right. The landscape slowly shifted until trees became scattered across rocky hills of boulders and moss. Goliath’s hooves clattering along the dusty path, and faint rustling sounds echoed around the land surrounding. All the while, the river roared beside them.

“How long do you reckon it’ll take for them to notice we killed those men back there?” Squirrel asked.

“Before sundown if they haven’t already. They’ll presume it was the Paladins.”

“I thought they were allies?”

“Uther offended Father Carden,” Lancelot’s stomach churned with a hurricane of emotions at the thought of Carden. “He just wanted to rule, didn’t care much for the Fey nor the Paladins.”

“The bastard.” Squirrel muttered.

“He offered ships to the Fey. To go north,” Lancelot said, recalling the conversation where Pendragon had been seated behind his buffet table, gleeful and drunk on his power.

“Do you think they made it?”

“We can pray they did,” sighed Lancelot. “And that Pendragon’s army and the Paladins are too caught up in their own squabble to notice us.”

“We can take them,” Squirrel reassured him.

“We need good swords first.” Lancelot squinted in the distance, at the tiny flames that illuminated a small city beginning to emerge in front of sweeping mountains. “And to do that, we must visit a blacksmith.”

The pair slowly approached the city, built with fortified walls that had seen better days. Even from the great distance between them, Lancelot could see the walls were pale from discoloration.

“How are we going to get in? If they see your face they’ll kill you.” Squirrel’s voice was high.

Lancelot brought one hand to his cheek and rubbed at the streaking marks. “We have gold.”

“And once inside?”

“You’ll be doing the talking.”

Lancelot pulled up the blue hood to cover his face, and they rode on in silence until the sky was tinged a pale pink. The mountains were drawing closer, rocky and dark.

Around half an hour later, they arrived at a larger cobble path which led to the city, a mere few hundred yards away. There, they encountered a caravan of people also attempting to enter. Some drew carriages, others on horseback, and several weary travelers were on foot. A nervous chatter filled the air along with the sound of horses neighing and the grinding of wheels on stone.

Lancelot hesitated, the mild scent of Fey wafted towards him from the mix of people ahead. Brushing his instinct aside, the pair merged into the queue.

They moved at a slow pace towards the city, pausing for minutes before moving several paces ahead.

Upon arrival at the gates, they were directed to one of many guards, each inspecting the new arrivals. A man dressed in Pendragon armor boredly asked, “What is your business here?”

Squirrel told him, voice strong, “Seeking shelter for a few nights.”

“Right, you and everyone else in the damn world. You have coin?”

“Yes.” Squirrel replied.

Lancelot’s hood was pulled fully over his face, and he heard the man say, “And who is that?”

He felt the little boy tense before him, but responded smoothly nonetheless, “My brother. He was attacked by the Fey in Sir Ector’s estate. Has a terrible scar on his face. It’s quite ugly.”

Lancelot waited, but the man merely laughed. “Can’t blame him! The bloody Fey. It’s a right shame the Red Paladins were traitors. Most of us agreed with them. I don’t think anything non-human should occupy space on this damn planet. Move along, child.”

They entered the city, Lancelot exhaling a breath he did not know he had been holding. Lifting his head to peer under his hood at the streets around them, he told Squirrel, “Find an inn with a stable.”

Several minutes passed in which Lancelot’s eyes trailed the cobbled streets. This was the first time he had been forced to hide his face, the first time where his formidable reputation did not give him an advantage.

Eventually, Squirrel muttered, “Here,” and they dismounted.

Lancelot glanced up to see a bustling inn with a stable around the side. After ensuring Goliath was secured and grabbing any belongings, they pushed open the old wooden door to reveal a crowd inside.

A group standing on top of a table were singing loudly, instruments playing an upbeat tune. A large group of patrons were crowded around them, beer and ale sloshing around. Several tables around the sides were quieter, small groups huddled and in conversation.

Pulling his hood further down before anyone could take notice, the two stepped over the threshold. Lancelot maintained a firm grip on Squirrel’s shoulder as they wove their way through the crowd to a woman behind the counter.

“How much for a room? One night.” Squirrel asked after pulling himself up onto a bar seat.

Imagining the woman’s confused face, Lancelot heard a middle-aged voice respond, “Are you on your own, child?”

“I’m with my brother,” Squirrel said, “Don’t mind him. He doesn’t talk much. Was in an accident as a child.” Squirrel explained. Lancelot pressed a few coins from the stolen satchel into Squirrel’s hand.

“A room with two cots is going to be three pounds. Throw in two shillings and it’ll get you a meal too.” The woman said. Squirrel counted the money, and placed it in front of her.

“Right, come behind the bar and head up the staircase. Your room will be the second on the left. Come back down and we’ll bring you some soup.” She said.

There was a deafening crash from behind them, followed by a chorus of laughter and drunken shouts.

“Oh for God’s sake!” The woman said, and Lancelot heard her footsteps march towards the commotion.

Squirrel led him towards the staircase, which creaked as it struggled under the weight of the two newcomers. The place reeked of alcohol and was rather musty. A dampness hung in the air.

Squirrel opened the door to their room. Only after closing the dusty linen curtains and bolting the door behind him did Lancelot remove his hood. Squirrel threw himself onto one of the cots, hugging the small pillow below him.

“How I’ve missed a bed!” He exclaimed. “And, we’re getting a true meal!”

Lancelot sat on the other, and leaned his sword and scabbard against the wall beside him. Amused at Squirrel’s reaction, he took a deep breath.

“We must eat and rest now. It may be the last city we stay in for a while.” Lancelot told him.

He wondered vaguely how long they would be living on the run. And for a moment, he realized what it felt like to be Fey.

Chapter Text

The soup they ate that night was worth any amount of shillings, Lancelot decided. They had eaten in a back room with muffled sounds from the bar vibrating through the walls. Several candles lit the room, casting a warm glow on the stone around them.

Small cubes of fatty pork were combined with chopped parsnips, leeks, and barley to create a hearty meal. The woman must have taken pity upon Squirrel’s still-bruised face, as she gave them each a thick slice of rye bread. All the while, Lancelot’s hood was pulled past his nose, shielding his face well.

Squirrel positively gushed at the prospect of being in a new large city; Gremaire had been his first time into a walled city with cobble streets and stone houses.

Eventually, Lancelot noticed the boy’s voice begin to taper off, and he snuck a glance at him below the brim of his hood. Squirrel’s eyes were dazedly looking at the candle before him, and he yawned widely.

“We should sleep.” Lancelot announced, scraping the last bit of soup from his bowl. Squirrel grunted his acknowledgement and the pair made their way upstairs.

Squirrel threw himself on his cot once more, and watched as Lancelot removed his cloak. The blue material glistened in the candlelight, and he placed it on the floor beside his resting sword.

“With any luck we’ll be able to leave the city tomorrow.”

Squirrel rolled his eyes. “Since when do we have luck?”

Lancelot sighed and laid on his back, staring at the ceiling above him. Eventually he heard soft snores coming from Squirrel’s direction and, while thinking of swords and armies, of fire and water, he fell into a comfortable sleep.

Lancelot’s dreams began in the past, as they often did.

The dreams were flashes, nothing more. He never had emotions tied to them, could not recall any pain even when he watched the Paladins’ swords swing across his parents’ necks. Father Carden had ensured of that, whispering of the abomination to God that was Feykind.

This dream was no different.

Lancelot walked through the dream, a spectator of his memory.

The mountainous terrain was scarred from burnt trees and scorched dirt. Houses built of smooth stone bricks stood proudly, untouched by the scene unfolding in front of them.

Echoing screams filled the cool air, and the roar of fire echoed through the mountaintops. Lancelot’s footsteps were silent as he walked through the scene, toward the site of where it all began.

He recalled how the Ask Folk had fought against the foreign Paladin army, setting fire to the trees surrounding the village and gathering horses to buy themselves time. Immune to smoke and flames, the elders had agreed to hide the children, and have the remainder make their stand within the burning forest.

Lancelot remembered how he and the children had hidden in the back of a barn, and he walked there now. He passed through the walls, to the cluster he knew were hiding. His younger self was buried under a stack of hay, and his present-day self wondered if things would have ended differently if the corner of his grey cape did not remain unburied amongst the straw above him.

A deafening clashsounded as the barn doors were thrown open. Lancelot glanced towards the door, seeing none other than Father Carden leading five other Paladins, swords brandished and at the ready.

Carden’s face tightened slightly at the sight of the fifteen-or-so kids in front of him, clad in grey and eyes wide.

“Take them to the center,” Carden said clearly, and stepped aside to allow his brothers to pass. One boy, older than Lancelot at the time, leaped up with a sword and swung it at the first Paladin who approached.

The Paladin easily countered, and stabbed the boy squarely in the chest.

Screams echoed throughout the barn, and many children started to cry. “You’ll be next if you don’t shut up!” The Paladin roared, and several hastily contained sobs sounded faintly as the children were guided out of the barn and towards the village center.

Lancelot watched as Carden’s eyes trailed the final Paladin as he left the barn, and watched as Carden turned to the hay once again, preparing to leave when the man in red froze.

His eyes, of course, were fixed upon the piece of grey fabric sticking up from the hay.

The young Lancelot was pulled roughly from the straw. Unlike the other kids however, Lancelot remained silent, blue eyes fixed on the man in front of him.

Carden hesitated. Young Lancelot’s eyes seemed to trouble him. Not the tear-like marks streaming from his eyes- for every Ash Folk had similar marks. But the boy’s gaze was unnerving, as if Carden were merely a puzzle that Lancelot could not solve.

Just then, the young boy’s eyes flicked to the entrance of the barn. Carden turned to see nothing out of the ordinary.

Yet seconds later, an Ash Man appeared. Before a true fight could emerge, Carden strode to the entrance and swung his sword. The man blocked the blow, but mere moments later, was impaled from the back as a second Paladin appeared behind him. He let out a cry as his body slumped to the ground.

Father Carden’s eyes turned to the still quiet young boy, alight with interest.

“You knew he was coming?”

The young Lancelot nodded.

“Can your brethren do the same?”

The boy raised his chin, face still impassive. “I’m the best.”

Lancelot watched as Carden approached his younger self once more. He turned away as he heard Father Carden say, “Well, boy, God has sent us his avenging sword of light. You should be grateful for our mercy.”

Lancelot saw the pair leave the barn, knowing that Carden would soon instruct the slaughter of every man, woman, and child. And all the while, Lancelot would watch silently, eyes streaked with not only his Ash Folk marks, but with salty tears.

He heard a voice call out, but when Lancelot spun around he found himself back at the lake, with the same strange girl with braided hair and arrows sticking out horribly from her chest.

His boot skimmed the surface of the water and her eyes snapped to him, as they did the first time.

“You again!” She exclaimed, taking a step back so that the water level was past her waist. Her face hardened as she added, “Why can I see you?”

Lancelot did not respond.

“I don’t mean only now,” the girl said, her eyes piercing his, “I saw that dream you had. When you were a boy.”

Lancelot opened his mouth, but found that no words came out.

“And I see you sometimes. In flashes.” She continued. “With Squirrel.”

“You’re Nimue,” Lancelot spoke for the first time, and her eyes widened.

“I thought you knew me as the Wolf-Blood Witch.”

“I’ve heard enough of Squirrel’s stories to know otherwise,” Lancelot muttered. Nimue’s pale face broke into a wide smile, wrinkles crinkling at the corner of her eyes as she laughed. Lancelot watched her, amused.

Her smile vanished as soon as it had come. “You’re not all I see though. Rome is sending more Paladins. Uther may have the upper hand now but he will lose it. You are not safe in your city.” Nimue gasped as leaf markings began to blossom on her face, and she continued, “They are on their way to you. One of the remaining Paladin groups.”

Lancelot did not question her. “How much time?”

“A few days, maybe. The city is in a good strategic location for when additional men arrive.”

“Why tell me this?” Lancelot asked.

“You burned my village and watched as my friends were murdered. I’m doing this for Squirrel.” She told him, eyes glinting.

He nodded in response, unsurprised.

“Weep-, or as Squirrel says, Lancelot?”

“Yes?” He asked, eyebrows raised at her using his true name.

Nimue considered him, saying, “I trust you to keep him safe. There’s something about you, I can’t quite-”

Lancelot woke with a start.

His face gleamed with sweat, and his tunic was twisted about him. A pale morning light illuminated the room from behind the curtains, Squirrel still sound asleep.

Lancelot’s heart pounded as he sat upright.

If his dreams were to be trusted, they had mere days before the Paladins arrived. They could slip out that very morning, swordless, yet safe. Put several days in between the Paladin forces and themselves to avoid any conflict, especially when severely disadvantaged.

He jumped as Squirrel’s voice cut the silence, “What is it?”

“Dreams,” Lancelot responded. He pushed any falling hairs from his face and rubbed his temples.

Squirrel yawned loudly, and squinted out the window. “Bad ones?”

“Useful. The Paladins are coming. They’ll be here in a few days.”

Squirrel sat up, brows furrowed. “How do you know?”

Lancelot considered his response. “Just a vision I had,” He said truthfully.

Squirrel nodded. “Well, I reckon we should get our swords then.”

“When Pendragon scouts find out the Paladins are approaching they may lock down the city.”

“We’ll be long gone before then. Quick as the fox,” Squirrel nodded eagerly.

“Do you believe we should take the risk?” Lancelot asked. “If anything were to happen to you-”

The boy rolled his eyes. “We’ll be fine.”

“Very well,” Lancelot said, and he strapped the sword to his belt and retrieved his cloak. He considered whether listening to Squirrel’s risky plan would get them both killed, but decided to go along with it. They were a team, after all.

Chapter Text

Fresh air filled their lungs as they exited the inn. Dewdrops glistened upon the cobble streets, and people bustled along as shops and markets began opening. They passed a baker, who they paid in exchange for a medium sized loaf of bread.

Squirrel eagerly split the loaf, and handed the slightly larger portion to Lancelot.

“Thank you,” Lancelot said quietly, holding the portion of bread rather lamely. He tried handing the bread to Squirrel, saying, “You’re a growing boy, you need it more than I.”

But the boy merely shook his head stubbornly and took a large bite of his own piece. Lancelot sighed, wishing he could remove his hood that he had worn for so many years to see the world around him.

They wandered the streets until Squirrel gasped and tugged Lancelot’s sleeve.

“Here!” The boy nearly shouted, and Lancelot had to half jog to keep up with him.

Sneaking a glance from under his hood, he saw a medium sized blacksmith, a partially covered shop with a blazing furnace at its center. A steady clanging echoed around, which grew louder as the pair moved closer. A sturdily built man with a woolen tunic and a thick leather apron worked with a hammer, and in the back, a slightly younger man was feeding the furnace.

He lowered his head before either of them could look up from their work, and listened as Squirrel began to speak.

“We’d like to buy two swords.” Squirrel said firmly.

Lancelot heard the first man reply, “Boy, you have the coin for that?”

“I do.”

“Let’s see it then,” The man responded gruffly, laughing.

“Not until I see two swords.” Squirrel quipped. Lancelot could see the boy’s face, challenging and stubborn.

But the man merely guffawed and called out to the other worker. “Oi! Merek, grab a few swords for this little knight.”

There was a clatter as the other man, Merek, hurried inside to retrieve the swords in question.

“And one for my brother,” Squirrel added.

“This your brother? Tell him to do the talking.”

“He can talk. But you’re dealing with me right now.” Squirrel’s voice seemed to amuse the man, as he laughed further.

“Right you are, little knight. I was just admiring your brother’s sword.”

“What of it?” Squirrel asked waspishly. Lancelot looked down at the hilt, and nearly swore aloud.

“It’s a standard issue for the Pendragon army. You either get that or a pike,” The man explained. “Can’t get one unless you serve. And it doesn’t seem like either of you are on patrol now, does it?”

Lancelot looked up at the man, pulling his hood back, and praying he would not see any recognition in his face. “I was injured in battle. They let me keep the sword.”

Taken aback, the man grunted, “My apologies then. What happened to your face?”

Half relieved he did not know any stories of The Weeping Monk and half annoyed at the question, Lancelot muttered, “Birthmarks.”

At that moment, Merek appeared with a handful of swords of varying lengths. He brought them to a table, and waved the pair over.

“Don’t mind Rowan over there, he’s always looking for trouble.” Merek said kindly. Rowan, the first man, scoffed and followed them over to the table. Merek turned to Squirrel. “Right, so for you, I’d recommend a shorter blade but still practical. Try out these, see what feels right.”

Squirrel reached for one of the swords, and held it in both hands. Lancelot watched as the boy shifted the sword to one hand, and as he tried to do a few experimental stabs.

“It’s a bit heavy?” Squirrel looked up at Lancelot, questioning.

“It has to be heavy in order to block or do damage.” Lancelot said. “Try another sword.”

Squirrel placed the first sword back on the table, and reached for a second. This one had a slightly longer and skinnier blade than the first, with a dark leather grip. Immediately, Squirrel grinned. He once again shifted the blade from his left hand to his right hand and in both, mimicking a slashing movement.

“I like this one better!” Squirrel exclaimed. He looked for approval from Lancelot as he held the blade out for the taller man to inspect.

Lancelot took the blade and spun it in his right hand. It was light, but would no doubt serve its purpose well. He nodded, and placed the sword back on the table.

“We have this one as well.” Merek said, holding out a short and thick blade. Squirrel took it in his hands, and immediately had to redouble his efforts to prevent himself from dropping the sword.

It became obvious that the sword was far too heavy, Squirrel nearly dragging it on the ground.

Lancelot frowned as a memory seared through his mind. A burning Fey village beside a lake; talking with Father Carden as, out of the corner of his eye, a Fey girl sprinted past him in order to reach a young boy, dragging his far-too-large sword along the ground. Squirrel.

He blinked and returned to the scene in front of him. Squirrel was returning the third sword to the table, and saying, “I’ll take the second one.”

Merek pulled the two rejected swords from the table and gestured for Lancelot to try out the remaining ones. Rowan muttered something about returning to his work and strode off, and Merek returned with a scabbard for Squirrel’s sword.

Lancelot picked up the first sword, but set it down on the table almost immediately after. Too short he thought.

The second sword was too skinny, more resembling a rapier than his preferred longsword.

The third felt off. He figured it was not properly balanced, but didn’t bother to find out and turned his eyes to the fourth.

The fourth sword’s hilt was similar to Squirrel’s, with a dark leather grip and a diamond shaped pummel. It was longer than the Pendragon army sword, and he spun it and tested a slice through the air.

“You fight with two swords?” Merek asked. At Lancelot’s suspicious gaze, he added, “Your belt has a second space.”

“Usually. Lost my other one.” Lancelot told him.

“Shame.” Merek’s eyes looked to the Pendragon blade. “Pick out a second sword and I’ll trade it for that one”

Lancelot considered the offer. “Fine,” He said, and selected a second shorter sword he found to his liking. Merek brought out two more scabbards.

They exchanged swords and money shortly after.

“You know, I could’ve sworn I’ve seen you before.” Merek said, as gold coins were pressed into his hand.

Lancelot turned towards him. “I doubt it.”

“Your face, I dunno, there’s something familiar about it. I used to sell blades to the Paladins, but that can’t be right.” Merek’s eyes focused on the marks trailing from his eyes, and glanced downwards to examine Lancelot’s blue cloak and grey tunic.

He felt Squirrel tense beside him.

“You must be mistaken. I have no sympathy for the Paladins. Nor for the Fey.” Lancelot said evenly.

Merek merely shrugged, eyes once again focused on Lancelot’s face.

“Come on,” Lancelot said to Squirrel, pulling his hood over his face and tugging the boy away from the shop. As they crossed the street, Lancelot glanced backwards at the two workers.

Merek was talking in a low voice to Rowan, who was nodding slightly, eyebrows furrowed. The pair looked up to see Lancelot watching them, both with stony faces.

Turning away, Lancelot tugged Squirrel into the crowd, and they made their way towards the inn once more.

“That was fantastic!” Squirrel said. His sword was fastened securely to his belt, and his left hand held the hilt proudly.

“I think,” Lancelot began slowly, “That Merek bloke recognized me.”

Squirrel looked up at Lancelot nervously.

Although recently no one other than Carden, Abbot Wicklow, and some of the Trinity Guard had known his Fey identity, he wondered if association with the Paladins- as a traitor if word spread quickly- would endanger them now.

Chapter Text

The pair continued towards the inn, Squirrel babbling about his new sword and training.

“When can we start? What will I do first? We can go find a Paladin camp and I’ll take them all down, you’ll see!” Squirrel’s hand rested on the hilt of his new sword, and he practically bounced from one cobblestone to another.

Lancelot considered his words. How would he start training the boy? “No Paladins,” Lancelot said. “You’ll train against me for now.”

Squirrel huffed indignantly. “But I’m a bloody knight! I want to fight them!”

“A smart knight knows when they should initiate the fight, not walk into it like a headless chicken.”

Squirrel looked up at lancelot, eyes wide in amazement and distracted. “You just made a joke. I can’t believe it.”

The pair continued onwards into a town square, with shops surrounding the outside and a crowd gathered in the center.

“But if I could stop them before they come for us-”

Squirrel was cut off by the sound of a man’s voice ringing around the square.

Upon drawing closer, Lancelot noticed the large crowd had gathered around a podium, on which an armored man was shouting, a scroll held in one hand.

“It is with great honor that I inform you that the Red Paladins of Rome will be occupying the city for an indefinite time.”

The crowd muttered, a vibration of support, Lancelot noticed, rather than opposition. Squirrel froze.

“They shall arrive the day after tomorrow, and will be welcomed with open arms to be residents of our humble city. King Uther Pendragon has failed us! His days of buffets and galavanting with Merlin the Magician, who brought us blood rains, are over! He has left no order outside of his castle walls, and will do us no good as King.”

The crowd cheered loudly, many clapped in agreement. Squirrel looked up at Lancelot, confused. “I thought the Pendragon army and the Paladins were enemies?”

Lancelot looked around the square, where soldiers holding long pikes stood guard. He recalled what the guard who inspected them upon their arrival to the city had said regarding the Red Paladins: most of us agreed with them.

He looked down at Squirrel, who stood closely in front of him. “I fear the Pendragon guards of this city have rebelled. They allied with the Paladins once they heard their forces were already just days away.”

Squirrel scoffed. “And this had to happen now?”

The man on the podium continued, as more people filled the square, “And as a token of our good will towards the Paladins, we shall conduct the first hanging of a Fey!”

The crowd cheered once more, louder than before. Lancelot looked over the heads of people to see a scaffold being raised, a noose already attached. Squirrel strained to see around the people in front of him, but Lancelot held him steady.

A Fey woman was being led by two guards towards the scaffold. Lancelot felt a small pang in his chest as her scent, full of fear, reached his nose. It was familiar, and he realized with a second pang that he had smelled it before when in line to enter the city.

“Now, some of you may be wondering, why not burn the Fey scum? After all, burning is the common Paladin way!”

The crowd jeered as the Fey woman stepped onto the platform. She did not betray any fear, her face cold. Small horns protruded from her dirty blond hair, which glinted in the sunlight.

“I am pleased to announce that the Earl of this city has dictated for Feykind to be prosecuted, without the presence of the Paladins, under civil law. Should the Paladins continue their wish to prosecute under religious law, they may proceed in that fashion. In that case, the burnings may continue.”

Lancelot watched as the rope was placed around the woman’s neck. He could not see, from this distance, if she cried. Yet her mouth remained sealed as the crowd shouted obscenities at her.

Squirrel had stopped struggling, having found an opening between the people in front of them, and watched the woman with wide eyes.

He tugged on Lancelot’s sleeve once more, and Lancelot bent down to hear the boy whisper hurriedly, “Can’t we do something? Anything?”

Squirrel looked into Lancelot’s eyes, which looked sadly upon the boy beside him. “My boy, your first lesson is to pick the battles you know you will win. You cannot save every Fey.”

Squirrel looked at the woman in front of him. His face of concern morphed into one of anger, and then to impassiveness. His face was resolute as he turned back to Lancelot and said, “Fine.”

Lancelot considered telling the boy to not watch the scene in front of him, but decided to hold his tongue. The boy had seen death before.

He felt Squirrel’s small hand wrap around his, squeezing tightly. Lancelot placed his free hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“You have been condemned, have you any last words?” The speaker asked.

The woman raised her chin, head moving as she looked among the crowd. The masses went quiet as they yearned to hear the woman’s words.

“May the Hidden guide me.” She said clearly. The woman hesitated, then added, “We are born in the dawn, to pass in the twilight.”

The crowd murmured, the woman’s words having passed over their heads. The low sounds became louder and louder, growing until they were shouting a tidal wave at the woman in front.

A guard stepped forward, and pulled a lever.

Lancelot did not watch what happened next, only because his eyes were upon Squirrel. The boy’s face, which had been impassive until that moment, contorted and he turned into Lancelot’s side as the crowd jostled around them. He felt the boy’s sobs and he wrapped his arm around the boy.

For a while he held Squirrel close. He had seen mothers and fathers hold their children as Paladin forces had ravaged villages, and mimicked their gesture now.

Time dragged onwards, the crowd seemingly excited by the entertainment before them began pushing and shoving one another to get a better view.

The crowd began to settle down eventually and, after a final announcement to prepare any spare rooms for Paladin arriva, began to disperse.

Neither Lancelot nor Squirrel were listening. Squirrel guided them through animated people, towards the inn, without looking back.

Squirrel’s tears had stopped by the time they were back. He paid the woman at the bar for another night and meal at the inn, and led the way to their room. Once inside, Lancelot bolted the door shut and turned to the boy.

Squirrel spoke first, “I understand why we didn’t act back there. I think it’s absolutely stupid, and I want to get revenge on those bastards. But,” he sighed, “I do understand. Live to die another day, as you said.”

“Tread carefully upon revenge.” Lancelot told him, and Squirrel scoffed. “Look to where your loyalties lie. That must be your passion, your reason to fight. Passion built upon revenge is an easily crumbled tower.”

Squirrel sighed, and Lancelot wondered if the boy had truly listened to his words. But before he could comment, Squirrel pulled from his pockets two pears and a small loaf of elderberry bread.

“Where-”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s ours now.” Squirrel said delightedly, and tossed Lancelot a pear.

Lancelot looked appraisingly at the boy in front of him, and made a mental note to keep a closer eye on the kid.

He held the pear in front of him, and took a large bite.

“We have to leave before the Paladins arrive.” Squirrel said. “Although I’d hate to leave this bed behind.”

Lancelot nodded in agreement.

“Should we leave today? Right now?” Squirrel asked.

“It’ll look suspicious. The hanging of a Fey would certainly scare others to leave. We must wait until tomorrow.”

Lancelot recalled King Uther Pendragon’s brash declarations against Father Carden and Abbot Wicklow, and his boasts of his army whilst at a buffet table. Yet in all of his travels within both Fey and Man-Blood villages and cities, he had seen hunger and hatred build for the King, who seemed terribly out-of-touch with his people. He hadn’t noticed the extent to which this resentment had grown, a wound festering below the skin, enough for part of the King’s own army to rebel.

He wondered how Uther would take the news, and whether the King would lead a new siege against the city with his loyal men.

But Lancelot pushed his thoughts aside and took another bite of his pear. He had a day to think, to prepare, to move if possible.

He savored the sweet flavor of the fruit and, at that moment, there were no Paladins, no Fey. There was no Pendragon army, no Nimue from his dreams.

And Lancelot planned on enjoying the moment as long as it lasted.