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The sun was blinding in comparison to the darkness of Brother Salt’s kitchens – it would’ve hurt Squirrel’s eyes were they not already stinging with tears. Every instinct inside his small frame was screaming at him to go back and save the Green Knight. They told him he was strong and he was brave and he could do it. The hand that clamped around his shoulder countered his argument.
Squirrel’s head snapped up, meeting the crying eyes of the Monk. “You!” he hissed.
The Monk didn’t say a word. He jerked the boy forward, away from his makeshift entrance into the kitchens. Squirrel dug his heals into the ground, trying to twist out of the Monk’s grasp. His fist was as unmovable as steel.
“You bastard,” Squirrel spat. “You did this! You hurt him! You—” His breaths came out in ragged puffs, the fight he’d witnessed playing in his mind’s eyes. The blade that slid through the Green Knight’s back like butter – and the moment before. “You’re one of us.”
Triumph sparked in the boy as those crying eyes widened – just a fraction, but enough for Squirrel to catch.
“I’ll tell them all,” he threatened. “I’ll shout it. I’ll—”
A hand clamped over his mouth. He bit the Weeping Monk’s palm, but it didn’t budge; the Monk shook his head, crouching to be on his eye level. “They will kill you if they find you.” His voice was low and scarred. “You have to run.”
The Weeping Monk removed his hand from Squirrel’s mouth. He stood, releasing his grip with a small shove. Squirrel’s eyes darted between the tree line and the Monk.
“You have to save him.”
“Run,” the Monk said.
Gawain’s head lolled back. His body was such a symphony of agony that he could no longer feel the individual pains – not the ropes that dug into his wrists, the stab that had left his lower half paralyzed, the burns on his cheat, the swollen shut eye, or the broken nose that left a coppery taste in the back of his throat.
He heard the swish of Brother Salt’s blades – he couldn’t bring himself to raise his head, to open his eyes, to even brace for the inevitable pain. But when one second passed, and then another, with only the sound of distant, crackling fires, he forced his head up. His vision swam; a shadow loomed behind Brother Salt.
Not a shadow. Not the specter of death.
The Ash Man.
“Come to watch, my weeping brother?”
There was a beat of silence. Then the Weeping Monk dragged his sword across Brother Salt’s throat; the torturer fell with a heavy thud. The Monk didn’t hesitate, using the same blade to cut the restraints around his wrists. Unable to hold himself up, Gawain pitched forward in his seat; the Monk caught him before he landed on the ground next to Brother Salt.
“What are you doing?” Gawain croaked as the Monk lifted him over his shoulder.
The Monk didn’t answer. He carried Gawain through the door; a courser darker than the night sky stood waiting. The Monk hefted him over the horse, much like he had earlier that day. Except, this time he didn’t understand what was happening. He wasn’t being taken to the Paladins for torture. He was—
He was being rescued.
The Monk grabbed the horse’s reigns; he clicked his tongue and the beast began to move, guided by the Monk. All Gawain could see was the ground. His eyes struggled to stay open, even with the bumpy movements of the horse. It was when the horse suddenly halted that he was startled into a semblance of alertness.
“I wouldn’t,” said Abbott Wicklow in his lilting voice.
The Monk remained silent.
“This is what the Pope feared,” Abbot Wicklow continued. “That Father Cardin could not see the truth through his ambition.”
The horse started again. Gawain sucked in a shaky breath, using the saddle to pull himself up. He swayed, squinting against the night to see what was happening. The Monk had urged the horse to the sidelines; now he stood alone, reaching for his swords as he face the Trinity Guard. He was hallucinating in his final moments before death – that was the only sensible explanation for what he saw. Because the Monk would not save him – he was too broken and damaged by the church to fight it for one Fey.
And yet that was exactly what he did.
The Monk fought like he was dancing. He flipped through the air, tearing into his opponents like they were nothing. Gawain knew little about the upper echelons of the church, but the Trinity Guard’s reputation preceded them. They were a different caliber of soldier – but so was the Monk.
There was a voice in the back of his head telling him to get down there, to fight by the Monk’s side, yet it took every ounce of his strength to even remain upright. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes and reaching out to the Hidden. His connection was not that of Nimue’s or Lenore’s. The Hidden had never answered him, never felt the need to make their presence known. But they were there, he knew it, and it was the only option he had.
Like a tickle, the Fingers of Airimid crept up his cheeks. Energy shot through his chest like a strike of lightning. His eyes flew open, in time to see one of the Trinity Guard take the Monk to his knees. He kicked his heels into the courser’s side, urging it towards the fight. The beast was fast, its hoofbeats like thunder. He knocked one of the Guard off his feet, galloping past before any of them could catch him. It was all the time the Monk needed to grab his sword and finish off the last of them.
Gawain urged the beast forward as the Monk sunk to his knees. He bent to catch his arm, straining to haul him back up as the Abbott disappeared from his peripheral vision. “We need to go.”
The Monk said nothing, lurching towards the horse. After an aborted start, he hauled himself up behind Gawain. The Monk was heavy against his back and his breath was warm, washing over his ear as he whispered, “Go, Goliath,” to the horse.
They passed weary Paladins – ones who reached for their blades, but none who challenged them as they made their way out of the camp.
They rode through the night and into the dawn. The hurt and exhaustion had returned but it was duller than before. There was a low hum of something in his bones; the Hidden, he thought, and thanked them.
A small groan escaped the Monk, alerting Gawain that he was awake. He had nodded off at least once during their ride. He shifted; Gawain pressed his lips together at the small spike of pain that caused him.
“We should make camp soon.”
“This place is too vulnerable,” the Monk replied, and he wasn’t wrong.
“Soon,” he repeated. “Whenever there’s cover.”
“Gawain—” His voice was barely audible. He didn’t continue.
“That’s my name,” he murmured, trying to sound light despite the weight around his shoulders. The Monk still didn’t continue. “What is yours?”
He was almost convinced that the Monk had fallen asleep again when he responded. “Lancelot.” He paused. “A long time ago, my name was Lancelot.”