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Lancelot doesn't know what is happening, but he does know that grabbing hands have taken his mother away and his father is fighting tooth and nail to hold onto him. His father's arms grip him too tightly Lancelot feels almost unable to take a breath. The arms are wrenched away and he hears his father calling out to him as men in sickening red block his view of his father. They sneer at him like he is an unsightly thing. As if his existence has caused them an inconvenience. He's quickly dragged away by hands that clamp around his forearms and thrown in the muddy ground of the forest. He is too young to understand why the red-clad men that have encircled him are being so cruel or where they have taken his mother. He is too young to understand why he has been taken away from everything he's ever known and why his village has been set aflame. He is too young to understand anything beyond the dirty grey fabric being held under his nose and the fact that he doesn't want it. Lancelot has a cloak already and it's much better than the one father Carden tries to thrust on him. The dark green fabric that still has the scent of stove-fire and freshly baked bread that his mother always carried with her is far more appealing than the dingy dark thing that the red-clad man shoves his way. He says as much and the man in front of his shakes his head and clicks his tongue in the same way Lancelot's father did when he got caught trying to climb the giant oaks. Carden says he shouldn't clothe himself in things made by demons if he wanted to seek salvation, but Lancelot doesn't know what he is supposed to be salvaged from. He says that the very threads are just as unholy as the ash people's blood and Lancelot still doesn't understand but something aches in his chest at the words.  Hands are thrust against him once more and Lancelot shouts. He kicks and screams and pleads and snarls as men far larger than him restrain his flailing limbs and tear his cloak off of his should and wrench the grey hood over his head. He bites and claws and shrieks bloody murder that they need to give him his cloak back. His mother will be so cross if he doesn't come back home with his cloak, he'd promised he'd take good care of it. He yells and he threatens until a ringed hand connects with his jaw hard enough for his vision to spot. He does not cry, though, as they toss the green fabric into the flames and the only thing he had left of his old life turns to flames. He does not cry because he knows he will never be able to stop once he does. The new cloak reeks of death and filth and is jagged at the edges that trail behind his small form, but it is there and the eyes of red-clad men bore into his very soul and so he thanks Father Carden. He thanks Father for his generosity and the words taste like bitter acid against his tongue. He does not cry until they make him watch Father -his true father who had loved him- be strung against a cross and burned for the crime of his birth. He weeps salty tears that sting the corners of his eyes and blur his vision. He can not see but he lashes out nonetheless. He lashes out against Carden's words and bites him hard enough to draw blood when the man tries to backhand him again. He lashes out against the two men who seize him as he digs his nails into whatever flesh he can find as they try to tear him away from what is left of his home. He rails against them and screams until his throat is raw and his voice gives out and the fight in him can no longer be sustained. He doesn't even realize he's been shoved onto a ship until the waves of the ocean make his stomach roll. He has nothing but his name to remind him that he is Ash, that he is born of demonic flames that have carved the marks down his cheeks. He repeats it to himself in a meager attempt to feel stronger than he is. He is Lancelot of the Ashfolk, named after his grandfather and he is stronger than any man blood. All he has is his name, but soon enough that too will slip through his fingers like deep green cloth. 

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The Monk is twelve and he's just learned how to draw his bow without it snapping against his face, but this is not why Father Carden is proud of him. He is proud of him because he has sniffed out a family of Faun. Like a hunting dog. Like an animal. He doesn't even mean to find them, he's never had fauns near where he grew up. Or maybe the faun are different in his native land. They smell odd, like blackberries and musky fur, and his curiosity gets the better of him when it hits his nose. He slips through the camp and darts into the forests. It doesn't cross his mind that he has already been beaten and bruised for far less offense than wandering outside of camp. Right now he is too enthralled by the scent of something new as he wonders how blackberries are still growing three months out of season. His nose leads them right to the faun, hidden away in what could only be described as an oversized fox hole. They look...scared. One of them is huddled around a figure even smaller than the Monk is and the ash man can't help but feel bad for them. He does not yet understand his purpose. He does not understand that he is not meant to protect these creatures before him, and so he dares to offer a hand to them. The faun man cautiously examines the Monk and his robes that demand authority despite the fact that they're draped over a gangly form with shoulders that are not yet broad enough to even hold armor. The man shakes his head with a panicked urgency. He speaks in a tongue the Monk doesn't know but the sense of warning breaks through the language barrier.

It is not enough.

The paladins find the faun, of course. The Monk didn't make an effort to hide his tracks and he's shoved harshly out of the way by several of his Brothers. He feels sick to his stomach as each of them is dragged out and strung up onto a cross and the boy can't help but wonder if Christ was as scared as they were. He doubts it. Christ wasn't burned. Christ got to rise from his grave. The smell is putrid against his amplified senses and he throws himself into the shrubbery before retching for what feels like hours. His eyes sting with smoke and his body riots against him until there is nothing but bile passing his lips. Two of his Brothers haul him up by either arm and walk too fast for him to do more than stumble along with them the entire way back to camp. He is thrown at Father Carden's feet and the words of his brothers feel murky and far away. He knows what's to come, and so he patiently waits for the sting of the whip across his still raw back. It hurts less if he doesn't fight against it. He keeps his gaze to the dirt beneath his feet until Father asks him to raise his head. When his gaze hesitantly meets Father's he nearly flinches at the sight of a warm smile on his lips. His hands reach out and the Monk forces himself to not back away as the hands clamp onto each of his shoulders. He waits for the backhanded strike, for the tug of fingers pulling him by his hair towards the alter, but Father's hands stay on his shoulders. Father says he is proud, but for what the Monk cannot say. He asks as much and receives a laugh that makes his skin itch and his stomach drop. Father is proud of him for doing God's work, he says so, but the Monk doesn't feel like he did anything holy. Even so, he dares to stand a bit straighter, to puff out his chest slightly when Father says the words because it means he will perhaps one day escape the lapping flames that consumed his family. He tries to not think about how the road to his salvation is paved by the blood of others as Father gently ushers him to the weapons tent with the promise of a gift. The Monk waits at the edge of the tent as Father procures a blade. It is a proper blade, the ones that his brothers use with an engraved cross at the hilt. It seems impossibly large compared to his twelve-year-old frame but Father is smiling. So the boy takes the sword that is nearly his own height in between his hands. It takes almost all of the strength in his scrawny arms to keep the blade from hitting the ground, but Father nods approvingly so he ignores the burning in his arms. He examines the blade closer as Father explains that he will grow into it, that he will be a weapon as imposing as the one he now wields. The boy listens as he catches sight of his own face in the blade's reflection. He stared back at himself until tears track down the cursed marks on his face. He doesn't want to be a weapon, he wants his village. He wants his mother to kiss his forehead and for his father to teach him to hunt game just by scent, not fae. He wants the familiar embrace of the Green that he has been denied since he has been here. He does not want to be the reason that a family of faun is burning just a five minute's walk away. He gives a strangled thank you fast enough for Father to believe his tears are of gratitude.

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The monk is sixteen years old and he no longer weeps at the drop of a hat, but the name has already stuck. He is well into his road to salvation and he already has spilled enough blood to drown in. His sword is still awkward to wield and just heavy enough to slow his swings, but he can cleanse fae regardless. He is finally old enough to understand, truly understand, why Father forces him to kneel at the altar to have his flesh marred. It is to cleanse him, just as he now cleanses others. The monk is a condemned creature, his thoughts corrupted and Father knows it. But if he spills enough blood, if he sacrifices just like the Lord has, then he may reach His Grace. He may finally feel His presence, if only for a moment. His penance is more than he deserves. So he has gladly shouldered each time he is told to repent, he has stopped crying out as Father strikes his back, because every scar brings him closer to Him. He dutifully brings himself to kneel whenever it is asked of him with a prayer already on his tongue. He never questions when he is asked to shed his robes and bare his back because Father knows the evil beneath his skin. Father has felt His light and is guided by it in a way the Monk can never be. It is different this time, though. This time the Monk asks for the sting of the whip without prompting, he asks for the clarity the bloodshed brings. Father is taken aback for a moment when the monk enters his tent, shoulders shaking but his eyes hardened. The words fall from the Monk's lips before he can even be asked why he is there. He has had unholy thoughts, he has questioned the will of the Lord. He has wondered why He created creatures who were born to be consumed by hellfire, and so he needs to repent. He needs to beat these heretic thoughts out before they can take root. He asks for the sting of the whip and Father nods with understanding. Father looks at him, not with affection -never affection, the Monk is not worthy of Father's love- but something akin to the joy one has when a stray pup presents its favorite stick. The older man takes his usual slow gait to the altar that the Monk has become more than familiar with and he follows wordlessly. He is already kneeling as Father moves to find the leather whip. The boy's head is bowed even as red fabric moves in front of him. It is not until the leather handle of a whip he does not recognize is presented under his nose that he raises his eyes. Father gives an encouraging nod as he gently places the whip in his hands. The older man explains that he is old enough to repent on his own, that he has learned how to nip his own sins at the bud. This is his next step on the road to salvation, and Father knows he is strong enough to bear it. The Monk is glad, he is, that Father trusts him like this. That Father sees how hard he tries and has rewarded him for it. He is so thankful for Father's kindness and the chance he has been given.

His hands shake when he strikes himself the first time.

He hates the weakness his own body shows. This is a kindness he has been given, the Monk knows he is not worth the effort Father has given him. Yet his hands still shake as he brings the whip against his back again and something red and angry boils just behind his eyes. He grits his teeth and doesn't dare to look at Father's expectant gaze. He grips the handle so tightly his knuckles become a pale white and he brings the whip against him, finally opening the scared expanse of his back. He brings it down again with the same enraged forced. He loses track of how many times the whip bites into his flesh, he loses track of everything except his failures and that he needs to remove them. He needs to be better, he needs to be worth everything Father has taught him. He doesn't notice that the weapon has slipped from his grip in his violent display. He goes through the motions several times before he registers that there's no longer the accompaniment of pain. He drags in a heaving breath as he stares at his empty hands for a few moments until he finally manages the courage to look at Father. The paladin looks at him with his usual mask of composure, but something wide-eyed and panicked slips through his eyes and the Monk feels shame worm itself deeper into his chest. Even when repenting his true nature can't be contained. He has ruined a sacred practice. He scrambles to his feet and yanks his robes back on, ignoring the way they scrape against his open back. He apologizes to Father, tells him he will be better. And he will be better, the Monk can't afford anything else. The next time he will shed no more than the Lord wants, he won't be so prideful as to think his own rage equates to His love. 

His hands never shake when he holds a flog again.

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He is eighteen and in unfamiliar robes. They're too bright as he tries to force them out of his line of sight and ignore the itch across his back for daring to be ashamed of a gift from God. Because this is a gift, it is a gift he's only dreamed of for years every time he passed one his brothers. Every time he caught a glimpse of the scars that ran across the back of their heads and he was painfully reminded of how they were not the same, that his Brothers would never walk the same road as him. He never will be the same as them, he knows this, he has shed blood and tears in order to understand it. He is to work twice as hard to find even a glimmer of His warmth, and the Monk has. Which is why he is in these robes, it is why he's finally receiving a tonsure. He has earned this and yet he does not feel like he deserves it. Father says that it is humility and it is noble, but the Monk just feels like he is an imposter. Still, he walks and says his prayers with not even a tremor in his voice, he kneels with his gaze at the cross, not at the red-hot brand that his Brother is holding. Hands clamp his shoulders and the back of his neck and he shakes away the images of a burning village and a dark green cloak being torn from his hands. This is a holy occasion, it was holy work that cleansed his village and gave him this chance to be more than a demon waiting to be dragged to hell. He nearly misses his Brother waltzing behind him, words of prayer being said under his breath as he holds the glowing brand. The hands the surround him tighten around him preemptively and the Monk has to remind himself that this is different. That these restraints are just a precaution, as it was for all his Brothers. This is not a punishment, this is just another show of faith. He is not a stranger to pain and yet he feels his chest tighten in anticipation, he can already feel the phantom heat of the iron breathing down his neck and he feels suffocated. He is not that same feral little boy who needed to be reprimanded, though, and he steels himself without a word. He feels fingers smear holy oil across his brow and he resists every impulse that tells him to wrench himself free from the harsh hands that are keeping him kneeling -but they aren't, he has chosen to kneel, he has chosen this- and throw himself at the mercy of His wrath. He doesn't, though, because he is damned by his blood, he isn't allowed the carelessness his Brothers get to have. Instead, his eyes slip shut tightly as the heat of the brand hits him. For a moment there is nothing and then in the next instant, it feels like something has torn into his skull. His head jerks out of instinct but the hand around his neck keeps him still. The iron crackles and pops against the flesh on his skull and a low keening noise bubbles it way up from his throat unbidden. His fingers dig into the arms that are restraining him not in an attempt to pry them off but because he needs to ground himself with something or else he fears he will make a fool of himself. He hears the harsh curses he gets for doing so, but stars are already dotting his vision and the room is swimming before his eyes. It feels like hours before the hands encompassing him finally let go and when they do he feels himself lurch forward and his hands do not respond quickly enough to keep the peak of his cheekbone from connecting with the hard stone below him. His final moments of consciousness leads him to wonder if this is how cattle feel when they are branded by a farmer. He wonders if even cattle are closer to God's light than him and then the world mercifully goes dark.

He awakens hours later and Father's cold eyes bore into him, silently berating him for the spectacle he has made of himself. There are no words that pass between the man and the fae, but the Monk understands all the same. The next day his life resumes as normal, he is looked at no differently, he is shown no more warmth than before. The only difference is that he is now a lamb of God, and his death might now mean something other than spilled Fae blood.

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The Monk is twenty-one. He is twenty-one and the Tusk in his arms can barely be older than eight. Every fiber of his being is telling him he is wrong, that it would be best to just let this little girl down. God can forgive simply letting the tusk go -with enough penance- but how could He ever excuse what the Monk is doing right now? He has abandoned his Brothers and their work, he is betraying them with every step further into the woods he takes and every quiet assurance he gives to this sobbing child. He can not bring himself to care, he cannot bring himself to fear His wrath. Not now. Not when he'd caught sight of the girl kneeling at her mother's corpse, wide-eyed and eyes shining with tears not yet spilled. In that moment, in that very instant, he only felt rage toward the God that has asked for this holy genocide. So he had grabbed the child with a gentleness he thought he had forgotten. He had said not a word nor made a sound when her small fists rained down on him or when she squirmed and kicked, demanding to be let free. His grip did not falter even when a small fist collided with his nose hard enough for him to smell nothing but copper. He'd snatched a doll from the ruins of the little hut, haphazardly shoving it into the girl's hands with a plea in his eyes for her to just be quiet. Somehow, the child quieted with the straw doll clutched tightly in her hands and the Monk swept her away from the ruins of the village. She is no longer fighting to get out of his arms, but she is shaking like a leaf and has somehow managed to get a white-knuckled grip on his hair (which was knocked loose along with his hood during her previous rebelling) while her other hand still clutched the doll. He still says nothing, still doesn't let a single flicker of his inner turmoil show on his face. Once he has finally deemed it a safe enough distance for the girl he stopped at a large tree with branches hanging low to the ground. He halted and scanned the large tree and once he deemed it safe enough he knelt down to deposit the tusk in the large notch in the giant trunk. Except she wouldn't let go, her tiny fingers remained entangled in his head and she vehemently shook her head. She seems to understand enough to not make noise but she still clutches onto the Monk despite his best attempts to get her to hide. Panic starts to seize him as he sits there half-crouched and wrangling with the small child, the knowledge that every second he spends here can cost them both more than they can afford to lose hanging heavy. He tries to school his features as he quietly reprimands the girl, he tries to tell her that he cannot hold her anymore, that he is not her savior but the reason she is now an orphan. He fights against the voice in his head that is telling him to bring her back, to let her be a problem for one of his Brothers like he's done countless times before. But he can not, he will not. He's come this far, he isn't cruel enough to give this girl hope only to wrench it away. So instead he pleads, he begs her to understand that he cannot hold her, that he cannot stay with her, that all he can offer is this small chance that she will live to see another day. He pleads in a hushed voice even though they do not speak the same tongue, he takes her tiny hands in his own and looks at her and wills her to understand. 

Somehow, she does.

The Monk is not foolish enough to believe his prayers will ever be answered, but this may be the closest he's come to thinking He might at least be listening. For the girl's eyes harden into something steely, something that will help her to survive. She is still so small and so weak compared to his Brothers, so unused to running for her life, but she is quiet and she lets herself be tucked away between the tree branches and foliage and it will have to be enough. The Monk lets out a shaking sigh when he's finally released from her hold and he quickly set his sights on going back before his absence is noted. He makes to stand back up but the girl's hand catches on his sleeve and he is afraid that she will insist on clinging to him again. He gingerly tries to take her hand off of the fabric of his sleeve and he blinks owlishly when the straw doll is shoved in his face.  His brow furrows as he stares at the small toy, unsure of what is being asked of him until the tusk girl grabs his hands and wraps them around the doll, her eyes teary but determined. Determined to give comfort to a stranger who she doesn't even know has taken everything from her. He stares at the doll in his hands, knowing full well he can't take it with him for a variety of reasons. He is in the middle of mulling over just how he can get out of this hell of his own devising and is so caught up in his own turmoil that he barely notices the tiny hands grabbing both of his cheeks, he barely notices until the little girl brings their foreheads together. She holds his face in her hands and just...stays like that and the Monk can't bring himself to break the trance. If he stays perfectly still, with this little tusk girl for long enough perhaps he can convince himself that there is no blood on his hands. He can convince himself that he is not a monk, that he is far away from the bloodshed the paladins have caused. He can imagine himself as a farmhand, or a smith, or anything other than a murderer. The girl breaks the silence with words that send him crashing back into reality. Born in the dawn, he can understand the words even though they're garbled and clearly not in the girl's native tongue. The words ring in his ears and he snaps his head up violently. He can not finish that cursed phrase, he cannot lie to her in that way. He will not pass in the twilight, he cannot. Instead, he nods gruffly and stands up, turning and walking away before he can bring himself to do anything even more foolish than he has already done. He comes back to the burning remains of the tusk village. When asked where he was he gives a simple lie -one more thing to repent for- and no one questions him. It isn't until he returns to the camp and is sitting on his bedroll that he realizes he'd tucked the doll away into the folds of his cloak. He should burn it, get rid of it. It is a fae thing and it is unholy, it will undo everything he has strived for a decade and a half.

He tucks the doll underneath his bedroll and he repents enough for two fae that night.

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He is twenty five and he is alone. Well, that isn't really true, he has Goliath and he has a small boy whose only crime was being born. It never sat right with him, the killing of children, that God would want his creations so soon after they'd been brought into the world. He'd thought -convinced- himself that it was a weakness, it was one of the few ties he still had to his fae ancestry that kept him from being a perfect weapon. But when he looks at the boy saddled in front of him, half asleep and yet still chattering like a child who hasn't seen the horrors of a holy war, there is no earthly thing that could ever convince him that the boy deserved to die. He's...so small, smaller than the Monk was at his age. Yet ten times as brave as he could ever hope to be even as a grown man. Brave enough to try and save the Green Knight, brave enough to sneer in the face of Brother Salt -both men dead because of the Monk, fae and paladin blood coating his hands- brave enough to even drag the Monk's beaten form throughout the mangled corpses of trinity guards and onto Goliath. How could someone so selfless have a damned soul? The Monk could not believe it so. The Monk seethes silently, he seethes for things the boy has been forced to see, for the things the Monk has let him see, seethes for the things the boy will never have the chance to mourn for, he seethes at the way his back itches despite himself, he seethes at God himself for His cruelty against this child. He is surprised at that last one, it jars him out of his internal musings and he realizes just how far away they've already gotten. Goliath is a good horse, of course, and keeps a steady pace even without the Monk paying attention. He sighs and something rattles painfully in his lungs, a sharp reminder of all he has abandoned. What would Father...What would Carden think if he could see him right now? Bloody and exhausted and spitting in the face of everything the paladin ever gave him. The conjured image of disappointment and sadness on Carden's face doesn't feel right, somehow, they are not emotions that Carden has ever spared on him even in his darkest moments. Angry, yes, Carden always was good at getting angry with him, but never disappointed. He always knew the Monk would never be what he wanted, he always understood he'd have to settle for the Monk's pitiful attempts. He grits his teeth when Goliath maneuvers around a fallen tree and the movements jostle his aching body. The pain is a welcome distraction, though, and shakes him from his musings for the moment. He speaks for the first time since they both started riding, his voice is hoarse as he asks the boy's name. He calls himself Squirrel and something twinges in the Monk's chest that he knows isn't from injuries. He shakes his head, though the boy in front of him on the saddle can't see it. He insists that he must have a different name, that a Squirrel is an animal, and that he will not call him that.

The boy is not an animal.

The boy is flesh and blood and bone and has a soul, however damned God has chosen it to be. The boy is a boy who has seen heartache and pain and stood tall, not an animal. Not a creature or a type of vermin that's life can be disregarded. Perhaps the Monk is being ridiculous, perhaps he is conflating his boyhood traumas with something as simple as a nickname. Yet all the same the name will not pass his lips, he will not reduce this boy's life to something that is hunted. He will not, he refuses, he will shout it to the sky. He will shout it to God Himself until he finally hears, this boy is not an animal, he is not...Percival. The boy's name is Percival. The tight coil of panic the Monk hadn't even realized he'd created uncoils from his stomach, his shoulders drop and the tension slips from his body if only slightly. Percival. He can call him Percival. The Monk doesn't expect anything else, he expects them to slip back into silence. So when Percival says that he needs a name, that the weeping monk isn't any sort of name at all, he flinches. He doesn't know how to respond. He hasn't had a name since before he could remember. A weapon didn't have a name. He pauses, and for a moment he thinks he may have forgotten it altogether until he finally pulls it from the back of his mind. He is Lancelot of the Ash folk, named after his grandfather, and he is no longer a monk. The thought truly sets in for the first time since he laid eyes on Percival back at the paladin camp. The Monk is gone, Lancelot is all that remains. The idea is as exhilarating as it is terrifying. He is no longer a man of the cloth, no longer a true man at all, he is fae. Fae, not demon born, his sins do not come from his birth (they never did). The Monk would have paled at the idea. The Monk would have thrown himself at the altar and begged Him for forgiveness for even thinking it. He would have begged and sobbed and bled for even a sliver of His affection, of His paradise, an escape from his transgressions. The Monk would drown himself in an ocean of blood to be treated as a man-blood for even a moment. The Monk was not fae, not in his heart. But Lancelot of the Ash? Lancelot will not kneel. Lancelot will not accept His silence or His judgment, he has grown tired of it. Lancelot will rage, Lancelot will scream and snarl and bare his teeth for God to see (and He will see). Lancelot will not go quietly into the flames. Lancelot will drag himself all the way up to His paradise and he will make Him look at the child -the children- He created and left to rot. Lancelot will carve a bloody place in God's heart just for Percival, then, and only then, will he let himself pass into the twilight.