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The memories that Lancelot have from those old times were little to none. There were too many feelings that came like a torrent to drown him in sorrows since he has to forget.
But he couldn’t and Lancelot prays for strength so that Father Carden doesn't find out.
.I
“Show me your hands, Lancelot.” The woman didn’t give space for protests and either way her voice's suavity could be felt.
“I don’t want too,” he stammered in response.
The woman in question—he couldn’t remember her name or who she was—sighed resignedly, like she already expected his refusal.
“Lancelot.” She tried again, firmly.
He snorted in anger. “If I show you my hand you will be mad at me!”
The quite severe expression of the woman softened when arching one eyebrow. “Lancelot, I’ll only be mad at you if I discover that you have put your life at risk.”
“This doesn’t make sense!” He shouted. “I am fine so you don’t have reasons to be now.” Lancelot was so immersed in the situation that he ended up removing his arms from behind his back, crossing them and showing the wrongdoing.
“Lancelot, again!?” The woman raised her voice irritated. “Dear one, you know that you can’t mess around with the village’s artifacts, they’re sacred.”
And as much as that person seemed angry she was much more concerned, Lancelot knew it. She crouched to stay at Lancelot’s height and took his hands and the whitish color that was like marble ended up passing to her hand too. As much as Lancelot wasn’t feeling anything he knew that it wasn’t the same with her, he didn’t understand why but the woman frowned in pain.
Now he could only feel a mixture of shame and frustration at being caught, again.
“Would you like to explain?” The woman asked getting his attention, her voice a little rough.
Lancelot didn’t want to explain in fact but he knew that if he didn’t do it he would end up being grounded and it was so annoying when that happened. “They were calling,” he said softly even knowing that she could hear.
She took Lancelot’s chin lifting it so that he looked directly into her eyes. “C’mon, breathe with me to take this out of your hand.”
Lancelot sulked knowing that the sermon was going to happen anyway but he started doing the breathing exercises that Lancelot was taught. As he looked to his hand he saw the color retracting to his fingertips and being transferred to her hand. It was curious how Their force was different, the color didn’t fade like the colors of leaves or tree trunks. Whenever this happened that woman had to pick the colors for herself and Lancelot didn’t know how she took them off—every time he asked she changed the subject.
Her face still had that contorted expression even though it was almost imperceptible, but Lancelot could see clearly.
“Alright,” she said with uneven breath. “Now I’ll have to say again why you shouldn’t get close to things that aren’t for you.”
Lancelot started grimacing. “But They called for me!”
“Yes, dear one, I’m not doubting but you’re far too young for that.” She said while taking the unmarked hand to Lancelot’s face, caressing his cheek. “You’re still a child for Their power—”
“But I don’t feel anything like you or the others!” Lancelot interrupted, stomping his feet on the ground.
“It may be the case but it’s still dangerous! I only do this to protect you, my dear.” The woman looked at him and as if he had nothing more to say she sighed, what ended up reassuring him, it seemed that the conversation would change its course for at least a moment.
“Let’s do this,” she started again. “Tomorrow’s afternoon I can help with your training.”
Being the child that he was Lancelot forgot quickly about his irritation for the training possibility. That woman was one of the most skilled that he knew about, sadly she was always occupied with some adult business.
“Really?!” He shouted excitedly, eliciting a laugh from the woman.
“Yes, my dear, I’m serious.”
.II
That was the last memory he has of her, there was no training, there was no tomorrow for her; everything was on fire that night and everyone was on stakes. He suspects that the woman was his mother or at least he likes to think so. The kind and concerned looks towards him made Lancelot lose his breath just by remembering—nobody ever looked at him like that again.