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Gawain returns from his quest with Percival at his side, unharmed, and a bundle in his arms. Percival dismounts first and he immediately draws the boy into a crushing hug. He pulls back and looks him up and down. The young man has grown at least an inch in the month they have been away. He claps him on the shoulder and grins.
“How was it?”
“I’ll tell you at supper, Ada, promise.” Percival smiles, glances at Gawain and ducks out of the room with a determined stride. Lancelot blinks and then looks to Gawain who is very carefully stepping down from his horse, cloak covering whatever it is he's carrying. Lancelot takes a step towards him and stops dead in his tracks.
He feels his eyes go wide as the realization of what he smells catches up with him. Slowly, uncertainly, he takes another step forward and then another. Gawain's eyes never leave his face. He inhales a shaky breath and steadies himself against Gawain's unoccupied arm, Gawain grips his bicep securely, comforting. He ignores the way his hand shakes as he brings it up and folds away the cloak. The tremble spreads, dances across his lips as he looks from the infant up to Gawain and back, studies the marks on her face.
“Where?” He chokes out, voice betraying him.
“A paladin camp. On the coast.” Gawain says softly, “Her mother…” he shakes his head and Lancelot understands the scent that rises from him, knows this is a newborn.
“Her name?” He breathes, unsure he really wants to know.
“Etain.” Lancelot feels his lips turn up into a small sad smile. He swallows down his hope.
“What do you intend to do with her?” He brushes his thumb against her forehead, the skin is smooth and softer than he thought it would be. Gawain pulls him against him where Etain is not resting against his chest, no doubt soothed by the same heartbeat that soothes Lancelot back to sleep when he dreams of evil things.
“I had hoped, perhaps… that you would raise her with me. Percival could use the responsibility of being an older brother, and I thought… since she is your kin...”
Words fail him as they so often do, instead he tightens his grip on Gawains bicep, twists so he can pull the knight into a chaste kiss. When he pulls away he nods resolutely and reaches for the infant. For their child. For Etain. Gawain relinquishes her willingly and Lancelot cradles her in his arms.
“She’s so very little, Gawain.”
“I know. Still, the healer tell me that she is healthy.”
He looks up at him, eyes watery with unshed tears and nods.
“We..." He swallows against the constriction in his throat, sucks air into collapsing lungs, "We have to protect her.”
“I know. We will.” Gawain puts an arm around him, no doubt to signal they should go into the castle proper. He’s certain the man wants to change into more comfortable clothing, bath, eat. But he is rooted to the ground, mesmerized by the tiny faery in his arms. He hears Gawain start for the stairs where Percival has returned and is watching from. He isn’t as sneaky as he thinks, Lancelot thinks to himself; nor does it matter, in this moment as the bundle in his arms opens her eyes, blue as glaciers like his own, and blinks up at him yawning. Swallowing, he chokes back a sob and leans his head down. He brushes his nose against hers, the way he remembers his mother doing to him so many times when he was little.
“I will protect you, Mon petit trésor, I swear it.”
When he looks up, Percival and Gawain are staring at him, jaws slack and wide eyed as though he has grown another head. And perhaps he has? He takes three strides towards them and smiles.
“Come, tell me of your adventures, and what you think of your little sister.”
He pulls Etain closer to his chest and leads them up the stairwell to the dining hall, joy in every step.