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Lancelot wakes to darkness and the sharp night air. As he sits up, twigs crunch beneath his bedroll, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the night.
The fire has died down, its embers glowing softly against small heaps of ash. The snores of his fellow knights are peacefully quiet.
He becomes aware of someone singing, a plaintive, lilting melody quietly echoing through the air, and words, ones in a language he doesn’t understand. It’s subtle, slipping softly together, and he sits there, transfixed.
His first thought is that it’s some sort of spirit, or the fae; when he looks to the side and finds Gwaine’s bedroll missing, though, it’s clear that it’s his voice.
He pushes the blanket off, pulling on his boots and stepping carefully past his sleeping companions.
The hush of nighttime drapes over the forest, making every motion seem so much louder than it is. Lancelot pushes aside a branch, ducking around a tree, movements slow and cautious with the silent care that only the darkness can provide.
He steps through a gap in the trees, spotting Gwaine where he’s seated facing away from him in a patch of moonlight, a candle wedged into the grass next to him.
The song lulls and rises again, the foreign words curling through the air.
A twig snaps beneath his feet, and Gwaine startles, relaxing when Lancelot puts his hands up with an easy smile.
“You have a lovely singing voice, Sir Gwaine,” he says. “May I join you?”
“Did I wake you?” he asks in lieu of a response, patting a spot on the blanket next to him, and Lancelot hums as he sits down.
“Wasn’t the best sleep anyway.”
Gwaine doesn’t push any further, which Lancelot is grateful for, and they sit in silence for a moment.
"Would you sing more for me?" he asks, watching the way the candle’s light dances over Gwaine’s face.
And Gwaine tilts his head towards the stars and obliges, picking up the song where he left off.
The notes roll off his tongue, honey-soft and lilting, and Lancelot's heart aches with a quiet longing, although for what, he cannot say.
He can’t recognize the language, but it flows through the air like magic.
The song swells, crashes, builds up again, light and sorrowful in turn, and the trees seem to move along with it, swaying silently in a breeze Lancelot can’t feel. Fireflies blink in and out of his vision, glowing softly, seeming to swirl around Gwaine, and the air seems charged with something both soothing and electric. The candle waves and burns brighter, bigger, as a crescendo rises, and wavers as the notes roll down, flickering out as the song ends.
The last note lingers, hangs in the air like smoke, and Lancelot holds his breath for a beat after it’s gone, spellbound.
Gwaine lets his head fall, smiling as a firefly lands on his finger.
Lancelot can’t help but watch him, memorizing every detail of the way his hair falls in front of his eyes, committing every line of his smile to memory, counting the freckles that fall across his cheeks like constellations.
He looks ethereal, out here alone in the moonlight, and Lancelot wants to remember this moment forever.
He speaks, finally, softly so as not to break the spell.
“What’s it about?”
Gwaine hums.
“It’s a myth,” he says, pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes, “about a human and a monster.”
He tilts his head back, taking in the night sky. Lancelot’s eyes never leave him.
“The people of Caerleon sing it together, in secret, when the king’s guards aren’t around. It’s one of the stories from their religion, from before the grandfather of the king took over and tried to convert them all.”
He pauses, smiles as if remembering some old memory.
“I used to sneak out as a kid to watch the people gather with candles and sing their legends.”
Lancelot tilts his head, gazing out at the forest. “What story does it tell?”
Gwaine hums. “I can try to translate it for you, but I can’t promise much.”
He tells the story of a young man with a heart of gold, out on a quest to bring peace to his country, distracted by a song. He tells the story of a girl, wandering through the woods, her singing carrying through the breeze, light like a swallow. And he tells of how the man’s heart tied him to her, and she loved him for his bravery and kindness.
But with time, the man became more and more possessive, the fluttering love she used to feel morphed into a creeping fear. The more he forgot his duty towards his king, the more the girl saw his cruelty. And she ran from him, and he chased her over glittering fields and deep in silver woods, never relenting, never slowing.
Gwaine speaks of how the man forgot his quest, forgot his own name, only ever thinking of her, until finally in her misery she threw herself from a cliff, and he followed blindly.
But the man lived, and when he woke she was gone, and he was broken and twisted, but given immortality by the strength of his love: cursed to search for her forever.
He tells of the people of Caerleon, and of how they huddle in their homes when the wind blows through the trees, on those rare nights when the moon is bright and cloudless.
He speaks of a monster in the forest, singing, singing, crying out for his love, and how the ground at his feet runs into mud with the strength of his tears. Of how the children of Caerleon scurry home at sunset, quick like a mouse, or stay behind crying out the name of the woman to scare the others.
He tells of how the man became twisted, grew into a beast, and his golden heart morphed into cold steel. How he wanders, lost, searching, remembering nothing, trampling everyone in his way.
And finally, he tells the story of a ghost that follows him, a young girl tucked behind a tree, watching her former lover become more monstrous by the day, staining the aspen leaves gold with her tears.
There are tears in Lancelot’s eyes when he’s done, and Gwaine rubs the back of his neck ruefully.
“So, yeah, that’s the story.”
Lancelot reaches over and pushes a lock of hair out of Gwaine’s face, his hand moving down to rest on the side of his jaw.
“It’s beautiful.”
Gwaine turns toward him and smiles, and Lancelot swears he can see the constellations in his eyes.
“You’re beautiful,” Gwaine replies, and out here, alone together where the moonlight softens the edges of everything, what choice does Lancelot have but to believe him?
He huffs softly, warmth rising in his chest, and presses their lips together.
When he pulls back, Gwaine grins, wrapping his arm around his waist and drawing him in closer. Lancelot rests his head on his shoulder, intertwining their fingers, admiring the way they fit together.
The knights nearly panic when they wake and the two of them are missing, but Leon soon finds them, curled up together and sleeping peacefully.
He quietly steps away, smiling to himself.
Elyan owes him so much money.