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Gods rarely answered prayers.
Lancelot knelt on the cold stone stairs, head bowed. His elders had taught him how to pray, how to speak to the Gods with the utmost respect. As he grew up, his prayers had always been the solemn scripts they all memorised.
Now, more often than not he’d let his eyes wander.
Emrys’ statue stood proud in the middle of the decrepit temple. Though everything around It deteriorated, dust did not touch Its surface. Its only sign of earthliness was the moss and blooming ivy crawling up Its legs and wrapping around its stretched hands. Nature yearned for Him, too.
“They tell me not to give up,” he watched the patterns the ivy formed on Its body. “And I won’t. I won’t,” he sighed. Its right eye was covered with flowers even though the mantle of winter long covered the land. “I just want to know if any of this is getting to you. If there’s anything else I have to do…”
He kept quiet, knowing begging for a signal didn’t work. That’s when he heard it.
Footsteps. Heavy ones. When they stopped at the entrance of the temple, Lancelot raised his hands as he slowly stood and turned around. It was dangerous for him to go there as often as he did. He knew it. His God knew it.
Sunlight filtered through the crumbling ceiling and landed on the blood-red cape of the Prince. Lancelot had seen him before, years ago.
“I’m unarmed,” Lancelot said. The Prince didn’t raise his unsheathed sword.
“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was so low Lancelot struggled to hear it.
“I was praying.”
The Prince made some sort of grimace. When he didn’t move, Lancelot lowered his arms. There was a shout outside of “Sire?”.
Of course he wasn’t alone. They were there to finish destroying the temple. Lancelot hated the thought of fighting in his God’s sacred place, but he’d die fighting if it meant defending—
“No one here,” The Prince called back. He turned to leave.
Then there was a crossbow aimed at Lancelot.
A shout of “Sorcerer!”. They started to surround him. An arrow flew at him, he barely stopped it with a spell and a movement of his hand.
He hurried up the steps to stand in front of the statue, blocking Him from their view. The knights crept closer, ignoring the Prince’s calls to stop.
He wouldn’t survive the fight. As he gathered his magic, he called for Emrys one last time. But he knew Gods rarely answered prayers, even those of their most loyal worshippers.
Then… stone cracking. For a second, Lancelot thought the ceiling was about to cave in on them. But—
A wave of winter coldness that overwhelmed him. Before he could turn to look behind him, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Leave him,” A voice boomed, making the earth shake. Pieces of stone detached off His skin, ivy still clung around Him. Emrys had awakened. “Leave my temple.”