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Galahad wanders down the castle hallway, one hand on the hilt of his sword, lost in thought. With the Last Burning over and all witches vanquished, there hasn't been much for the average knight to do these days, leaving him with plenty of time to reminisce on how the last witch hunt had gone.
Though he played a large part in it, Galahad doesn't remember much of the night he had apparently collapsed during. He had pushed himself too far battling with witches too adept at their craft, left half-dead and brought back only for all the healers to find themselves at a loss on how to save him. Eventually, Court Mage Mephiles had stepped forward and secluded them to his tower in order to perform a last-ditch attempt at healing him.
It had clearly worked, whatever the mage did, healing the worst of Galahad’s wounds and leaving with only a sprained arm at worst. His hands had stopped trembling after the first month of rehabilitation, and he was now cleared for active duty after the second. He owes Mephiles a life-time debt for the feat, but his friend had waved him off with his usual air of disinterest.
Mephiles is elusive in the way all mages are. Once scorned for being too close to witches, they are now more commonplace as the differences between the magic the two sides practiced were brought to light. Mages use peaceful magic that helps others, while witches sacrifice others for their power, performing arcane rituals.
Camelot is lucky to have a mage as powerful as Mephiles, though Galahad does wonder where he originated from. It seems that the mage had simply shown up one day and climbed the ranks with talent and raw power. Even his strange appearance and lack of visible mouth had slowly been accepted as he proved his worth. Galahad in particular may have been a bit too persistent in trying to befriend the mage. He couldn't help it after seeing Mephiles summon crystals to attack rampaging monsters, glinting like diamonds when torchlight reflected off them. Under that moonlit night, Galahad, who had never believed in gods, couldn't help but see an angel’s wings in the flare of Mephiles’ cloak.
It’s embarrassing thinking of it now, but Galahad thinks it paid off in the end. After all, the mage had saved his life. The first thing he remembers after his days long slumber as his body slowly recovered was seeing Mephiles looking down at him.
“The witches are gone,” Mephiles had told Galahad when he finally awoke from his coma, tired green gaze fixed on him, “you have done well, knight.”
Later, his fellow knights would congratulate him on his survival and drag him to the festivities that were still running as the kingdom celebrated a new era of peace. Now, his body is whole, finally healed from his participation in the final witch hunt. His hands hold his sword steady with a decade worth of familiarity, armor fitting like a well-worn glove.
He wonders, then, why he always seems to dream of fire in an endless expanse of darkness.
It’s not that he doubts any accounts of the story, but Mephiles, the one whose report matters the most, refuses to tell him any more about how Galahad managed to survive. It leaves him trying to piece together crumbs of his memories in search of the truth, examining the nightmares plaguing his sleep. He does believe Mephiles when the mage tells him it’s better not to remember what happened that night, though. All the other knights say the same thing about Galahad’s state of injuries; absolutely horrifying to look at. Enough to send Lancelot on a path of bloody vengeance the moment he finished carrying the silver hedgehog back to safety.
Maybe Galahad would be better off not knowing. But discomfort itches at the back of his brain with every night he wakes up covered in sweat and gasping for breath, checking himself for non-existent burns. Today, too, was another one of those nights, and the sun had barely risen when he decided to spend the early morning drawing water for a bath.
Today, he was invited to have evening tea with Mephiles, a rare opportunity to spend time with the ever-busy court mage, and perhaps to glean more information about his problems. Maybe he’s being selfish, asking for so much when Mephiles has clearly worked tirelessly for his recovery, but Galahad is determined to find out the truth. He climbs the winding staircase of Mephiles’ tower, armor clanking with every step. After waking up and being deemed stable to wander around, he had made this same trip to Mephiles for weekly check-ups on his body. The path was long familiar by now as he raised his hand to knock on the door.
He can hear something shuffling around within before the door swings open, revealing Mephiles dressed in his usual robe. Galahad raises his hand in a wave, smiling in greeting. He’s let in without another word and directed to leave his helm on the dresser by the door, next to Mephiles’ mage hat. They take their seats at the table by the window already laden with desserts and tea, having yet to speak a word. Another would be unnerved, but Galahad has long learned Mephiles doesn't speak if he doesn't want to, but being invited to his tower means that there will be a topic brought up eventually.
“Tea?” Galahad nods, watching Mephiles pours them both tea, movement delicate and precise, adding sugar and milk to his own once the other was done.
The dark-colored hedgehog is lit by the orange sunlight streaming through the window, making his face appear softer than usual. His eyes are half-lidded, a sign of his lowered guard and an absence of his usual amusement in terrifying new recruits with his wide-eyed stare. Galahad once counted how long it took for the mage to blink during a particularly long court session, and the time had been far from average. Mephiles makes no secret of the pleasure he takes in terrorizing the castle’s inhabitants like some sort of haunting spirit, especially the newer mages, and Galahad is not exempt from that, but it will be done away with entirely during times like this.
“So,” Galahad takes the first step, “how do your projects fare recently? The castle was abuzz with one of your feats a few days ago.”
“It was nothing more than another advancement in botany,” Mephiles makes a sound like clicking his tongue despite his visible lack of one, “those fools will celebrate anything.”
It was a step towards figuring out how to grow crops in the winter, Galahad doesn't say, instead reaching for a tart. The first bite reveals cranberries and cream cheese, sweet-sour on his tongue and tasting familiar. He glances at Mephiles, who never visibly eats but does appear to consume the food somehow. It’s become a bit of a myth, really, but Galahad knows better than to pry into that. His efforts are better focused elsewhere, like…
“Mephiles. About the incident,” Galahad wipes the crumbs off his fingers, “do you really intend to never tell me what happened?”
Mephiles steeples his hands, looking mildly amused. “And do you really intend on continuing to pester me with this?”
Galahad grimaces. He may have no choice but to say it outright. “I’ve been having… these dreams. About fire.”
Mephiles stiffens slightly. “Oh?”
Galahad pushes ahead, gaining confidence with the reaction. “It’s me in this void, and- I think I burn away, every last limb, until I wake up. I’ve never had these dreams until after my near-death experience. Mephiles, do you really have nothing to tell me?”
Mephiles is silent, glancing out the window instead of replying. The knight looks too, gazing at the darkening sky, the sun slowly slipping lower but still illuminating the inside of the tower. With winter approaching, the sun sets sooner as the days turn shorter. Their evening tea might as well be an early dinner.
“It’s almost time.” Mephiles murmurs, almost imperceptible if not for his sharp hearing.
“Time? Time for what?” Galahad stands, temper getting the best of him. He’s spent two months trying to find the truth, dealing with nightmares and catching up on sleep by taking afternoon naps. Now that he’s on active duty again, he can't keep dealing with this. He needs a solution.
“I’ll explain in due time,” Mephiles’ gaze slides to him, calm as ever, “first, finish your food.”
Not for the first time, Galahad hates how Mephiles treats him like a child, and himself for following the command. He sits back down stiffly and reaches for a sandwich under Mephiles’ piercing gaze. The conversation shifts to gentler waters.
Somehow, Galahad finds himself in Mephiles’ study after their meal, trying to help the hedgehog find an important journal he needed to cite for his latest piece of research. The place is an almost organized mess, the walls lined with shelves and a large desk strewn with parchment and bearing the finest equipment the royal treasury could buy. Galahad is careful to steer clear of that, not wanting to break anything. His check-ups used to occur here, sitting at the desk while Mephiles chanted unknown spells and took samples of his blood, monitoring his health.
Mephiles had set him on some hunt for his material, like he expects the silver hedgehog to be able to find anything in this mess. He sighs, crouched before a bookshelf, glancing back to see the mage perched on a chair, one leg crossed over the other, looking as poised as a king might, even in this dimly lit study. Galahad returns to his task instead of staring too long, gently pulling out titles to peer at dusty covers.
Something catches his eye, a worn leather-bound book dyed a dark purple, seeming to call to him. When he reaches for it, entranced, it shocks his fingers the moment he makes contact, causing him to yelp. Still, he reaches out again, hand closing around the book without reaction this time, standing up with it in hand. The title is in a runic alphabet Galahad cannot recognize, carefully carved into the cover. Abruptly he feels a little sick, like he’s holding something unimaginably dangerous, almost like-
“Ah, Galahad,” Mephiles’ voice sends a strange tingle down his spine, like someone is tapping their fingers down his back, “bring that here.”
Galahad moves on autopilot, the silver hedgehog walking over to offer the book to the mage. Mephiles doesn’t take it, however, and motions for him to open it. Something tells him not to, to fling the book far, far away, but under Mephiles’ watchful gaze and an odd eagerness to please, he cracks the pages open. He doesn’t understand, at first, gaze moving across rows of text without reading, and then he sees words of blood and bone, cramped annotations in the corner, diagrams of dissection and things of horror and gore.
It’s a book on witchcraft. It is a book on dark magic, blood rituals, sacrificial rites, and in relatively recent ink lies his name again and again, penned between paragraphs with a dozen different notes accompanying each one. The wrongness of it is palpable once understood in the way all witchcraft is, an unspeakable revulsion that alerts even the dimmest civilian that something is fundamentally wrong in the balance of the universe. The thing that scars so many of the kingdom’s knights, still strokes their minds like nails on chalkboard.
You do not simply use witchcraft. It consumes you and your victims whole.
The book drops to the floor. Galahad draws his sword, the smooth slide of steel sharp in the quiet room, and for the first time in weeks, his hands tremble as he rests the blade against Mephiles’ neck. Don’t think about what you read. Focus on the enemy. Nothing matters more than keeping the castle safe.
Mephiles tilts his head, seemingly unconcerned, for a witch has all manners of tricks up their sleeves to escape from an impossible situation. Horror and betrayal war equally in Galahad’s chest, still too in shock to turn into white-hot fury. “Put down your sword, Galahad.”
“Witch,” Galahad hisses out through gritted teeth, finding his voice again, “you- what did you do?!”
Terrifyingly, Mephiles laughs like he’s never before, the sound so different from his usual quiet chuckles and so audibly joyous that it does nothing but unnerve Galahad now. “Oh, Galahad. Even now your questions never fail to amuse. I did what I had to. To save your life. To bring you back to me.”
“Guts and blood spilling from your wounds. The light in your eyes almost went out,” Mephiles rests his hand on the cool armor covering Galahad’s abdomen, “There before me was the perfect subject, someone I did not want to lose, perfect for the ritual. Failing was no different from inaction, and success would be glory.”
“You died that night, Galahad,” Mephiles tells him, almost too close, inches away from his face, “and then I burned you until you rose again from the ashes. Bodies are easy to make, you see, crafted from the environment as they are, and so necromancy is simply a matter of will. No, what’s special about you is that you have your own consciousness.”
Galahad’s sword slips from his hands and away from its quarry, falls to the ground with an earth-shattering clatter, like it’ll stop the next words coming out of Mephiles’ mouth, like it’ll banish the feeling of rejection crawling across his skin. He knows it’ll be true regardless.
“You are my greatest creation, Galahad,” Mephiles laughs, spreading his arms, eyes glowing a sickly green, “no other witch came close! This is beyond reanimation; I have retrieved your very soul from the underworld!”
“Mephiles,” Galahad says, half-pleading, all desperate, unsure what he’s asking for. Some sort of last moment reveal that this is all a lie? That his body isn't held together by a curse? That dark magic doesn't keep his heart beating? That he never died at all?
Mephiles gazes at him, those cool green eyes of his suddenly infuriating. Always, always aloof, always just out of grasp. Galahad used to hope they would turn his way, and had slowly gotten greedy as Mephiles looked at him more and more. A knight and mage of the court, not impossible to reach across and touch. They are not a lady and her knight, separated by status, and there is no fairytale ending for them either.
With a snarl he grabs Mephiles by the neck, slamming him against the wall. Mephiles grunts at the violent motion, hands shooting up to close around Galahad’s hands. Even so, he doesn't try to pry the knight off, gaze filled with something he doesn’t know how to name, as mysterious as ever. The knight’s hold tightens, surely choking the mage, rage keeping any words from spilling out from his own throat. What more is there to say? Mephiles had committed the unforgivable sin of witchcraft, dragged Galahad’s soul from Death’s claws, and would be a traitor to the kingdom once someone found out.
What was this all for? Galahad doesn't say, can't say, keeping Mephiles pinned. Mephiles had great things ahead of him. A guaranteed promotion to head court mage in due time, more leeway in those strange projects he liked to conduct, dragging Galahad to spectate the strange creatures he would make of crystal and shadow. Mephiles would have been great. He would have published so many more papers on magic, theories crafted from sleepless nights researching, trying to streamline the process of learning magic so more and more people could learn to be mages. So that anyone could dream to be able to fight for their kingdom.
What did Galahad ever do to deserve this sort of curse? This sort of offering laid at his feet, bleeding over the altar? What is his body now? Perhaps made from the flesh of some other poor soul somewhere, rotting in the dirt? Is it even his? Is there anything of him that remains?
His hold on Mephiles loosens without meaning to and his knees give out; the two of them crash down onto the unforgiving stone floor, a tangled mess of limbs. Galahad rolls to the side so his armor won't crush Mephiles, gaze vacant and body moving on autopilot until the other hedgehog grabs his arm. There, lying on the ground, something must show on Galahad’s face because Mephiles softens so visibly it makes the knight’s heart ache something terrible.
“My dear knight,” Mephiles says, swiping his thumb across Galahad’s cheek, “you really should look at yourself more.”
A shudder runs down his spine at the words, gold eyes unable to look away from Mephiles. If he reports Mephiles, then of course he too would be slaughtered as a product of witchcraft. He is Mephiles’ sin, whether he wants to be or not. And despite it all, Galahad is still afraid of death. But more than that, even after realizing that his life is a mockery of nature, that his body is an unknown imitation of flesh and bone, he cannot bring himself to strike Mephiles down, here and now.
More than fear, more than duty, a terrible sort of loyalty persists in the recesses of his heart. For Mephiles is not his lady and Galahad is not his knight, but when Mephiles stands Galahad gets on one knee to look up at him.
Mephiles’ eyes curve upwards in an indication of a smile at his action, gazing down upon him. Galahad is frozen with his heart in his throat, wondering if this is puppetry and yet finding no suppression of his will. A warm, clawed hand cups his cheek in a mockery of an embrace. Galahad doesn't move away.
“You are mine, and I am yours, Galahad.”
Galahad had always been so proud of his strength. It’s funny how it always seemed to fail when it mattered most.