Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A velvetine onyx sky conceals the kingdom in darkness. Pale orbs hang from the protective firmament, basking the earth below in their celestial light. The argent moon is the brightest source of them all, christening the evergreen forest and the babbling brook in a sacred blessing from the heavens. The snow blanketing the distant mountains along the horizon hide the fading dusk, only permitting a pink-orange hue to surround their contours for a few moments longer. The warmth from the sun has faded already, leaving a chilly wind to sweep through the natural landscape and directly invade the sleepy village at the foot of the large palace that serves as the meeting grounds of justice and a beacon of goodwill unto all those who claim this kingdom as their home.

Dame Percival stares down at the kingdom from one of the many balconies climbing up the spiraling towers. Although unseen from her vantage point, she is well-aware that her fellow knights are scattered throughout the land. They are bringing peace to each distant corner, ensuring that the people are safe and well-taken care of. She has undertaken this task many times herself. The only reason she is not doing so now is because someone must always be left at the palace to oversee the affairs of the kingdom and serve as the palace’s main defender. For this night, Dame Percival serves that precious role.

She has a strong belief in her own skills. She knows that there is nary a threat who could best her and prove dangerous to the kingdom that she has sworn to protect in the absence of having a king. She is also aware that while the knights who are stationed at the palace indefinitely are not to be scoffed at, either. Although they are not on par with the Knights of the Round Table, they have their strengths that cannot so easily be dismissed. Furthermore, there are mercenaries who have chosen to work in the capital alongside other men and women who are unafraid to put their lives on the line for the sake of this kingdom.

All of these reasons allow Percival to be reasonably certain that the kingdom is safe. She knows that this small corner of Camelot must be. Despite this, she feels entirely uneasy. There is a growing wariness inside of her body that she wishes she could dismiss yet finds herself uselessly entertaining. The sky might be serene and beautiful. The land might be quiet and peaceful. The palace might be unfaltering and protected. None of it matters when Percival feels as if a dragon looms just beyond the mountain, that the Fae are planning an assault in the woods, that the neighboring nations are rising up to become their enemies. Or, perhaps, something even more dangerous and unknowable lurks in all the unholy, wretched places that not even Percival’s divine flames or knightly hearts can illuminate.

“I come with the evening security report, Dame Percival.” The knight squeezes the railing of the balcony. For a moment, her strength causes strain in the material. If she applies any more force, it will inevitably shatter. As such, she lifts her paw before anything can break. She is more refined than this. It matters little if she is certain danger is quickly approaching, or if her senses have been dialed to the extreme since the moment she came outside for a breath of fresh air. She will handle whatever beast or storm comes her way. She will defeat it as surely as she does any other enemy of the kingdom.

“Proceed, Gardon,” Percival commands. She tears her golden irises away from the distance to look into the eyes of a loyal companion. Gardon was a servant who came with Percival when she swore an oath to King Arthur. Although this oath was proven false, Gardon remained with her throughout it all. He continues serving her now, and Percival will be eternally grateful for his servitude. Loyalty and efficiency are hard to come by, yet Gardon has both in spades.

“There is nothing to report,” Gardon says with a chirpiness to his voice that pairs well with the serenity of the night but not so well with the festering feelings in her heart. Percival has made it far in life by listening to her instincts. If they are screaming about impending danger, she should go out to investigate. But she has been searching for a long time now. Her gaze has swept across everything in the environment. With her keen vision, she should have found the source of her worries already. She should have heard it or sensed it in the wind. 

And it goes beyond her own person. The reports come from the knights who roam across the kingdom and come back to the palace to retell their findings. They come from the city guards who walk every single street and alleyway before they make their way to Gardon’s paws. If she continues to suspect the reports, she must call everyone into question. She must doubt them all, and that distrust will only bring the endtimes closer to them. Percival is not so quick to presume that everyone has failed their mission. If she alone has such wariness in her heart, perhaps it is born of a paranoia that she must let go of lest she unintentionally sow the seeds of discord through her own carelessness.

“And may that be your report for many nights to come,” Percival answers swiftly, not allowing even more seconds of hesitation to pace. It is quick enough, thankfully, that Gardon does not seem perturbed. He doesn’t share in her sentiments nor does he know that she possesses them. It is ultimately for the best if there truly is nothing to be concerned about regarding the kingdom and its prosperous future.

Percival turns around. She meets Gardon’s eyes as he smiles kindly and respectfully at his master. Percival takes a deep breath. She is about to ask Gardon to spread the news that she will be resting in her private chambers for the night. She is not permitted the chance to as her first words are overtaken by an even louder noise. It falls like thunder despite there being no clouds in the sky. There does not appear to be lightning, either, but the glassy finish over the black of Gardon’s eyes reflects back the bright colors of flames—red, orange, and yellow. Gardon’s hat falls from his head, landing on the ground at the same moment panic and horror spirals onto his expression.

Percival whirls around to stare into the distance. A fire begins raging in the gardens of the royal palace. Although it does not seem particularly large now, it will only spread. It will turn into an inferno that will submerge the entire landscape in a sea of ashes. This is paired alongside the smoke that filters into the sky in long plumes. Smoke is a common sight to see, especially during the night, but this is far more than any single household would ever produce. It will blot out the stars and the moon. It may very well render the sky unseeable for many day-night cycles. If not smoke, the sky will soon be filled with the many prayers of the people for nature’s brightest spark to grow satisfied with all it has already consumed while the plants—and possibly overlander lives, too—will demand satisfaction from those who preside over the natural world in their divine realms. It will be louder than the sound of the flames crying out for more to feast upon and growling in an unceasing starvation.

For a split second, Percival feels vindication. She was right. Her instincts informed her that a disaster would befall the kingdom, and she should not have doubted them. It is once the feeling has swelled in her chest that she remembers she shouldn’t be feeling this way when there is a fire spreading in the gardens that could claim lives. Even if it does not, it is Percival’s duty as the one guarding the palace in the place of the Knights of the Round Table to stop the fire from turning their sanctuary into ashen ruins.

Percival rushes to the side of the balcony beside the door’s threshold. She raises her foot to stomp on the railing. She lifts her body into the air. Gardon chokes on a surprised breath as Percival begins running down the wall. At a certain point, she pushes off the stones into the air. Although she is not wearing her armor nor carrying her sword with her, Percival’s divine blessing activates. Pink-tinged flames surround her body. It provides enough upward force that she lands gracefully on the ground below. She is forced into a slight squat to account for the new position, but Percival is already rushing forward before the aura of smokeless fire around her has even dissipated. 

Whoever or whatever chose to start the fire chose an inopportune time to do it. Percival is the knight who was blessed by the Holy Grail with the fires of the heavens. Other knights and servants would be forced to bring buckets of water from the well or river to put out the fire. Percival does not need such laborious solutions. She swirls her paws around. Fire from below will never surpass what comes from above, so the fire roaring across the many trees and hedges is drawn to her paws. She absorbs the fire, allowing it to merge with the furnace she keeps deep within her soul. She, unfortunately, cannot undo the damage that has already been done, but she does prevent all that the fire could do.

“W-wait, Dame Percival! It could be dangerous!” Gardon yells, hurriedly chasing after her. The only reason he was able to keep up was because she needed to slow down to handle the fires. In other cases, she would outmatch him by several paces. She is a mighty knight, after all, one chosen to sit around the round table. She was also one of the knights who was personally acknowledged by her king (both of them, technically, but she tries hard not to think about one of them). Gardon is only a servant. He is proficient at his chosen job and carries out all the duties he must attend to, but it is by no means complicated to understand who among them is faster.

“If it threatens my king’s home, I will show it who is dangerous,” Percival declares, glancing over her shoulder at the servant doing his best to reach her side as she runs ahead to where the source of the flames could have come from. She imagines it must be an enemy who managed to sneak into the palace. They might be an alchemist or mage considering the ‘boom!’ sound she heard. She does not have much more than that. The noble houses have been antsy without a supreme ruler. Enemy nations are coming to understand how vulnerable Camelot is, too. Any one of them could have sent a scout ahead to cause some chaos. Additionally, whoever Percival finds might be purposefully causing trouble using the colors and banners of another faction or nation in order to trick Camelot into attacking the wrong group. Percival will need to be prepared and open for anything she might encounter.

Percival comes to a complete stop at the edge of a smoldering crater—the very heart where the flames and the smoke spread from. Her golden eyes narrow when she peers into the darkness. The fire that remains active reaches toward her, ready to follow her commands when it feels her anger. Each flame sputters out when confusion and recognition pours through Percival’s body like a sudden flood of freezing water from the northern lands.

Gardon huffs and puffs from overexertion. He fumbles to a stop right beside her. He wraps his arms around his midsection, nearly pitching forward into the crater. As soon as his vision clears, he looks down at what lies in the very center of the crater. Gardon now leans forward to get a better look instead of pitching back to protect himself from falling in. His eyes are wide. He still looks panicked, but there is no horror trailing along his minimal features. “Is… is that…?!”

He speaks in a low, hushed voice. Disbelief remains prominent in his tone, but it isn’t enough to obscure the hope that begins to rise like a bird finally learning how to fly. 

The stars cast their soft light upon pale peach fur. The moonlight dances between the strands of sky blue quills flatted against the charred earth. Blood seeps into the soil all around the body like nourishment for the plants. The flesh has been pulled and severed in some places, showing the internal body. It looks eerily similar to a corpse. However, signs of life can be found in the expanding chest. It can be found in the certainty Percival has that she is gazing upon the injured but very much alive flesh of her king—the one she swore an oath to and the one she hoped to carry on the legacy of.

“Yes! It is His Majesty, King Sonic, Knight of the Wind!” Percival declares. She makes no effort to hide her emotions, yet they do not present themselves clearly in her voice. It would be difficult for them to show themselves, considering just how much she is feeling right now. A myriad of sensations dominate her heart.

Her mind, however, remains focused at the moment. She slides down the side of the crater until she’s made it to the bottom. She reaches her arms out. She pulls Sonic into her arms. The hedgehog makes soft noises of acknowledgment. His body tenses with rejection. His eyes, however, remain shut, and his heart is not so steady. Sonic does not know what is happening to him right now. Although she would normally wait for orders from her king, she decides that because of his incapacitated state, she is allowed to make certain calls. She will serve whatever punishment her king imparts on her once she has secured his life.

“Gardon, summon the royal physician. Escort them to the king’s chambers posthaste! When you have completed this task, I require you to fetch the wizard. She will tell us the truth of our king’s sudden arrival, if she played a part in it or if it was done by another force,” Percival orders. Gardon nods. He does not need further words of encouragement before he’s bolting away. 

While Percival would like to undertake the tasks herself, someone must care for the king and bring him to his chambers. Gardon is too short for it. Even if he were tall and strong, he has not accustomed himself to the stench of burnt flesh or ferrous blood pouring over the cauterized wounds in sheets. Percival herself finds difficulty in the smell joining with the smoke and floral scents in the air, but she supposes that might be because she cares for Sonic so deeply that seeing him in this state wounds her more painful than a lashing against her backside.

Percival is careful with Sonic’s body when she climbs out of the crater. The flames have completely died down. Someone will need to fill in the crater and rid the air of the smoke, but those are issues for the gardeners. Percival is a knight who will accompany her lord and liege all the way to the rooms where he will be addressed and healed by the physician—or perhaps even permitted a healing spell from the wizard who wishes to redeem herself in the eyes of the kingdom. While Percival does not always trust Merlina, she acknowledges that the wizard has her own fondness for Sonic that will prevent her from betraying the hedgehog or the others who have sworn their lives to him (again).

Percival does exactly as she set out to do. She brings Sonic to the king’s private chambers. They have not been used since the illusion of Arthur was around, but they have been kept clean because the servants hold onto the hope that a ruler would one day emerge. They have been kept clean because the knights—though they dare not mention it aloud—held onto the hope that Sonic would come back to them eventually.

Percival sets Sonic down on the bed. She is permitted a few moments to fret over him before the doors are being shoved open. Gardon and the royal physician hurry into the room. Percival dutifully steps aside, allowing the physician to take her place. They begin working on the king. Percival and Gardon remain for a while longer. Eventually, however, Percival finds herself striding to the door to leave. Gardon is quick on her heels, prepared to accept any order that she gives him. This is for good reason, too, for Percival finds herself looking over her shoulder and telling him, “I will write letters to the other knights requesting their presence at the round table. We must discuss the king’s return and prepare for what will come when the king awakens.”

A sea stretches out below him. It is wide and expansive. Although it is normally dark blue with the occasional bursts of white from cresting waves, it reflects back the brown underside of a floating island and the gray exterior of a ship that sails across the clouds. Above them, the sky is even more infinite and more vivid in coloration, too. It does not reflect anything for it is the location of the island and the ship. It is where they both belong, even if they are not meant to interact with each other. He himself is covered thickly in golden fire, turning him into a star that hovers in the lower atmosphere instead of dancing among the nebulas and finding connection within the constellations. He is not the only flame in the sky. The sun stands with him, but there is also another figure who dawns the same radiant hue. Together, they churn the seas and sky, building and building an eternal energy that will sweep through the lands and pull the poison from the earth. And when they do, he is cast aside by the very power that once blessed him… or perhaps, they have offered him the sweetest gift by sending him far, far away from all that finds a way to sow the seeds of terror in his otherwise immune soul.

Those are all memories. In fact, they are the only memories he has. He has searched his brain over and over again, but that is all he was left with. Everything else is frozen in an unbreakable darkness. When he pushes his consciousness up against it, he only finds himself experiencing a lot of pain. More than that, there’s guilt and fear, both so large and powerful that he hardly knows if those two words accurately describe it. He feels as if the entire world has been pressing down on him for a thousand years. He is only able to breathe now, but even then, the phantom sensations have not parted from him. They continue to choke him until he’s scrambling for a breath that is already inside of his chest.

His eyes flutter open. He moves the heels of his paws underneath him. He pushes himself into an upright position. He looks around the room he’s in. There is not a single flicker of familiarity as he observes every detail. He lies in a large bed with a plush mattress behind him, more pillows than any one person should ever own let alone have on their bed, and a blanket so thick that he feels uncomfortably hot with it. He throws the blanket off as he continues looking. Behind the wooden frame of the beds’ pillars and canopy, there are multiple walls to form an irregular shape. There is a balcony on one side, displaying a bright sky and slivers of nearby rooftops. On the other side of the room, he can see a foldable frame that sections off more private areas used for grooming and…. handling business.

He hears an approaching noise. He recognizes it as quick, light footsteps. They get closer and closer before stopping. There is a beat of silence. It is followed by soft murmuring and the wooden door being pushed open. It swings all the way around on its hinges to slam into the stone wall beside it. A little girl standing at the threshold winces. She waits for the noise to fade from the air. She hurries into the room a second later. She pats the air in front of the door as if commanding it to stay silent. Once she is done with that, she returns her paw to the tray she was balancing on her opposite forearm. She takes it into both paws, examining the contents to make certain nothing has spilled over.

After all of that, the raccoon finally lifts her sky blue eyes to the hedgehog sitting upright in the bed. Her eyes widen in shock. She nearly drops the tray. He smiles faintly as she struggles to keep it and everything on top of it off the rug. When she finishes, she gives him several quick glances as if determining if she has gone mad to imagine his awakened state. His smile grows wider and friendlier, prompting her to accept reality rather readily.

The raccoon races to his bedside. She sets the tray down the nightstand right beside him. Her paws over the other tray. She prepares herself to take it, but she ultimately does not as she stares at him again. He opens his mouth to speak to her. His voice gets caught in his throat. The raccoon startles. She mutters an apology. She lifts the pitcher from the tray. It takes both of her paws—and she’s faintly shaking as she does so—but she manages to pour him a glass of clear water. She passes it into his paws. As he drinks it, she leans against the side of the bed. She stares at him with such awe and reverence that he wonders what their connection to each other is. He arches a brow, lowering the cup. She makes a move to take it. The second he believes she’s going to touch him, however, he rips both his paws and the cup upward. It spills slightly, letting water land against his shoulder. The girl’s eyes widen. He expects fear, but she only seems embarrassed. “I apologize, Your Majesty. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Your Majesty…?” He repeats under his breath. She blinks openly at him with slightly parted lips. Her fingers clasp together under her chin. He releases a slow breath through his smiling teeth. “Um… who am I?”

She does not look like this is any great matter, perhaps not realizing that he’s asking because he doesn’t know. “You are His Majesty, King Arthur, the Knight of the Wind and the Once and Future King of Camelot. You—”

“Girl,” Another voice interrupts. She and the hedgehog turn their gazes toward the doorway. A figure stands in the threshold. He is clad in dark, metallic gray armor with accents of deep red and shimmering gold. His helmet covers his face, but it cannot hide the black quills expanding from his back or the way they are touched with a vibrant, bloody red. He is a knight, obviously, and a hedgehog. He’s also familiar, and something settles inside the azure hedgehog’s heart when he feels as if he’s locked eyes with the knight at the doorway.

“Sir Lancelot!” The raccoon claims, whirling around to face the direction of the knight at the doorway. The knight—Lancelot?—becomes rigid as he enters the bed chambers. He does not cross the space entirely, however. He gets halfway across the ground, right at the edge of the rug expanding from underneath the bed.

“Return to your master,” Lancelot tells her. There is no harshness in his voice, but neither is there any kindness. It is an order as much as it is an observation about what she should be doing right now.

The girl grumbles rather audibly, deflating inward. “Master is going to make me train! Do I really have to go to her, Sir Lancelot?”

“A squire must follow the teachings of their master,” Lancelot speaks sternly, tilting his head to the side in just a way that the light crawling in from the windows separating the room from the balcony enter through his helmet’s visor. The azure hedgehog catches a glimpse of carmine irises as colorful as Lancelot’s highlights—both on his body and to his armor.

“But—” She cuts herself off when Lancelot’s eyes narrow to the extent that he does not need to verbalize anything. Her cheeks puff up with her annoyance. She does not, however, try to argue with him any further. She turns back to the azure hedgehog’s bedside. She bows to him with a level of respect that is impressive for a child even if it isn’t anywhere close to being perfect. “Farewell, Your Majesty. I wish you a steady and quick recovery.”

The raccoon straightens her spine to run out of the room. The azure hedgehog watches her go. Lancelot does not. He maintains a steadfast gaze on the ground. The azure hedgehog acknowledges him briefly even as his eyes do another sweep of the room. He realizes that the girl brought him a tray without taking the other one away. Both are covered in food. He assumes the one she brought is newer and therefore, warmer. He takes a bowl of porridge into his paws. His stomach rumbles, but he finds himself hesitating to eat it. Although she showed him respect, that does not mean whoever cooked this does. It doesn’t even mean that she truly wishes for him to be alive. It could be poisoned… but he really is hungry, so he begins eating the porridge (part of him wishes it were another food, but he can’t recall what that food would be).

“Your Majesty,” Lancelot begins. He walks to the side of the bed, though he maintains a greater distance than that girl did. Lancelot sinks down onto one knee. He balances himself remarkably well. The azure hedgehog is impressed even if he refuses to admit that aloud. He just continues eating his porridge and waits for Lancelot to continue with whatever he needs to say.

Lancelot, however, remains completely silent. The azure hedgehog finishes half of the bowl. Lancelot has said nothing, and it doesn’t look like he’s moved at all, either. As hungry as he was (and perhaps still is), the uncanniness of Lancelot’s actions makes his stomach tighten. His throat is already being squeezed from his emotions. And the unfamiliarity of the situation has made his mouth dry and has definitely shut down his digestive track. He sets the bowl aside, finding it impossible to eat any longer. 

He sets his paws in his lap. He turns his entire body around, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. He stares down at Lancelot. The knight pointedly does not try looking at him. He keeps his carmine focus on whatever lurks in the darkness beneath the bed. The azure hedgehog leans forward, feeling his arms behind against his chest. “So… my name’s Arthur, huh?”

Lancelot startles. It is a barely perceptible reaction, but the azure hedgehog has this innate understanding of Lancelot buried deep in his bones. Even though he isn’t able to recall much of his past, he knows Lancelot, and that comforts him in a way the rest of his empty existence can’t even compare to.

“It is a name that belongs to Your Majesty, yes. However, the name that Your Majesty shared with your humble servants and loyal knights is Sonic—”

“This is your fault, Sonic!” “Sonic, help me, please—” “I’m sorry… Sonic…”

The azure hedgehog crumples forward. His head falls into his paws. He stares at the ground between his fingertips. A pained noise leaves his lips, spurned forth by the headache that rips through him with the bright ferocity of an inferno and the overwhelming might of a flood. It brings tears to his eyes with how badly it hurts. He curls deeper inward, trying to bury himself within his own body as if the shadows of his bones and warmth of his blood will protect him from all that wishes to do him harm inside his own mind.

“My liege… Your Majesty…” Lancelot is trying to reach him. He can vaguely hear his voice at the edges of his consciousness. He wants to respond to it. He wants to confirm to Lancelot that he is fine because he is. The pain is nothing. It will pass, and he will be back to normal, and— “Sonic?”

“No!” A rapid animal cries out, clawing at its own festering wounds because it does not understand that it is only sending itself closer to death. Or maybe it is entirely aware, and an animal whose instincts scream at to survive is overwhelmed with a pain so ferocious that it will succumb to the eternal night. Yet still, it struggles, and he finds himself glaring at Lancelot through his fingers. For all the anger and hatred on his face, for all the pain twisted as deeply as a knife inside his eyes, his voice is shallow and weak as he begs into his palms, “Don’t call me that! Call me anything else, please. Or call me nothing at all. But do not call me—”

“Arthur,” Lancelot whispers. The azure hedgehog cuts himself off. He lifts off his paws just enough to peer over his fingertips. Lancelot seems embarrassed—or even wary of his disrespect—so he lowers his head. “If the king finds it permissible, I will no longer call you… I will henceforth call you Arthur, my king and liege.”

“Okay…” He murmurs, more to himself than to Lancelot. He nods his head slowly. He straightens his spine. He even smiles at Lancelot, letting the pain and that wretched other name fade into the same oblivion that all his memories are locked behind. “Let’s go with Arthur… Now, for the rest of who I am…”

Chapter Text

The royal palace, by its very nature, was made for the royal family. There was an entire wing with rooms dedicated specifically to those of the noble bloodline. There were parts of the palace including secret passages that were accessible by them. There were places to sleep, to eat, and even to work. All of these locations were never repurposed even when there was no longer a royal family to serve. The ones who used the palace—the Knights of the Round Table—remained in the locations that were permitted to them when they were knights serving under a lord. The other rooms were preserved, in a word, but mostly, they were left entirely alone by everyone who walked in the palace.

It is for this reason that Lancelot is partially surprised by how clean the king’s study is. There is not a single layer of dust on any of the furniture. There are fresh flowers and other plants placed both on the small wooden tables beneath paintings and in the vases on either side of the door. There is enough wood stacked in a container beside the fire to last a few weeks, at least. The papers and other decorative objects on the desk have been organized as precisely as the throw pillows on the couch meant for more casual guests and encounters where the king is here but not attending to civil affairs. Between the cleanliness, the warmth from the fireplace, and a pleasant aroma in the air, the study is a comfortable space that does not present itself as a room that was missing its master for months on end.

Lancelot could be suspicious that someone has been secretly using this room. It isn’t an unusual assumption, and no one would fault him for having it. The only reason Lancelot doesn’t have it is because he’s seen the servants hurrying throughout this entire wing of the castle. The news of the king’s return has spread like wildfire throughout the palace. These sparks have landed inside of everyone’s hearts. The servants were content to clean the areas the knights used because it was a job they were paid to do, but they have shown a greater effort in organizing and cleaning the wing meant for the royal family. Although the king has only been here a few days, it is impressive what the servants have done in that short time.

If no one could blame Lancelot for being suspicious, he cannot blame the servants for being eager. He was not aware of how loyal they all were, but it is an admirable trait. Lancelot knows that he himself alongside all the other knights are just as pleased to have their liege back. He shares in the servants’ sentiments which establishes a sort of camaraderie that they didn’t have when all of them were living more like ghosts in the abandoned palace. It is yet another reason why Lancelot finds himself grateful for whatever twists of fate brought the king back to them.

Lancelot hears a groaning noise. It pulls him right out of his thoughts. He turns his head to look at the only other person in the office with him. The azure hedgehog (who only responds to the name Arthur and goes into pained states when anyone calls him Sonic) pushes his paws against the edge of his desk. He flops onto the back of the chair, letting his quills spread out behind him. Arthur crosses his arms over his midsection. He tilts his head back far enough to stare at the ceiling. As if the first groan wasn’t enough, Arthur releases yet another aggrieved noise. There is an emphasis put on this noise that Lancelot presumes means Arthur wants someone to prompt him into complaining instead of doing it himself.

“Is there a troubling matter, Your Majesty?” Lancelot asks politely. Arthur nods his head solemnly. He suddenly pitches forward. His chest smacks against the desk’s edge. His arms spread out across the desk’s surface. He knocks over several decorations and stacks of paper. Lancelot darts forward to catch a glass decoration before it can hit the ground. He returns it to the edge of the desk. Arthur looks apologetic. Lancelot doesn’t say anything about the matter as he picks up the other decorations and papers that fell over the side. He puts them back on the desk in the place he remembers them being. He might be slightly off, but Lancelot knows that will upset the servants more than it does Arthur.

“Sorry about that,” Arthur says when Lancelot finishes. Lancelot rises to his feet. He remains standing on the other side of the desk from Arthur. The azure hedgehog turns his head, pressing his cheek against his upper arm. His voice is changed in a few minor ways by this, but he’s understandable nonetheless. “Why are there so many papers? How many problems am I expected to solve? I don’t even know what I’m doing with half of this. I’m going to ruin people’s lives, Lance.”

Lancelot has been in many battles against a wide variety of foes, yet none have so effectively struck him as that nickname has. Lancelot finds himself incapable of speech for a few precious seconds. It’s enough that Arthur raises his head slightly to look at the knight. Lanccelot coughs into his fist, ignoring the momentary lapse in his capabilities. As his paw falls away, he answers his king. “There are many who refused to accept solutions given by the Knights of the Round Table due to our status. The knights are a mixture of nobility and commoner since we were chosen based on merit. We are also considered warriors with little intelligence. When these people heard the king returned, they sent in their requests and problems.”

Arthur’s frown deepens. He lifts himself completely off his arms. Without the weight holding them down against the desk, he crosses his arms over his chest. The anger is thin on Arthur’s face, but Lancelot gets the impression that it is purer the deeper someone delves into Arthur’s hidden heart. “That’s stupid. I’ve only met three of you, and I know that you’re all really smart. Well, maybe not Gawain, but that’s still two out of three. You’re definitely all smarter than me about this stuff. I can’t even read half of it.”

“If I may, Your Majesty, I do not doubt your intelligence. While you might find yourself struggling now, I am certain you will develop the necessary skills,” Lancelot says. Arthur levels him with a specific look. There’s a touch of embarrassment and happiness, but it is mostly disbelief and resignation. Lancelot continues, “Additionally, Your Majesty, you do not need to do this alone. We can assemble advisors and secretaries to assist you. My fellow knights and I can help as well. As long as everything we do is under your name, the nobles will have no reason to reject the proposals they are sent.”

“I told you that you were smart,” Arthur claims, letting a bright smile lift onto his features. Lancelot almost returns to the smile, but he catches himself before his lips can even twitch. He needs to remain dignified and respectful. That is his purpose as a knight. Arthur doesn’t mention it, however, as he continues. He looks back down at the papers. “It seems that Damne Percival did a lot of this before my arrival. Perhaps she could teach me what I need to know to make this go by as quickly as possible. I hate paperwork. I might not remember much of my past, but I remember that.”

“I am pleased to hear that you remember even a small part of your past, Your Majesty,” Lancelot declares. His words are not wrong; Lancelot is not a knight who lies. He just doesn’t mention how his organs seem to twist at the very thought. They should be working on a way to send Arthur home. They are doing that, in fact. Still, Arthur seems to be happy to participate in the duties of a king. If he continues like this, Lancelot knows that he and perhaps everyone else, too, will begin to grow confused. Even more dangerously, they will begin to hope. Lancelot has done his due diligence in squashing any desires for Arthur to stay permanently. Lancelot fears the others will not be quite as effective in choking out their visions of a future where Arthur remains.

“Yeah… I guess…” Arthur shrugs. There’s a distant quality to his voice. It is obvious that Arthur wishes to disconnect himself from his past. This will change when he starts to pull more memories free—Lancelot just knows it. “I remember other stuff, too, like: why does Camelot even need a king?”

“I do not understand, Your Majesty,” Lancelot responds. Arthur affixes him with a specific look. He turns away first. Arthur rises from his chair, stepping over to the windows behind his desk. He crosses his arms over the windowsill, leaning close to the glass. He stares out at the nearby capital and the surrounding wilderness. All of it belongs to the king—all of it belongs to Arthur. 

“I mean, what’s the point of all of that?” Arthur continues explaining, gesturing vaguely behind him to the paperwork with his chin. He brings his eyes back to the window. He does not look pleased with what he’s staring at despite so much belonging to him. It isn’t a matter of greed in his eyes, though. In fact, it is the direct opposite. Instead of wanting more, Arthur wants less. Lancelot believes he’s beginning to understand. “The nobles get to be rich. The commoners are poor. Everyone is stuck to their jobs and lots in life. And to top it all off, they’ve got me presiding over them. I take their money because of taxes. If I tell one of my knights to go capture or—I don’t know—kill someone, you’ll just do that. I know it. You know it. All of them down there know it. But no one’s even tried to change the system. Why should we have a king?”

Lancelot does not say anything. He does not move, either. Arthur sighs. He turns his head to the side to put one half of his forehead against the glass. He looks at Lancelot from the corner of his eyes. “You can speak freely, Lance. I’m trying to have a conversation, you know.”

Lancelot swallows thickly. He puts his fist and forearm over his chest while the other one tucks behind him. It is a respectful gesture that he hopes Arthur understands as Lancelot finds his voice. “When Camelot did not have a king, the people were pleased at first. There was no one to tax them. There was no one to impose unfair standards upon them. However, it quickly became clear that there was also no one to protect them. There was no one to punish criminals for no one was making laws or enforcing them. The nobles were crueler without someone to keep them in check. Neighboring nations and other groups were planning attacks all over the kingdom that the Knights of the Round Table were forced to fend off in conjunction with handling civil matters in the villages and exterminating monsters. It was a harsh few months which is perhaps why many are quite happy that their king has returned to them.”

Arthur looks away from Lancelot. He stares out the window again. Lancelot shifts closer. He walks around the desk to stand near his king. It is impossible to hide his movements since his armor is so heavy and clunky, but Arthur still seems surprised by Lancelot’s sudden appearance behind him. This surprise increases tenfold when Lancelot kneels, keeping his arms where they previously were. “We can strive for a world where kings are unnecessary. It is a noble dream to pursue. However, we must first establish peace and strength within the people so that they might defend their liberation from the monarchy. It would not be right to simply leave them to their own devices. The kingdom needs you, Your Majesty.”

Arthur hums thoughtfully. Lancelot watches Arthur’s boots (for his other shoes were almost completely destroyed by his crash in the gardens) swing around to face Lancelot more directly. A second later, Arthur squats in front of Lancelot. The knight panics at the sight of the king lowering himself, but Arthur doesn’t look like he’s going to be taking any suggestions from Lancelot about this matter in particular. It’s all because of the cheeky smile on his face and a mesmerizing twinkle in his eyes. “You’re right. I want the people of Camelot to be free, but it wouldn’t be fair to do that when they don’t know how to be free yet. We’ll just have to teach him. I think I’ve taught people to earn and defend their freedom before… Or maybe I’ve just inspired people to learn that themselves. Eh, whatever. I’m sure it’ll be easier than the paperwork.”

“If you are of that opinion, Your Majesty, I shall also believe it,” Lancelot agrees verbally even when he knows that doing paperwork is a much easier endeavor than teaching the commonfolk how to be free and how not to fall into another person’s tyranny.

“We’ll have to start with you. When I’m done with you, Lance, you’ll be forming our own opinions and defending them with that stubbornness I know you’re capable of,” Arthur declares, clapping his paws together. Lancelot knows that he has his own opinions. He knows that he’s stubborn, too. It’s only Arthur that Lancelot would change his mind so easily for. Well, Arthur and her. 

Arthur pushes down on his knees to make himself stand again. There is a moment when Arthur offers his paw to Lancelot. The knight lifts his paw slightly, but the motion causes Arthur to jolt backwards a few steps. Lancelot frowns. Arthur shoves his paw against his chest. His mouth opens and closes with excuses, but no noises leave him. His eyes scan Lancelot’s body with a sudden panicked edge. Lancelot’s frown increases. It reminds him of Arthur’s usual episodes, but Arthur seems less in pain and more just… distant from the present moment. Lancelot keeps his paws to himself, however, as he asks, “Are you well, Your Majesty? Should I summon the royal physician?”

“Umm…” Arthur so eloquently declares. He suddenly shakes his head violently. He drops his arms at his sides, straightening them completely like metal rods. His fingers flex shakily. He doesn’t acknowledge that or Lancelot as he finally grasps onto his words. “Sorry. I didn’t… I have no idea what that was. Let’s just get back to work.”

Arthur’s chuckle is emptier than usual. He just drops back into his chair, silently pulling papers in front of him to sign or stamp them after reading their contents. He does it so mechanically that Lancelot knows there is more to this matter than Lancelot knows—than Arthur would be willing to admit. Lancelot feels concern in his chest, but he decides against saying anything since his king does not wish to speak about it. He just gets back into position to guard over the study and the king who uses it.

It does not stop him, however, from wondering—not for the first or last time—what happened to his king in this ‘other’ world of his. What did the people of that world do to make him so terrified of his past? To make him so panicked at the thought of a touch? 

Because Sonic extended his kindness and forgiveness to Merlina, the Knights of the Round Table were willing to keep her as a member of the court. There were restrictions, of course, but they were ones that were far too merciful for everything Merlina had done. They allowed her to keep her workshop (the one that was her grandfather’s before her). They allowed her to continue practicing magic without too many rules about what wasn’t permitted. She was given free time to go out into the kingdom on her own. When she wanted to go find ingredients, she was only given a single escort guard for her own protection as well as to keep her from fleeing or preparing something dangerous. The most difficult part of her life was the meetings she would have once a week with whichever knight was in the palace about her activities, and that was only because of the cold stares they would give her as she spoke. 

Merlina knows, however, that they still trust her because they have allowed her to be alone with Sonic—with Arthur—without anyone supervising them. There is a guard outside, but he’s always there to block off a place in the palace where many thieves come. It is also for the king’s protection, and it’s obvious that they aren’t trying to save Arthur from Merlina. They have faith that she’s going to perform the order they gave her. Merlina is curious about how that meeting went, but she won’t be invited to the meetings between the Knights of the Round Table and she’s not allowed to perform any spells that involve time.

“This place is so cool!” Arthur claims, glancing over his shoulder at her for a few seconds before his attention snaps back to everything in front of him. He looks through books. He examines mechanical contraptions meant to assist in her magic. He doesn’t even seem disgusted by the often smelly and usually terrible looking ingredients that are used for potions. He presses his face against the glass, trying to get the closest look possible. He will only jerk away if something moves or when the smell increases based on his proximity. He doesn’t remain for long, either getting close again or moving on to the object right beside it. “Do you really use all of this for your magic?”

“I do,” Merlina nods. She lowers her eyes from Arthur to the ground she’s kneeling against. She’s writing sigils on the floor with a piece of white chalk. She has a few books opened all around her to help guide where she needs to write them and what the sigils look like specifically. It is difficult work, especially since even one wrong line or a sigil a centimeter out of place will result in an entirely different spell being cast. All Merlina wants to do is bring Arthur’s memories back. From there, they can work on a way to send him back to his realm. The knights commanded this of Merlina, and it isn’t like she’s against helping Sonic/Arthur.

“That’s got to be neat. If magic wasn’t so much studying, maybe I’d learn a trick or two. I definitely prefer my speed, but a spell for endless chili dogs would be totally worth learning,” Arthur claims, sticking his nose directly into a plant growing from a pot on the ground. Thankfully, there’s nothing magical about that plant. Merlina only has it to brighten up the workshop. It needs a pop of color since everything else is either a darker shade or a neutral tone. She, Arthur, and the plant are the brightest spots of color in this room.

“What’s a chili dog?” Merlina asks conversationally. She decidedly doesn’t tell Arthur about how infinity (and eternity) are impossible with magic. They can get close approximations. Merlina certainly tried her best to. But there would always be imperfections that would inevitably result in the spell’s collapse. Merlina should have known better than to cast that eternal spell. It’s a good thing that Sonic was there to guide her back to the right path and that the knights are here to keep her on it. 

Arthur hums. He tilts his head back to look at the ceiling. In the end, he shrugs his shoulders. “I have no idea. But I stand by what I said about endless chili dogs being something we should totally look into.”

Merlina laughs. It is a little unnerving that Arthur knows words from his past without having the corresponding memories, but that is a problem they are about to solve. Merlina finishes with the large spell array on the ground. She carefully pushes herself onto her feet. She tiptoes through the ringing lines of sigils and spellwork. When she crosses the other side, she calls out to Arthur (using that name. Lancelot was very adamant that she can’t call him ‘Sonic,’ because that causes intense pain). He turns around to face her. Merlina gestures to the center of the spell she drew out. It is a modified summoning circle. It will bring forth his memories instead of bringing forth a soul. “I’ve finished with the spell. We should be able to get your memories back like this. All you need to do is stand in the middle and mentally prepare yourself. I’ll take care of everything else.”

Arthur hesitates. His expression remains neutral for a long moment. He takes a deep breath. He pushes away from the shelves. He steps into the circle, avoiding the chalk. Merlina smiles at him. He returns the expression, but she can tell there’s something holding him back. She wonders what it is. She does not ask, though, because she fears she has lost that right. All Merlina needs to do is help her friend out.

Merlina grabs her staff. She holds it in both of her hands. She sets the bottom of her staff against a specific part of the circle. The singular tap causes the white chalk to be colored as pink as her outfit. A wind begins to blow inside the room despite the closed door and windows. It whips through her clothes and Arthur’s quills. It is a mixture of hot and cold, creating a whiplash that Merlina ignores. She starts chanting the lines to the spell. This part causes the summoning circle to glow. Its pink beams launch upward. It becomes tinged with other colors like the northern lights. It is beautiful until Merlina realizes the other colors are coming from blurry renditions of Sonic’s memories. She doesn’t understand many of them, but it seems Sonic has been friends with the knights for a lot longer than Merlina thought. She even sees them—

The light shatters. The wind explodes outward, causing Merlina to stumble back. It also knocks over many objects all over the room, and she can hear glass breaking nearby. When the wind stops, Merlina forces her eyes open. She assesses the damage until she notices that the chalk circles have been broken and some of the sigils have been smeared. It is because Arthur stumbled right out of the circle, dragging his feet and causing the spell to break. He’s lucky there weren’t more drastic consequences. Merlina is about to tell him as much when she realizes that he’s sitting on the ground. His legs are pulled up to his chest, and he wraps his arms around them. He’s shaking his head, murmuring into his knees.

Merlina sets her staff against the ground. She approaches Arthuer carefully, keeping herself low. When she’s beside him, she commits to sitting on her haunches. She does not touch him, but she shows him her palms in case he needs to reach out and to show that she’s not holding a weapon. “Are you well? Is there any pain? Do you have any memories?”

“No,” Arthur says, quickly and decisively. Merlina doesn’t believe him. Luckily, it looks like Arthur knows that she wouldn’t. He swallows thickly, curling deeper inward. He whispers, “I don’t really remember anything, but… I think I did something really bad, Merlina. I don’t know what I did, but… a lot of people were hurt. I don’t…” Arthur looks at her, and in the smallest voice she’s ever heard, he whispers, “I don’t want to remember.”

Merlina’s eyes widen. She processes the words. When Arthur looks like he’s about to run away from her, Merlina nods slowly. “That’s fine. You don’t have to remember. I’ll tell the others that the spell failed because of me. We don’t have to tell anyone what really happened. You don’t have to think about what you did in the other world.”

“Why would you lie to the others for me? Why would you let everyone think you were a wizard who couldn’t complete this spell?” Arthur asks, brow furrowing together. “Why would you let me still be here knowing I’ve done something terrible yet can’t bring myself to face it?”

Merlina shifts. She mirrors Arthur’s position, only she faces in the opposite direction of him. She smiles kindly at him. “You might not remember it, but I do. You saved me. You saved this kingdom—twice. You stopped me from becoming a monster. And you gave me hope. You were the only light I could see when I was trapped in darkness. If you need me to lie, I will. If you need everyone to believe I’m an incompetent wizard, I’ll let them believe it. And if you need someone to keep your wrongdoing a secret, I’ll take it to my grave. It doesn’t matter what you did in this other world. All I care about is what you’ve done in this, and you’re this world’s hero. You’re my friend, and if you want to stay, you’re my king, too. Does that make sense?”

Arthur’s legs slide out in front of him. He takes a deep breath. He seems exhausted, but he gives her a half-smile. “Thank you, Merlina.”

“You do not need to thank me, Your Majesty. Call upon me and my talents whenever you need them,” Merlina responds. Arthur nods. His attention drifts away from her, back to the spell. Merlina looks at it, too. She’ll have to erase it. She might save a copy of the array in case Arthur changes his mind, but she should burn all other copies. She doesn’t need the knights sending for another wizard who will find this spell and use it. That wizard likely won’t let Arthur walk away so cleanly from the past he doesn’t want to hold onto anymore. 

She’ll do that later, though. For now, Merlina sits with Arthur, providing as much comfort as she can with her presence alone. It might be egotistical, but she does notice that the tension leaves his limbs. Maybe she’s doing something right.

Chapter Text

The cloudy sky allows the wind to be crisp and cool despite the hotter season descending upon the realm. This is to the benefit of the knights who train in their heavy, metal armor in the inner courtyard of the royal palace. While most are testing their battle readiness against wooden or hay dummies, or engaging in feats of strength or speed in humorous competition, two figures are exchanging blows within the pale, off-white light of the sun streaming through the gathered clouds. They are dueling in the center of the courtyard, attracting a silent crowd that they are unaware of due to their diligence towards each other and the training at hand.

One combatant is a wolf whose fur is the same color as the blood that courses through his veins. His dark eyes are covered by the visor of his helmet, shielding him from the fleeting light of the metallic weapons clashing together. He holds a spear in his paws. At a glance, it appears to be a rather unremarkable spear because of its simple design. This opinion is immediately changed when the spear’s true power awakens, allowing it to split into nine parts connected by a magic-made chain. This allows for the spear to be used as a grappling hook, a whip, and a rope depending on the circumstances. The knight who holds the spear has trained since he was a squire to handle this weapon with ease. While there are moments when even he struggles with it, he has gone above and beyond to master the unconventional weapon.

It does not mean much when he is facing off against Sir Galahad, though. The snow-white hedgehog is covered in his brilliantly silver armor. He holds a sword in one hand while the other one quickly conjures mystical powers that many of the other knights are wary of. Although the red wolf possesses his own misgivings about the supernatural abilities, he was the one to propose the duel against Sir Galahad. He has no hopes about winning this duel. He knows that his skills are the weakest of all the Knights of the Round Table. It is merely his intention to gain some experience by facing off against a challenging opponent.

Challenging is definitely the right word. The red wolf has not gained the upper hand during this entire duel against Sir Galahad. He does not believe he had it when he delivered the first blow that gave Sir Galahad the right to retaliate as he saw fit. The red wolf is grateful that Galahad did not smite him unnecessarily, but this beat-down is starting to feel more malicious than respectful. It is difficult to tell for certain since Galahad’s own helmet covers much more of his face than it does any other knight as if he were ashamed of his features. It is a thought as fleeting as the red wolf’s breath since he must focus all of his attention on the battle lest he finds himself in a perilous situation where death and dishonor are his only options.

The red wolf twists the whip around his paws. It snaps back together to form his spear. He holds it in both paws, tucking it beneath his shoulder. He pushes forward with the spearhead raised, prepared to strike Galahad where there is a crack in his armor. His attempt is easily thwarted by Galahad’s magic. A cyan glow appears around the spearhead that leads it to being dug into the ground rather than Galahad’s side. The silver knight raises his sword in the air with one paw. The other one remains at his side as he stomps down onto the spear. While other spears would break, the red wolf’s spear merely breaks apart along one of the seams. The chain appears with its own magical hue, splashing both his and the silver knight’s armor with its gray light.

Galahad begins to swing the sword down. The red wolf leaps over his fallen spear. Galahad’s sword strikes the orange-brown dirt layered along the training grounds. He keeps one paw on the back of the spear’s shaft. His other paw reaches to grab the part right beneath the head. He pulls upward with all his might. Because his foot is still holding the chain against the ground, Galahad’s leg is shoved upward. As he pulls himself away, Galahad decides not to stumble backwards. Instead, he drops his sword to push his palms against the ground. Cyan magic explodes downward, allowing Galahad to perform a backflip without any trouble. Galahad lands gracefully. The red wolf pushes his spear back together. He twists it around, tucking it beneath one arm and letting the bottom of the shaft slam into his back.

Galahad tilts his head to the side—a rather passive indication of what he’s about to do. The red wolf’s eyes widen at the sight of cyan magic unspooling from the silver knight’s fingers. The red wolf leaps away from his current position. He’s uncertain about what Galahad is up to until he sees the knight’s sword lifting into the air. The red wolf turns himself to face the sword hanging in the air, surrounded by a cyan silhouette. The red wolf points his spearhead at the sword, ready to fight a masterless weapon if that’s what it means to survive this fight.

The red wolf underestimates how much the silver knight believes in chivalry, however. He might possess magic and use it as a tool in his battles, but he would never let it fight his battles for him. The sword flies across the air. The hilt slams into Galahad’s palm. His fingers close around it. He throws the sword downward, creating an arc of pressurized air that shoots outward. The red wolf drops to the ground. He rolls forward to avoid being struck by the air. He hears it fade into silence behind him. He assumes it dissipates after a while, but he pays no mind to that as he splits his spear into nine parts again. He grabs onto the very bottom of the shaft—notably with a different coloration from the other parts of the shaft, more similar in color to the spearhead. He throws his new weapon forward like a whip. The chain between the spearhead and the top of the shaft wraps around Galahad’s sword. The spearhead’s weight allows it to continue wrapping around. The red wolf steadies both paws around the part he continues to hold. He begins pulling, attempting to disarm his opponent.

Galahad pulls his arm—and therefore, his sword—back. Quick as the wind, Galahad’s other paw grabs onto one of the solid, metal parts of the shaft between each magical chain. Using his sword and arm as leverage, he pulls with enough force that the red wolf is thrown forward. He manages to dig his armored feet into the dirt to slow his forward motion, but it isn’t enough to completely stop him. He gets right to Galahad. The knight wastes no time in slamming the fist holding his sword and the adjoining forearm against the red wolf’s wrists and paws with enough force to make the red wolf release his weapon. As he stumbles back from the pain, Galahad’s entire body twists to kick his leg into the red wolf’s chestplate. It sends the red wolf sprawling out against the ground, thumping his head against the dirt.

By the time he’s regained his bearings, he realizes that Galahad’s sword is at his throat. His own weapon is behind Galahad’s back, snapped back into its spear form. The red wolf breathes heavily. Rather shakily, he puts both of his paws up in a defensive position. Galahad’s voice comes from the other side of his silver visor, “Do you yield?”

The red wolf nods his head firmly. When he stops, Galahad removes the sword from the red wolf’s neck. He slams it down in the ground, letting the earth hold it up for him. Galahad’s paw leaves the hilt to reach for the wolf. It takes a moment, but he comes to realize that it is an offering. He takes Galahad’s paw. With very little effort (for there is no hesitation or accompanying noise), Galahad pulls the red wolf onto his feet. With this action completed, Galahad returns the spear to his fellow knight. The red wolf holds it in both paws, pressing it against his chest. He bows forward, showing proper respect to his fellow knight for engaging in this duel with him despite them both knowing that this is where it was going to lead.

“You have done well. Your skill with that weapon of yours is unparalleled. It is truly a great fortune that the knights were able to find someone so skilled with it,” Galahad speaks. Because of the lack of personhood his helmet affords him, Galahad’s voice makes up the difference. It is the reason why many consider him to be the most optimistic of the knights despite how apathetic his stance often comes across as. He uses his voice’s rather innocent edge to give the same impression of friendliness that his fellow knights naturally showcase with their appearance. It is also the reason why they know he is both emotional—including negative ones such as rage and sorrow—and possesses as much pride as the rest of them do. 

The red wolf nods in gratitude once more. As he considers how he might compliment Galahad in turn, he notices a commotion stirring all around them. Galahad notices it, too. They both begin looking around at their fellow knights and their squires. They are all adjusting their uniforms and armor in pursuit of looking clean and put-together. The red wolf frowns beneath his helmet. No matter which order it is, the knights are not exactly known for looking their best at any given moment. They are more concerned with being the strongest, or fastest, or toughest rather than the most good-looking. Those that do prioritize their looks are often teased, yet those who naturally possess good looks without needing to try are belittled by the more envious and ignored by those who realize there are more important matters to concern oneself with.

Galahad’s own attention snaps in the direction behind the red wolf. Even with as much armor as he wears, the wolf can tell that Galahad has straightened his spine and raised his chin. Galahad’s fingers twitch at his sides, searching to adjust his breastplate and to grab onto his sword. He, like everyone else, has been compelled to look his best. Or rather, to look as knightly as possible—to truly emulate the ideals they are meant to embody through appearance alone.

The red wolf whirls around to find what magical foe has come inside their gates, casting an arguably benign spell across them all. He stops indulging in such wariness when he meets a pair of bright and brilliant green eyes like the fields in the countryside or the emeralds worn on the necks of the nobility. There is a beauty so profound and untouchable within these irises that the red wolf briefly considers that he is encountering one of the Fae with their glamour and trickery. 

But it is no Fae. Those eyes are natural. They must be a byproduct of royal blood, or perhaps they were even colored this particular shade of green by the divine hands themselves as a means to showcase even without a sword who the Lord of Camelot is and shall be forevermore.

Those eyes are attached to the body of a hedgehog. Unlike Sir Galahad or even Sir Lancelot (who walks alongside those green eyes), this hedgehog’s fur and quills are the color of the sky during a warm summer’s day when there are no clouds but there is a singular, uncompromising sun. The quills are windswept rather than acutely styled, but the wildness finds a way to fit the king rather than make him look more like a barbarian. It might be because there’s a thick, red velvet cloak around his shoulders that holds some of the quills down and a golden circlet to complement them, but it could also be because of the natural aura the king exudes—something that neither his eyes nor his body nor his clothes can truly encapsulate or diminish. They can only stand alongside the smile the king wears, no more than beggars latching onto the first merchant’s carriage they see with the staying power of a leech.

“Hey! I saw you two fighting over here. It was really cool. You’re both strong and skilled. We should totally have a fight ourselves. I can’t guarantee I’ll be much competition, but I think we’ll have fun,” King Arthur, Savior of Camelot and Knight of the Wind, speaks with a jovial tone. He moves his fingers from himself to the silver knight and the red wolf, putting the three of them in a distinctive category independent from the others. The red wolf fears he might faint from how close he is to the radiance of the one chosen by the divine—or because he’s lightheaded. There’s little difference either way.

“Your Majesty, ‘duel’ would be the correct word in this situation. You do not wish for the knights to believe you are upset with them,” Sir Lancelot speaks. He’s another reason why the red wolf does not believe himself to be long for the waking world. Lancelot is known as the greatest Knight of the Round Table. He has everything going for him: speed, strength, resilience, honor, and even beauty. His deeds are numerous, and many have spiraled into legend. They say he is a of the Fae, the lover of a queen, and the child of the Lady of the Lake. Some even speak of how he is secretly a beast disguised as a hedgehog. None can verify these rumors, so they are left to fester and grow to fanciful extremes.

“Of course, of course. ‘Duel.’ Let’s not try to kill each other. I’ve had enough of that, I can tell you,” King Arthur chuckles to himself. The three knights surrounding him—and the many others unsubtly eavesdropping—do not laugh with him. King Arthur seems uncomfortable with this. It leads him to notice the other knights. His expression jerks with prominent emotion. He leans closer to Sir Lancelot beside him, loudly whispering to him. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, Your Majesty. As king, you are incapable of doing so. Time stops and moves as you decree,” Sir Lancelot answers. He does not necessarily speak softly, but his volume does decrease to the point that it could be considered a whisper by some stretch of the word’s definition.

“Uh… I don’t like the sound of that,” King Arthur murmurs. He shakes his head. He steps around the red wolf to address the other. He waves his paw to gather their attention as if he does not dominate everyone’s field of view. “You guys can go back to doing what you were doing. L—Sir Lancelot and I just need to talk to these two for a moment.”

The other knights hesitate. Either the bravest or the most foolish among them are the ones to follow King Arthur’s orders first. The others swiftly follow suit. There is a degree of uncertainty in everything they do, but they do not dare question their king nor do they falter when it comes to performing their undertakings for the day. If they possess curiosity about what the king needs the red wolf and silver knight for, they do not voice it. They instead bury it.

The red wolf does not have such a luxury. He finds himself the object of his king’s attention. He does not know how to process that. This has never happened before. He was off on a mission given to him by the previous King Arthur (it was revealed to be an illusion, shaking many of the knights to their very foundations, including the red wolf), so he was never given a chance to meet the knight of the wind. He only knew about him because Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain, and Dame Percival were adamant about sharing his exploits. Considering they are the top three most powerful Knights of the Round Table (among other reasons including Sir Lancelot and Dame Percival actually speaking up about someone, and Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain agreeing about something), the people and other knights learned all about the knight who saved them from the illusory king. It was because of him that Camelot was saved from the destruction it was hurtling towards.

King Arthur turns back to the others. He gestures for them to follow him. The moment he takes a step forward, the others are following him without any more prompting. King Arthur doesn’t bring them far. He takes them to the grassy area along one side of the training grounds. He looks around at the grass, letting his cloak wave around inside it for a few moments. The smile on his face is a rather simple one—he’s merely enjoying the moment—but there’s a certain quality of personhood to it that eases the red wolf’s heart. It feels—at least for a moment—that the king is no less mortal than the rest of them despite his status and prowess.

“Your Majesty, allow me to introduce you,” Sir Lancelot says. King Arthur lifts his gaze. He nods at Sir Lancelot. The ebony hedgehog gestures first toward the silver knight beside the red wolf. Galahad drops onto one of his knees, kneeling in front of the king. He sets his sword down on the grass, flattening the blade so that it serves no threat to anyone. “This is Sir Galahad, my—the Knight of the Grail.”

The red wolf and King Arthur notice the temporary hiccup in Sir Lancelot’s speech. Galahad notices it, too, but he only tenses. The red wolf is in no place to question any of them, so he remains silent. King Arthur, too, does not say anything about it. Instead, he taps his finger against his chin and asks, “I thought Dame Percival was the Knight of the Grail?”

“She is. It is a title for those who were blessed by the Holy Grail. Dame Percival and Sir Galahad are two such knights,” Sir Lancelot explains. “Sir Galahad is also known as Sir Galahad the Silver Knight or Sir Galahad the Pure-Hearted.”

“Those are some good titles. It’s better than being Sir Galahad the Smelly,” King Arthur snorts. Sir Lancelot does not move an inch or speak. Galahad makes a noise that’s too quiet for the red wolf to determine if he thought King Arthur’s statement was humorous or disrespectful. King Arthur, for his part, looks between them all. He whistles to himself. “Tough crowd. I guess I’ll have to bring out my best jokes.” He claps his paws with a cheeky smile. “Just you wait, I’ll make you all laugh soon enough.”

“It would be our honor, Your Majesty,” Sir Lancelot smoothly puts. He gestures toward the red wolf. The knight drops into a kneeling position beside Galahad instantly. Like the silver knight, he sets his spear down flat on the ground. He listens to Sir Lancelot say his name, saving this moment for the rest of eternity. “May I introduce Sir Bedivere the Trustworthy.”

“It’s good to meet you both. If you didn’t know, I’m Arthur. They call me the Knight of the Wind,” King Arthur says cheerfully. Bedivere watches the king’s feet twist to face him. He dares not raise his face even when he’s aware that the king is addressing him. “I hear that you’re the one who has been keeping my sword for me.”

Bedivere is not the strongest knight. In fact, he’s the weakest among all those who are part of the round table (though that statement is skewed since that only means Bedivere is the worst among the best). Bedivere is, however, the most trustworthy, hence his most common epithet. Lady Nimue herself was the one who designated him as the one who would keep Caliburn safe after King Arthur’s (the Knight of the Wind, not the Black Knight) disappeared. No one was certain what her criteria was. No one knew why Bedivere, of all the knights, was given such a profound position. None, however, argued because it was Lady Nimue. It helped that Caliburn himself seemed at ease with the prospect, noting that within the bounds of keeping a sword safe and out of evil’s hands, there was no other besides Bedivere.

After a moment of long silence, Galahad speaks up. “Permission to speak, my king?”

Sir Lancelot shifts away from Galahad, a certain tension building in his body. Bedivere, too, finds himself praying for Galahad’s safety. Thankfully, the king only laughs. “You don’t need my permission. You can tell me anything, Sir Galahad. Ah, the same goes for you, Sir Bedivere. And you, too, Sir Lancelot, but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Neither Bedivere nor Sir Lancelot answers him. Galahad speaks, but he doesn’t address the king’s specific word choice. “Sir Bedivere does not always possess the capability to speak. It is a trait that comes and goes. Please do not punish him for it.”

“Oh, selective mutism? Don’t worry, I understand completely. I have this feeling that… Well, maybe it wasn’t me, but someone I used to know is a selective mute, too. We don’t need to get into all of that. I just want you to know that I won’t ever punish you, Sir Bedivere. We have no control over these things. And hey, talking isn’t the only way to communicate. We’ll just have to get a little creative,” King Arthur speaks with such levity in his voice. Sir Bedivere’s entire chest tightens at his words. The whole reason he became a knight in the first place is because his inability to speak all the time was seen as a Fae’s curse by his family. They thought his mother—who died from illness when he was young—had dealings with the Fae because she, according to the midwife, survived the bloodiest birth that the midwife had ever seen. It was a miracle up until Bedivere found himself incapable of speaking. Then, it was the work of witchcraft and nature’s abominations.

It wasn’t, obviously, but Bedivere left his home to escape their words. He found his way to the knights in Camelot. He only became a squire when he showed a sliver of talent for the weapon he currently wields. If he hadn’t, no one would have given him the time of day.

But King Arthur sounds so genuine. There isn’t a hint of disgust or suspicion. When he says he understands, there’s an earnestness that cannot be fake. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bedivere is worth paying attention to and believing in. Bedivere doesn’t know what to say to that. He is a knight as loyal as they come, yet that fact seems most clear when he is fighting, not when he is speaking. Other than his duel with Galahad (which he lost), King Arthur has never seen him fight, yet somehow, he simply knows.

“Let’s go get that sword, huh? I hear it’s important for me to have. Lance over here calls it the Sword of Selection. I can’t be king without it or something like that,” King Arthur says. Bedivere sees a paw being offered to him. In pure bafflement, he throws his head back. He meets King Arthur’s eyes. They are so open and kind, just as much as his smile is. Bedivere feels entirely spellbound as he lifts his paw toward it. Before he can grasp onto it, however, King Arthur closes his fingers into a fist. He pulls it against his heart. Bedivere frowns beneath his helmet. King Arthur's expressions remains good-natured and understanding, but there's a twinge of otherness in his eyes that Bedivere cannot quite place. King Arthur drops his paw to his side, forcing his fist open to flex his fingers. "Sorry about that... We should go get Caliburn, yeah?"

Bedivere nods slowly. With the paw he was rising, he pushes down on his thigh. This lifts him into a standing position. He reaches down to grab his spear, twisting it around in his paws until he's found a comfortable position for it in his grasp. King Arthur smiles at Bedivere, losing the traces of whatever kept him from following through with his previous actions. With a few words, he's encouraging Bedivere to lead the way to the place where he keeps Caliburn.

“Your Majesty,” A voice suddenly stops him. King Arthur and Bedivere both turn to find Sir Galahad rising to his feet. He keeps his head lowered toward King Arthur when he speaks, “With your permission, I would like for Sir Lancelot and I to remain here. There are a few matters I must discuss with him.”

Sir Lancelot makes short, quiet, yet ultimately aggrieved noise under his breath. He turns away from Sir Galahad and the other two. King Arthur’s eyes narrow. His smile does not falter or shrink, but there’s a newly formed edge to it. Bedivere tries not looking at any of them. He gets the feeling that there is something here that he will never be privy to. In the end, King Arthur nods. “Of course, Sir Galahad! Keep him company for as long as you want. It’d be nice if all the knights were friendly with one another.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Both Galahad and Lancelot say at the same time, bowing. 

King Arthur definitely seems uncomfortable with that, but he tries not to show it when he turns back to Bedivere. “Well, shall we keep going?”

Bedivere nods, deciding that spending more time around the king despite feeling like he’s going to pass out is much better than basking in whatever awkward, tense energy that’s swirling around Galahad and Lancelot. He turns away from the two hedgehogs, leading his king to where he has kept Caliburn. 

Although it sounds like the howling of nocturnal predators, the noise in the air is actually laughter pouring out of the largest buildings in Camelot. It is made mostly from wood, and it’s several stories tall. The upper stories are all rooms that are able to be rented out, but the bottom floor is exclusively a tavern where many citizens are sitting around tables and drinking away the troubles from their days. The ale provides many of them with an escape from their sorrows, and their levity is often reported by surrounding buildings to the knights with complaints of noise. Unfortunately, there is not much the knights can do since it would be too much to expect the workers to keep all the rowdy patrons in line. They also cannot close the tavern since it is the only one that is reputable even among the nobility. To shut it down would be to send the normal patrons to other, less safe places.

Sir Gawain is not a frequent at this tavern. He has come on occasion, especially during his days as a squire, but he mainly sticks to drinking at festivals or other celebrations held by his king. Drinking with others is, after all, a recipe for disaster. Gawain is perhaps too aware of his own strength, and he’s learned that his temper is a lot easier to invoke when he’s in his cups. He has been in too many fights—threatened far too much by his superiors—for him to indulge in partying with others as often as his fellows might.

But it’s precisely because his fellow knights engage in this behavior that has led Gawain to this fine establishment. He has no confirmation that one of them is here, but he has a decent guess that he’s willing to follow through with. He pulls his cloak further over his shoulders. His appearance isn’t as well-known when he isn’t in his armor, so he’s left it in his room at the palace. He only wears this cloak now along with a pair of servant’s clothes that hardly fit him (it isn’t his fault he’s a lot bulkier than all the servants). He will return to the clothes… or not, if he stretches them out… later. For now, he pushes open the door to the tavern, stepping inside.

The smell hits him first. Obviously, there’s the thick stench of ale in the air. It is accompanied by sweat and tears—maybe a tinge of blood if he focuses hard enough. As bad as the smell is, it isn’t enough to turn off his other senses. He hears dozens of conversations overlapping with one another, often broken apart by harsh barks of laughter that sound more animalistic than human. There’s the scraping of wood against wood, the clanking of mugs together, and the flickering from the giant fireplace. It, along with all the bodies, fills the room with enough heat to make Gawain sweat despite his rigorous training. He takes a deep breath, squinting his violet eyes at the many bodies he sees. He searches all of their faces, watching as the candlelight and shadows play along each of their features. He considers this difficult until he finally finds the person he came into this tavern to find. Gawain shouldn’t have been trying so hard since it’s rather obvious who he is.

Gawain approaches a table near the corner of the room without actually being tucked away. There are several chairs dragged over to the table—more than can properly fit around it—but the vast majority are empty. Only three are filled, and only one of them has someone Gawain wants to talk to. The green-feathered hawk sits across the table from Gawain’s approach. He has a large smile on his face as he plays a card game with the two others sitting with him. Although it is very much illegal, there are coin purses blatantly on the table for whoever wins any given match. Given the hawk’s happiness compared to the other two, it is clear who’s winning and earning the most coin.

When Gawain reaches the table, he shoves aside the chairs. He slams his fist against the table, startling all three of the people. They all look at him like he’s murdered their entire family. The hawk’s expression changes to annoyance, however. He pushes his wings against the shoulders on both sides of him. “Get out of here. I have more important business to handle than stealing money right out of your paws.”

Neither figure seems pleased with that, but they quickly leave the table when the hawk and Gawain begin glaring at each other with a ferocity that no one wants to interfere with. Once they’re gone, Gawain sits at the edge of one of the chairs. He crosses his arms over the top of the table. He glances down at the cards on the table in all manner of disarray. “I didn’t take you as a gambler, Sir Lamorak.”

“Let’s cool it with the ‘sir’ talk,” Lamorak immediately says. He leans forward, craning his head in both directions to determine if anyone overheard Gawain. The echidna doesn’t need to look to know that he wasn’t. Lamorak and the two associates who just left the table are likely the most sober people in the tavern. Everyone else is too drunk to care about them. When Lamorak comes to the same conclusion, he turns back to Gawain. “Hey, we all got to make money somehow. They’re going to gamble, anyway. They might as well put their coins in the pockets of an honorable hawk such as myself.” 

“Honorable is not a word that should ever be uttered by you, much less applied to you,” Gawain replies.

Lamorak laughs under his breath, shaking his head in a mixture of humor and disbelief. “As great as it is to see you again, old friend, I must ask what your purpose for being here is and if we can wrap it up as soon as possible.”

“The king has returned,” Gawain states plainly. Lamorak continues staring at him expectantly. Gawain narrows his eyes into a glare. “That means you must return, too.”

“And why does it mean that? I swore my loyalty to an illusion. The illusion’s gone, and so is my loyalty,” Lamorak retorts, leaning back in his wooden chair. He crosses his arms over his chest. Gawain’s violet eyes trail along Lamorak’s body. He has been keeping in shape. There are a few more scars on his body, though. He has obviously been fighting without his armor.

“Being a knight is about more than loyalty to a king,” Gawain repeats the wise words of the king. Lamorak, of course, has no way of knowing Gawain is quoting anyone else, which is probably why he looks so confused. Gawain exhales sharply. “You swore an oath to be a Knight of the Round Table. The round table is gathering once more.”

“Everyone?” Lamorak questions.

“Everyone,” Gawain agrees.

Lamorak doesn’t look convinced. Gawain doesn’t blame him. Although he, Lancelot, Percival, and a few others believe strongly in loyalty, there are many who swore oaths to the round table that are not as honorable or chivalrous. The illusion known as King Arthur only kept them around for their strength. They, in turn, stayed for personal reasons. In Lamorak’s case, it was money. There are other reasons for the other knights, though, and it would take a lot of convincing to bring them back to the table they once all sat around in the presence of the one they swore allegiance to a long time ago.

“Return for the next gathering, at least. Meet the king and decide for yourself if your oath is truly an illusion,” Gawain states. He rises to his feet. He gives one last glance around the table and the hawk who sits on the other side of it. He can’t say that he didn’t expect this from Lamorak. He can’t even say he blames the hawk. It is only concerning to see how far his comrade—his friend, perhaps—has fallen.

As Gawain is walking away, Lamorak calls out to him, “How do we know this king won’t abandon us again?”

If Lancelot or Percival were here, they would surely reprimand Lamorak for his words. Gawain is not them, however, so he glances at Lamorak from the corner of his eye. “We don’t. It’s our job as knights to convince him that this is a kingdom worth saving again.”

With those parting words, Gawain leaves the tavern. He doesn’t know if Lamorak will come, but Gawain has a strong feeling he will. 

Chapter Text

The trees become sparser and sparser until his horse moves across the invisible barrier of the forest’s edge. Hooves move across a grass-filled clearing, stomping down the overgrown weeds rising from the soil. There is a wooden cabin at the center of the small clearing. Vines grow across the many walls, reaching up to the dilapidated roof. Parts of the wood are rotting, and many shingles have fallen to the thorny bushes surrounding the perimeter. There have been no efforts to fix anything despite the grass being folded down in a neat line from the steps of the porch to the entrance of the forest proving that someone lives here.

The dark-colored hedgehog stops his horse a few feet away from the house. He throws his leg over the side, dropping onto the ground. He steps forward to move his paws over his horse’s head. The equestrian enjoys the attention, but the animal’s master is busy staring at the cabin. His dark eyes search every single detail from the shadow of his helmet. He does not know what he is looking for, but disappointment rolls inside his stomach when he does not discover it.

The knight has a sense for magic, so he knows that there have been no spells cast in the area. It has not been cursed, either. Despite this, there is something unusually off about the environment. There are as many signs of life as there are ones of abandonment. Someone is existing within this general area, but they clearly aren’t truly living here. The cabin is a shelter from the weather; it is not a home that anyone would want to return to when the sun dips below the horizon. 

“Stay,” The knight softly commands his horse. The equestrian makes a soft, animalistic noise in agreement. The knight nods, pulling his paws away from the horse’s head. He drops them to his sides as he walks toward the cabin. He stares down at the stairs leading up to the porch. He determines the most optimal places to step to minimize the likelihood of breaking the wooden beams. He hurries upward once he’s done that, successfully delivering himself to the front door. It, like everything else, is made from slowly rotting wood. A few hard strikes would knock it right off the rusting hinges. The knight, however, takes a more delicate approach as he slams his fist against the surface.

He receives no explicit answer, but his ears twitch at a series of noises from inside the cabin. He takes a deep breath. Breaking and entering is not the way of a knight, but following orders and helping out a friend are both sufficient enough reasons for the knight to avoid punishment. He grabs onto the door handle. He twists, pushing open with his shoulder. It applies just enough strength to make the frame give up on holding onto the door so tightly. As it swings inward, the knight steps (half-stumbles, really) into the inside of the cabin.

The knight coughs immediately, choking on both the dust in the air and the horrible smell that permeates alongside the motes. There are parts of the scent that are easily identifiable like dirt and alcohol. There are other parts, however, that remind the knight more of emotions than legitimate smells. For instance, there’s a heavy sorrow intertwined as intimately with the wood as the rot is. Loneliness adds another distinctive dimension. The knight avoids using his nose as he registers the sudden depth of heartache and all the emotions fractured from it.

The knight’s footsteps echo loudly against the floorboards as he moves deeper into the cabin. He casts a cursory gaze over everything. He examines how the dust has collected, the muddy footprints leading from the door to the couch, and all the miscellaneous objects in complete disarray. He pays no more attention to the figure lying flat on the couch than he does anything else. His eyes pass right over it, bringing him to stare at the curtains drawn tight over one of the windows. The knight grabs onto the edges of the fabric. With sudden flair, he pulls them apart. Sunlight immediately falls into the room in swift beams. All the while, the dust has been kicked up, leading the knight to another coughing fit.

When the knight finishes, he hears a low groaning noise. He turns around. He stomps over to the edge of the couch. He peers over the arm, looking down at the figure lying across the cushions. A frown pulls his lips down. Although he can recognize the figure, there are many noticeable differences. For one, their normal fur color has grown darker, fading from bright emeralds to the waters of a swamp. Their quills are in complete disarray, scattered in every direction with the frenzied energy of electricity. The stench of alcohol comes most clearly from them, but there aren’t any other indications that they are drunk. They must have gone to a local tavern for their drinks. Unfortunately, they clearly didn’t get any food while they were there, and their starvation is as visible as a foul beast clinging to their shoulders.

The green hedgehog rouses completely from his slumber. His eyes flutter open the moment he’s gained awareness. He turns enough to notice that someone is standing over them. There is a brief second of both panic and surprise, but it quickly fades into careful neutrality. The previously sleeping figure wears a half-smile on their face. “Tristan… I did not hear you come in.”

“Sir Kay,” Tristan responds, naming the figure he stares down at. Kay huffs, clearly not enjoying either the attention or the mention of his name. He throws his arm upward, letting it cover his face. Tristan allows this to happen since he’s certain that Kay will stay awake. He wouldn’t want the knight roaming around his cabin without knowing exactly what Tristan is doing, after all.

And ‘roam’ is exactly what Tristan does. He steps away from the couch. He moves from one wall to the other. He examines everything with narrowed eyes. He makes a list in his head of what needs to be done to make this place anywhere close to livable. While he isn’t fond of cleaning, Tristan is more than aware that Kay will not be able to do this on his own. The starvation, exhaustion, and the aftereffects of drinking all night will surely make it physically demanding. Likewise, Tristan knows Kay will lack the proper motivation. Someone will need to be there to push him into performing all the tasks to the best of his ability.

“You don’t need to call me that. I’m not a knight, remember?” Kay declares. Tristan hears a grunting noise. He glances over his shoulder to find Kay sitting up on the couch. He sits sideways, grabbing the back of the couch with one arm to keep himself from falling backwards. He curls inward, breathing heavily into one of his paws. Despite how much pain his body must be in, Kay continues to carry an air of ambivalence around him. Tristan doesn’t know how he feels about that. While he would like for Kay to take care of himself better, this carefree attitude means that Kay is still the same person deep down.

“You are as much a knight as the rest of us are. You were the first one to be knighted,” Tristan reminds him. There were already a few Knights of the Round Table by the time Tristan joined. Despite that, everyone knew that Sir Kay was the first very among them. It is even rumored that he was the one to come up with the idea of a ‘round’ table in the first place to ensure that everyone was made equal to one another. 

Kay laughs. It is not a pleasant noise for multiple reasons. The others have always teased Kay about his laughter. He used to laugh even harder at it. But this laugh is different. Colder—not mean, but not all that kind, either. More distant, yet holding the same overwhelming presence as the unusually emotional scent in the air. When he finishes, all the cold emotions in his laugh are transferred over to his voice, “Don’t be like that. I’m not a knight. I never was. It was all an illusion.”

Kay swings his legs over the side of the couch. He puts his back to Tristan. The knight opens his mouth to respond to the claims, but he finds that his voice has deserted him. His lips close soundlessly. He cannot argue with Kay because in some ways, Kay is right. His memories of being knighted was a fabrication made from magic. While there is a chance he truly went through the process, it would have been done by an illusion. Everything about his experiences in the early days was entirely fake, a mere construction made by Merlin in order to better support the illusion of King Arthur he created. Kay was a real person broken down and remade by magic, and when that magic was broken, he was left with nothing but the realization that all he’s ever known isn’t real.

But it wasn’t all fake. It couldn’t have been. While Kay’s connection with Arthur might have been made up by Merlin, Kay’s actions were always his own. He might have become a knight for the sake of his ‘adopted brother,’ but he always stood up for his beliefs. He was the one who mediated between the knights, always there to listen to their complaints and encourage them to relax. There is a reason why he was held in such high regard by all the Knights of the Round Table despite being among its weakest members and his general aversion to physical conflict.

Tristan returns to the couch. He sets his paw on the arm as he loops around to the front. Kay glances up at him. When his head is too heavy to remain in that position, Tristan kneels in front of him. Kay arches a brow, remembering what it means to lower oneself in the presence of another. Tristan’s pride burns inside his body at being shoved around like this, but Tristan ignores it. There are more important matters than ego. Kay is more important to that, and Tristan believes that his order to bring back all the Knights of the Round Table to greet their new king is more important. Tristan hopes to achieve all his objectives (though he will settle for dragging Kay back to the palace if he must).

“Our new king has a… peculiar philosophy. He taught Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain, and Dame Percival that being a knight is not dependent on the loyalty to a liege. It is more than a matter of pride and chivalry. The oaths we swore are foremost to the realm. We are the protectors of its people and the defenders of its land. If that is the merit in which we decide who is permitted to be a knight, you are the greatest among us. You were the only one to stand against the illusory king even when you devoted your life to him and the nation,” Tristan says. He has not yet met the new King Arthur—Sonic, he was once called but is no longer—but Tristan doesn’t need to have a personal conversation to have a rough estimation of this hedgehog. His influence has spread all throughout the land. The villagers hail him as a hero. The Lady of the Lake holds him in high regard. The most powerful Knights of the Round Table have not questioned his authority because they trust him with their entire being. 

Tristan can only hope that this kindness and goodness the king has for others will somehow find its way into Kay’s heart. The scars of yesterday are deep. Many of them still bleed. They will never be able to heal properly. But they can be bandaged and looked after. The rest of the knights have proven that they cannot do this. They are not equipped to battle against these kinds of enemies—ones born in the mind and ones that feast upon the soul—but their king is meant to be the best among them. He has shown that he’s able to reach the hardened, bittered hearts of the most guarded knights. Kay is an altogether different challenge, but Tristan expects that Arthur will not forsake Kay. He might fail, but Tristan genuinely has faith that he will succeed.

“Standing against my brother didn’t do us much good, did it?” Kay mutters, flopping backwards to the back of the couch. His body is curled inward in a position Tristan would presume is uncomfortable. Tristan shakes his head, deciding that he has no control over the way another knight sits. He will simply ignore any complaints Kay raises about his body later since he’s actively chosen this path (not to mention how he must have slept on this couch. Tristan hopes this was a spontaneous decision and not an indication that Kay’s proper bed is a mess…. Or worse, he no longer has one). 

“Do not see your actions as a failure. Although you were not able to defeat the illusion, your efforts saved a great many lives and lands from the illusion’s wrath,” Tristan argues. When the illusion was still king, the Knights of the Round Table swore absolute loyalty to him. While there were a few who questioned the king in private, secluded moments, no dared to oppose him. It was fine in the beginning, but it became a problem when the illusion became more and more oppressive towards the people. The knights’ silence and compliance were as terrible as the illusion’s actions, yet they did nothing. Kay was the only one who voiced his disagreement. He was given a pass to an extent because everyone believed him to be King Arthur’s foster brother, raised together by a former knight and therefore also being sword-sworn brothers. If Kay wasn’t there, Camelot would have suffered a lot more. 

“You can act in a similar way now. You can continue saving lives as you once did.” 

Kay laughs pitifully. It does not sound as unpleasant as earlier (well, it still sounds like something Tristan and the others would tease Kay for), but there is a rather brief pathetic quality to it. “I’m not this new king’s brother. I have no history with him. I have no history at all.”

“That is not true. You are not an illusion, Sir Kay. You must have a past that Merlin simply rewrote with his magic. Once we’ve greeted the king, we can start a quest to discover more about your actual past,” Tristan declares, shaking his head. He, rather ironically, has much experience in illusion magic. Not more so than Sir Agravain, of course, but Tristan has been known to perform a few spells within that category from time to time. They were taught to him by his darling, Iseult. 

“As for your relationship with our new king, I hear that he is of a friendlier sort than our previous lord. Nay, he is friendlier than any lord in the realm. If only you would meet him, you will see the truth and confirm whether you can help others in the same way you once did.” Tristan is really hoping that the new king is truly this friendly. He does not want to be caught in a lie by Kay. While Tristan is most certainly a liar (he especially enjoys lying to Galahad. As stoic as the silver knight tries to be, he is far too gullible for his own good), he does not need other people becoming too aware of this fact, especially when it runs counter to one of the tenants of being a knight.

“It’s difficult to imagine a king known for his… friendliness,” Kay mutters. He waves his paw to the side. “There’s no reason to go on a quest. I know exactly what my real past is. I was raised by Ector. He was not my father nor was he a former knight of the realm. He was a thief who trained me. It was after his death that Merlin found me. I do not know why he chose me. I am of the opinion that it does not matter why, either. It merely happened. My childhood was changed. My present was influenced. I was loyal to the king because I believed him to be my brother. How am I meant to have any loyalty to a king who has no relations to anyone in this realm?”

“You meet him. You learn about him. You determine what his policies and ethics are. If he proves himself a worthy lord, you swear an oath of allegiance to him. Until then, you attend the meetings of the Knights of the Round Table. You head out on quests. You save the troubled. You stop the evil. You make certain that Camelot is the haven for all lost souls,” Tristan describes, setting a paw over his chest. He presses the other one against his thigh. He brings himself into a standing position. From the higher angle, he offers one of his paws to Kay. He does not smile or frown. His expression is left neutral as he waits for Kay to accept his offer (or refuse. If he does that, he will simply need to knock Kay out to drag him to the palace where the others are already gathering).

Kay stares at Tristan’s paw for a long time. His eyes narrow slightly, but he otherwise carries a similar expression to Tristan. The difference, however, is that Tristan’s expression is not empty. It is devoid of emotion, yes, but there is a substance to it. Kay’s eyes are hollow. There is nothing for him to stand for or against. He was content to waste away inside this cabin before Tristan’s arrival. He will be just as content to do that after Tristan leaves if the knight does not drag him along. All of his struggles have led Kay to abandoning everything he once held close, turning his carefree nature into a careless one.

But Tristan refuses to accept that nothing remains. The knowledge that his past is fake does not mean that everything is. Kay is still the same person he was all along even if he has different memories shaping him. His motivations are still the same because Tristan knows that just beneath the surface, Kay must still have a desire to help people and must still like spending time with the other knights. Tristan simply knows it to be true. 

His belief is rewarded when Kay takes his paw. He does so with a very long and heavy sigh, but he allows Tristan to tug him onto his feet. Kay’s weight is entirely off-balance, but he manages to keep himself from either falling on the floor or back onto the couch. He uses the heel of his paw to rub his forehead, acting as if there is a headache just behind his skull. In no small way, Tristan might be that very headache. Regardless, he’s going to stick with Kay until they’ve reached the palace. If Kay truly hates the experience and has no desire to serve the king, Tristan will not be there to stop him from fleeing.

But he is going to stop Kay from not trying.

Tristan moves toward the door. He opens it for Kay, peeking around the side to see his horse still in the front yard. His horse looks up from grazing on the overgrown grass to meet his eyes. Tristan smiles at him, wishing to share the good news about Kay with his steed. For now, he turns toward Kay and says, “Let us attend the meeting of the Knights of the Round Table. I am certain the others have missed you.”

As Kay steps through the door, he murmurs, “We’ll see about that.”

Although the Knights of the Round Table is the title of a particular order of knights personally chosen by the king, there is also a physical round table. It is both an important symbol and a necessary tool of the knightly order. The destruction of this table is an offense with a punishment equal in magnitude to assassinating a member of the royal family or dishonoring a knight. It is a location as holy as any church and as sacred as any temple.

There is an entire room dedicated to this piece of furniture. The room is longer than it is wide. Because of its position at the edge of the palace grounds, there are windows on three of the walls. These windows rise from the floor to the area just beneath the rafters. They are kept clean by both mortal hands and magical spells, ensuring that the light of celestial bodies is always able to come inside while also making them nearly unbreakable. The fourth wall does not have any windows, but there are richly made tapestries hanging from the wall to show both foreign sights and tell the stories of heroic exploits. Beneath the tapestries, there is a set of two wooden doors that open together. They are carved with the legends of Camelot’s origins including the slaying of an ancient dragon. While the floors and walls are made from dark gray stones, the windows and tapestries fill the room with so much light and color that none would call it dreary or depressing.

The main focal point of the room is, obviously, the round table. It is constructed from the wood of the longest living tree to grow in the wilderness where the Fae live and play. When a new knight is sworn into the order, a symbol will be magically carved into the spot in front of their designated seat. This is the only difference between everyone because, by its very nature, the round table is the great equalizer. Not even the king is meant to preside over the members sitting at this table. Rather, he is to sit among them, to listen to their words and understand their hearts.

Lancelot has not seen everyone at this table in a long time. They were much younger in those days. They weren’t familiar with each other, so there was a certain level of awkwardness from the growing pains. The king, too, was not as cruel. He still wasn’t approachable by any measure of the imagination, but it genuinely felt like he was there to be part of the knights. It was the only time it ever felt like that. It was the only time the great king called them all to sit with him. After that, this room was rarely used, and if it was, the majority of the knights were not there. The king was never there again.

Today is different. Arthur sits at the edge of his seat. His arms are crossed over the table (covering the symbol carved into the wood), and he leans forward on top of them. Although he wears a thick red cloak to show his kingship, Lancelot can tell that his tail is wagging in excitement. His eyes roam across every single knight that enters the room. Rather effortlessly, he engages in conversation. No matter how he talks to them, they are eventually put at ease. When they are, Arthur is able to transfer the conversation that way the knights are talking amongst each other instead of waiting for the king to start talking to them. His smile is as genuine as the friendliness in his eyes, infinitely impressed by everyone he’s allowed to meet.

This instant connectability to others is admirable. Lancelot even finds himself a touch jealous. It isn’t as if he wants to be this sociable to everyone, but as his eyes pass over Galahad a few seats down, Lancelot wouldn’t mind the ability to put others at ease and make them comfortable. It would certainly make a lot of the situations Lancelot comes across a lot easier to process.

Before Lancelot can follow this trail of thoughts to their natural conclusion, he notices movement in his peripheral vision. He turns as Arthur pulls his arms from the table. He leans against the arm of his chair in Lancelot’s direction. His smile doesn’t shrink, but there’s a new edge of familiarity to it as he forces Lancelot into a conversation in the same way he’s done with everyone else. “There’s so many more knights than I thought there would be.”

“Yes. Sir Gawain, Dame Percival, and I were merely the only ones who were serving the former king personally on the day you were summoned,” Lancelot explains.

Arthur’s brows furrow together. He lifts one of his arms to set his cheek against the palm of his paw. He glances around the other knights and the room. “Hmm… the former king, huh? He keeps getting brought up. I wish I remembered him, at least, or what I did for this kingdom.”

Lancelot has mixed feelings about such a sentiment. He knows that he should want his king to retrieve his memories. He should be prepared for the moment Arthur must return to being Sonic in his own realm. Unfortunately, Lancelot’s heart squeezes in a way that’s too painful and tight to be anything other than his body trying to argue against such inevitabilities. Unfortunately, it’s even worse than Lancelot simply enjoying having a liege once more. It is Arthur—Sonic—that he wants to stay, even if it is not in the capacity of king. Lancelot does not know what to do with these feelings. He knows that he isn’t supposed to have them, and that’s not just because Galahad warned him.

But, Lancelot decides, it does not matter what he feels or what he wants. Arthur’s decisions are his own. His memories will come when they need to or when Merlina figures out where she went wrong with the initial spell. He is not going to argue or fight fate despite how badly he knows it’s going to hurt. He might betray his lord in having these feelings, but he will not betray his lord by acting upon them.

(And ‘betray’ is a very important word. Lancelot still remembers her swearing he would betray his lord. She declared it to be a prophecy, but Lancelot did not believe her. There is no way he would ever betray his lord. But then, everything happened with him, Percival, and Gawain defecting. She laughed at him when he told her. That wasn’t the betrayal or the lord she was talking about. This must be what she meant, and oh, does it hurt.)

“Your memories will return to you soon, Your Majesty—” Lancelot doesn’t miss the slight flicker of something that crosses Arthuer’s expression. “—In the meantime, you should not worry about the former king. He was only an illusion.”

“He still hurt you all,” Arthur murmurs. While his eyes do trail towards Sir Kay (Lancelot has no idea how Tristan managed to convince Kay to come back. No one has seen Kay since the previous king’s defeat. Any attempts to find him are thwarted by a mysterious hand. But Tristan did find him, and more than that, he brought Kay as a willing participant. Now, the knight stares across the table at Arthur, searching for something in the new king’s appearance. Something that Arthur doesn’t discourage), it sounds as if he’s speaking about all of them.

He isn’t wrong. No matter how arrogant or self-important any one of them feels, they know that they were immeasurably hurt by the king. All of Camelot was, though, and the knights played apart in that hurt. Lancelot cannot speak for the others, but for his part, he believes that the pain he suffered is the punishment he deserves for his complacency. In fact, he likely deserves even more punishment.

Lancelot is about to construct a response to his king when his eyes slip around him. Lancelot notices one of the trees that grows larger enough for its canopy to be seen at the bottom of the windows. A bird stands on one of the branches, talons digging deep into the bark. The presence of a bird is not what attracts Lancelot’s attention. It is the bird’s specific appearance that causes his eyes to narrow slightly. “My king, may I be dismissed? There is an important matter that I must attend to.”

Arthur whirls his head around to look through the windows. He sees the trees. He likely sees the bird, too, but he doesn’t pay any attention to it because he doesn’t know. Many of the knights at this table do not know. Lancelot, however, does, so it is his responsibility to do something about it. He will give a full report to his king later. For now, Lancelot wants Arthur and his fellow knights to get to know one another. That is arguably more important for them because it will ensure a sense of loyalty to the king and camaraderie between the knights. Lancelot knows that Arthur will need that if he wants to truly be the king of the people.

“You don’t need my permission to leave, Lance. Social stuff like this isn’t for everyone. I myself need a break from people from time to time. Just… come back later, okay? At least come to see me,” Arthur says when he turns his eyes back to Lancelot.

The knight startles at the words, but he finds himself bowing his head. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Lancelot rises to his feet. He removes himself from the table. A few people glance at him, but they are mostly caught up in their conversation. The only one whose stare lingers is Galahad. Even with the helmet covering his face in shadows, Lancelot knows that Galahad is suspicious of him. Lancelot subtly waves his paw to dismiss Galahad’s concerns (though, obviously, Galahad isn’t concerned for him). The silver knight doesn’t look away until the doors close behind Lancelot, though, and the ebony hedgehog has no way of reconciling with that information.

He leaves it to the wayside as he runs down the hallway. Eventually, he makes it to an area with another window. It is not as impressive as the room with the round table, but this window is able to be opened. Once there’s enough room, Lancelot unsheathes his sword, Arondight. He uses the blade to help him scale down the side of the palace. With his agility, it does not take him long to set his feet down on the grass growing along the side of the palace. Lancelot approaches the trees growing in the distance. Only one of them is large enough to reach the windows of the round table’s room.

Lancelot takes a deep breath as he stops at the edge of the tree’s exposed roots. The true difference between a swordsman and swordmaster is their ability to use their souls to perform skills similar to magic. Many of the Knights of the Round Table are swordmasters (or masters in other weapons), and Lancelot is no exception. He might not have his abilities blessed by the Holy Grail, but they are powerful enough on their own that he doesn’t need the grial’s blessing.

“Chaos Punishment!” Lancelot calls out. He expels the power of his soul. Time freezes and space warps around him. He is suddenly brought from the ground to the air right in front of the bird. Before gravity can pull Lancelot back down or the bird can run away, Arondight swings outward to decapitate the bird. The body and the head fall to the ground on one side of the branch while Lancelot falls down on the other side. The instant his feet touch the ground once more, he bends his knees to account for the excess energy. He remains balanced, however, even with Arondight’s weight pulling him down on one side. 

Lancelot rises to his feet. He sheathes Arondight. With both of paws, he picks up the bird on the ground. As he predicted, the bird is not a normal one. There is no blood, bones, or organs inside the beast. It is made entirely from feathers and animated by magic. But it isn’t just magic. Lancelot knows by the design of the bird and the magical residue in the air that this was a spy created and sent by Morgan le Fay. But what reason does she have to spy on the Knights of the Round Table gathering?

What is she planning?

Chapter Text

The silence in the study is punctuated by the sounds of grumbling, sighs, and groans of frustration. Lancelot keeps his attention facing forward rather than turning his gaze to the source of these noises. Arthur has been making them the entire day as he’s forced to handle paperwork, but he is carrying out this specific kingly duty with resolution and a few complaints here and there. It is more than Lancelot could ask for since he knows that his king’s temperament does not make this task easy for him. The fact that Arthur is trying so hard is enough for Lancelot and for the kingdom of Camelot.

“Lance.” The knight has grown rather used to that nickname. It still sends his heart into a flutter, but he is able to control his facial expressions (which can hardly be seen with his helmet on, anyway, but he has to make sure in case there’s ever a moment when he doesn’t have it) and body language upon hearing it unlike the first few times. Only Lancelot knows that the nickname has any effect on him, which is the only reason Lancelot does not ask the king to refrain from using it.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” Lancelot asks. He lowers his eyes to find the king seated at his desk. He sits in his chair rather unconventionally. All of his limbs are folded up on the cushion with him at odd angles in a way that many would immediately call uncomfortable to even look at, let alone emulate. Lancelot idly wonders if Arthur allows himself to be this comfortable when the other knights are guarding him. He dismisses that question as soon as it springs up because he finds himself conflicted about what he wants the answer to be. It would be best for Arthur to be comfortable with his knights, after all, and it bodes well that this information has not been shared because it proves the loyalty the knights have for their king. That being said, Lancelot is… upset—is that the right word?—at the prospect of Arthur being… comfortable with the knights? Or rather, being as comfortable with them as he is with Lancelot? How troublesome to fill this way.

“Will you come check this for me?” Arthur continues. He leans over his legs to grab onto a paper in the corner of the desk’s surface. As he flips it over, Lancelot sees that the majority of the page is covered in inked words and stains. Lancelot approaches the desk to figure out what those words are. Arthur continues talking, explaining himself. “This is just a draft. The real one is going to look better, I promise. Dame Percival has been teaching me how to write in cursive, you know? I think I’m really grasping it! Better than I am with all of this, honestly, but that’s not what we’re talking about right now.”

“Your Majesty’s progress is worthy of praise as is all that you have done for the kingdom. Everyone has reaped the benefits of your actions,” Lancelot informs his king. He does not utter false words to make Arthur feel better, either. The difference between Camelot when it had no king and what it is like now is very noticeable, and it’s all for the better. Criminals have been rounded up and properly punished, and the monster population has been swiftly curbed because the knights are able to focus on those tasks. The bureaucracy element is taken care of by King Arthur and the advisors who swore as much loyalty to him as the knights did. They are healing the kingdom in a way that the knights tried to do but ultimately couldn’t since the nobility wouldn’t respect them.

“Really? I haven’t been able to go out much to check for myself,” Arthur says. From behind his helmet, Lancelot affixes Arthur with a specific look. The king should not be able to see Lancelot’s gaze, but he likely senses it. Arthur winces with a smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine, I have been going out a lot. But I don’t go to any of the villages. I just run around the wilderness. I have to deal with people enough as it is already. I just need a break. You know how it is, don’t you?”

“I… do, Your Majesty. Interactions with hu—er, people are difficult for me,” Lancelot admits. Arthur takes his turn to look at Lancelot with his features coming together in confusion. Lancelot does not answer the silent question. Instead, he takes the paper that originally drew him over to this spot. Lancelot reads the words while Arthur shrugs helplessly and gets back to work with other tasks.

“I have found an error, Your Majesty.” Arthur lifts his gaze from what he was staring at before. Lancelot sets the paper back on the desk. He crosses one arm behind his back while his other paw hovers around the desk. “May I—”

“I asked for your help. Just do what you need to do,” Arthur interrupts. He’s gotten very good at telling when the knights are going to ask him for permission to do something. He often even knows what exactly they’re going to ask. It doesn’t matter, though, since he always tells them that they are permitted to do whatever they need to do.

Lancelot and the others have certainly had their arguments about this viewpoint, but Lancelot decides now is not the time to raise those complaints. He instead moves his paw to take a feathered quill from the inkpot. He sets the tip against the paper, adding his own handwriting to the parchment. While Arthur is still being taught, Lancelot knows how to write as the nobility do without sharing a drop of their blue blood. Percival made a point to teach as many Knights of the Round Table as she could for reasons she didn’t elaborate on. It was a handy skill to have when the knights were acting as the kingdom’s ruling body, up until the nobility realized they were being ordered around by commoners and barbarians (only some of them are commoners, and none of them are ‘barbarians’).

Once Lancelot finishes with the correction he noted (and a few others that aren’t really important but will help Arthur come off better to the nobles), Lancelot shifts his body to explain what he did to the king and why he did it. Lancelot doesn’t get a chance to speak because he finds himself bumping into his king. Arthur must have leaned forward while Lancelot was writing to either see more about the paper or see what Lancelot was doing. It is only their shoulders and arms that bump together.

Lancelot knows that he should apologize. He knows that his actions could be counted as disrespectful. After all, a lowly knight like him touching the king? Unspeakable, and dare he say, unforgivable behavior. 

Arthur’s reaction, however, is not what Lancelot thought it would be. The azure hedgehog shoves his paws against the desk with enough force that he lands on his feet while his chair clatters on the floor behind him. The noise is loud enough to make Lancelot wince. He turns his body with the intention of picking the chair back up. He freezes when he notices Arthur’s stare upon him. He has never seen Arthur so afraid before—not even when he was fighting the Black Knight or the Dark Queen. But Arthur is staring at Lancelot as if he were the reaper of death himself.

No, it’s more like Arthur is staring at him as if the reaper of death were here for Lancelot. He is not afraid of Lancelot but rather afraid for Lancelot. It is made even clear by the desperation that ricocheted all throughout his tense body, eventually leaving his lips in a flurry of hurried words. “Take your armor off.”

Lancelot’s body matches the tension in Arthur’s own. He lifts the visor of his helmet to look into Arthur’s eyes properly. Arthur will not make eye contact with him, though. Instead, his eyes dart across Lancelot’s body. He is searching for something. The longer it takes for him to find it, the more his body subtly trembles.

“My king, I do not understand why—”

“Sir Lancelot!” Arthur barks, a sudden ferocity in his loud voice. Despite everything happening inside his body, his voice is stern and uncompromising. Finally, he meets Lancelot’s eyes with a hardened stare. “Take your armor off. Now.”

Orders are orders, his confusion be damned. Lancelot pulls his helmet off his head. He sets it down on the ground beside his feet and the fallen chair. Lancelot continues from there. It takes a little effort to remove the armor, but Lancelot has gone through this every single night since he swore his oath. He’s never done it with an audience or anywhere that wasn’t his chambers. Lancelot feels a touch of embarrassment—enough to warm his cheeks—but the panic in Arthur’s visage makes it difficult to feel as if this situation is any more special than it factually is in the given situation.

Lancelot leaves all his armor on the floor. When he’s done, he rises. He tucks his arms behind his back. He keeps his spine straight and his chest puffed out. His head is held high, ignoring the pink that colors both his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Lancelot takes a deep breath in through his nose. Armor or not, he is a proud knight who will not be shamed by anyone. He still has his honor and his skills, and they will carry him through no matter what fate befalls him.

Arthur steps over the armor. He continues his path around Lancelot’s form. His eyes continue to flick from one corner to another. He is still searching, and only after a few circles does he finally accept that whatever he’s looking for isn’t there. Arthur is pleased with this, however, as he exhales in relief and folds his paws together in front of his face. Lancelot frowns, unsure what to make of this situation. As Arthur lowers himself to sit on the edge of the fallen chair (surely that isn’t comfortable in the slightest), Lancelot ventures to ask, “Your Majesty?”

Arthur drops his paws from his face to his lap. His wrists and forearms balance on his thighs. He flexes his fingers, watching the fabric of his gloves shift with his actions. One side of Arthur’s lips lift upward into a half-smile, but it looks like it takes too much effort to maintain. It doesn’t reach his eyes, after all. “I… I can’t really remember, but… I think I spread a—a curse of some sort. A plague that passed through physical contact. It was—”

Arthur cuts himself off with a shudder. It rips right through him, causing him to curl inward and lose the half-smile he was trying to hold onto. Lancelot glances from Arthur to his armor. He should put it back on since Arthur has confirmed Lancelot’s health, but he can’t do that when his king is hurting. Lancelot nudges the armor aside with his foot. He kneels in front of Arthur. The king tilts his head back enough to make eye contact with Lancelot. The knight offers both of his paws. Arthur’s expression blanches—he almost looks nauseous—but Lancelot doesn’t lower his paws. He just keeps them there as he speaks. “Your Majesty does not need to worry about me. I am immune to plagues and highly resistant to curses. You have confirmed that I show no signs of this infliction, yes?”

“I don’t even know what the curse is. What if it has different signs?” Arthur mentions, pushing the heels of his paws down against his thighs. Lancelot can tell that it hurts Arthur, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. 

Lancelot reaches out slowly. His fingers lightly curl around Arthur’s wrists. It is enough of a shock for Arthur to stop pushing down so hard. With that, Lancelot easily pulls Arthur’s paws away from his body. He slides his own paws down to grasp onto Arthur’s fingers. He keeps his touch soft but firm. Arthur looks at him in horror and surprise, but he doesn’t make an effort to pull his paws away. Lancelot lowers his forehead to touch the back of Arthur’s paws, a gesture that is a touch too intimate to truly be acceptable knightly behavior.

Lancelot hears Arthur release a harsh, quiet chuckle. Under his breath, he mutters, “You’re insane, you know that?”

Lancelot has been called that before many times. He has been called worse titles, too. There were times when he believed some of them to be true despite others—like her—telling him that those words are wrong. Lancelot has come a long way in believing them, but they never knew about Arthur. They never knew how much Lancelot would come to care for and respect his king.

His insanity is likely the least of his problems.

Galahad has been on many quests and assignments from the palace before. He has been made to work with his fellow knights on occasion, too. This is hardly new to him, and it isn’t troublesome, either. Galahad greatly enjoys his fellow Knights of the Round Table, and their company is second-to-none. Their assistance is useful, too. Although Galahad is shaping up to be one of the most powerful knights—a testament to both his skill with a sword and his unique mixture of magic, his soul power, and the blessing of the Holy Grail—he doesn’t mind the help. It allows him to finish quicker than he would alone, and everyone likes free time.

That being said, Galahad has never been on a mission with Sir Lancelot or King Arthur (not the new one or the old illusion). Galahad doesn’t know how he was roped into joining these two. No, he does know how he ended up in this situation. He was training in the courtyard when the king saw him. King Arthur asked Galahad if he wanted to join him in dealing with some bandits. He asked in such a way that Galahad knew he couldn’t refuse—not because his king asked but because Arthur, the kind-hearted hedgehog, asked him. But Galahad can’t blame the king for obvious reasons, so he decides to blame Sir Lancelot.

He’s used to blaming Sir Lancelot for his troubles, anyway.

“They should have set up their camp in this direction,” King Arthur declares. He takes the lead of their party. He glances over his shoulder at the two knights following him. He makes sure that they can both see his finger when he points. Galahad nods at King Arthur. The azure hedgehog smiles at him, eyes twinkling with merriment. King Arthur turns back forward. Galahad looks down, staring firmly at the ever-shifting forest floor beneath him.

Sir Lancelot tightens his grip on the hilt of Arondight. Galahad does his best to keep his gaze off the knight beside him. They are in the presence of the king, so it wouldn’t be right for them to start fighting. And truly, it isn’t as if they ever actually fight. Galahad is the one who gets emotional. He attempts to invoke anger in Lancelot only to be met with indifference. It always feels like Lancelot is merely entertaining him as one might with a child. Galahad shouldn’t be upset since he has been a child to Lancelot for a long time—and in some ways, is still technically one—but Galahad doesn’t like it one bit. One day, he will prove to Lancelot that he is both an adult and a knight worthy of respect.

“Do you have a plan, Knave the Hedgehog?” A voice calls out. Galahad tilts his head back to King Arthur. The azure hedgehog has drawn his sword. It isn’t because there are enemies to take care of but rather because the sword itself is the one that’s talking. There have been many rumors about Caliburn, but Galahad did not think the one about the sword being sentient would be true. 

“It is not ‘Knave the Hedgehog,’” The king hisses at his sword. Caliburn’s face appears in the hilt, showing a creature capable of deadpanning at King Arthur. The azure hedgehog huffs, looking ready to melt Caliburn down for ore. “Of course I have a plan. We’re going to go in, fight the bandits, and tie them up. Sir Lancelot will tell me what we do with the bandits, then.”

“And you dare say you are not a knave,” Caliburn tuts. King Arthur narrows his eyes. Caliburn continues, unbothered by King Arthur’s growing anger with the sword. “You do not have a plan. You are leading your knights into a battle you are not prepared to win. These are actions unbecoming of a king.”

“I don’t see you suggesting any plans!”

“I do not need to. I am not the king, only the king’s sword. Though, it has become clear that I have become the knave’s sword.”

“For the last time, I am not—”

“My king,” Sir Lancelot calls out, interrupting the argument between the king and his sword. Caliburn looks away from the two knights with what Galahad presumes is embarrassment. King Arthur does not look perturbed at all as he turns his attention to Sir Lancelot. His features, obviously, soften as his annoyance drips away. Sir Lancelot gestures beyond the treeline they are standing amidst. “We are at the bandit’s campsite.”

King Arthur looks through the trees. When he sees what Sir Lancelot (and Galahad, but he didn’t mention anything) was referring to, King Arthur turns his entire body toward them. He lowers Caliburn. It isn’t to sheathe the sword or to silence him, but it does give King Arthur an opportunity to continue speaking, “Apparently, I need to have a plan. Do you two have any ideas?”

Sir Lancelot and Galahad share a look. For the time being, there is nothing tense about their features. The moment passes without either of them getting a chance to acknowledge it, but Galahad will save this moment in his box of precious memories.

Sir Lancelot speaks up, setting a closed fist over his chest. “We could attack from three different spots around the edge of the camp.”

“That would be leaving His Majesty alone,” Galahad reminds Sir Lancelot.

“Don’t worry about me, Sir Galahad. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. That’s the whole reason I came out today,” King Arthur adds. Galahad glances at his king. It isn’t that he necessarily finds that impossible to believe, but it’s certainly difficult to. King Arthur wears gauntlets, armored boots, and a leather belt around his waist, but that’s it. He’s practically naked, especially in comparison to Sir Lancelot and Galahad who wear their entire armor. At least the king isn’t wearing his cloak and crown since those would definitely impede his fighting capabilities.

“You are hardly a competent swordsman,” Caliburn calls out.

King Arthur raises the sword to stare into his face. “That isn’t even true, and you know it. We’ve been practicing every single morning. You were the one that told me I was getting better.”

“Getting better does not make you competent,” Caliburn argues.

King Arthur huffs. He twists the sword around. He sticks the tip into the ground. He leans Caliburn’s hilt against a nearby tree trunk. King Arthur folds his fingers together to stretch them and his arms. “Fine, I’ll fight them without you. I might not be a swordsman in your eyes, but I’m still a good fighter. I don’t need you.”

“Oh, to be at the whims of a knave—”

“I am not a—”

Galahad leans closer to Sir Lancelot. He covers his mouth with the back of his paw as he whispers, “Perhaps you and I should handle the bandits on our own.”

Galahad expects Sir Lancelot to reprimand him for whispering in the king’s presence or for saying what he said. Instead, it’s a complete surprise when Galahad hears Sir Lancelot snort instead of his helmet. Galahad pulls away from Sir Lancelot, staring at the Knight of the Lake as if he were replaced with a changeling. Sir Lancelot does not ease Galahad’s suspicions as he steps forward to truly interrupt King Arthur’s argument with his sword. Galahad stares at his back, listening to Sir Lancelot try to soothe them both.

Finally, King Arthur takes Caliburn back. The king and his knight discuss the plan that Sir Lancelot proposed. When they finish, Galahad is brought into the discussion by King Arthur. He’s told the details concerning his role in this makeshift plan. They truly are just going to attack the sides of the camp at three different points. The bandits are not, after all, sufficiently armored or in possession of quality weapons. One knight could easily wipe out the camp, but King Arthur had been itching to get out of the palace.

Per the instructions given to him, Galahad moves away from King Arthur and in the opposite direction from Sir Lancelot. Galahad eventually finds the tree that was gestured to earlier. He hides behind it for a moment. He narrows his eyes when he peers around the side. As predicted, the bandit’s camp isn’t anything special. There is a central fire surrounded by a few tents. The weapon’s rack is filled with rusting weapons that have long-since fallen dull. There are two horses tied to one tree that are drinking out of a trough. They are beside a tall wooden tower that was built for a lookout. No one is inside of it now which is likely the reason why the knights and Arthur were able to get so close without detection.

Galahad pulls his sword from its scabbard. In an instant, the lines carved into the metallic blade begin glowing with the cyan light of his soul power and magic. Galahad hides the sword behind the tree to keep any of the bandits from noticing it. Unlike the other knights, Galahad’s weapon does not have a name. Considering how special it is, it might have had one once that was lost to time. Galahad has been searching for that name or another fitting one, but he hasn’t found anything. He knows that he will one day, though, which is why he keeps trying.

The signal for Galahad and King Arthur to act is Sir Lancelot running into the camp first. The attention is immediately drawn to him. The nearest bandits try grabbing onto him. As they are being dealt with, the others scramble to either grab weapons or leave. Galahad steps around the tree. His magic shoots out from his open palm. As he closes his fingers and pulls back, one of the bandits is brought towards him. Before the bandit can even fully realize what’s happened to him, Galahad hits him in the back of the head with his sword. The bandit crumples to the ground. If the king hadn’t shown an interest in arresting the bandits, Galahad would have killed them.

Galahad turns his sword, slicing through an arrow that was hurtling straight toward him. Galahad flips over the next thrown arrow. As he lands, his foot collides with the archer’s face. Galahad knocks him to the ground. His other foot sets on the ground. He spins around on his heel, raising his sword as he does so. A rusted dagger collides with the edge of his blade. The dagger begins sliding as Galahad subtly tilts his sword. Once the dagger slides completely off, Galahad kicks the bandit’s wrist. He stomps his sole into the top of the dagger, sending it further into the soil. The bandit lets go of their weapon, jolting backward. Galahad lifts his foot from the hilt, walking forward a few paces. He raises the tip of his sword to brush against the bandit’s neck. 

Without even looking behind him, his magic lifts the dagger into the air. It shoots forward, cutting through the string of the archer’s bow. Galahad glances over his shoulder to find the archer staring at his weapon in shock. Galahad brings the dagger back to him. Although it’s rusty, Galahad brandishes it in his other paw. He isn’t normally a dual wielder, but this was still part of his training.

The bandit on the ground with a sword to his throat remains down, but the other one throws his broken bow aside. He charges at Galahad. He could use the dagger, but Galahad only shifts his body to the side. When the bandit gets close enough, Galahad trips him. The bandit lands against his buddy. Without blades pointed at them, they both try to rise onto their feet. Galahad drops the dagger and sticks his sword into the ground. He kneels, setting his paw against the ground. He activates his Soul Surge. It spreads away from him, forming rings akin to magic circles. The two bandits are caught within the cyan glow. They collapse onto the ground, unable to move as their souls are slowly drained. The power is brought into Galahad. While it normally would heal his wounds, it only washes away his fatigue since none of the bandits were able to strike him.

When the bandits are unconscious, Galahad stops his Soul Surge. The cyan glow disappears from the camp. Galahad rises to his feet. He walks away from the passed out bandits. He looks for King Arthur and Sir Lancelot. Since the camp isn’t large, he finds them quickly. There are a few bandits at King Arthur’s feet. Galahad is impressed with that, but his attention is swiftly taken by the way Sir Lancelot starts chasing after three bandits that managed to get to the horses. As they are riding away, Sir Lancelot activates his speed to chase after them.

Galahad tries to join him, but King Arthur calls out his name. Compelled by his ruler, Galahad stops and turns toward the king. The azure hedgehog is smiling at him. He shakes his head slightly. “Don’t worry about him. He’s got this.”

A king should trust their knight, yes, and it isn’t like three bandits is anything the best Knight of the Round Table can’t handle, but something is off in Galahad’s head. King Arthur’s voice is almost too trusting. He has complete faith in Sir Lancelot. It might even go beyond that which is what forces Galahad to murmur, “Do you truly trust Sir Lancelot, my king?”

King Arthur gives him a funny look. Galahad is partially ashamed—and he knows he deserves to be punished for such questioning—but the words are out. King Arthur chuckles slightly, graciously taking Galahad’s words as a joke. “Of course I do! Why wouldn’t I?”

Galahad looks away from King Arthur. He stares in the direction where Lancelot ran. His brows furrow together, and his words are as light as the breeze as he says, “There is much he hasn’t told you.”

“Everyone has secrets,” King Arthur immediately states. Galahad turns toward him. The king also looks in the direction Lancelot ran in, but it doesn’t seem like he’s actually seeing anything in his surroundings. His eyesight has wandered to the same place his mind has, making him both more honest and more cryptic as he somberly continues, “There is much I haven’t told him. Much I haven’t told any of you.”

Galahad nods slowly. He rolls his shoulders. “That is true, Your Majesty. I only say this out of kindness and respect for both you and Sir Lancelot, but I… I would be more wary of him if I were Your Majesty.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” King Arthur says with a smile. Their conversation is ended by Lancelot’s reappearance with three unconscious bandits on the horses he leads back into the camp. They don’t bring the conversation up again as the three of them—with Caliburn’s input—clean up the area and tie all the bandits up. Galahad escorts King Arthur back to the palace while Sir Lancelot takes the bandits away to be punished for their crimes. 

The weather is as close to perfection as possible. The sky is clear. The sun is uncovered, warming the realm below without being too hot. This heat is mitigated by the cool breeze that passes through the landscape, soft enough to comfort whatever it gently touches instead of yanking it around or knocking it over. Several animals are taking advantage of this, filling the air with the sound of birdsong and small mammals darting across the forest floor. This weather means that the surface of the lake is calm, not a single choppy wave in sight.

This does little to put Arthur at ease. He grips the wooden bench in the small boat beneath him. He continually looks on either side of him, searching the water for any disturbances. The only ones that come are the ripples from the paddles that glide effortlessly through the water in rhythmic motions. He narrows his eyes whenever one of the splashes is large enough to send a few droplets into the wooden boat with him. He avoids them since the water is cold, and also because he knows that he really doesn’t like water.

“Should I bring us back to the shore?” A voice asks. With great strength, Arthur pulls his gaze from the water to the other figure in the boat with him. Lancelot faces him, holding onto the ends of the paddles. He’s the one bringing them further into the water, steady approaching the islands in the center of the lake. They are mostly rocky, but one is large enough to have some grass and a tree growing on it. A stone table with backless stools has been constructed beneath the tree’s branches. Vines grow along the base of both, implying that they have been there for a long time.

“Nope,” Arthur declares resolutely. The confidence in his voice is somewhat mitigated by how tightly he holds onto the bench on either side of his thighs and how he folds his body inward to a certain extent. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.

The only reason he’s going through with this when he really doesn’t like water is because Lancelot wanted Arthur to meet someone important to him. As far as Arthur can tell, it’s a family member. Arthur agreed to the request without knowing they would need to go over a lake. They were already at the shore by the time Arthur learned, and he refused to back out. Not only would it be a sign of cowardice, but it would also lose him the chance to learn more about Lancelot. After everything Lancelot has done for Arthur—after he’s come to mean so much to Arthur—he will overcome whatever fears he has to undertake this task.

“If you are certain, my king,” Lancelot nods. He isn’t wearing his armor right now which means Arthur can easily see his expressions. Lancelot seems to have learned how to hide them on his features, but his eyes are revealing. Arthur can read them like an open book, and it warms his heart to know that Lancelot is so concerned for him. Though, he doesn’t need to be able to read Lancelot well to know this fact since the knight immediately lifts his gaze to Arthur. He stops rowing to set one of his paws against his chest. “By my honor as a knight, I swear to protect you. Whether it be a beast lurking beneath the surface or the water itself, no harm shall befall you while I am here.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says gratefully. He genuinely feels better at the promise. It isn’t enough to make his fears disappear, but the tension does leave his shoulders. He takes a deep breath, letting his eyes fall shut. This really isn’t so bad. No one is making him get in the water, after all. He is fine, and he will continue to be fine, and—

Arthur’s ears twitch when he hears a splashing noise paired alongside feminine giggling. Arthur’s eyes have barely opened. Lancelot’s face twists. He reaches his paws out, calling someone’s name. Arthur doesn’t hear it as he feels a pair of arms wrap around his shoulders. In an instant, he is pulled backwards. He tries grabbing onto the boat, but his fingers slip from the wood as he’s brought under the water. His entire body is submerged, letting the cold waters replace the warmth that was building in his flesh from the sunlight.

The giggling has not quieted. The arms that were holding onto him are still around his shoulders. He feels his back press against something that isn’t quite solid but isn’t a liquid, either. He tries struggling against the hold, but he stops when his head tilts backwards. In the refracted sunlight entering from the lake’s surface, Arthur sees a feminine figure. In some ways, she looks like the townspeople with her smooth skin and blonde hair. In other ways, however, she looks like she’s both part of the water and a fish who lives within it. She does, however, have a pair of lips that are pulled upward into a smile.

Suddenly, her lips form an ‘o’ shape. She blows a bubble made from air. It moves across the space between them. When it bursts in Arthur’s face, he suddenly gasps with breath. His panicking increases tenfold until he realizes that he’s breathing just fine. His limbs go slack as he tries processing how his lungs are fine. Her laughter is what draws his attention to an explanation. It was more than likely her bubble—her magic.

Arthur would love to leave it at that and enjoy himself, but her arms are still around him. He’s given a whole new reason to panic. He tries to get away from her with such ferocity that she eventually does let go of him. Arthur begins sinking, unable to claw his way toward the surface. The waters get colder and darker. His panic intensifies. He grasps at the water above him, searching for a way to swim when his body naturally sinks like a rock.

The further he goes down—the closer he gets to death—the more he remembers. The memories are still vague, of course, still as distant as the horizon and just as unreachable. But elements of them are sharpening with his frenzy desperation to find a way to rescue himself. Similar moments of him sinking, ones where there was no way for him to get another breath in his lungs. The feeling of flesh being undone because of his touch. There is no one to save him and no one he can save, either.

Arthur’s spiral is stopped when something grasps onto his wrist. He’s set to throw himself into a panic again, but he stops when he meets Lancelot’s glowing eyes. Arthur is completely distracted by them. Not just because they’re glowing, but because they have a different design than usual. There is something unnatural—or supernatural—about them. Arthur doesn’t feel any fear about it, though. His mind is more preoccupied with both trying to free himself from Lancelot’s grasp and remembering that Lancelot has not yet fallen to the plague nor will he, more than likely.

Lancelot tugs Arthur against his chest, effortlessly swimming through the water even with Arthur’s weight and one missing arm. When they make it to water too swallow to swim in, Lancelot sets Arthur down on his feet. The king partially stumbles away from Lancelot once his feet settle on the silt. He slips almost immediately. When he lands in the water, he causes a big splash. Thankfully, his head and upper body remain above the water’s surface.

As Arthur regains control over his breathing and fears, he hears Lancelot talking to someone. A feminine voice similar to the giggling responds to him, participating in the conversation. Arthur turns his head to look. Lancelot stands in the shallows. Across from him, the girl that dragged Arthur into the water stands. Despite coming out of the water, no part of her looks wet. Her blonde hair curls slightly around her shoulders. Her dress is various shades of blue. Her skin is the most surprising part of her. The sides of her face, hands, forearms, ankles, and feet are covered in dark blue scales. The rest of her skin is a pale color, but it looks as if her veins and arteries have been traced on her skin with a glittering silver material. 

Lancelot and the girl come to an understanding. The former turns around. He immediately bows to Arthur, so low that Arthur knows this is beyond respect. The girl hurries forward to stand beside the ebony hedgehog. She mirrors his position. Lancelot speaks on both of their behalf. “Allow me to apologize in the place of my sister. This is Maria. She mistook Your Majesty for me which is why she dragged you below the water. When she realized it wasn’t me, she was over eager in meeting someone I have… er, mentioned. Please allow me to accept the punishment for her actions.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. He raises his paws. He stares at them as they begin trembling. It isn’t from the cold, either. It’s from the realization that he whispers aloud, “Oh, gods, I’ve killed your sister.”

“What—” Maria starts.

Arthur hears splashing. Lancelot suddenly appears beside him. Arthur turns toward him (Lancelot’s eyes have gone back to normal, making Arthur wonder if they really were different in the lake). “No, Your Majesty, you have not done anything of the sort. Maria is a nymph. She is immune to plagues and resistant to curses.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right! I’m also more resistant to curses than most, especially when we’re in my domain. This is my lake,” Maria says, approaching the sitting king. She squats down beside Lancelot. Her smile is bright and genuine, allowing her eyes to glimmer like any treasures at the bottom of her lake. “It’s wonderful to meet you. Lancelot has told me a lot about you.”

Arthur turns toward Lancelot. The knight coughs into his fist, trying to hide his embarrassment. “I have spoken about my king an appropriate amount.”

Maria hums, half-skeptical and half-amused. She leans into Lancelot, bumping their shoulders together. Arthur wants to watch them for a little while longer, but his eyes are locked onto Maria. He searches her person for any signs of the plague. He doesn’t remember much about it, but he knows that it manifests on the skin. At the moment, Maria is only covered in the silver lines. A sigh of relief escapes him, and his entire body deflates. The splashes this causes silences Maria and Lancelot. They turn toward Arthur as the king pushes himself onto his feet. He pulls the cloak off his shoulders, folding it over his arm. He shakes with his superspeed, causing more water to fly off of him. Maria laughs at the display; Lancelot looks bothered at the water in his quills.

Arthur turns toward Maria. He smiles at her. “I should be the one apologizing for my rather… violent reaction. Let’s just call it even, yeah?”

“Are you certain?” Maria asks curiously.

Arthur’s smile widens. “Of course! You’re my most loyal knight’s sister. You have a little more leeway than most. Just be a little more careful about dragging random people underwater next time.”

“Certainly,” Maria agrees.

“Thank you, my king,” Lancelot adds.

Arthur waves his paw. “You don’t need to thank me. Anyway, we came to hang out, didn’t we?”

“Uhh…”

“He means to spend time together,” Lancelot whispers to Maria.

“Oh! Then, yes, that is exactly why the two of you have come,” Maria claps her hands together. She rises to her feet. She leaves the water. She doesn’t leave any footprints in the sand as she crosses the beach. The grass doesn’t bend beneath her weight, either, as she makes her way to the stone table beneath the tree. Maria turns once she reaches one of the stools. She gestures toward a specific one. “I’ve saved the best seat for you, King of Camelot. I want to hear all about your adventures!”

Arthur goes to the seat Maria picked out for him. Once he’s seated, Maria sits down on her stool. As Lancelot joins them, he says, “I have told you all of our king’s adventures.”

Maria furrows her brow and frowns at him. “You are rather light on the details pertaining to the battles.”

“Sister—”

“I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Unlike the Ultimate Knight over here, I love talking about myself and my exploits,” Arthur laughs. Maria giggles as well. Lancelot frowns, dangerously close to rolling his eyes at his king. That only makes Arthur laugh harder. It takes him a moment to settle down enough to start telling Maria all the stories he remembers. 

It is as he’s in the middle of one story that he realizes that he’s been in Camelot for a long time. A part of him aches at the thought, trying to remind him of something. He pushes it down, however, and just in time to hear Lancelot accidentally say something that makes them all laugh. Such feelings are easy to dismiss when he’s having a good time. 

He doesn’t want it to end (no matter who’s waiting for him in that other world).

Chapter Text

Lancelot has faced a great many challenges in his lifetime. He has fought ferocious beasts. He’s survived against hordes of enemies. He’s freed himself from all manner of traps and prisons. From the moment he began his training to be a knight all the way up to the present moment when he’s heralded as the best of them all, Lancelot has been in both conflicts and unfavorable circumstances, and he’s always found a way to not only come out alive but to come out on top. It is a learned behavior at this point, a byproduct of the instincts and skills he’s sharpened.

This, however, is one of the most harrowing experiences he’s ever been a part of. He feels completely adrift, unmoored from both reality and rationality. He doesn’t know how to act. Anything he does is merely a reaction that is yanked from him by the strangeness of the situation. This is worse than every monster he’s ever fought—worse than if they were all combined into one creature for him to slay. It’s worse than being thrown into a raging inferno or icy waters. In those circumstances, he, at the very least, knows what to do. In this one, though, he’s left wandering blind through enemy territory.

Lancelot sits on a blanket so thin that he can feel the bent grass and the small pebbles beneath the fabric against his bare thighs. There is a tree behind him that hunches forward and over like a weeping woman. Its long leaves dip into the pond in front of Lancelot. The surface is relatively still with only a few ripples from birds dipping into the water for their meals or fish momentarily surfacing for no discernable reason. It reflects the sun and clouds, presenting a mirror to Lancelot who cannot readily see the sky above him through the tree’s thick canopy. On either side of Lancelot, the pond’s shoreline is mainly covered in grass with a thin strip of rocky sand right against the water’s edges.

Lancelot is not alone on the blanket. In the case of lifeless objects, there is a wicker basket that has been opened. Its contents have been pulled out, showcasing different containers filled with various foods. Most of them are ones that Lancelot does not know. He can identify a few. Arthur knows all of them, and he gives both their names and a brief description of them as he sets them down around him on the blanket. Even he seems a tad confused with a few of them, but it’s more like he doesn’t know how he knows the foods, not that he doesn’t know them at all. His confusion always gives way to happiness, though, so it isn’t a matter to comment about. Arthur gushes about how the cooks in the castle’s kitchens made the foods to his exact specifications.

Being here with Arthur is hard enough. Lancelot feels exposed without his armor. His gloves and shoes don’t make him feel like he’s sufficiently dressed, and having Arondight close at hand doesn’t make him feel more prepared for any conflicts that descend upon their perfect day (a ‘pic-nic,’ Arthur called it after much hesitation and contemplation). The peacefulness of their surroundings should set him at ease, but he’s even more on-guard as he constantly glances around.

Then again, he believes he would be on-guard no matter the circumstances because Arthur and Lancelot are not alone right now. Just as before when they were going to take care of bandits, Arthur has invited Galahad. Lancelot doesn’t know what compelled the snowy hedgehog to agree to come with the king and his knight, but Galahad is here with them now. He, too, followed the dress code of not wearing his armor. When Lancelot first saw him, he was struck by how old Galahad was since the silver knight rarely removes his helmet (even more rarely than Lancelot or the other knights).

While Arthur seems as happy as can be with his dishes and the presence of the two knights on either side of him, Galahad shares Lancelot’s subtle discomfort. Lancelot’s heart twists at the sight of it, but there’s nothing he can do when he feels the exact same way. If he was any good at comforting, they wouldn’t be in this situation right now. To an extent, it’s Lancelot’s own fault, and this strange relationship he has with Galahad is a suitable punishment. His attempts at improving their standing with each other have all ended in either rejection or failure, but he can’t  blame Galahad since Lancelot knows he’s also come at Galahad’s attempts in all the wrong ways, too.

“You have to try this!” Arthur chirps. Lancelot pulls his eyes away from Galahad’s face (he does look older than Lancelot remembers, but Lancelot can still see the traces of a child in those features. Is this why Galahad doesn’t take his helmet off?) to Arthur across and beside him. Arthur’s back is to the pond, letting him face Lancelot and Galahad. The two other hedgehogs have a significant amount of distance between them, but it’s unnoticeable since Arthur put out the array of food there.

Arthur leans into that space, as well, proving just how short it really is with the length of his shoulders. Arthur pushes a wooden spoon toward Lancelot. The ebony hedgehog’s face distorts, feeling rather childish as he realizes Arthur is trying to feed him. He also thinks this is entirely improper, but this entire situation is improper. He and Galahad should be guarding the king, not sitting down and eating with him. Even if they have time off and even if Arthur has taken care of all his duties for the day, that doesn’t mean they are allowed to spend that time together. The nobility would throw an absolute fit. Lancelot hardly cares what they think about him, but he doesn’t want them to hate Arthur or Galahad. The nobility have a way of making people’s lives harder than they need to be, and Lancelot would like to spare his king and his… son that fate.

Lancelot opens his mouth to voice these concerns. He unintentionally gives Arthur the opportunity he needs. The king pushes the wooden spoon into Lancelot’s mouth. It’s forceful enough to make Lancelot cough slightly around the utensil. Arthur winces, but he doesn’t lose his smile. He pulls back the spoon, and Lancelot’s mouth is suddenly filled with… something sweet. He doesn’t entirely know what the food is. He presumes that it’s something the nobility eat, though, since sugar is reserved for the upper class. This is another thing he should tell his king not to do anymore.

Before Lancelot can, he hears laughter. Arthur might be smiling with twinkling eyes, but there’s no laughter falling from his lips. Lancelot’s eyes turn to the corner of his vision. Galahad is hunched forward, hiding his face in his paw. The shaking in his back either comes from sobbing or laughing. Lancelot has heard and seen both, so he knows all the subtle differences that inform him this is the latter. Galahad is properly laughing at his king and Lancelot. He proves that he knows he shouldn’t be doing this by trying to hide his actions, but he can’t stifle or stop them in the way that he probably wants to.

Arthur doesn’t comment on it. He pulls the spoon back, looking around the dishes for something else to make Lancelot try. He hardly even looks over at Galahad even though he should be able to hear the laughter. Lancelot, therefore, doesn’t need an excuse to ignore it as well because he will always do what his king commands of him—even silent orders that the king is likely unaware about.

But Lancelot realizes that he would have come up with an excuse if the king were upset. If this was the other king—the illusion Lancelot served for so long and swore his original allegiance to—he would have taken the punishment in Galahad’s place. This isn’t necessarily surprising. Lancelot knows that, despite everything, he cares for Galahad. Still, the thought makes him feel off. His relationship with Galahad should be so deteriorated and unfixable that whatever is happening inside his heart now upon hearing Galahad’s laughter should be impossible. As it stands, it only feels disrespectful to Galahad because Lancelot knows that he has no right.

“My king, I will search the perimeter for any enemies or wild animals. I will return to finish our outdoor feast,” Lancelot says, his voice a touch sharper than he means for it to be. Lancelot rises to his feet. Arthur’s eyes follow him with a confused frown and furrowed brows. Galahad’s laughter pitters out, and he stares at the ground beside his leg with a stare far harsher than the grass deserves. Lancelot has a moment where he thinks about saying something more, but there’s nothing to say to them. Lancelot is at a loss, so he turns on his heel. 

He walks away from Arthur and Galahad, holding Arondight in its scabbard in one paw. He moves his other paw to hold onto the hilt, ready to draw the sacred sword the moment he notices something out of the ordinary. The perimeter of the pond is easy enough to loop around, but Lancelot turns to investigate the clearings, even poking his head into the forest. He listens closely for the pounding of monster’s footfalls or the jingling of bells that precede the Fae. 

Lancelot knows that he isn’t going to find anything. This area was cleared by guards not too long before King Arthur came. Monsters might come, but the creatures of the Underworld are not deceptive or stealthy. Lancelot would have already noticed them and dealt with them. As for the Fae, they would have sensed the power of the sacred swords (both Arondight and Galahad’s sword since Arthur didn’t bring Caliburn along). They would have also noticed what Lancelot and Galahad hide from the world—what, in many ways, they hide from themselves.

As much as Lancelot would like to stay far away from the ‘pic-nic,’ his excuse dwindles into nothingness once he’s finished as many rounds as he can without Arthur and Galahad suspecting him (they obviously already do; he ignores that). Lancelot squeezes the hilt of Arondight. He shouldn’t want his king to be in danger, but Lancelot finds himself truly wishing any beast would leap from the tree-line to partake in a battle with him. That would be both easier and more navigable than whatever is happening on that blanket over there.

Lancelot approaches from the direction of the tree. He wasn’t paying too much attention to his steps, so he almost misses the way he’s hidden himself behind the tree. He’s about to take the necessary steps to walk around it and reveal himself, but he doesn’t end up doing that. The wind twists one way, and his ears twitch in another, and he’s suddenly listening to the conversation Galahad and Arthur are having. Eavesdropping is not a quality a knight should possess, but it isn’t Lancelot’s fault. He can’t move once he registers their words.

“So… he’s your father?” Arthur asks plainly. Lancelot cannot see his face, but by his tone of voice, he’s only mildly surprised. He isn’t upset, and there’s not any disbelief. He accepts it as the truth even if he’s intrigued about it.

“It’s a little more complicated than that, Your Majesty,” Galahad responds. If Lancelot didn’t feel the blood drain from his body, he would have snorted. Complicated? Yes, that’s definitely one word for it. Lancelot wishes Galahad were simply his biological, blood-related son. He likely still would have been awkward about the whole affair, but he and Galahad wouldn’t be so strained with each other. Lancelot would have a better idea about what he was doing.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Arthur says. Lancelot exhales. Arthur’s kindness is still as strange to Lancelot today as it was when he first met ‘Knave the Hedgehog’ in the forest for a duel. It’s almost unnatural for this world, but it doesn’t feel grotesque or different. It feels so genuine and true.

“It’s fine,” Galahad murmurs. Lancelot doesn’t know if he would rather Galahad shut up now or continue forward without hesitation. It doesn’t matter what he wants, though, because Galahad does the latter even before Lancelot has a chance to properly think about his options. “It was a few years ago. Sir Lancelot was imprisoned by this lady.”

Elaine. That was her name. Lancelot has known many Elaine’s in his lifetime, but this one was a sorceress. She tricked him with her magic. She made herself look like someone else. He followed her right into a cell. It was made from iron and other metals poisonous to him. A knight like him, felled so easily and dispatched so impudently. But it wasn’t his status as a knight she despised so much. It was his nature as a Fae; it was what kind he was specifically that angered her to the point that she would risk everything to seal him away.

“She wanted to kill him, but she herself couldn’t do it.”

She certainly tried. Lancelot has been stabbed and sliced open several times before, but she did it so viciously and with all manner of weapons that hurt his crimson and silver blood. Elaine did everything she could think of him to put him in the grave. She failed every time. What really pissed her off, though, was that Lancelot refused to beg for relief or his life. He remained as silent as he could as she tried to claw his entire body open. No matter what she did, he would not give her what she wanted. If he did, maybe he wouldn’t have pushed her to such drastic methods.

“She realized that she would need another weapon to do it. She used Sir Lancelot’s blood to open a portal to the Underworld.”

Lancelot still has the scar. Every other wound she inflicted on him healed seamlessly without a ridge or a bump left in their wake. But that single cut she made against his palm remains jagged and ugly to his day. He hides it underneath his glove, but he often finds himself running his thumb over it above the fabric or staring at it when his glove is removed. She used the blood from that cut to draw out a summoning circle that led directly into the Underworld, a realm that only the most powerful magic-users can open. 

“She summoned a weapon that could defeat Sir Lancelot. This process accidentally freed him, so he killed her.”

Elaine was not powerful enough to properly handle the portal. At least she was able to close it after she summoned the weapon. She couldn’t do more than that. The excess energy from opening the portal caused the chains to break and the door to fall from its hinges. Lancelot retrieved his sword from where she’d kept it outside the cell. As she was laughing about her victory, Lancelot decapitated her in one smooth cut. Her face was still frozen in laughter as her head rolled across the ground, splattering crimson blood over the stones and mixing it with his blood forming the summoning ritual.

“I was that weapon. I suppose you could say that Sir Lancelot is my father in the same way the Underworld itself is my mother.”

Lancelot had raised Arondight high in the air. Part of him faintly registered the ‘weapon’ as a baby hedgehog, but for the most part, he only considered it a spawn of the Underworld. For the longest moment, it was only a thing on the ground—a potential hazard to his life. It was only when that hoglet cried like a howling banshee that Lancelot found himself hesitating. His rational mind urged him to go through with eliminating a threat to the kingdom. His heart won out. He set Arondight aside. He reached down to pick the hoglet off the ground. It astounded him how this absolutely tiny creature could come from the Underworld, how it could be his undoing as Elaine called it. The hoglet certainly had a high lung capacity, but its arms were too weak to carry anything.

Lancelot’s confusion was cleared up real quickly when the baby stopped crying upon noticing he was being held. That hoglet smiled at Lancelot, and the knight realized that’s what a real weapon looked like. No matter where the baby came from, it was now his. It was either created or summoned forth from his blood. Elaine technically had more responsibility than he did, but he killed her, so it was up to him to care for this squirming creature that may very well grow up to be his actual damnation.

“Because of that, my aging is a bit weird. My physical and mental age is not the same as how many years I’ve been in this realm.”

If Lancelot were to pin his strained relationship with Galahad on one problem, it would be how quickly Galahad grew. Lancelot didn’t really get a chance to figure out how he was supposed to interact with someone that was both his child and someone he considered to be his child. There wasn’t an opportunity to figure out how to answer any of Galahad’s questions because the kid was speaking before Lancelot knew what happened. He messed up so many times because of that, including but not limited to telling Galahad the story of his birth when the kid asked him who his mother was. Lancelot really should have said fairies brought Galahad to him like a little blessing.

“I only know this because Sir Lancelot told me, so I assume it’s all true. I have a feeling it is, too. I can tell that I’m different.”

Everyone knows Galahad is different. Lancelot couldn’t shield him even if he tried. Galahad was a great swordsman because Lancelot taught him, and this led him to becoming a swordmaster with his own soul power. He learned a few spells from Maria, but his magic has developed further. Not to mention, he was blessed by the Holy Grail. He has enough power that many consider him to be a monster. Lancelot has done what he could to keep Galahad alive, but he completely failed at making Galahad feel like he wasn’t the monster they said he was.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. You probably don’t care about any of this.”

“That’s not true. You and Sir Lancelot are both my precious knights. You two are very important to me. I’m glad to listen because it means you trust me enough to tell me,” Arthur admits. The conversation has been so depressing that Lancelot’s heart immediately lifts at the prospect of being important to the king even though Lancelot already knew that (the king isn’t exactly discreet). “And maybe this is obvious, but I need to know that you know that you aren’t a weapon.”

There’s a moment of silence. Soon, Galahad murmurs, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I don’t understand.”

Either Arthur or Galahad shuffles, and Lancelot cannot see who it is or how it’s done. Arthur speaks, though, sounding like he’s in a different position than he was a moment before. “You had this look on your face as you talked. It made me think that you consider yourself a weapon, but that isn’t true. You’re Galahad. Sir Galahad. You’re a knight and a mage. You’re a son and a friend. But you aren’t a weapon. I just felt like you needed someone to remind you. And I’ll remind you whenever you need me to. I don’t mind. I’ll always tell you that you can decide your fate. Freedom is yours to have no matter what your past is like, and I’m here to help you achieve it and protect it. I’m here for you.”

On the other side of the tree, Arthur and Galahad fall silent. Lancelot exhales heavily. He feels lighter without that breath in his chest. It’s enough that his lips rise upward into a smile. He sets his paw against the trunk of the tree, leaning forward to bump his forehead against it, too. He already knew that he held King Arthur in high regard. He already knew that he was kind and Lancelot was loyal. He already knew he was grateful to King Arthur for saving Camelot from the tyrant king and freeing the knights from servitude. But this is so much more. Galahad might not believe Arthur right now, but Lancelot knows the king is being earnest when he says he’ll keep repeating it. Galahad will believe one day, and that’s all Lancelot can hope for. He already knows that Galahad won’t listen to him, after all, so he’s more grateful than jealous that someone that Galahad will listen to is saying it.

“...Thank you, Your Majesty,” Galahad eventually says. As he predicted, Galahad doesn’t entirely believe, but the seeds have been planted. Lancelot knows Arthur has the stubbornness and goodness to make sure they bloom into beautiful flowers.

Galahad and Arthur move on to talk about the food (Arthur does most of the talking). At a certain juncture, Lancelot regains strength in his body. He walks around the tree. He tells them both that he didn’t find any enemies along the perimeter. When he sits down, he doesn’t leave the blanket again no matter how awkward or uncomfortable it gets.

And maybe, he realizes that it wasn’t as bad as he thought it was going to be when the three of them start their walk back to the castle.

The stench of blood is thick in the stagnant air, getting murkier with the baking heat caught between the rocky ridges. Galahad considers this to be strange. The monsters of the Underworld do not bleed. They turn into mist-like, ash-like substance that quickly dissipates when they are defeated. While that also stinks, it has an altogether different scent from blood. Anyone who has fought the monsters knows that much, so it is obvious that a knight of his caliber who has gone on as many extermination missions for both Underworld creatures and enemies that can bleed to know the difference.

With as many monsters as he’s defeated, he should have that chalky scent clouding his nose. Instead, every breath reminds him of how much blood is in the air. It is completely overwhelming. It disorientates him for a long moment, blurring his vision with how visceral it is. 

Then again, it isn’t just the smell in the air that’s causing the fuzziness in his body. The heat is the most prominent problem. It hangs low in the air, weighing down everything it touches. It causes sweat to seep across his features. Another reason for the sweat is the fact that he’s defeated all these monsters. That exertion causes the sweat and exhaustion to seep throughout every single cell of his body, mixing together to leave him feeling as icky as he feels nauseous.

He thinks it’s the sweat that seeps into his eyes, further blurring his vision. He realizes belatedly that it isn’t only sweat. There’s also blood—mostly crimson with an iridescent silver quality. It is this moment that Galahad pieces together why he smells blood instead of the remains of the monsters. It’s because he’s absolutely covered in blood, and since his opponents do not bleed, it all belongs to him.

This moment of clarity either causes or coincidentally coincides with Galahad’s knees colliding together. He drops onto the ground in the puddle that’s already been forming. He tries to pull himself toward a safe place. His body gives up when he reaches one of the rocky pillars. He turns around, leaning his back against it. He hisses in pain. He should have kept himself suspended in disbelief and confusion for longer because the full wrath of his wounds descend upon him in a way that makes Galahad cough up a mixture of blood and vomit. It spills on his breastplate and the ground beside him. Disgust twists around his spine, but there isn’t anything he can do about it since he has nothing clean to wipe himself off with.

Galahad moves his eyes and his paws around his body, searching for the full extent of his injuries. He needs to know where they all are and how deep they are. Galahad finds the majority. It isn’t hard when his armor has been absolutely ripped to shreds. In the claw marks, he finds lacerations. There are likely bruises underneath the dents. There’s definitely stab wounds, too. As far as Galahad can tell, there’s only one really bad one in his stomach, but all of them have combined together to ensure that he isn’t going to survive.

Galahad tilts his head back. He can see the sky above him in between the pillars. It reminds him of a cracked surface. He wishes he could see the sun, but it must be hidden away from his vision. That’s fine. He doesn’t need to blind himself by staring into it before he succumbs to his injuries… before he dies.

It’s Galahad’s fault. He was told that this mission would be too dangerous to go on alone. There was a tear that connected Camelot and the Underworld. Monsters were spilling through as they are wont to do. Galahad should have waited for back-up, but some combination of his arrogance, boredom, and desire to protect the nearby villages on the other side of his maze-like natural landscape compelled him to fly to the crack. On the upside, he was able to defeat all the monsters, lasting until the tear was sealed by the ambient of this world and the other one.

Galahad’s shoulders slump. He lets one arm sink onto the ground beside him. The other one crosses over his stomach, mixing with the cooling blood dripping from his broken armor to the hardened ground beneath him. His legs slide forward. He releases another groan of pain, but once his body settles in its new position, he doesn’t feel so much pain anymore. It grows more and more distant, letting his perception of the world slip clear of his body. It’s an easier way to die, he supposes, and he finds himself wondering if he’ll leave behind a corpse or if he’ll transform into the remains of Underworld creatures.

While unsure about how close, Galahad knows he is close to death when his spirit is dragged back into his body by a noise in the distance. Galahad’s fingers twitch, searching for the hilt of his sword. Since he isn’t dead yet, he has a responsibility to continue protecting Camelot. No matter what this threat is, Galahad will use the rest of his strength to defeat it. He might have some magic left, so he wouldn’t even need to lift himself onto his feet.

Galahad frowns when he realizes that it’s a familiar noise. There are certain dimensions to it that can only come from a voice. Galahad forces his eyes open as far as they can go. It isn’t much, but he does notice a blurry shape running around. A sharp wind hits him right as he’s blinded by a blue light. The noise is coming from that moving figure. He knows this because the blue light returns a second later. They shout his name with enough panic and concern that Galahad knows that this is someone who cares about him enough not to want him to die.

The figure kneels down beside him. Galahad’s eyes widen further. He recognizes the figure now. It’s King Arthur. In the midst of his pain, Galahad wonders what the king is doing here right now. He’s dressed in armor with the sacred sword, Caliburn, at his side. That would imply he came out here to help Galahad fight, but that doesn’t make any sense. This is all beneath the king. He shouldn’t have to worry about fighting monsters or saving his knights. It’s their job to protect their king and his nation. Arthur’s only responsibility is to lead the people and command his servants to help him achieve this goal. Why would he come all this way for Galahad?

“Stay awake,” King Arthur commands. Galahad almost complains aloud. He wants to rest right now. But orders are orders, and Galahad isn’t going to be a disloyal knight at the very end after living the majority of his life in accordance with the principles of a knight. It wouldn’t be worth it. “Can you hear me? Can you see me? Are you able to respond?”

Galahad tries nodding to answer ‘yes’ to all the questions. He only manages to throw his head forward and back once. It is enough for King Arthur, though. He sighs in relief, setting a paw over his chest. Galahad’s voice has deserted him, leaving him unable to remind King Arthur that he doesn’t have long. At some point, his body will succumb even when his heart wants to remain in this moment.

King Arthur lifts his paws. They hover around Galahad’s body. The silver knight watches a thousand expressions ripple across the king’s face, each one more extreme and desperate than the last. Galahad must be hallucinating from blood loss because he’s certain he hears the king curse under his breath before he grabs onto Galahad’s paw. King Arthur’s thumbs hook around Galahad’s palm while his other fingers curl around Galahad’s wrist. He shoves the paw against his chest, pressing it tight enough that Galahad can feel the king’s thundering heartbeat despite how floaty he feels.

“Use your Soul Surge on me.” It’s another command, one filled with more determination than anguish like earlier. It isn’t as easy to follow, though. While Galahad technically does have the necessary power to activate his Soul Surge, he can’t bring himself to do it. His ability is fundamentally different from the ones the other swordmasters have. Galahad creates a bounded field around him that allows him to siphon the soul energy from anyone—friend or foe—inside the circular area. Galahad can technically use this siphoned energy to heal himself, but it’s difficult. Galahad would need a lot of energy to heal himself right now. And more than that, this is King Arthur. Galahad can’t do that to his king; what kind of knight would he be?

“I know what I’m doing. It’s fine. I trust you. So, please, just use my soul,” Arthur continues when Galahad doesn’t act. The silver knight hesitates for a moment longer. King Arthur should know what he’s asking Galahad to do right now. Although Lancelot helped Galahad keep the majority of the world (including almost all of the Knights of the Round Table) in the dark about his Soul Surge, Arthur knows every single detail because he’s the king. He needs to know all about his knights, and anyone that could be a threat to him.

Galahad could be a threat to him. He could hurt King Arthur by siphoning too much. But the king looks like he’s going to hurt himself anyway to get Galahad to act. The knight takes one more shallow breath before he sets the paw that isn’t touching Arthur’s chest to the ground. He activates his Soul Surge, causing two cyan rings to appear beneath him and Arthur. The moment the rings are set in place, they begin to transfer soul energy from King Arthur’s body to Galahad’s body.

In an instant, Galahad’s wounds begin healing. The one in his stomach knits itself together first, drawing back as much blood as possible to help with the process. After that, other wounds that wouldn’t kill him on their own but would in combination with the others start to heal. Galahad’s mind spirals with a delirium similar to intoxication, but he forcibly grabs onto his sanity when he fears he’s gone too far. He cuts his Soul Surge off as soon as possible, ignoring the aches and bruises left on his body.

Galahad’s eyes open all the way. He takes in the king’s appearance. Arthur looks sickly. He hunches forward. He heaves with each breath. A faint sheen of sweat pulls his fur down, complementary with his drooping eyes. In a flurry of panic, Galahad moves his paws to the king’s face, searching for signs of both life and death. He thankfully finds more of the former than the latter, especially when Arthur tilts his head back to smile at Galahad. He moves his paws, setting them over Galahad’s. His voice is weak, but Galahad can hear the relief and happiness mingling among his tone. “See? I told you… it’d be fine. We’re both… alive.”

“We’re both alive,” Galahad murmurs. He isn’t ungrateful, merely surprised. He didn’t want to die, but he accepted it as an inevitability. But the king risked his life—gave up the energy of his very soul—to keep that from coming true.

“I’m… going to take… a nap now… wake me up… later,” Arthur mentions. He doesn’t wait for a response. He pitches forward. Galahad catches him quickly. He checks for a pulse. When he finds a rather strong one, his heart falls into a sense of ease. He would be executed if he was the reason for the king’s death, and not even Sir Lancelot could save him from that.

He might still get punished, especially if he carries the king back into the castle while he’s unconscious, but Galahad will accept that. He’s alive because of the king. Arthur came out all this way because of him, too. Galahad isn’t going to kick up a fuss. He’s just going to bring the king back to his chambers to rest.

He’ll find a way to thank him when he wakes up.

He knows even before he opens his eyes that he isn’t alone in the room. There is another presence ghosting along the edges of his periphery. Someone is watching him intently, perhaps waiting for him to wake or waiting to see if he never does. They don’t make themselves obvious or discreet, hovering in that middleground where they can be mistaken for an object or a phantom of the night rather than an individual.

Arthur can tell all of this without looking at the figure, but he gets even more details about them when he finally pushes his eyelids upward. He tears himself away from the fitful sleep he was caught in before. He doesn’t even need to sit up in his bed. The figure is standing on the wooden footboard. They stand straight up, no signs of being unbalanced despite the precarious position.

The late evening sun sends light in through the window, and there’s a candle flickering at Arthur’s bedside. He uses both of these to determine the nature of the figure watching him. It has the same basic outline as the townspeople or Merlina, not animalistic like the other half of the nation. To that end, it shows feminine characteristics in their body. Arthur knows this because the creature does not wear clothes. There’s not a single scrap of fabric on them. This also means that Arthur can clearly see the creature’s Fae heritage. From their knees down and their elbows down, their skin is covered in a hardened black substance with patches of dark, blood red ridges. This is also present in the flesh right above her heart and in the skin around her eyes, making it look like she’s wearing a mask. This, alongside her waist-length red hair, frames her yellow eyes, glowing and bubbling like lava in the darkness of black sclera.

“You know,” Arthur says, voice still partially held in the depths of slumber. He ignores the scratchiness, continuing to speak as he throws himself into an upright position. “I don’t really remember my past, but I have a feeling this is one of the creepiest ways I’ve ever been woken up.”

“Arthur,” The creature says with a voice that is rather silken and soothing to the ears. It doesn’t match the rest of her aesthetic in the least. “I need to converse with you.”

“Let’s go sit over there. I don’t want to have this conversation here,” Arthur says, rubbing one of his eyes with the heel of his paw. He swings his legs over the side. Once his feet touch the ground, he walks over to the sitting area where Arthur is permitted to relax. There are also a handful of guests he’s allowed to entertain in this area. Whatever this creature is, she isn’t on the list, but Arthur thinks the nobility would be more aghast at him holding a conference with her while he’s in bed than if they were sitting across from each other.

The creature turns around to follow him with her eyes. Once Arthur settles down on the couch, she steps off the footboard. It’s a long drop to the floor, but she doesn’t stumble or fall. There’s no wince of pain. There is only gracefulness as she carries herself from the bed to the chair across the rug from the king. She sinks down on the cushion. She doesn’t lean against the back nor does she sit on the edge. She’s somewhere in the middle, showing that she’s somewhat comfortable and understands how seats work.

“I believe I have the right to ask a few questions since you’ve interrupted my slumber. Who are you? How did you get in here? What do you want to converse about? Questions like those. It would be appreciated if you could answer honestly. You can trust me. I haven’t called for my knights,” Arthur tells her.

The creature narrows her eyes thoughtfully. In the end, she releases a breath. She sets her hands in her lap. For a naked creature that snuck into his bed chambers, she does carry herself with a certain measure of decorum. “The name my monster bestowed upon is Morgan. It has often been extended to Morgan le Fey by the unseemly masses. They came to give me that name due to my Fae nature. As for how I entered, it was through the window. The spells laced inside the glass were cast for the former king. They will not work for you. If you do not wish for encounters like this with hostile parties, I would suggest ordering your royal mage to reconcile this problem.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Arthur smiles. He leans back, showing that he’s completely at ease in this situation. “I couldn’t help but notice that you are not including yourself in ‘hostile parties.’ Are you not a threat to me?”

“I am a threat to you. I merely hold no ill will towards you. My enemy was the former king. I have contrived many plans in order to kill him. His death has already befallen him. While the thought of this happening without my involvement irks me, I do not possess the same hatred for you as I did for him,” Morgan explains. Her voice certainly carries the cadence of someone who had an undeniable, unfathomably hatred for the illusion that once ruled Camelot.

“That’s good,” Arthur notes. 

“In some ways,” Morgan agrees. She lifts her claws to push a lock of her hair behind a sharp, elf-like ear. “In other ways, it is troubling for me. I have concocted many schemes to put the former in the grave. These plans were still in place when he was defeated. I have gone about dismantling the majority of them even before you came to claim the crown as the ‘rightful king.’ Unfortunately, there is one scheme that I have no authority over anymore. It is still active. It still lurks across the realm, waiting for the right moment to kill whoever sits upon the throne. It does not know the difference between you and the former king. It does not care to learn the difference, either. If you do not prepare yourself, King Arthur of Camelot, you will be killed and your kingdom will fall into ruin.”

Morgan rises to her feet. Arthur hurries to join her. He reaches toward her, but he keeps himself from touching her. “Wait a minute. Is that all? You aren’t going to help me?”

“I have helped you. I warned you. That should be sufficient,” Morgan shrugs. She walks back to the window. She steps onto the sill. She turns around to look into his eyes. “I said that I do not hate you. I never said that I like you. You should be grateful that I told you this much. You will receive no such warnings from me in the future.”

Morgan turns around. From her back, black and red tendrils shoot outward. She steps off the ledge. With his supernatural speed, Arthur reaches the windowsill. He watches as the tendrils fold together into wings. Like a horrid bat, Morgan flies off into the sunset, disappearing into the growing darkness.

Arthur is left behind, wondering what he’s supposed to do now.

Chapter Text

Arthur sits on the arm of the chair in his private chambers. One ankle is crossed over the other, and the heels of his paws are pressed into the chair’s arm on either side of his rear end. He stares across the room at the windows. Merlina stands in front of them. The light of the early morning sun outlines silhouette in the moments when she isn’t casting spells or pulling the magic out of the glass to identify where the problem areas are. Arthur doesn’t entirely understand it since he isn’t well-versed in magic, but he recognizes that Merlina is rewriting the spells to make sure that the current version of Arthur is being protected instead of the former, illusory king.

“Do you know anything about Morgan le Fey?” Arthur asks, filling the silence of the room. Merlina hasn’t said anything since she was summoned into the room. Arthur told her about his encounter with the strange Fae, and Merlina only showed him a tense expression that hid but didn’t lack emotional depth. Merlina obviously knows more about Morgan le Fey, and if Arthur wants to figure out what the Fae is planning—or what she did plan in the past—he’ll have to learn more about her. What kind of scheme is he looking to thwart?

Merlina hesitates. She glances at him from the corner of her eye. She returns to navigating the spells imbued into the outer wall. When she finishes with her current task, she pulls her staff against her shoulder. She wraps both of her hands around it, trying to make herself look as small as possible. Inevitably, she sighs softly. Merlina avoids looking at him, but she quits hiding from the truth they both know she knows. “Allow me to speak freely, Your Majesty… Lady Morgan was one of my grandfather’s students. She was a Fae who came from the forests to learn magic. I don’t know what Grandfather saw in her, but he used to say that Lady Morgan was his best student. She was gifted in nearly every field of magic, and she spent all of her time studying it. Grandfather said the nobles hated Lady Morgan, not only because she was a Fae but also because she didn’t understand our sensibilities. I presume she wasn’t wearing clothes when she came to see you?” 

Arthur nods. Merlina laughs under her breath, a touch of fond remembrance in her eyes. “It took Grandfather forever to get her to wear something. She didn’t want to do anything that wasn’t magic. At least, that’s how it was until she and the former king began to hate each other. I don’t know what caused the rift between them. I don’t know if Grandfather knew what happened, either. If he did, he never told anyone. All he told me was to stay out of Lady Morgan and the king’s fighting. Grandfather warned me that neither of them would care that I was a child or that I wanted to help. They would do whatever it took to destroy the other. Per the king’s orders, Lady Morgan was sent away, but she never stopped trying to kill him. The knights were forced to deal with her many times. When I became the royal mage, I was also sent to stop her. Unfortunately, Lady Morgan is entirely different from me in terms of magic. I can dispel and counter her spells, but I cannot guarantee that I would win if we were to duel.”

“And now she’s stopped,” Arthur notes. He closes his eyes. He tries to imagine what Merlina was like as a child, or what the castle was like when Morgan le Fey was Merlin’s student and the former king was still ruling. Arthur doesn’t have any idea what either of those events look like. It might be because he isn’t traditionally from this realm. He came from another one despite his status as a king. That makes him feel a little better, but it also means it’s more difficult for him to figure out what Morgan le Fey and the king had going on. What event tore them apart? It must have been terrible if they wanted to kill each other—if neither of them gave up their goal until one of them was dead. Even now, Morgan le Fey seemed more upset that she wasn’t the one to kill the illusory Arthur than she is happy that he’s finally dead.

“She claims to be. I do not believe she is lying or trying to trick you. As long as you do not cross her, she will not become Your Majesty’s enemy,” Merlina answers. She turns back to the windows. She runs her fingers along the glass. Pink ripples extend outward. It covers all the panes before dissipating. She releases a tight breath, letting her arm fall away. She smiles at the king. She sinks into a curtsey. “The spells have been recalibrated, Your Majesty. They shall protect you from any intruder who dares attempt at entering your private chamber.”

“Thanks, Merlina. And thank you for answering my question. I’m sure it was hard to think about the past like that,” Arthur tells her. He doesn’t entirely know how this new information helps him figure out what Morgan le Fey’s final plan against the king is, but there might be a clue hidden in Merlina’s recollections that will be revealed when he learns more. Arthur will just look for more information from the other knights since Merlina said they’ve dealt with her schemes before.

Merlina shakes her head slightly. She looks down at the ground with a fond expression. “Not at all, Your Majesty. I dearly loved my grandfather. I cannot lie and say there is no pain when I remember him, but I do not wish to forget these memories. Thank you for giving me the space to speak about them to you now.”

“I’m always here to listen,” Arthur admits. With those words, he dismisses Merlina to return to her workshop in another part of the castle. Arthur frowns slightly as he watches her leave the room. She didn’t mean it this way, of course, but her words strike him like an arrow through the heart. He doesn’t know if he has a grandfather. He actually doubts it. But he must have someone that he cares about in the same way Merlina cares for the man who inspired her name. In this other world, the one he can’t remember, there must be people that he likes to reminisce about. There must be people who he wants to recall stories about.

Arthur grits his teeth. Pain flares inside his head for a few moments at the mere thought of trying to remember his past. He reaches to rub his forehead with his fingertips. When the pain dwindles enough for him to realize he isn’t breathing, he forces his chest into motion. He considers the headache that came upon him. Would it truly be so bad to remember his past? Is he truly terrified of what he’s done, or is there something more about this matter?

Arthur would like to pick it apart, but the pain slams against him even harder than before, feeling like a swirling inferno throughout his blood vessels. His legs give out, sending him crashing onto the ground. He stares at the ground with blurry vision. He hears a pittering sound. As he blinks rapidly, he sees liquid droplets on the floor. He believes they are tears for a moment, but he realizes quickly that it’s only sweat. He sits back on his haunches, wiping his forehead with his forearm. He rubs the sweat off. He could question why his body is reacting so violently to remembering, but that’s not what he needs to be thinking about right now. That’s only going to cause more pain which he really doesn’t want to go through right now. Additionally, he has something else he needs to be working on—something arguably more important.

Arthur reaches behind him to grab the chair. He pulls himself onto his feet. Once he’s settled, he straightens out his outfit as best he can. He gets rid of any traces of whatever just happened to him. When he looks proper and feels better, Arthur leaves his chambers through the doors. There are two guards stationed outside, and neither one of them looks at the king as if there is something wrong with him. Arthur lets his smile show when he rounds the corner to another part of the castle.

Arthur continues through the many halls, growing rather accustomed to the layout of this place. It takes him no time at all to reach his destination: the knight’s quarters. There’s an entire wing of the palace used by the Knights of the Round Table. The other knights part of the army have a separate building, but the best of the best are awarded certain privileges for their efforts. This was started by the former king, and Arthur saw no reason to take it down since he values his knights so much that giving them a wing of a large castle is absolutely nothing. If Arthur could, he’d let everyone in the kingdom live in the castle, though he understands that would cause many problems that he doesn’t want a paw in solving due to their complexity.

“Greetings, my king,” A voice calls out. Arthur’s lips twitch into a slight frown when he realizes someone is standing in the hallway outside one of the rooms. Arthur’s expression brightens after he recognizes Lancelot. The knight stands in his complete armor in front of one of the doors. His spine is completely straight, and one paw lingers on the hilt of Arondight.

“Sir Lancelot,” Arthur responds. He approaches the knight in the hallway, standing right in front of him. He glances over Lancelot’s shoulder at the door behind him. As far as he remembers, this isn’t Lancelot’s room. Arthur doesn’t know if that makes his current actions stranger than if it were. “What are you doing?”

“Sir Galahad is being punished for his actions on his most recent mission. He is to be confined to his room. I have been made responsible for ensuring he does not leave,” Lancelot explains.

Arthur frowns. “Hey, now, I’m the one who told him to siphon my soul energy. You can’t punish him for following orders.”

“I assure you, Your Majesty, we are not punishing him for that. He is being punished for going on a mission without any allies when he was explicitly told it was necessary. He could have lost his own life, and he endangered the lives of the nearby townspeople,” Lancelot promises, slamming his fist against his chest in a respectful manner. “Do not worry, my king. Sir Galahad is being treated with the utmost care. He is being fed properly. His room is being cleaned at the appropriate times. I guard him when he goes out for training.”

“Can I see him?” Arthur asks.

“As you wish.” Lancelot raises his paw to grab the door handle. He opens the door by backing into it. Arthur nods at him as he passes into the room. He looks around the space. It is, as Lancelot said, clean. It’s also rather simple in design, but Arthur isn’t going to judge Galahad for that when the only reason his own room is decorated is because other people did that on his behalf. There’s no reason to clutter one’s space when all the adventures happen outside.

“Your Majesty?” Sir Galahad questions, looking up from the book he was reading on the bed. Galahad tosses the book aside, hurrying to the edge of the bed. He is about to slide off of it (likely to bow), but Arthur stops him by raising his paw. Galahad freezes, though he continues to look uncomfortably about the matter. He looks between Arthuer and Lancelot. The king doesn’t know what Lancelot does, but he assumes he made an effort to calm Galahad down because the silver knight’s expression relaxes. He looks back at the king. “Might I inquire about the nature of your visit, Your Majesty? Is there a reason you have personally come to visit me?”

“No specific reason, I’m afraid. I came to ask the knights more about Morgan le Fey. I met Lance in the hallway. He told me that you’ve been put on house arrest. That sucks. I don’t know how you’re able to do it. I would’ve gone stir-crazy and busted out already,” Arthur explains. Galahad blinks at him for several seconds, not quite understanding. Arthur coughs into his fist. He tries again. “I mean, you’re confined to your room. I would’ve escaped already if I were in your place since I’m not good at being stuck in one place for too long.”

“Oh. It’s quite alright, Your Majesty. Of all the punishments I could have received, I do not mind this one. I have been able to read literature. There has been an increase in the amount of books in the kingdom after a new magic was developed for the binding process,” Galahad explains. He reaches across the bed for the book he was reading. He flips it over to show Arthur. It has been made from red leather. There is gold lettering on the front, but Arthur doesn’t understand it. Must be another language.

“If you’re having fun,” Arthur shrugs.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” Lancelot calls out behind him. The knight steps forward to be at the king’s side, incorporating himself into Arthur and Galahad’s conversation. The attention turns toward him as he continues speaking, “You said that you came here looking to ask about Morgan le Fey. Is this true?”

“Yes, that’s right! I need to learn more about her. Merlina mentioned that the knights have dealt with her over the years. Tell me what you two know,” Arthur snaps his fingers. He was about to leave without getting to the heart of what he came to this area of the palace for. Lancelot really is dependable.

“Unfortunately, I have not crossed paths with Lady Morgan. Dame Percival says that the prophecy about the Holy Grail came from her, though,” Galahad answers, looking a little upset that there’s only a little information he can share. Arthur is about to reassure him that he’s fine when Galahad’s expression twists together. “I am also aware that she is a Fae. I do not know her exact typing, but there are rumors that she is able to lie.”

“Isn’t everyone?” Arthur arches a brow.

Galahad shakes his head. “No, my king. The Fae are different from other mortals in several ways. Their nature is entirely incompatible. They have unique appearances. They have a proficiency in magic. They are poisoned by iron and some other precious metals. If they learn a creature’s True Name, that creature is bound to the Fae in eternal servitude. At the same time, learning a Fae’s True Name grants the person unfathomable power. And, as I mentioned, the Fae are incapable of lying. They truly are unique creatures.”

“How could they be so different?” Arthur doesn’t think he knows that much about the Fae. A few of Galahad’s facts struck Arthur as familiar, but he knows he wouldn’t have been able to recite them if someone were to ask him about the Fae beforehand.

“The Fae are originally monsters of the Underworld. They have spent so much time in this realm that they adapted. They are developing a soul. It is said that if a Fae is able to complete their soul, they will become a mortal. Some Fae desire this outcome. Others do not want to lose their immortality and power. In any case, no one knows for certain if this is true as no Fae has ever become a mortal,” Lancelot answers. Arthur gives him a funny look when he notices a strange quality to Lancelot’s voice. This sounds more… personal than it should. Then again, Lancelot’s sister, Maria, is a nymph. She must be a Fae who wants a soul. Arthur wonders if he could help her get one. “As for Lady Morgan… she was once a member of the royal court as the royal mage’s apprentice. This mage was Merlin at the time, not his granddaughter, Merlina. Lady Morgan was a woman of many virtues and sins. She and the former king angered each other one evening. Lady Morgan was ousted from the court. She didn’t start acting out her schemes until Merlin disappeared. We don’t know if he was stopping them on our behalf or if Lady Morgan didn’t want to attack when he was still able to be hurt by her actions or by the king.”

“Does no one know what caused them to start fighting? I mean, they wanted to kill each other. You don’t do that over a petty squabble,” Arthur reminds the two knights.

Galahad shakes his head, but if he never met Lady Morgan, it makes sense that he wouldn’t know. Lancelot, however, also sounds earnest when he denies it. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I am not aware of what happened between them. I am uncertain if anyone except for the two of them know. The other knights might have a better idea.”

“I was planning on asking them, anyway,” Arthur admits. He turns his entire body toward Lancelot. “Have you stopped any of her schemes? What were they like? What did she normally do?”

“It was mostly monster attacks. She would summon monsters from the Underworld in strategic positions to put the former king on the defensive without any knights to assist him. This was not her only means, however. She hired numerous mercenaries and wandering knights to assassinate the king at his most vulnerable moments. She used many kinds of magic to trap and torment him. If the former king did not possess Excalibur’s scabbard, she would have succeeded in killing him a long time ago. She was very clever. Yes, if there is one truth about Lady Morgan you must remember, it is that she is clever. She knows how to get around her inability to lie to set up some nasty traps,” Lancelot answers. Arthur doesn’t like the sound of that, but it’s the exact kind of information he was looking for.

Did Morgan le Fey summon a particularly vicious monster from the Underworld? Arthur believes it is that one. If it were a wandering mercenary or knight, Morgan le Fey wouldn’t have any trouble convincing them to stop hunting the current king. If it was a spell, she would have been able to dispel it if she were the one to cast it. Arthur isn’t going to count either of those options out just yet, but he thinks he’s going to have to face a monster of epic proportions.

“It sounds like I should talk to the other knights. I’ll pay special attention to Dame Percival,” Arthur says, glancing at Galahad since he was the one to bring up the female knight. 

“She should be at the training grounds. I believe most of the knights are down there,” Galahad says.

“Stay safe, my king,” Lancelot inputs.

“Thank you, and I will,” Arthur promises. He waves goodbye to Lancelot and Galahad. He turns on his heel, leaving the room. He hears the two knights exchange words between each other. Arthur decides to close the door for that reason. He hopes they have a very long conversation that ends with them both feeling comfortable. He hopes they’re comfortable with each other one day, at least. He doesn’t want them to continue hurting themselves and each other as they have been.

As before, Arthur walks through the castle with a destination in mind. It doesn’t take him long to head outside to the training grounds. A lot of the time, the knights are out here, and today isn’t an exception. There are several of the apprentices and squires, but there are also four Knights of the Round Table. Dame Percival and Sir Tristan are standing along the edges, watching Sir Bedivere and Sir Agravain dueling one another. They seem to be talking to each other about the fight. They stop when they notice Arthur approaching them. Instantly, they are trying to bow to him. Arthur waves his paw to stop them. “There’s no need for that. I’m here to speak with you two.”

Percival and Tristan share a look with one another. Arthur smiles at them. “Don’t be like that. No one’s in trouble. I’m just trying to learn more about Morgan le Fey. Sir Galahad mentioned that you told him Morgan le Fey was the one to give you the prophecy about the Holy Grail, Damne Percival.”

“Oh. Yes, that is true, Your Majesty. I told Sir Galahad that, and I did not lie to him. This was some years ago during the reign of the previous king. A few knights had returned to the castle to guard a banquet the king was hosting. I was among those knights. Lady Morgan was among those who were invited. She entertained the guests by revealing their futures. They were minor predictions more about fortune than genuine revelations about the future. This was until she was seized by a prophecy about the Holy Grail. This spurred several knights—including myself—to go on a quest for the grail. I was one of the last knights to continue searching for it. I found it alongside Sir Galahad and a knight from a foreign land. The grail blessed the three of us, and Sir Galahad and I brought the grail back to the castle. Lady Morgan was exiled from the royal court when we returned. We did not know why, nor could anyone give us a proper answer.”

“I do not know the truth myself, but the most prevalent rumor is that Lady Morgan told the king a prophecy he did not like. He undermined her authority before threatening to commit many sins against her. This rumor was silenced by the knights, but I have never forgotten it,” Sir Tristan adds. He looks around suddenly, his dark quills swaying as he does. When he returns his attention to Arthur and Percival, he whispers to them. “Lady Iseult was one of the last individuals to see Lady Morgan before she disappeared into the forest. If you desire it, my king, I can invite her to the palace to speak to you about what she remembers of that time.”

“Sir Tristan, do not—” Percival starts warningly.

“That would be great,” Arthur interrupts her. He knows what Percival is getting at. Sir Tristan and Lady Iseult are lovers. They are not supposed to be, though. Arthur heard that there’s a prophecy that says their union means that destruction will befall the kingdom. Arthur doesn’t know how gave that prophecy (maybe Morgan le Fey herself), but he refuses to believe it. Or, rather, he refuses to let it come true. People should be allowed to love who they want to love, and nothing, not even fate, should keep people apart if they want to be together. True freedom is having a future of infinite possibilities, and Arthur doesn’t want any of his knights thinking that they should succumb to the chains of fate.

Before the conversation can continue, there’s a loud noise coming from in front of them. Everyone looks over at the training grounds. Agravain has knocked Bedivere onto the ground. He aims his lance at Bedivere’s neck. Agravain narrows his eyes. Bedivere lifts his paws defensively. Tristan jerks forward, and Percival tries drawing her sacred sword. Arthur claps his hands together, calling out, “That was amazing, you two! Sir Bedivere, you’re getting so much better. We should start training together. Oh, and Sir Agravain, we should definitely spar, too. I’m sure it’ll be a lot of fun.”

“If the king desires it,” Agravain says from beneath his silver helmet. He opens his paw. His lance falls to the ground, dissipating into red-colored magic. Bedivere rises to his feet on his own, dusting off his armor and picking up his special spear from the ground. It’s currently in its extended form, so he starts to snap all the pieces together.

Arthur approaches the two of them. “Unfortunately, we can’t do it right now. I’m on a mission to learn more about Morgan le Fey. I don’t suppose the two of you know anything about her.”

Agravain’s body language tenses. He reaches upward to grab his chest. He taps his fingers against it. Bedivere looks between Agravain and Arthur for a few seconds. When he completely looks away, Agravain speaks. “I allowed Lady Morgan to imbue me with a magical project she was working on. She also taught me how to use illusion magic. I was the one to chase her out of the castle per the king’s orders.”

“Do you know why the king ordered it?” Arthur asks. He knows he should be learning more about her schemes, but he’s so curious about what happened between the former King Arthur and Morgan le Fey.

The jackal shakes his head. “I do not. A knight never questions his lord.”

Arthur doesn’t like the way he said that, but he tilts his eyes toward Bedivere. “Do you know anything about what happened to her? Or even what she’s done over the years?”

Bedivere shrugs his shoulders at Arthur. The king nods acceptingly. He didn’t think he was going to get much information about the truth since all the knights are certain none of them know. Since that’s a dead end, Arthur sets his paws on his sides. “Well, what about what she’s done after her exile? What kind of schemes did she put all of you through?” 

“She usually sends monsters after us with the purpose of separating us from our king. I know that she’s caught us all in her various traps before. She’s never tried to kill us, but she also doesn’t care about our lives. She wasn’t above letting us die if she thought we were in her way,” Percival says, approaching to stand at Arthur’s side. Tristan takes the other side, narrowing his eyes at Agravain. The jackal ignores both the cat and the hedgehog, crossing his arms over his chest. Through the shadows of his helmet, Arthur can see a sneer.

“Hmm… Sir Kay would know more than us. He was with the king most frequently. He would have stumbled upon her schemes more than us,” Tristan admits.

“Well, where’s Sir Kay?” Arthur asks.

“Drunk in a tavern,” Agravain snorts.

“It’s still morning….?”

“Sir Kay is known for drinking after he has a… bad day. Sir Lamorak and Sir Gawain went with him. I’m sure it was for Sir Kay’s protection. If it was to convince him to come back, it likely failed. Those two don’t know how to say no to drinks,” Percival explains to Arthur, waving her paws in the air to help get her point across.

“Stupid drunkards,” Agravain adds.

“Sir Agravain,” Tristan threatens without saying a single word about what he’s going to do if Agravain continues. The jackal crosses his arms over his chest, and Arthur just knows he rolled his eyes.

“It’s no problem. That just means they’re all at the tavern. I know where that’s at. I can even pick up Caliburn from the blacksmith while I’m in the capital. Thanks for helping me out!” Arthur tells them. He breaks away from the group, waving his arm above his head.

“Wait, Your Majesty, allow one of us to escort you—” Percival starts.

“No need. I’ll be in and out of the capital in a flash. I’ll see you all later.” Before one of them can start arguing again, Arthur twists on his heel. He begins running. It doesn’t take long for him to reach speeds that other people wouldn’t be able to dream about. He wishes he could continue running for a long time, but he’s forced to slow down when he enters the capital after a short period of running. Arthur washes his annoyance away by soaking in the atmosphere of the townspeople walking around the streets. None of them recognize Arthur as their king, likely because they wouldn’t expect the king to arrive randomly and without any escorts. It’s all the better for Arthur. He hates all that attention on him.

Arthur hurries through the bustling areas surrounding the castle until he reaches the blacksmith’s shop. Obviously, the blacksmith is there, standing behind his counter. He is talking to what Arthur presumes is a customer. It’s a figure clad in sterling white armor, so bright and shiny that it nearly hurts Arthur’s eyes to look at. The knight and blacksmith lift their attention from each other to Arthur. The king smiles at them both as he gets closer to the counter.

“Your—”

“You don’t have to call me that,” Arthur interrupts him with a good-natured chuckle. He crosses his arms over the counter, leaning forward and meeting the blacksmith’s baby blue eyes. It feels wrong for the fox to treat Arthur with such reverence. Arthur just knows they should be more familiar with each other, and he’s going to make that come true no matter what. “I’m here for Caliburn. I hope he hasn’t been annoying you too much.”

“Of course not! Caliburn is always lovely to have around,” The blacksmith says. He leaps away from the counter. He leaves through a door out the back. This leaves Arthur alone with the white knight. He turns his attention toward the figure. He’s somewhat on the shorter side, but there’s a presence to him that Arthur cannot ignore. As Arthur tries figuring it out, he realizes that the knight has a sword on his hilt. It isn’t just any sword, either. It’s Clarent. Arthur was told that it was one of the first swords he used when he came to this realm the first time. The knights claimed that it went missing. How did this knight end up with Clarent?

The blacksmith emerges from the back. He holds Caliburn inside his scabbard. Arthur takes the sword. As he ties it against the belt around his waist, the blacksmith grabs the edge of his cloak. He pulls it down. Arthur leans down, listening to the blacksmith talk. “This is Mordred. He came to look at swords.” The blacksmith whispers the next part into Arthur’s ears. “He wants to join the Knights of the Round Table.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. He straightens his spine. He approaches the short knight. He smiles while the knight tilts his head back to stare at Arthur. For a moment, the light passes through the slit of his helmet, showing bright green eyes. “You’re in luck. I’m close to the king,” Arthur winks, “so I can help you become a Knight of the Round Table. Let’s go meet some of the other knights.”

Arthur leads the way to the entrance. Before he leaves, he looks over his shoulder. He waves at the blacksmith, “Thanks for taking care of Caliburn for me.”

“It’s nothing. Your patronage is appreciated. So is your company! I hope to see you again soon!” The blacksmith claims.

Arthur’s smile widens. “Of course!”

With farewells exchanged, Arthur and Mordred leave the blacksmith’s shop. They rejoin the streets. They are attracting attention now, but more people are staring at Modred than they are at Arthur. The king thinks he’s still safe.

“So, why do you want to join the Knights of the Round Table?” Arthur asks.

“It is my purpose,” Modred responds. There’s an odd quality to his voice. It isn’t an odd emotion. Rather, it’s as if something is purposely distorting his voice. It isn’t natural. Arthur doesn’t say anything about it, though. His voice could simply be like that, or maybe there are circumstances he doesn’t want to reveal like a curse.

“Is it something you want to do?” 

Mordred doesn’t answer him. Arthur frowns. He doesn’t like this. He wants all of his knights to have a desire to be part of the round table. He doesn’t want anyone serving because they feel it’s necessary or their only path in life. Arthur was having this same discussion with himself when it came to Tristan and Iseult. If he’s going to be king, he wants to make sure everyone in his kingdom is happy. For as long as he sits on the throne, he’s going to give people as much freedom as they can, teaching them how to live with it and defend it. Modred will just be another person he’s going to teach this lesson to.

Arthur and Modred make it to the tavern without any other conversation. Since it is nearing noon, there aren’t too many people inside the first room. This makes it extremely clear to see Kay, Gawain, and Lamorak in the corner. As the other knights predicted, the three are drinking. They have cups left on the table. Thankfully, Arthur doesn’t think they’re drunk yet. Gawain and Lamorak are still able to hold a conversation. Kay lies face down on the table, but that might be more because of the bad day Percival said he’s having than because he’s disconnected from reality.

“My king,” Gawain says first, noticing him when he approaches their table. Gawain’s eyes flick toward Mordred curiously. Lamorak doesn’t bother looking at Modred, keeping his attention on the king. Kay leaves his head on the table, but he turns it enough to look at Arthur. The azure hedgehog immediately agrees that Kay is having a bad day. “Is there a reason you have sought us out?”

“I’ve been asking all the knights about Morgan le Fey.” Mordred twitches beside him. That’s something to keep note of. “What do the three of you know about her?”

“She slept around,” Lamorak states. He immediately gets hit in the back of the hand by Gawain. Lamorak curses, turning around to glare at Gawain. “What was that for?”

“Do not be so vulgar. Lady Morgan did not… ‘sleep around.’ Her relations to the men and women are none of our concern,” Gawain claims. He turns his eyes back to the king. “Lady Morgan was a student of Merlin. She was a talented mage. She and the king fought one evening, and she was sent out of the kingdom. She returned to the wilds owned by the Fae for she was one of them.”

“She was an annoyance,” Kay continues. He throws his head upward in time for Gawain to hit the table. Kay’s body is loose as he moves, but he speaks in complete sentences with barely a slur. “Once she was kicked out, she did all sorts of stuff to kill the king. She fatally wounded him so many times. But he kept coming back. He wouldn’t stay dead. Except now he is and he’s not coming back.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur murmurs, knowing all about Kay’s history. He was told bits and pieces of it from the other knights, but Kay himself has shared a few details over their time together. “You do not need to speak more. I have learned all the information I needed about her. You three may return to your drinking, but I would request that you return to the castle to rest instead.”

Gawain and Lamorak share a look. Kay only narrows his eyes at Arthur, squinting as if this is the first time he’s seeing him. Kay releases a long, drawn-out sigh. He stumbles as he gets onto his feet, but he doesn’t once he’s balanced. “Fine. I’ll go. Good luck with your search or whatever you’re doing.”

Kay walks out of the tavern like that. Gawain and Lamorak look absolutely befuddled. Arthur smiles, watching Kay go. His smile doesn’t disappear when he notices Mordred watching him intently. The white knight looks away, but Arthur knows something important just clicked in Mordred’s head.

They walk out of Camelot Castle, right into the wilderness. The king—Arthur—continues the conversation the entire time. Modred hardly needs to participate in it, but he finds himself answering on occasion because of a mere whim. He isn’t good at speaking—it was not one of the lessons brutally taught to him—but he knows enough to comprehend and respond.

It is strange, Mordred thinks. Arthur is coming out all this way because he’s certain Morgan le Fey summoned a dangerous monster from the Underworld to kill him. He wants to challenge that monster out here where he has no guards except for Mordred, which shouldn’t even count since Arthur doesn’t know how skilled Mordred is or how willing he actually is to be loyal to the king. It almost borders on funny because Mordred is certain he’s the monster that Arthur is going to challenge. Mordred would laugh, but he physically can’t. He never learned how. If he did, though, would he laugh? He doesn’t think so. He doesn’t find this situation funny even though he should.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Arthur yells into the surrounding wood, taunting its many predatory inhabitants to come after him. The sacred sword, Caliburn, rebukes Arthur for his actions. 

As the two of them start arguing, Mordred interrupts to ask, “Do you truly wish to fight this beast summoned by Morgan le Fey?”

Caliburn starts a speech by saying it’s their duty. Arthur, however, takes a moment to consider it. He rolls his shoulders before answering. “If I can, I’d prefer not to fight. I like racing way more. But if this beast is after my life, I have to defend myself. If it wants to destroy Camelot, I have to protect my kingdom. You understand that, don’t you, Mordred?”

Mordred does not. Neither does Caliburn if the sword’s complaints are anything to go by. But Mordred won’t fight Arthur about his decision. He instead bows slightly in the way he’s seen the other knights do (he doesn’t know what it means, but he’s grown used to repeating actions). “Very well.”

“Very well?” Arthur repeats. Mordred removes his helmet. Not with his paws, but with his latent abilities. Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise. “You… you look like me.”

Yes, it is rather strange. They are both hedgehogs. They are both blue even if it’s two different shades. Mordred also believes that he is younger than Arthur. His quills are shorter just as his stature is. Another difference is that Modred is covered in scars, visible gashes that criss-cross his face. They hurt when he received them and they hurt now, but he was made to endure them. Maybe he should be grateful. Without them, how would he be able to differentiate himself from the king?

He supposes by using his true form. A blue hedgehog is not what he was born as. It is a form Morgan le Fey made him develop so that he might fit in smaller spaces and blend in with society. He was meant to join the Knights of the Round Table, getting close to the king to steal the scabbard and slay him on sight. That was his entire purpose. But this king doesn’t have the scabbard, and there’s no reason for Mordred to join the Knights of the Round Table.

Or to hide his true form. In an instant, his armor merges with his body because it is part of his true outer shell. He returns to the state of a dragon. In this way, he is a massive beast with white scales. His eyes remain verdant green, but he has blue accents all throughout his form. More to test his lungs than to scare Arthur, he roars. He does not unleash the destructive power inside his body, though he does keep it prepared for Arthur’s first attack.

“This is the White Dragon,” Caliburn explains. “The prophesied destroyer of Camelot, the one who fights the Red Dragon for eternity.”

Yes, that is who is. He was a hatchling in the Underworld when Morgan le Fey summoned him. His entire purpose for living is to destroy Camelot. She wanted to kill the king, which is part of his destiny, anyway. He didn’t think it was a problem to endure her training and suffer through her experiments. He would one day fulfill his purpose, and then… and then he doesn’t know what. He has never thought so far as to consider what would happen if he destroys Camelot or is locked into battle with the Red Dragon forevermore.

“It is still young. We must kill it now,” Caliburn continues. Arthur grabs Caliburn’s hilt, and—

Tosses the sword away? Mordred watches it go. He turns his eyes back toward Arthur, prepared for some trap. The king has none prepared. He only raises his paws. “Since you asked me a question, let me ask you one, Mordred. Do you want to fight me?”

Mordred does not answer. ‘Want’ is not a word that belongs to him. Morgan le Fey can want. Arthur can want. The White Dragon cannot. He has a purpose, and that was the entire reason he was born. There is no reason to deviate or to change his fate. 

Mordred attacks. Arthur dodges. He keeps dodging, but he doesn’t fight back. He doesn’t even when there are close calls or Caliburn yells at him to retrieve him and put an end to the White Dragon. Arthur only keeps himself safe, and any animals that might have gotten mixed up in their fighting. Mordred is extremely confused. He doesn’t understand what Arthur is doing or why he’s doing it. Does he not want to fight Modred? But he said he would defend Camelot—the White Dragon is literally its destroyer.

Confused, Mordred stops. He stares and lowers his head. Arthur approaches, but not to hurt. He only touches. Arthur’s voice is quiet but firm. “Tell me what you want, Mordred. Do you want to destroy Camelot? Do you want to kill me? Do you want to do what Morgan le Fey told you to do, or do you want to learn what your own desires are? No matter what your answer is, I’ll respond seriously and respectfully.”

Mordred feels off about fighting someone who won’t fight back, so he transforms back into a hedgehog. He isn’t wearing his armor. He feels so much smaller. Arthur smiles at him, squatting down in front of him. Modred tilts his head to the side. “I do not have desires. I only have a destiny.”

“That’s not true. You can have them both. And if your destiny is one you don’t like, you can bet I’ll be there to help you free yourself. Come on, let’s figure out what you want.”

Arthur offers his paw. It’s a kind gesture. Mordred shouldn’t take it, but he’s curious about what it’s like to want. Morgan le Fey was so determined and cruel because of her desires. Will Modred be like her? Or will he be kind like Arthur is? Mordred wants to know, so he takes Arthur’s paw and accepts the offer.

Chapter Text

His eyes are met with blue, bold and unrelenting in its shade and vibrance. Patches of white disrupt the blue. His body collides with these patches, easily passing through them with nothing except a few seconds of his vision being whited out. Although the white provides no resistance, the wind certainly does. It pulls at him as he falls from an enormous height, struggling to keep him airborne and knocking him around the atmosphere. Gravity doesn’t let up, however, and the wind isn’t strong enough to do anything other than disrupt his quills and try prying off his limbs.

It doesn’t take him long to realize what exactly is happening to him. Because of this, he’s able to react before he slams into the ground. He twists his body. His vision tilts with it, suddenly filling with the greens and browns of the earth down below. He keeps his eyes on the horizon, getting his body in an almost perfect vertical position. He points the soles of his air-shoes at the ground, activating them when he gets close to the surface. Air shoots out of the bottom with such strength and precision that it does what the wind cannot. He is left hovering above the grass, watching the blades whirl around to get out of the way of his feet. Since he’s only a meter or so above the grass, he shuts his air-shoes off and gracefully lands on the ground.

His first order of business is to look around. This allows him to get a lay of the land. There isn’t anything more to see now than there was when he was falling. He’s surrounded by miles and miles of flatlands covered completely in grass. There’s a smattering of wildflowers bringing extra color to the ground. There’s also a dirt path cutting through the grass like a river somewhere to his left. The distance isn’t too great—especially not for a speedster like him—but he remains standing in place because there’s another reason he’s looking around. He needs to find his teammates.

Luckily, they aren’t difficult to find. They both fell alongside him. Omega is easy to see since he’s a brightly colored robot. He has his thrusters activated. Fire shoots out of the sides of his body, slowing his descent. Despite this, he still lands on the ground with a thundering sound. Several blades of grass are torn up, exploding outward at the magnitude of his descension. Small rocks are thrown up, too, but the ebony hedgehog swiftly dodges them by tilting his body the bare minimum amount. Omega does not acknowledge what he’s done to the ground beneath him. His head swerves left and right, surveying the land with the same intensity as the hedgehog.

The final member of their team remains in the air. Rouge flaps her wings, keeping herself off the ground for several moments. She hums to herself. While she also looks around, there’s a visible disinterest shown in her features. It is difficult to tell if that’s how she genuinely feels or if she’s feigning this emotion. She tends to pretend a lot when they’re on missions. Her stated reason is that it throws off their opponents and anyone else observing them. 

“Should we do a role call? Assess if anyone’s injured?” Rouge asks. She lets herself touch down on the ground. No noise comes from her actions because of how softly she does it. Rouge’s wings fold behind her back, and she crosses her arms underneath them.

“Unnecessary,” The hedgehog—Shadow—remarks in an instant. He gestures vaguely to the three of them. “We are all here. A fall from that height is too small for any of us to receive an injury.”

“I wouldn’t say we’re all here,” Rouge cheekily replies. Shadow narrows his eyes. She’s talking about Sonic. He’s been missing for over a month after he and Silver removed the Metal Virus from the planet. Eggman has taken advantage of the hedgehog’s absence. Sonic’s friends have had no luck in finding him (especially since they’re busy handling the Eggman problem themselves). It is to the point that G.U.N. has told Team Dark to find Sonic. Shadow didn’t want to accept the mission, but he did, anyway, for reasons that he doesn’t want to get into. Luckily, Rouge does not say anything further about that particular matter. Instead, she taps her finger against her chin and glances around once more. “That does beg the question of where ‘here’ is.”

“CURRENT LOCATION: UNKNOWN. INSUFFICIENT DATA TO MAKE A CONCLUSION,” Omega admits. He does another scan of the area, moving back and forth to examine more about the plants in the area and the current weather conditions. “CONJECTURE: NORTHERN EUROPE.”

“Oh? Perhaps we’re near Spagonia. Blue does have acquaintances at the local university,” Rouge remarks. Her wings stretch out once more. She flies upward. She doesn’t get too high or far from her teammates, so they watch her from their current positions. She folds her hand over her eyes, providing enough shade that she can see something on the horizon. She lowers herself toward them. “There seems to be a settlement at the end of the dirt path. It’s as good a place as any to start looking. Blue does have a habit of getting himself mixed up in other people’s business.”

Shadow nods, agreeing both with Rouge’s plan to head to the settlement and that Sonic frequently gets involved in situations he really has no part in. Omega grumbles about going to acquire information instead of fighting, but no one puts up any argument as they start heading toward the settlement. They start with diagonally walking to the dirt path. Once they’re on it, Shadow notes that there are hoofprints from horses along the dirt. It’s paired with long, straight lines that came from thin wheels. Do carts use this road? They must be in an underdeveloped area.

Other than the state of the path, they don’t find anything distracting until they’ve made it to the structure Rouge saw. As she predicted, it is a settlement. It’s a town built around a large castle. It is a bustling one, too. There are numerous individuals walking along recently paved roads. These roads cut between their stone and wooden buildings. Based on the state of their town, it is clear that Shadow was right in assuming that this town has been left in the past. There isn’t a hint of technology, and Shadow doubts they’re going to find any even if they go inside the town.

Shadow, for his part, would like to remain outside of the gates, but Rouge drags him and Omega onto the streets. The three of them are about the same height as the townspeople, but they aren’t wearing the same thick cloaks and robes that twist around their entire bodies. When Shadow gets a glimpse of some of their faces underneath the shadows of their hoods, he realizes that they aren’t human or Mobian. They are something else entirely, though they do look more human than anything else. He narrows his eyes slightly, but it doesn’t surprise him in the slightest that Sonic would befriend an entirely new species. He was the one to bring wisps to Earth, after all.

The townspeople, for the most part, don’t pay Team Dark any attention. They are far more focused on finishing last minute preparations on the streets. Shadow’s ears twitch at the increasing volume of the townspeople shouting among each other. It is sprinkled so thoroughly with laughter that Shadow knows everyone is having a good time. Although he cannot tell for certain, he believes this heightened atmosphere is not a daily occurrence. They are celebrating something. It might be a yearly tradition. Sonic would certainly attend a function like that.

The crowds seem to settle when the sound of a trumpet barrels through the sound of their chattering. The townspeople hurry to the sides of the street, tucking themselves against the buildings. This leaves the middle of the street empty. The reason why becomes apparent when flashes of colored light and smoke explode above the dirt. The people cheer instead of growing frightened. When a pleasant aroma hits his nose from the nearest explosion, he realizes that it’s definitely on purpose. It’s a display of someone’s power or intelligence, providing entertainment for the townspeople.

“THIS IS A WASTE OF TIME. WE NEED TO FIND SONIC THE HEDGEHOG,” Omega reminds Rouge and Shadow. The robot has tucked himself in the shadows of an alleyway, peering over the heads of the townspeople. The tallest among the townspeople are taller than Omega, but none of them are in his way so his visualizers can observe the street and the miniature fireworks silently going off above the stones.

“Don’t be like that, Omega. If you listen, everyone is saying some fascinating things,” Rouge tells him, landing on his shoulder to give herself some extra height. She scrutinizes the crowd with narrowed eyes and an amused smile. Shadow takes her advice, straining his ears to hear what the townspeople around them are talking about. The majority are excited. They are talking about the ‘knight’ they want to see. As they list the names, Shadow’s brows furrow together. Those names are from the old legends of Camelot—the Knights of the Round Table. It was part of the classic literature Shadow was permitted to read on the ARK. Maria liked the stories about heroic knights, especially, so that’s likely why he recognizes the names.

The townspeople are also talking about the king. He apparently appeared a year ago, and he’s done so much for them. More than a few are eager to see his face. No one says that it’s King Arthur, but Shadow wonders if that’s who it is. It wouldn’t make sense— Wait, no. Shadow’s brows furrow together. He wasn’t thinking about it before, but now that it’s been brought to his attention, he realizes how weird the situation is and how readily the three of them accepted it. They suddenly appeared in a mysterious location with very little information. Why was their immediate reaction to continue with their mission? Why didn’t they question what happened to them?

Now that Shadow is questioning it, he realizes how they got here. They went to Sonic’s room to pick up clues on where he might have disappeared to. One of the books left on Sonic’s nightstand was about King Arthur and his knights. Shadow went to investigate it, but something happened. The book began glowing. As its pages blew open as if a wind shot through the room, Team Dark suddenly disappeared into the light. They must have been absorbed into the book. But how could the book have done that? Why didn’t they remember what happened? Why didn’t they question their sudden fall from the sky to the ground below?

It must be a property of the book. Shadow wonders what other properties the book has. It would be better to find out immediately, but Shadow doubts they’ll be able to learn much now that they’re already inside the book. If they are actually inside of its story—the book could have done something else to them. They could have gone back in time, or they could be in an alternate dimension, or—

A shadow passes over the ebony hedgehog. He lifts his eyes from the ground to the rooftop of the building he, Omega, and Rouge are standing beside. There’s a figure standing on top of the rooftop. It’s a terrible angle on Shadow’s part, and the sun is right behind the figure. This makes it nearly impossible for Shadow to learn much about the figure. He does, however, realize that it’s a knight. They are clad in dark armor. He also thinks have quills. It must be another hedgehog. Shadow narrows his eyes, trying to figure out more about the knight. He nearly starts climbing to the rooftop, but he stops himself when the energy in the crowd shifts and the knight adjusts his position on the roof to a spot where Shadow can no longer see him.

“Here they come!” Someone down the street yells. Everyone’s cheering gets more passionate. Shadow can hear the heavy footsteps of armored knights and horses walking down the street. Shadow turns his attention to the location where the yelling came from. As the noises prove, there are knights leading the march down the street. There is one wearing brilliant white armor holding the reins of a horse. The stallion remains fair and proud, unafraid of the townspeople shouting out to them on both sides. Or, rather, the townspeople are shouting at the person sitting on the horse’s back. 

“Well, isn’t that interesting?” Rouge mutters to herself, whistling as she leans back to look at the person sitting on the horse from a new angle.

“THIS DISTANCE IS UNSUITABLE FOR SCANNING. CURRENT OBSERVATIONS PROVE THAT THIS COULD BE SONIC THE HEDGEHOG.”

The person sitting on the horse has bright blue quills. The ones around his head are carelessly tossed around by the wind, and the rest are weighed down by a thick, red cape that drapes over the side of the horse. He wears a pair of gloves that reaches his elbows. They are made from the same black leather as his boots, and both are embroidered with golden thread. This gold matches with the crown placed on top of his head and the hilt of the sword he carries in a sheath around his waist. His smile is as wide and brilliant as the sun, and he aims it at everyone with so much friendliness that it feels as if he knows everyone personally. He waves at them, too, sometimes responding to the more specific cheers thrown his way. He gives everyone his attention, soaking in their positivity and reflecting it back at them tenfold.

“That’s Sonic,” Shadow declares, crossing his arms over his chest. He shifts on his feet. He tries to look away, but his gaze inevitably trails right back. Sonic looks so happy right now. It’s entirely different from the last time Shadow saw him. He was exhausted back then, barely able to hold himself upward. There was a smile on his face, but it was so fleeting and troubled that it might as well have been absent. But more than anything, Sonic was desperate. It was easy enough to see in his eyes as he warned Shadow about the Metal Virus. But Shadow was angry. He was angry, and he was blinded, and he couldn’t stand the fact that he had let Sonic get away with something yet again only to have everyone suffer the consequences. And when Shadow came back to himself, everyone told him that Sonic was gone. 

But he’s happy now. He looks well taken care of, even more than he usually does when the world isn’t falling apart around him. He’s had plenty of rest, and he’s taken a few baths (or someone forced him to). He’s eating well, too. But those are indications of a healthy body. Sonic’s mind is in a good place, too, if the smile on his face and the twinkle in his emerald eyes mean anything. He looks a touch embarrassed to be at the center of everyone’s attention, but he relishes in it more than anything. Whatever this parade is about, it’s for him. If that crown on his head means that he’s the king, there’s a good reason he’s been carted around. The townspeople herald the ‘king’ as a man who has done so much good in the year he’s been here, and that’s something that sounds exactly like what Sonic would do. 

But being king isn’t like him at all, which is likely the reason Rouge hums in disbelief and says, “I’m not so sure.”

“It is.” Shadow doesn’t know where his confidence comes from. He’s merely certain that this is Sonic. It’s the person they were tasked with finding. It’s the one who has damned the planet as many times as he’s saved it. There’s a chance it could be an illusion, but Shadow doesn’t think it is.

Rouge hums noncommittally. Omega, however, immediately takes a step forward. “TARGET HAS BEEN FOUND. PROCEEDING WITH EXTRACTION PROTOCOL.”

“Cancel that,” Rouge hisses. She flashes a smile to the townspeople in front of them who looked back after Omega started moving. Their eyes widen upon seeing her. Shadow doesn’t know if it’s because they aren’t wearing a cloak like them, because of Omega’s status as a robot, or just any of their appearances in general (Rouge’s clothing is not exactly ‘appropriate’ for the time period Shadow presumes they’re in). Thankfully, the townspeople don’t make a fuss about anything they’ve seen. They only turn back to the parade. Their whispering about Team Dark switches to gossiping about the figure following the king and knights clad in a pink cloak and hood. She carries a staff, and she’s the one performing the ‘magic’ to make the miniature fireworks.

“If that is Sonic, he’s surrounded by knights. They aren’t going to let him go just because we asked nicely,” Rouge continues.

“WE CAN EASILY DESTROY THOSE KNIGHTS.”

“We might be able to, but I doubt these townspeople have much experience in that. Let’s try to keep collateral damage to a minimum,” Rouge continues. She leaps off Omega’s shoulder right as the crowd gets into the street behind the parade. Shadow watches as Sonic gets further and further away, none the wiser about the three people who came to find him (either going into a book, traveling through time, or crossing into a different dimension—Shadow still isn’t certain what it is exactly they’ve done). “I’ve got a better plan.”

“You always do,” Shadow states under his breath, tearing his eyes to look at Rouge. He doesn’t necessarily mean his statement sarcastically because genuinely, Rouge usually has a ‘better plan,’ but his voice doesn’t sound that serious, either. It’s more wispy than anything.

Rouge doesn’t pay any mind to it, though. She instead shares her plan with Omega and Shadow. “I was listening to the townspeople. There’s going to be a ball at the palace later for the nobility, knights, and the king. In all that chaos, it will be perfect for sneaking inside. Shadow should be the one to do it. You’ll just have to wait for Sonic to be on his own. Or even reveal yourself to him and get a private audience with the king. If it’s you, he’ll do it.”

“Why if it’s me?” Shadow questions. Unfortunately, he does so at the same time as Omega asks, “THERE IS AN ERROR IN YOUR PLAN. YOU HAVE NOT DESCRIBE WHAT YOU AND I WILL BE DOING.”

“I’m going to look around for more information. There’s a chance that the king isn’t our Sonic. I’d like to know if there’s any doppelgangers who were captured and put in a dungeon somewhere,” Rouge explains. Shadow grits his teeth, keeping himself from arguing further that who he saw truly is Sonic. He doesn’t want to get into why he’s so adamant. “As for you, Omega dearest… Hmmm… I did hear that there’s been an uptick of monsters in the forest. Would you like to do some training? 

“DESTROYING MONSTERS IS PREFERABLE TO SNEAKING IN, WAITING AROUND, AND GATHERING INFORMATION. I WILL DO IT,” Omega agrees. Shadow wonders if Omega understands that he would stick out like a sore thumb in the places Rouge wants him and her to go. It could also be that Omega knows he isn’t exactly fit for the tasks they need to undertake.

“I’m glad we all agree! We’ll meet up at the town’s entrance by sunrise. Then, we’ll figure out how to get out of here.” Rouge sets her hand in the middle of them. She waits patiently. Eventually, Shadow sighs and drops his paw on top of hers. Rouge has to force Omega’s clawed hand to join them, but all three of them throw their arms into the air at Rouge’s prompting. She smiles in amusement at them. Shadow rolls his eyes, but he can’t ignore the way his heart grows lighter. He likes going on missions with this team.

With their ritual completed, the three of them break away to carry out their part of the plan.

Arthur paces around the hallway. His arms are crossed over his chest as tightly as they can go, straining the fabric of the suit that the royal seamstress made him wear. He taps his fingers incessantly against his upper arm. Although he might look nervous, that couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s eager to pass through the curtains keeping him from the rest of the party. He’s always been sociable, and there’s so many interesting people who have come to the palace. Additionally, he wants to show off his suit. It’s so uncomfortable that he needs at least a dozen compliments to make wearing it worth it (he does look great in it, though, so getting his compliments shouldn’t be too hard).

No, all of his actions are because he’s impatient. He doesn’t know why he promised Galahad that he would walk in with Lancelot. No, he knows why. Galahad didn’t want his father skipping the event. Lancelot wouldn’t refuse if Arthur asked him to attend at his side. But Lancelot is late, and it’s only getting later. If that knight doesn’t get here soon, Arthur is going to find the knight himself. Lancelot won’t like it, either. Arthur has a million punishments prepared—from something petty to straight-up telling Maria so she’ll look at him with her disappointed face.

Arthur stops his pacing and sighing when he hears footsteps. He snaps his eyes upward. From the darkness of the hallway, he sees someone approaching him. When they get close enough, the moonlight from the window mixes with the golden light coming from underneath the curtains. It splashes onto their body, revealing their identity as Lancelot. Arthur’s relief is short-lived when he realizes what Lancelot isn’t wearing.

Arthur marches toward him, meeting him halfway. Lancelot’s eyes widen. He opens his mouth, but Arthur cuts him off by spinning Lancelot around to look at his entire body. He isn’t wearing anything except his gloves and shoes! “I can’t believe you! You promised Galahad that you would wear that matching outfit with him. I know you know how excited he was, too! And Lady Honey is going to kill you, too, if she learns you aren’t wearing the outfit she made for you. Do you know how long it took her, hmm? For as chivalrous as you are, Lance, you’re a nuisance to make clothing for. Apparently. I’ve never made clothes for you, but that’s what Lady Honey said.”

Arthur stops talking. He grabs Lancelot’s shoulders, squeezing as he meets those carmine eyes. A tremor of fear fills his body for a moment, but he reminds himself that Lancelot cannot be cursed. And they’ve touched so much over the past year that he would have shown signs already. All this moment serves to do is give Lancelot a chance to explain himself. Arthur waits for it to happen while getting his breathing under control. Lancelot doesn’t answer anything, though, only softly murmuring ‘Lance’ questioningly. 

“Oh, heavens above, why are you doing this today? Are you certain you cannot get ill? Did someone slip iron into your meal? You have to tell me,” Arthur tries. He moves his paw away from Lancelot’s shoulder to brush the back of his fingers against his forehead. Lancelot must be sick if he isn’t answering Arthur immediately and his lack of clothing. It’s one thing for him to not wear the suit Lady Honey prepared for him and Galahad. It’s an entirely other thing for Lancelot to not even have his armor.

“Sonic.”

Arthur’s face collapses into a wince. He stumbles away from the ebony hedgehog, tearing his paws away from him. A shuddering cough leaves him, and a violent trembling goes through him. His entire body spasms out as his mind reels from the singular word spoken to him. Even to this day, he can’t get over the physical pain that barrels right through him when someone utters that word. It also comes when he tries thinking about his past. After the incident with Morgan le Fey, Arthur stopped trying. There’s no point in indulging in this pain. His past doesn’t matter. Only the present does, and he’s been taking care of that bit by bit as the King of Camelot.

“Sonic? What’s happening to your eyes?” The other hedgehog questions with that damn name again. He reaches out to grab onto Arthur’s wrist. Arthur is only able to tear his paw from the hedgehog’s grasp when the pain subsides. But the minute it does, he wretches it away. He grabs onto the hilt of his sword. He pulls it out, brandishing it in the space between him and the other hedgehog. He narrows his eyes, ignoring the lingering fear that chills him to his bones.

“Why are we fighting against Sir Lancelot?” Caliburn asks. The other hedgehog’s eyes minutely widen in surprise at the talking sword.

“This isn’t Sir Lancelot,” Arthur states simply. Lancelot knows all about Caliburn; he wouldn’t be surprised. He also knows how much Arthur hates that name and how  much pain it brings him. Lancelot would never use it so carelessly, especially not twice in a row. This hedgehog might look like Arthur’s most loyal knight, but this isn’t him. “It must be a shapeshifter who’s taken his form.”

“He does possess a strange composition. He is not like the townspeople, the Fae, or the Monsters of the Underworld,” Caliburn admits. “He is similar to you.”

Arthur doesn’t like the sound of that. The shapeshifter gains some awareness of what’s happening. At least, he’s started asking questions. “What are you talking about? Do you not remember…?”

Arthur grits his teeth. Instead of answering that question, he declares, “I am King Arthur, Knight of the Wind. You will reveal your true identity or face my blade.”

“You actually sounded proper this time!”

“Shut up, you piece of scrap metal—” Arthur hisses at his sword. Caliburn does, thankfully, fall silent. Arthur waits for the ebony hedgehog in front of him to say something. Instead, he just puts himself into a defensive position, prepared to fight. Arthur exhales. He matches his opponent. “Very well.”

And with that, Arthur and the shapeshifter begin their fight.

Chapter Text

Gossip is a universal constant in every civilization. Regardless of the time period or the specific species, if a group of people have the means to learn more about each other and communicate amongst one another, information—some true, some false—will inevitably spread from one mouth to the next. Rouge has been all over the world in almost every kind of structured society, and this is one of the few laws of the world that she—not any classical intellectual—has learned to be correct in every case. Since she can trust this ‘law of sapient nature,’ Rouge has developed many ways to acquire the information she needs for her various missions. She knows the best spots, and she can identify an esteemed gossiper at a glance. 

These personal rules hold up even in a land as legendary as Camelot which is what has led to Rouge landing on the edge of a rooftop. She leans over the side, making certain that her shadow doesn’t fall onto the ground she’s staring at. Two feminine voices rise up from the small street cutting between a business and one of the castle’s many protective walls. The two figures speaking are staring up at the castle over the other side of the wall, eyes bright both from their own excitement and because of the light glittering from the highest towers. The two young women are not necessarily being loud, but Rouge focuses entirely on their words in an area that echoes their voices and lacks any other kind of noise.

“What I wouldn’t give to attend the celebration tonight,” One of them remarks dreamily, folding her fingers together and tucking her hands beneath her chin. Rouge already knows what the celebration is for. Everyone in the streets has been talking about it. This is the one-year anniversary of the king’s ‘arrival.’ Rouge just doesn’t know what that means. Is this something akin to a founding festival? She knows places like Soleanna have those.

Her companion grabs onto her arm, leaning close to unsubtly whisper, “Would you try seducing one of the knights?”

“Juniper! You can’t say that!” The first one cries out admonishingly with the barest touch of embarrassment.

“Why not?” The other woman—Juniper—says flippantly. She tugs on her hood, not quite pulling it back but allowing more light to tread across her features. They are completely different from any species Rouge has encountered before. The people here seem more plant-like than animalistic. It might correspond with their naming conventions. “I myself would try to become queen.”

“You can’t be serious!” The first girl claims. “It’s one thing to talk about the knights, but how could you talk about our king like that?”

“Are you telling me that you wouldn’t want to become queen?” Juniper tilts her head toward her friend. Even without knowing too much about the situation, Rouge is starting to like Juniper. The position of queen would allow access to the royal treasury. There must be all sorts of beautiful jewels hidden away. As a good person, Rouge must free those gemstones. Oh, but that’s a matter she can handle once they’ve gotten Sonic (and if he really is the king, maybe he’ll let her in without her having to waste time planning a heist).

“The king would never choose us,” The first girl notes. There’s a touch of wistfulness to her voice, but she doesn’t exactly sound displeased or upset. Her tone implies there’s more to this situation than Rouge is presently aware of.

“Do you say as much because we’re commoners, Magnolia? I’ll have you know that I heard the king is extremely kind. He does not see status but rather value and virtue. I am certain I have the qualifications to be queen even if I was not born with noble blood,” Juniper argues, leaning closer to her friend. Although she whispers, her voice carries because of her determination. If Juniper is right, these words are a point in favor of the theory that the king is Sonic. Rouge doubts there’s anyone in the world that Sonic wouldn’t pay attention to just because he sees the potential in everyone.

Magnolia makes a quiet noise that’s halfway between a laugh and concern. “I have heard similar rumors. The blacksmith has said they’re all true, but he also told me that the king has a rather close relationship with one of his knights. I doubt he’s seeking a maiden to crown as his queen. We would be better off trying our luck with one of the other knights.”

“If you want to seduce the knights, I have the perfect outfits!” A chipper voice adds to the conversation. Everyone’s—including Rouge’s—attention darts toward the entrance of the street where it connects with the larger road made for carriages and carts. The voice belongs to a feminine figure clothed in brilliant red robes. Her hood has been lowered to show that her appearance is more akin to a Mobian than one of these plant-like species. More specifically, she’s a cat with light amber fur and black hair pulled into two pigtails. Although she’s definitely an adult, her irises are still black like most Mobian children. Either the pigment hasn’t developed yet or it simply won’t.

“Lady Honey!” Magnolia yelps with panic thick in her voice.

Juniper is just as antsy, but she has enough confidence to grab onto her friend’s forearm and speak to Lady Honey. “We should get home before our master sends the other apprentices to fetch us. It was lovely to speak with you, Lady Honey! We should have a proper conversation next time!”

Juniper drags Magnolia out of the space between the building and castle wall. Once they’ve rounded the corner, they begin running. Rouge can hear Juniper giggling and Magnolia lamenting about how someone overheard their conversation. Rouge has a moment of pride in knowing that neither woman noticed her, but she’s mostly annoyed that her current source of information has been run off. She didn’t learn too much from that encounter, and she has a feeling that one of them was about to spill something important.

“Hmph,” Lady Honey remarks, approaching the middle of the street. She sets her gloved paws on her hips. The fabric twists because of her actions, making it evident that she’s hiding something against her back. Rouge narrows her eyes slightly. Could it be a bag of some variety? Rouge isn’t able to figure it out by the time Lady Honey’s arms fall to her sides once more. In the empty alleyway, she speaks out loudly, “I might not have gotten business with them, but what about you?”

Rouge startles as those dark irises lift upward to make eye contact with a pair of turquoise eyes. Lady Honey seems entirely unphased by Rouge’s appearance on the rooftop, perhaps knowing she was there the entire time. Rouge doesn’t know how. She was careful not to let anyone see her fly onto the roof or to make a noise while she was on it. Her shadow isn’t peeking over the side. Rouge has trained her ability to hide her presence, too, so it isn’t like Lady Honey could have sensed it, unless her perception is unusually high. She doesn’t look like the type, but Rouge shouldn’t underestimate anyone.

Rouge swings her legs over the side of the roof. She pushes off the side. Gravity drags her down. Before she can break her legs, her wings spread out. They catch the breeze, helping her gracefully land beside Lady Honey. The feline scrutinizes her for a moment, paying more attention to Rouge’s clothes than her face. Lady Honey even has the audacity to walk around Rouge in a slow circle, picking apart every detail in her mind. When she’s back around the front, a smile illuminates her entire face. She reaches forward to grab both of Rouge’s hands in her paws. “What a wondrous attire! I have never seen anything like it! The way the fabric compliments your figure! And the moderation in color! I would love to know who the designer is!”

“This old thing? It was a… gift from a friend. I do not know who the designer was,” Rouge lies. She obviously knows, but it wouldn’t be anyone a seamstress (?) from Camelot would know. Rouge doesn’t want to share too much information about herself, either, so she’ll leave it vague for now.

“What a pity,” Lady Honey mentions. She seems genuine in her words, but her emotions aren’t extremely negative. As a matter of fact, they swing right back into bustling positivity within the next second. “I must admit, madam, I am uncertain as to what your intentions are for eavesdropping on young maidens on a rooftop. However, if you do not wish to be noticed, I would suggest coming to my shop with me. An outfit as beautiful and… provocative as this will surely turn her heads. The king and knights have been steadily rooting out the corruption of the nobility, but a fair lady such as yourself must be more wary of the old lords’ preferences.”

“Is that so? I must thank you for looking out for me, then. If you would be so gracious as to lead the way, I will follow you,” Rouge says with a smile. Truthfully, she isn’t worried in the slightest about these ‘old lords.’ Rouge has faith in both her own skills and her teammates’ willingness to save her. But this isn’t a matter of pride or proving her strength right now. No, Rouge isn’t above pretending to be weak and defenseless in order to get more information. From what little she’s gathered about Lady Honey, she seems exactly like the sort of person Rouge would like to have a long conversation with.

“Of course! Right this way, madam!” Lady Honey says, turning on her heel. She walks back the way she came, implying that she was either coming home from her work for the night or she overheard Juniper and Magnolia and went to speak with them. Lady Honey looks over her shoulder at Rouge as they reach the main street, passing a few other pedestrians making their way home or to their night shifts. “Forgive me, madam! It has slipped my mind that I should introduce myself! I am Lady Honey. I am a seamstress here at Camelot Castle. I’ve even made clothing for the high lords and ladies, including the Knights of the Round Table and the king himself.”

“Your skills must be exceptional,” Rouge compliments. 

“They certainly cannot be anything to scoff at,” Lady Honey remarks, face flushing red because of her pride. She shakes her head, ridding her expression of such bright coloring. She looks at Rouge once more. “Might I inquire about your identity, madam?”

“Rouge. I am a treasure hunter, though I admit I do not have a reputation to precede me.” At least, she doesn’t have one in Camelot. She’s well-known in her own world (more for being a jewel thief than a ‘treasure hunter,’ but that’s neither here nor there).

“Oh, what a fascinating career choice. Forgive me for assuming, but have you arrived at Camelot Castle in order to learn more about the sacred stories and the ancient artifacts the Knights of the Round Table possess? I only ask because you seemed quite interested in the words of those two young maidens,” Lady Honey says. She turns them from the main street to another side one. They don’t make it far up the side street, however, because there’s a pair of steps right next to the corner. Lady Honey hurriedly climbs up them, extracting a pair of keys from her robes.

As she’s unlocking the door, Rouge answers. “You assume correctly, Lady Honey. I have heard whispers about how Camelot has the widest variety of treasures. Unfortunately, I could not find much more information than that. The informants are so stingy these days. How could someone as lowly as I possess the necessary coins for their rates?”

The inside of the shop is dark, but Rouge’s eyes rapidly adjust. It isn’t different from what she was expecting. The majority of the first floor is dominated by cushioned seats and tables covered in binders. In the remaining space, there are shelves and hangers that showcase clothes for all ages, genders, and even styles. A counter for conducting business has been set up in the corner. There is a staircase hidden behind a curtain in the opposite corner. The second floor must be where Lady Honey actually makes the clothes, although there is a short stage surrounded by mirrors that is likely used for tailoring.

“I understand your plight. During the last king’s reign, they were—and forgive my crude language—trifling annoyances. They are the true fools, however, because there is not much they know that I cannot learn through conversation with my clients,” Lady Honey agrees. She moves across the room to where the lanterns are. She begins lighting a few of them, filling the room in gold-orange light. She gives Rouge a sheepish smile. “Forgive me, madam, for using the candles. I would use the light fixtures, but I shan’t use the magic inside the crystals unnecessarily. The mages only refill them so often.”

Rouge glances upward. She thought the chandelier was beautiful before, but the crystals double as the light sources themselves. Rouge is tempted to steal a piece, but she should probably learn more about magic before she tries to nab one.

“It is no problem with me, Lady Honey. I can see just as well in the candlelight,” Rouge answers. She watches as Lady Honey removes her red robes. This reveals a similarly red dress with white lace. She isn’t wearing a bag on her back, though. Instead, there are two feathery white wings. Rouge eyes them curiously. They seem real, but that would imply Lady Honey is a hybrid rather than a purebred cat. Hybrids are rare, especially those who manifest qualities of both parents. They must be fakes, or it could involve this ‘magic’ Lady Honey spoke about. Whatever it is, Lady Honey seems less embarrassed of them than she is of her outfit, and she isn’t exactly ashamed of either even if she hid them underneath her robes. 

“I can’t help but wonder, Lady Honey, if you mentioned your superiority to the informants because you wanted me to ask you the questions I had for them,” Rouge continues. She would like to know more about this previous king. He isn’t talked about as much as the current king, and everyone who does allude to him is making certain to spit (figuratively, that is) on his memory.

Lady Honey raises her face from the shelving units she was rifling through to find something for Rouge to wear. She glances over her shoulder at the bat with bright eyes. “Oh, I did not consider that! But, of course, I’m willing to help. I assume you are curious about the sacred swords.”

“And the knights who wield them. Though, today’s celebration has left me curious about the king and his predecessor, too,” Rouge crosses her arms over one of the wooden shelves, making certain not to wrinkle the clothes laid out on display on either side. She leans forward, getting herself closer to Lady Honey that way she won’t miss any change in tone or expression, both of which can tell a lot more than the words themselves do.

“Is this truly your first time to Camelot?” Lady Honey hums, not quite asking Rouge but still putting the question in the open air. She turns around without any clothes in her hand. Her face flits with disappointment. She talks distractedly as she continues looking around for what she was looking for. “The former king was also known as King Arthur. His brother, Sir Kay, would come to buy clothes for himself and the king, but only Sir Kay ever wore what I prepared for them. The reason became clear after years of suffering underneath the former king’s tyranny. He was merely an illusion crafted by the old royal mage, Merlin. We discovered this because our new king was summoned by the current royal mage, Merlin’s granddaughter, Merlina. He saved the townspeople on numerous occasions. He even slayed a dragon to protect them. They say these actions moved the heart of Lady Nimue, and she helped him and Merlina defeat the illusion. He freed Camelot from the tyranny, but he needed to return to his homeland. 

“He came back last year to reclaim the throne. The Sacred Sword of Selection, Caliburn, chose him to be the king. Everyone agrees that it was the right decision. Our king is a kind-hearted soul. I have personally spent time with him since I have sewn many of his royal outfits. He can be a little… impatient when I’m trying to work. He never stands still for very long, much to my chagrin. It was so difficult to make his clothes, even more so than Sir Lancelot or Sir Galahad. Only Sir Mordred wasn’t a hassle to work with,” Lady Honey finishes, huffing with the memories of making clothes for the other knights.

Rouge obviously saves those names in her head in case they’re important later, but she mainly pays attention to the details about the current king. Saving townspeople? Slaying dragons? Kind-hearted? Impatient? All could easily be used to describe Sonic. This leads Rouge to her next question. “What is the current king’s name? Is it Sonic?”

Lady Honey tears her eyes away from the fabric she was holding. She meets Rouge’s eyes with a hollow stare. She shakes her head, letting the tension in the room fizzle out with her giggling. She takes the fabric—a black robe—with her as she draws closer to Rouge. She even walks around the counter to stand beside Rouge. This is mostly because she needs to wrap the robe around Rouge and adjust it, but it could also play to the serious undertone of her voice when she answers, “I would be careful about using that name, madam. The king is known for his forgiveness, but the knights are defined by their loyalty. They do not enjoy it when their liege is hurt, and the king’s old name hurts him more than you could know. I have only seen the consequences of it once. I believe there is a curse involved. Sir Lancelot did not tell me the answer. He only made certain I knew that no one is allowed to utter that name in the king’s presence. There is no law against it, but… there might as well be. Most consider this an act of tyranny, but since it is the only one the king indulges in, the townspeople allow it. Do you understand?” 

“I do,” Rouge nods. She considers the words carefully. This is proof that the current king is Sonic, but it leads Rouge to an even bigger question. Why would the name ‘Sonic’ hurt him? If Lady Honey didn’t so earnestly admit to having seen the effects herself, Rouge would have thought the knights were keeping Sonic hostage by erasing his former identity. But there’s definitely more to this situation.

Lady Honey smiles at Rouge, letting her former serious slide off her features like water. Lady Honey takes a step away from Rouge, admiring her handiwork. It’s a thin, black robe with golden thread along the hems and neckline. There is even a hood which Rouge appreciates. It is an outfit that will help her blend into Camelot Castle. She’ll be able to learn even more information like this, if Shadow isn’t able to bring Sonic to the rendezvous point in the morning.

Before Lady Honey and Rouge’s conversation can continue, the door to the tailor shop is thrown open. Rouge looks ahead while Lady Honey whirls around. Rouge’s brows furrow together. Shadow hurries into the shop. This on its own isn’t too surprising, but she’s confused by his clothing. He’s wearing a suit fit for a ballroom from this era, holding the jacket over his forearms. Because of the way he’s holding it, the tears in the fabric are obvious to see. Rouge speaks, “Sha—”

“Sir Lancelot!” Lady Honey interrupts Rouge, burying the rest of Shadow’s name. The seamstress hurries forward, footsteps impossibly light against the wooden floorboards. She grabs onto the jacket, looking over the tears like they’re the fatal wounds in a corpse. The ebony hedgehog removes his paws. He looks lost—almost embarrassed—as he waits for Lady Honey’s verdict. Her huff turns into a sigh. She races to the counter to find something behind it, talking all the while. “I can fix it, but you’re going to be late for the celebration! I told you to get dressed hours beforehand to make sure this wouldn’t happen! His Majesty will be so disappointed with you! And that’s not even mentioning how sad you’re going to make Sir Galahad! And my baby! How did you get this many tears in it?! Did you roll around in a thornbush? Please grant me patience, o’ divine ones!” 

“I formally apologize, Lady Honey. I received word about a thief who stole from the orphanage during the parade. I was too arrogant. I believed I would be able to handle the matter in time for the ball. I will face the wrath of my king and fellow knight, but I cannot do it in a torn outfit. Please do me this favor. The price does not matter.” That’s Shadow’s voice, but those aren’t Shadow’s words. Rouge was asking around to find out if Sonic had a doppelganger in this world, but it seems like Shadow was the one to have a mirror.

“It will be extremely expensive! You’re lucky I was in the shop this late!” Lady Honey huffs. She drops onto the floor behind the counter to mend the tears as quickly and efficiently as possible. From the other side, she continues complaining under her breath. At one point, however, her voice rises over the side, “Ah! That madam beside you is called Rouge! She’s a treasure hunter. Show her Arondight, and I’ll lessen the amount you owe by a little bit.”

Rouge’s eyes widen at Lady Honey’s kindness. Sir Lancelot nods, turning to face Rouge. He really does look like Shadow, but his face is a touch softer and more open. He isn’t forthcoming with his emotions by any means, but there isn’t as much effort in trying to hide them. Rouge confused Shadow and Sir Lancelot the first time because she didn’t expect it, but she knows now that she’ll never confuse them again.

Sir Lancelot pulls a sword from its scabbard around his waist. He holds the hilt with one paw, and he sets the flat edge of the blade against his other paw. He presents it to Rouge. She leans down to inspect it. She doesn’t know much about swords, but she can at least tell that this is a fine weapon to carry around. She crosses her arms over her chest as she rises to a standing position (the fabric of the robe feels unfamiliar, but it’s actually quite comfortable). “What makes it a sacred sword?”

“It is a sword that will never lose its edge,” Sir Lancelot answers. Rouge tilts her head to the side. She supposes that’s a good quality for a sword to have. That being said, she knows there’s more to the answer than Sir Lancelot said. Fortunately, Rouge doesn’t need to pry for that information. It isn’t necessary for their ultimate goal of bringing Sonic back to their realm (unless they need to fight Sir Lancelot, but Rouge is going to leave that to Shadow. She already knows that he’s going to want to kill anyone who bears his likeness. It’s a matter of pride, or something like that. Nothing to do with her).

Sir Lancelot slides Arondight back into its scabbard. He continues holding the hilt of the blade. While he might be wary of her, she genuinely thinks he’s only gripping it so tightly because he needs something to hold onto. Lady Honey did imply that Sir Lancelot was an extremely loyal knight, so he wants to be with his king and ‘Sir Galahad’ right now. Additionally, if he’s anything like Shadow, he must hate being late.

“I’ve done what I could,” Lady Honey exclaims as she rises back to her feet. She hurries around the counter, half-running and half-bouncing with each step. When she lands in front of Sir Lancelot, she forces the jacket onto him. She adjusts it with swift paws, ignoring how uncomfortable Sir Lancelot is in this situation. Lady Honey’s expression twists when she finishes. She looks around him with carefully managed breaths. “It looks fine. I am certain no one will even be looking at you. His Majesty’s outfit is far flashier, and Sir Galahad’s outfit is simply better than this one. You stand with your back against the wall at every function, anyway, and that’s where the majority of the tears were. Now, you better get there now with no more incidents or distractions!” 

“Thank you, Lady Honey,” Sir Lancelot says. He starts doing something, but Lady Honey—clearly frustrated with him—starts pushing him toward the door. Rouge follows behind, amused by the situation. 

Before Sir Lancelot can be shoved out the door, it springs open with another figure. It is one of the townspeople, so Rouge doesn’t recognize them. She does, however, understand the expression on their plant-like face. They gesture vaguely into the distance. “Sir Lancelot! I thought I saw you come in here! There’s a new monster in the forest! It’s destroying everything, even the other monsters! You have to stop it!”

Sir Lancelot looks conflicted. Rouge nearly curses. A monster destroying everything? That must be Omega. She should have told him to keep the collateral damage to a minimum. As if they would have done anything, though. Rouge steps forward to interrupt the new townsperson and Sir Lancelot. “You should attend that celebration, my good sir. I am capable of handling the monster myself.”

Sir Lancelot looks at her skeptically. Rouge wonders what she has to do to prove to him that she can go by herself. She really doesn’t want a Knight of the Round Table—especially one that looks like Shadow and is likely similarly skilled as him—fighting Omega. 

“I will go with her,” Lady Honey promises. Rouge takes her turn to look at the seamstress skeptically, but Sir Lancelot calms down at her proclamation. He’s still tense, though, and that’s half the reason Lady Honey pushes him toward the door once more. “Sir Lancelot! You have to attend this celebration! You cannot upset His Majesty and Sir Galahad! You also need to show off the outfit I made to the nobles! I won’t forgive you if you skip this celebration!”

“Fine,” Sir Lancelot grits, sounding the exact opposite of ‘fine.’ “I will attend the celebration. I will make certain to send a patrol of knights to your location to assist. Please do not perish in the intervening time.”

“Have some faith,” Lady Honey admonishes him. She finally gets him out of her shop. She points toward the castle in the distance. “Now, go!”

Sir Lancelot hesitates a single second, but he inevitably turns on his heel to race toward the palace. Lady Honey turns toward the shocked townsperson. She gestures toward herself and Rouge. “Would you be so kind as to tell the good madam and I where this new monster is?”

The celebration has already begun. The ballroom is filled completely with finely dressed nobles. They have formed their smaller groups, spending time among acquaintances or searching to make new connections. In pursuit of this, a few have paired themselves off in the center of the elaborately decorated room, dancing to the music played by the Chaotix—a group of the most famous bards in the kingdom. The on-duty knights are stationed at every corner, making certain that the atmosphere remains as peaceful and lively as it currently is. 

At least, it’s peaceful on the surface. Galahad knows he isn’t alone in sensing the chaos brewing in the unreachable depths. Galahad has never enjoyed parties such as this one. The nobility are constantly staring at him. Many know bits and pieces of his exploits, and his reputation is so strong that they are all aware of it. They look at him as if he isn’t what they were expecting—as if he’s supposed to look like a monster after everything he’s done. They secretly want him to do something more impressive than idly standing around, and they aren’t afraid to push him to the brink to create this gossip-worthy event.

Galahad, for his part, is trying his best to maintain a sense of calm. He would be able to manage this a lot better if Arthur and Lancelot were here like they promised they would be. The only reason Galahad decided to come to this celebration is because of them. If he wasn’t aware of how punctual Lancelot forces himself and the king to be, Galahad would have been angry. Instead, he’s rather concerned, and his anxiety is rising higher and higher the more time passes without their appearance.

“Sir Mordred,” Galahad says, careful not to be any louder than the music. His eyes move to the side of his vision while his face and body continue to point towards the rest of the ballroom. Sir Mordred’s attention shifts to Sir Galahad, but not a single part of his body moves. Galahad is nearly jealous, but there is a time and place for such emotions and this is neither that time or that place. “I am stepping away for a moment to search for His Majesty. Keep watch over the ballroom on my behalf. I will return soon with news or His Majesty.”

Mordred nods subtly. Galahad feels terrible for leaving him behind. While Mordred has grown more accustomed to his life as a Knight of the Round Table, there is still a deficiency in his social skills. He remains neutral in appearance and body language, but Galahad knows that he isn’t fond of the party. He will find it even less enjoyable when the nobles approach him to ask about the similarity in his appearance to Arthur. Galahad’s presence was able to keep them back which is the only reason he hasn’t already gone looking for his king and father. It’s simply been too long, though, so Galahad will have to hope that Mordred can continue to remain composed no matter what is inquired of him.

With guilt and determination warring between him, Galahad slips to the side to walk around the perimeter of the ballroom. He dodges conversations with anyone that comes near him as swiftly as he can. He might be ruffling more than a few feathers, but Galahad will mend any rifts he’s unintentionally created after he finishes his current task.

This leads Galahad to the thick red curtain. He takes a deep breath. It is against the rules for him to go through this curtain, especially from this side, since this is the king’s personal passage to the ballroom. With that knowledge, Galahad almost pulls himself away. He is stopped when he hears a noise on the other side of the fabric. He glances over his shoulder, brows furrowing together. He needs to investigate, so he pushes the curtains apart. He steps into the darkness right in time to see someone hurtling toward Arthur, poised to attack.

Galahad acts on instinct. His magic reaches out, grabbing onto the king. The entire hall is filled with cyan light as Galahad pulls Arthur backward. Galahad puts himself right where the king would have been. He draws his sword. The sole of a shoe slams against the flat part of the blade. Galahad watches as the shoe begins to glow slightly, and the figure pushes themself off the blade. They do several flips in the air before landing in a squat down the hall.

“What are you…” Galahad starts when he meets a pair of crimson eyes.

Arthur sets his paw on Galahad’s shoulder, squeezing it. “That’s not Sir Lancelot. It’s an imposter bearing his likeness for reasons it won’t explain.”

Galahad nods. He readies his blade, using it to protect himself. “Of course. Father would never attack you like this.”

“Father?” The imposter murmurs under its breath, implying that it knows that word and proving that it can speak. 

“What should we—Your Majesty!” Galahad exclaims when he turns to look at the king. There’s dried blood over his lips and chin, clearly having spilled from his nose. There’s a few smaller nicks along his face, but most of the tears are around his body. His suit has been stained by blood, but Galahad’s attention is on the wounds that are visible through each scrap of fabric.

“Don’t worry, Galahad. I’ve drawn blood, too,” Arthur remarks, showing Galahad Caliburn. The blade is covered in red and…green blood. Arthur’s smirks at the sight of it, but Caliburn seems a little more wary about the entire situation. Galahad doesn’t blame the sacred sword. There’s something… off about Arthur’s eyes. Galahad has seen Arthur fight before, and certainly, the king has enjoyed his victories, but this is the first time he seems to genuinely be eager to both inflict and receive damage to himself.

And Arthur isn’t alone. The imposter doesn’t give its opponents time to figure out what they’re doing. It immediately launches itself forward with a speed comparable to both Arthur and Lancelot. Galahad didn’t know anyone could match them, but maybe the shapeshifter has copied more than Lancelot’s appearance. That… is troublesome, indeed, but if anyone can put the Ultimate Knight—or an imitation of him—in its place, it’s going to be Arthur and Galahad.

Arthur rushes forward to meet him. He swings his sword in front of him. The imposter flips in the air over the blade. Arthur grabs the blade to stop it from arcing even further. He lets go as he shoves the hilt forward. The bottom slams right into the space between the imposter’s eyes. As the imposter stumbles back, it grabs onto Arthur’s wrist. It pulls the king forward. Once the angle is right, the imposter maneuvers its body to kick Arthur’s side. The angle is just right for it to bend its knee, too, allowing it to push Arthur all the way to the ground with its knee pressing right into Arthur’s spine.

Galahad is behind the imposter in an instance. He tries beheading the imposter, but it knows what Galahad is going to do. It swings around, letting Galahad’s sword grind against the golden ring it wears as a bracelet. Galahad grits his teeth. His magic explodes outward. The imposter is knocked off the king’s back. Galahad’s sword continues toward the ground without any resistance. The instant it touches the floor beside the king, Galahad is leaping forward again. He continues swinging his sword at the imposter. Remarkably, it is able to dodge the majority of the sword strokes. Galahad is still able to get a few cuts in, however, and he confirms for himself that this strange imposter bleeds green alongside crimson.

At a certain point, Galahad is able to slice it across its side. The imposter holds the wound as if trying to keep the blood inside. It narrows its crimson eyes at Galahad. “Stay out of this. This is between me and Sonic.”

Galahad startles when he hears a loud noise. It’s a cross between pain and anger, and it’s followed by the sound of metal clattering on the floor. Galahad carefully looks over his shoulder to see that Arthur has collapsed on the ground a few feet away, implying that he was on his way over here. Caliburn settles at his side, letting Arthur slam both paws over his ears. He breathes heavily, releasing a soft growl from somewhere deep inside. Strangely, his irises shift colors. It loops through six other colors before returning to green, and a second later, his irises stop glowing. Either way, he remains pained for a little while longer.

Galahad was going to give the imposter the benefit of the doubt, but he refuses to now. Galahad twists his blade around, slamming it into the floor. Two glyphs spread out around him in perfect circles. The imposter tries attacking him, but its body is flattened against the ground as Galahad uses his soul surge. Galahad’s eyes darken as the entire hall brightens with cyan light. Galahad will drain every last drop of soul energy from this imposter’s body until it is a hollow shell on the ground.

At least, Galahad wants to, but he feels a pair of arms around his shoulder. He’s dragged backward. With his concentration broken, his soul surge ends. The glowing cyan circles dissipate. Galahad glances over his shoulder to find Arthur is the one pulling him back. The king still looks absolutely pained, but he doesn’t let go of Galahad as he whispers, “Please don’t kill him.”

“Your Majesty…” Galahad can’t finish. Anyone who attacks the king should be put to death, but Arthur sounds so… desperate? It’s definitely an emotion Galahad has never heard from him before. It compels Galahad to bow his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. What shall we do with it—I mean, him?” 

Arthur pulls his paws away from Galahad. He looks down at the imposter on the ground. Enough energy has been siphoned that he’ll stay down there for a good while. Rather, he should; he might be able to regain his energy quicker than expected. This gives them a short window to do something. Since Arthur doesn’t want the shapeshifter dead, Galahad thinks it would be safe to imprison them. He waits for that order, but Arthur shakily approaches the window. He pushes it open. He points into the distance. “Use your magic to throw him out there. Let him return to the wilderness owned by the Fae.”

Galahad wants to ask if Arthur is certain, but the look in those verdant green eyes answers that question. Galahad uses his magic to lift the imposter off the ground. He glares at Galahad. The silver knight glares back. Softly, he hisses to him, “You’re lucky the king is so merciful. Next time, I will not be.”

With those words, Galahad flings the imposter out the window as far as his magic will go. From this distance and height, there’s a possibility that the imposter will die. Galahad gets the feeling he won’t, though. He thinks that this shapeshifter will return.

Arthur picks up Caliburn. The sword tries talking to him, but Arthur doesn’t answer. He seems lost as he stands in the center of the hallway. Galahad closes the window before approaching him slowly. Before he can get too close, Arthur’s eyes snap with awareness. He turns his attention to the door that leads to other parts of the castle. He rushes toward it while saying, “Lance!”

Galahad runs after him. If there’s an imposter here, what happened to the real Lancelot? Fear for his father shoots through Galahad’s body like an arrow as he ponders the question. 

The doors are shoved open. Arthur crashes right into the person opening them. Galahad’s eyes widen as he recognizes Lancelot in the outfits they were supposed to wear tonight. On instinct, Lancelot catches Arthur and keeps them both from falling. Lancelot tries steadying Arthur away from him, but one look at Lancelot’s face sends Arthur right back into Lancelot’s arms. The dark knight looks confused, and his concern is increased tenfold when he finds blood on his gloves. He turns his eyes to Galahad. The silver knight goes to explain before his own eyes snap open with a realization “O’ divine ones, I’ve left Sir Mordred alone for too long!”

Galahad turns around, bolting toward the red curtain. He hears Lancelot call out for him, but Galahad doesn’t stop running. Arthur can tell Lancelot what happened; Galahad needs to do damage control. The Knights of the Round Table will have a meeting about this later, anyway, and Galahad thinks Arthur and Lancelot need to be alone right now. 

It’ll work itself out… hopefully.

Chapter Text

It is difficult to navigate the forests outside Camelot Castle at night. The sky itself is dark, after all, and the thick canopy doesn’t make it easy for any beams of moonlight or rays of starlight to land across the forest floor. If the ground were flat, this likely wouldn’t be too much of an issue. Unfortunately, there are many tripping hazards scattered across the dirt including thorny bushes, exposed roots, and rocks of all sizes. Anyone who wants to get through the forest should do so slowly while carrying a torch that is guaranteed to burn until the individual exits the forest on the other side.

Honey is decidedly not doing that. From the moment she entered the forest, she’s been running. Each leaping bound allows her wings to catch the wind, allowing her to glide further forward and decrease the distance between herself and her target. This time off the ground helps keep her from encountering the tripping hazards even seasoned adventurers warn against, but they aren’t a problem for her even when she’s on the ground. While her eyesight isn’t perfect in the darkness, she’s still able to see more than the average person would. She has the equivalent of a torch inside her irises, meaning that she doesn’t have to carry one around herself. Honey knows this for a fact because this isn’t the first time she’s ran through the forest during the hours between midnight and dawn.

It is her first time running with someone else, though. Well, she’s running—partially gliding—while her companion, Madam Rouge, is flying. The bat’s wings aren’t only a means of complimenting her beauty; they are able to carry her through the air. Madam Rouge is also adept at flying through the tree trunks and branches, weaving between them with both grace and skill. Honey wishes the situation were not so dire that she couldn’t simply watch Madam Rouge. It is providing so much inspiration that Honey is forced to push to the back of her mind due to the severity of the situation.

When they were in that stretch of land between Camelot Castle and the forest, Honey saw the flames rising up in part of the forest. If she and Madam Rouge—or the royal knights when they arrive—do not handle it quickly, the entire forest might be destroyed. Even if barely anyone navigates it at night, it is an important location for many people’s jobs. It is also one of the many defenses of the castle. Its absence would make them weaker, and no one wants to invite bandits or raiders to their capital. Even if the Knights of the Round Table are all gathered and extremely capable, blood will still be spilled and destruction will still be wrought before the enemies could be thwarted. Not to mention, the forest itself has given Honey inspiration from time to time, so she would rather not allow it to fall to the flames.

Honey leaps down from a small overhang (barely even a cliff given how close the ground is). Her feathery wings spread out, slowing her descent. She’s able to balance herself on top of an exposed root from a tree several meters away from the overhang. She glances toward the sky. She sees a plethora of shadows from the canopy, each tree branch resembling a clawing hand. While these shadows sway slightly in the breeze, one of them moves with more speed and thickness. Madam Rouge might be wearing the black robes Honey gifted her, but the cat can still see her flying through the air (which shouldn’t be a problem, but it sometimes feels like Madam Rouge is purposefully trying to throw Honey off her trail).

Honey follows Madam Rouge as she’s done since they entered the forest. The part of her that asks if this is truly the right course of action is silenced when Honey’s ears pick up on a flickering noise. It’s the sound of fire. It’s more than that, though. Honey realizes this when she begins to taste ashes on her tongue. Smoke slowly thickens the air, tinting its color and making it heavier in Honey’s lungs. She squints her eyes to see through the smoke, and she finally finds light. Red, orange, and yellow beams radiate outward from the flames that cling like leeches to the trees and underbrush, rapidly and steadily devouring the forest. The heat is carried by the wind alongside fleeting sparks that will destroy even more should they land on anything flammable.

Honey immediately gets to work to put out the flames. For the moment, it isn’t anything unmanageable. With Madam Rouge’s help, they should be able to put everything out before the royal knights arrive if they’re smart about it. While Honey can’t confirm Madam Rouge’s intelligence, she gets a feeling that the bat is hiding a savviness deep within herself. It was almost crystal clear during their conversation at Honey’s workplace even if there were a few mysteries that nagged continuously in Honey’s mind about Madam Rouge. Such questions should be asked and answered at another time, though. They need to protect the forest first.

And deal with the monster who caused this devastation. It doesn’t take long for the creature to appear. Honey has seen Monsters from the Underworld before. She isn’t afraid of them anymore. At least, that’s what she thought, but she still freezes up when she gets a good look at this one. It isn’t out of fear, though, not entirely, anyway. No, this is out of… curiosity, perhaps. This monster is unlike anything Honey has ever seen in her life. It is made from… metal, she believes, as the moonlight reflects off the creature’s exterior form since the smoke is thinning without the flames. It is a vaguely humanoid composition. It’s also colored extremely brightly with red and yellows and even touches of green. It doesn’t even seem like a proper monster, but it certainly can’t be a Fae if it’s made from metal like Honey suspects it is.

“Omega, put the flamethrower away. You are in a forest!” Madam Rouge admonishes the monster, sounding more annoyed than properly fearful or battle-ready. Honey’s eyes dart to Madam Rouge. The bat crosses her arms over her chest. She remains in the air to put herself at eye level with the monster. Like her voice, she doesn’t look like she’s going to fight him. Rather, her eyes are filled with disappointment. 

“THE FLAMETHROWER IS THE BEST WEAPON FOR DEALING WITH MONSTERS,” The monster replies. Honey’s wings flap anxiously behind her. This situation is too weird for her. For one, the monster speaks. Monsters don’t talk. They growl and screech and other animalistic noises, but they do not speak in languages that can be comprehended by mortals. Only the Fae can do that, but like Honey mentioned earlier, a Fae can’t be made out of metal.

If that wasn’t confusing enough, this monster’s voice sounds so… unnatural. It is unlike any voice or even noise that Honey has ever heard before. She has nothing to compare it to, either, leaving her at odds with her own sense of hearing. Did she even hear it properly? Is there some magical quality to the voice that’s preventing Honey from comprehending it? Or that’s altering it somehow in a way Honey doesn’t understand?

And lastly, this monster has a name—Omega. Madam Rouge knows that name because she knows this monster. She knows it enough to know that it has a flamethrower (is that a kind of spell? The title of a weapon? Honey suspects it ‘throws flames,’ so it’s likely the reason the forest is on fire right now). While there’s a chance it really is a monster, Honey has a different idea about what it could be. It’s a weapon to kill the Fae. That’s why it’s made from metal, that’s why it has a disregard for the forest, and that’s why it wants to destroy other ‘monsters’ so badly. That would make Madam Rouge a Fae hunter, a rare but not nonexistent job in their world.

But if Madam Rouge really was a Fae hunter, why didn’t she have any kind of reaction to Sir Lancelot? Has his Fae blood thinned so much in his time with the king?

“Put it away,” Madam Rouge repeats herself. The cadence of her voice reminds Honey of mothers and nannies lecturing their children. Or, even, the voice that inventors use when they are half-begging, half-ordering their creations to begin working the way they want them to.

“I AM ONLY PUTTING THE FLAMETHROWER AWAY BECAUSE THERE ARE NO LONGER ANY MONSTERS IN THE AREA,” The monster—tool? Golem?—continues. They lift one of their arms. The contraption at the end of their arm slides into the arm. Something more hand-like replaces it by sliding out and twisting until it has found its place. Honey tilts her head to the side. Her life could very well be in danger right now, but she’s curious about Omega, whatever he is. And the likelihood of her life being in danger increases when Omega turns his eyes(?) toward Honey. “I WILL HANDLE THE ENEMY.”

Madam Rouge hurriedly drops down into the space between Honey and Omega. The cat still puts herself in a defensive position. Monster or not, tool or not, she isn’t afraid to fight the metallic beast. Her strength and speed, after all, do not come from Fae blood. She’s entirely mortal, so she won’t suffer from touching the metal. Instead, she will be able to punch it without needing to worry about burning her flesh. Breaking her fingers is still a possibility, but Honey has faced opponents greater than this one.

“She’s not an enemy, Omega,” Madam Rouge informs the metallic beast. Madam Rouge glances over her shoulder at Honey. Despite the air still being heated from the flames, Honey has to suppress a shudder. Madam Rouge looks back at Omega. “I’m not sure what she is, but we shouldn’t kill her. She might be useful.”

“HAVE YOU GATHERED SUFFICIENT DATA TO SUPPORT THIS CONCLUSION?” Omega asks.

“I have, actually. But let’s wait for Shadow. I don’t like repeating myself,” Madam Rouge answers, narrowing her eyes with that last statement. There’s obviously a story there of a time when Madam Rouge needed to repeat herself. Or maybe it is just hearkening back to earlier when Madam Rouge had to tell Omega to put the ‘flamethrower’ away twice. Either way, Madam Rouge sounds serious, and she tightens her arms over her chest while glaring at the metallic beast.

“What is going on here? What is that thing? Who’s Shadow? Who are you?” Honey demands. Her voice is rather clear and calm despite the turbulent emotions roaring in her body. She’s confused about what’s happening right now, yes. She’s starting to feel betrayed, too, even if she hasn’t received enough details to truly confirm that Madam Rouge used her. Honey simply gets the feeling that she was, and depending on the reason for this, Honey might have to start planning her revenge somehow.

“Oh, those are some very good questions to ask,” Madam Rouge compliments without actually answering the questions.

Honey is about to push forward for more when they all hear an approaching noise. Omega and Madam Rouge recognize it if their lack of surprise is anything to go by. Honey, however, finds that this noise is similar to Omega’s voice. At least this time, she has a point of reference. It’s awfully similar to the sound of Sir Lancelot using his magic. Honey hasn’t heard that noise very often, but her panicked mind scrambles to remind her of it just because it makes this situation just a little bit easier to understand.

Unfortunately, making the situation easier to understand does not last long at all. Sir Lancelot stops between two trees. He isn’t wearing his suit. He isn’t even wearing his armor. He’s only wearing gloves, golden bands, and an odd pair of shoes that might have metal parts to them. His red eyes are narrowed. In fact, his entire face is hardened, traced with a deep tiredness as if the entire world has run him ragged and drained his spirit. There are also streaks of blood—red and green, not red and silver like it should be—across his face and limbs. His wounds look healed, though, which is the only reason Honey stomps all the way to the space in front of him. He gives her an odd expression, but she ignores it as she starts yelling at him. “You have some nerve, Sir Lancelot! I told you to go to that celebration! His Majesty and Sir Galahad are going to beat you, and I don’t blame them! Do you—”

“Trust me, I completely understand your anger, Lady Honey,” Madam Rouge interrupts. She grabs onto Honey’s shoulders. Her touch isn’t harsh, but she does force Honey to stumble away from Sir Lancelot. At this angle, Honey is able to see the pure confusion on his face. The hedgehog doesn’t even look like he recognizes her. This causes her temper to flare even higher, but she also finds herself curious about what is happening right now. Her question is answered by Madam Rouge’s next statement, but it also leaves her with dozens more questions. “But this is not Sir Lancelot. This is Shadow.”

“What does that even mean?” Honey demands. She pulls herself away from Madam Rouge. In fact, Honey moves away from her, Omega, and whoever that hedgehog is. She doesn’t stop until she feels burnt branches cracking beneath her shoes. She eyes all three of them, searching for further explanation in their appearances alone.

“Rouge,” The hedgehog says. Unlike Honey, he’s completely ignoring her and staring at the bat. Well, that confirms that he isn’t Sir Lancelot. The good knight would never be so rude (he would be this annoying, though, as evidenced by her encounter with him earlier in the night and how she’s in the forest with only a few hours left until dawn. Well, the shop was going to be closed tomorrow, anyway, so Honey can spend the day sleeping).

“Don’t be like that, Shadow. How about you go first with what information you’ve gathered? I assume you have some since you clearly don’t have Sonic with you,” Madam Rouge retorts, seemingly getting a lot more out of the singular word the hedgehog spoke than Honey did. 

“Sonic,” Honey murmurs to herself. She knows that name. She knows it’s one that no one is allowed to call the current king. She knows that it causes him immense pain. She also knows that Madam Rouge asked Honey about it earlier.

“The fool believes he’s King Arthur. He won’t acknowledge his name,” The hedgehog answers. He also crosses his arms over his chest. Despite rolling his eyes, even Honey can tell that his annoyance is surface-level at best. “He didn’t seem to recognize me.”

“BASED ON CURRENT AVAILABLE INFORMATION, SONIC THE HEDGEHOG HAS LOST HIS MEMORY,” Omega states factually.

Madam Rouge nods her head. She turns her body. While she’s technically facing Honey, the cat gets the feeling that she’s only doing this to talk to Omega and the hedgehog at the same time. “That’s exactly what happened. Apparently, Sonic came to this realm to save it once. He returned to us, but after he and Silver saved everyone from the Metal Virus, he appeared here once more without memories. They crowned him their king. He’s been here for over a year.”

The hedgehog releases a ‘tch’ sound. Omega lifts one of his metallic arms. “WHAT COMPELLED THE PEOPLE OF THIS LAND TO MAKE SUCH AN ILLOGICAL DECISION?”

“Illogical decision?” Honey repeats. None of them look at her. They don’t answer her, either. Angered both by their words and their disregard for her, Honey’s voice rises in volume—enough to make them all look at her. “I might not know everything you’re talking about, but I can assure you that making Arthur our king was not an illogical decision. He is the best king Camelot has ever known. He has all the qualities befitting a king in surplus. He is kind, generous, and strong. There is nothing he will not do to protect his people and what they care about. He believes in our greatness so much that it makes us want to live up to it, and that’s the reason why Camelot has flourished underneath his leadership.”

Months ago, she wouldn’t have said any of this. Then again, months ago, she was a nobody. She had nothing—she was nothing. She didn’t have a purpose, only a will to keep surviving. But the dirt and darkness she was born into was not her birthright. He said so himself as he lifted her into the light. With a smile that she’ll never forget, he told her plainly when she asked him why he was doing all the things he was doing for her, “I want you to believe in yourself as much as I believe in you.”

The other three are silent for a long moment. Madam Rouge breaks the silence first by chuckling under her breath. She sets her hands on her hips, wrinkling the fabric of her robes. “It looks like Blue has made himself a home here.”

“He can’t stay,” The hedgehog argues. There’s a lot to pick apart in his tone. For the most part, it sounds merely factual. Blue, Sonic, Arthur—whatever his name is—physically cannot stay here in Camelot. That should be the end of it, but there’s the faintest trace of ‘I won’t let him’ in that voice. It is enough for Honey to glare at the hedgehog that looks like but doesn’t act like Sir Lancelot.

“OUR MISSION IS TO RETURN HIM TO HIS HOME,” Omega states. His head swivels around. Honey feels a spike of nausea as it goes all the way around. She only keeps it at bay since Omega doesn’t look enough like a mortal for her to truly think about it. “THIS IS NOT HIS HOME.”

“I know,” Madam Rouge says softly. She runs her hands along her face, looking a tad more tired and conflicted than a moment before.

Honey shifts on her feet. When the silence grows too loud for her, she resolves herself and asks, “Are you three from the other realm? The one Merlina summoned the king from?”

Omega looks at her. Shadow stares at the ground with a contemplative expression. Madam Rouge is the one to answer. “We are. That’s why Shadow looks like Sir Lancelot.”

“There’s someone that looks like Silver,” The hedgehog—Shadow—speaks up. Madam Rouge’s slide toward him for a moment, but she returns them back to Honey while showing Shadow a singular finger. It must mean something akin to ‘wait’ or ‘in a minute.’

“And the king needs to return to his original world? Are you suffering from a disaster in his absence?” 

Omega and Shadow say ‘no,’ but Rouge shrugs her shoulders. “Technically. We have a few problems that usually Sonic takes care of. Other people can make up the difference, but I don’t doubt that a problem is going to befall the world that only he will be able to manage. Though, his absence might push others to start getting stronger and really becoming a hero in their own right.”

“What are you—”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” Rouge tells Shadow. He gives her a hard stare. She rolls her shoulders, looking away from him. “I wasn’t only talking about you.”

“SONIC THE HEDGEHOG HAS MANY FRIENDS AND A FAMILY MEMBER THAT WILL GET IN MY WAY OF ELIMINATING EGGMAN IF WE DO NOT RETRIEVE HIM,” Omega admits. Honey doesn’t know who ‘Eggman’ is, but she understands the rest of that statement. The king is a friendly person. Of course he would have people who care about him in his own realm.

When Honey was making the clothes for the knights and king for the upcoming ball, she would sometimes catch Arthur staring out the window with this thoughtful expression. She recognized the homesickness on his face, but he gently laughed when she brought it up. He reminded her that he doesn’t even remember his home. But it seems that his home remembers him. They have come looking for him. They don’t look like they’re going to leave without him. Honey doesn’t want to let him go; she doesn’t think anyone in the kingdom is going to want to. But…

Honey shivers. She ignores it, but that doesn’t make it go away. She continues shaking for a few seconds. She notices that her breath is suddenly foggy. She moves her fingers through it, confusion miring her features. She understands that it’s nighttime in the forest, but it shouldn’t be this cold. The only reason it would be is if—

Honey races forward. It is so quick that none of the people from another realm in front of her can react in time. Honey grabs Madam Rouge’s wrist. She pulls the bat forward. As Madam Rouge stumbles, Honey shoves the bat behind her. Honey watches as a figure clothed in sterling white armor jumps out from the darkness. Their sword slashes the air. Ice is left in the blade’s wake, creating a sculpture that perfectly replicates the arc of their sword. When the tip lands against the grass, frost spreads outward. The knight tilts his head back, letting a bright green shade pierce through the darkness of the helmet.

“Sir Mordred!” Honey yells. She rounds over the side of the ice sculpture. She struggles to keep running on the frost. She slips and slides, barely able to continue pushing forward. She forces herself to, however, when she notices Omega and Shadow preparing to attack on either side of her. As they both launch their attack, Honey manages to get close to tackle Sir Mordred to the ground. Honey grits her teeth, feeling the ice spread against her fur. The pain fades with numbness, but Honey knows that it’s going to hurt a lot more later. 

But later isn’t right now, so Honey forces herself onto her feet. She offers her paw to help Sir Mordred. The knight, however, doesn’t take it. Honey realizes why when he pushes his paws underneath him. More ice spreads across the fallen leaves beneath him. It’s probably for the best that they don’t touch until he gets his magic under control.

“Sir Mordred, I understand that you might have received orders to deal with these intruders, but they are not who you think they are. They are visitors from our king’s original realm. Ah, are you aware of the fact that the king is not from our realm?” Honey tells him. She glances back at the other three. She doesn’t entirely trust them; she also doesn’t trust Sir Mordred not to attack them. For that reason, she helps bring Sir Mordred away from them, letting the two whisper in the nearby shadows.

Sir Mordred nods his head, answering her question. Honey folds her paws together over her stomach. “They want to bring the king back to his original realm. They are facing problems only he can solve. The king also has friends and a family in that realm.”

Sir Mordred does not react. In all likelihood, he probably doesn’t care. It isn’t because Sir Mordred does not want to. He’s still learning what it means to have friends and family. He might not understand the gravity of being separated from them or how desperately someone would want to be reunited with someone they care about.

It is for this reason that Honey continues without waiting too long for Sir Mordred to come up with something to say. “I believe we should help them, Sir Mordred.”

This gets a reaction out of him. Honey listens to his armor click and clang together as he tenses inside of it. Honey lifts her paws in front of his chest without touching since she can feel the chill radiating off of him even through her gloves. “Forgive me, Sir Mordred, I misspoke. I do not wish to help them abduct our king or force him to leave. I only believe that after everything our king has done for us, he deserves a chance to decide for himself if he wants to go home. We should help him regain his memories.”

Sir Mordred might as well be a statue. He has not moved or spoken for so long that Honey wonders if he even understood her words. Eventually, however, Sir Mordred says, “We will… let him choose… his fate.”

“Exactly!” Honey claps. It seems she wasn’t the only one who was made to learn about the freedom and control they had over their destiny from the king. And now, they get to repay the favor.

On Sir Mordred’s behalf, Honey turns around to face the three intruders from another realm.”We’ll help you get back the king’s memories. In exchange, you have to allow His Majesty to decide for himself if he wants to leave.”

Madam Rouge smiles at them. “That’s a deal I can get behind.”

A fair lady sits in a wooden chair. She faces one of the many windows in her chambers. The night sky stretches out on the other side of the glass with the forests and hills of Camelot mirroring it on the ground below. With so many stars out tonight, it is no wonder that anyone would be spending their dwindling hours of the night staring out their windows.

However, this is not entirely the case for the fair lady. She is not looking through the window. She is staring at the reflections in the glass. The candlelight from a nearby desk reflects back, endlessly dancing between the panes. Her own face can be seen with vague details, blurry around the edges and clearest around her pale eyes. No one would blame her if she were using the glass as a mirror or if she was merely amused by the subtle distortions.

But that, too, is not what she is looking at. If not what’s beyond the window or the reflections in the glass, then what could this red-haired maiden be looking at? It is something that only she can see. It is whispers of the past and future, merging together like fractured shards that only her magical eyes are able to perceive. Her attention is completely enraptured by it.

Not to the point that she does not hear her door open, however. Footsteps follow before the door is once more closed. More footsteps. Rustling fabric. A voice speaks, “Iseult, my love, what are you doing still awake? Are you perhaps waiting for me?”

Footsteps bring the speaker closer to her. A paw lands on the hand in her lap. Instinctively, she turns her hand around to grab onto the paw, properly holding it. This mindless action causes the hedgehog kneeling at her side to furrow his brows. But it is only out of concern. He understands what’s happening right now, so he softly asks, “What do you see?”

“Betrayal. War. Partings and new beginnings. A crown covered in frost,” Iseult answers. She tears her eyes away from the window to look into Tristan’s eyes. His concern has only grown tenfold because he knows that her prophecies always come true. If she sees betrayal and war, they are coming—though, sometimes, not in the form they suspect. Tristan can only hope that’s the case this time, but Iseult looks at him like she can already see his death coming. “Be careful.”

“I swear I will be,” Tristan tells her soothingly. He lifts her knuckles to his forehead, pressing down in a gesture of supreme loyalty and respect.

Iseult twists her hand. She frees herself from his grasp, but she does not remove her hand from his face. Instead, her fingers glide down the sides to his cheeks. She lifts his face to lock eyes with each other. “Yes… you will. Your loyalty will be rewarded. But only you have a choice between kindness and cruelty. Choose understanding, my love, even for those who cross blades with you.”

He wonders if this is part of her prophecy. Tristan decides it ultimately doesn’t matter. He leans into her palm and makes Iseult another promise. “I will.”

Chapter Text

The Titanic Plain is an expansive area at the northeastern border of the Highlands. It is a fair distance away from Camelot Castle, but it is no less protected by the kingdom’s forces because there are townspeople who have sworn fealty here. It is for this reason that the Knights of the Round Table are assigned to patrol the area. On this sunny morning, Sir Gawain and Sir Lamorak are the ones who have been told to travel along the perimeter in case someone needs assistance from the knights or if they find a collection of monsters that have escaped the Underworld.

Gawain has been to this area many, many times in his years as a knight. It is where he traditionally went to sharpen his skills by challenging the trolls. As the illusory King Arthur’s corruption grew, none of the knights were permitted to come here as often as any of them would have liked. Suffering spread across the land as the townspeople were imprisoned and tortured by the same trolls that Gawain’s presence used to keep in-line. Gawain snuck here as often as he could. In the few times he was caught, he swore it was only a training exercise. The king accepted this excuse every time, but there was one insistence when he told Gawain that it was more akin to an exercise in futility—as if he knew exactly what Gawain was doing in the Titanic Plain but didn’t say anything about it because he also knew that nothing would come of it. The trolls would still dominate the land, and the townspeople would still suffer, and Gawain would come here to push back against the inevitable one measly inch at a time.

Gawain does not regret his actions. If he didn’t do that, the Titanic Plain might have fallen completely before the king was revealed to be an illusion. After his reign ended, Gawain left Camelot Castle for months to handle the trolls in this area. He was in the midst of that mission when he was recalled back to meet Sonic—the new King Arthur—once more. It is with the king’s assistance alongside the other knights that they managed to turn the Titanic Plain back into a home and tourist destination. 

Gawain doesn’t regret his actions because he’s able to look around at the Titanic Plain now. The grass has grown back to its usually tall height. The sky is no longer filled with smoke or the stench of burning flesh. Gawain takes a deep breath, tasting the natural scents brimming in the air. The wind is pleasant, carrying the sound of animals and the settlements rather than the wailing cries of dying townspeople. The sun dances across the emerald sea beneath Gawain’s feet, warming the entire area for miles and miles. The wagons that scuttle along the dirt paths are filled with goods from merchant groups rather than giant harpoons mounted by the fiendish creatures. 

The Titanic Plain has healed. It took a lot of work for this to happen. Gawain can’t even count how much he’s sweat and bled for this place. He went several nights in a row without quality rest—for he hardly slept at all during this time period—just to free all the townspeople before the trolls killed them all in a rush to exert the control that Gawain was going to take from them the moment he found their encampments. It is an unfortunate truth that Gawain was not able to save everyone, but he does not let that bog him down. He did what he could in the time permitted, and he made sure to retrieve every body for proper burial. At the very least, there shouldn’t be any spirits wandering around these lands.

That is a real concern, Gawain notes, letting his eyes fall open. He looks around suspiciously, searching for any spirits that are wandering around in plain daylight. Before Camelot, there was a vast civilization here. They have long-since departed from these lands. All that they’ve left behind are ruins and strange monuments that have been identified as belonging to the druids by reputable historians. Gawain doesn’t know much about them other than the fact that they are connected to nature and souls. Despite his fear of ghosts and ghouls, Gawain keeps coming to the same grasslands he swears has the potential to be haunted.

Gawain doesn’t think it is, though, especially after everything he’s done to make sure this land was purified from supernatural threats such as ghosts.

At least, Gawain has done his best to purify the land, but escorting Lamorak into these lands was probably the worst decision he could make in terms of keeping this place unhaunted. Gawain narrows his eyes at the hawk walking alongside him. Lamorak hasn’t done anything specific yet, but Gawain can just tell that his personality is one that will awaken slumbering spirits if they are around and just waiting for someone to disturb their final resting place.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Lamorak snaps, pulling his gaze away from the horizon. Through the darkness of their helmets, they make eye contact. Lamorak is not amused or impressed by Gawain’s hardened stare. Indignation rises in his features after a few moments of tense silence. “I will duel you right now if you do not speak the truth, Sir Gawain!”

“You will not,” Gawain shakes his head dismissively. He can feel the gentle ebbing of Galatine’s blades reaching out toward him. His connection with his sacred twin-swords is immutable and prevalent. It is enough to instill self-confidence in him. “You are aware of your own inferiority compared to me.”

“Inferiority?” Lamorak squawks like a disturbed bird. He reaches for his own weapons, prepared to pull them out. Gawain arches a brow. He continues forward a few steps before he realizes that Lamorak is being serious. Gawain stops, turning halfway to look into Lamorak’s angered gaze. Gawain thought Lamorak was smarter than this which is the reason why he claimed Lamorak wouldn’t fight him. Although it is often debated who is the most powerful member of the round table, the arguments usually end with a decision needing to be made between Sir Lancelot, Dame Percival, or Sir Gawain (although, Sir Galahad and Sir Mordred are quickly rising the ranks as they gain more experience. And no one would ever dare say King Arthur himself was not the  most powerful member). Sir Lamorak is more in the middle with Sir Tristan and Sir Agravain in terms of strength and skill. Both Gawain and Lamorak know this, so Gawain doesn’t understand why Lamorak is attempting to pull his weapons out.

“Are you certain you wish to duel me, Sir Lamorak?” Gawain asks, not unkindly, per se, but definitely with the twinge of disrespect that caused Lamorak’s temper to flare in the first place. Gawain is not unaware of this, but he doesn’t care too much at the moment (he certainly will when his own temper is provoked).

Lamorak remains motionless for several seconds. Eventually, his shoulders deflate with a sigh. His arms fall back to his sides. Perhaps self-consciously, he adjusts his armor. Once everything is put back into its rightful place, he continues walking forward. He passes Gawain without another glance in his direction. The conversation, however, is not finished as Lamorak’s voice travels backward to Gawain’s ears because of the wind. “I do not wish to duel you now, Sir Gawain. We have a patrol to finish. However, a spar is in order when we return to the castle. You must correct your mistake of underestimating me.”

“I am always willing to spar with my fellow knights,” Gawain admits. He follows Lamorak without putting in any effort to catch up with him. The Knights of the Round Table do not spar too often. This is because Gawain and Lancelot would get way into it when they were fighting each other. The other knights, of course, are not as temperamental, so they do not fight as often. Lancelot and Agravain fight frequently enough, and Bedivere is always testing his strength against the others when he can (it’s as if he’s trying to prove to himself that he deserves a place at the table, but Gawain isn’t emotionally savvy enough to pick up on that or to do anything about it). Other than them, the others only fight when they have differences that cannot be reconciled by King Arthur’s mediating—surprisingly less issues than one would think given the king’s carefree, laissez faire attitude. 

“Then, we shall spar posthaste,” Lamorak agrees. It isn’t overtly noticeable, but he does slow down enough that their shoulders are even within a few strides. Lamorak naturally, subtly increases his speed to make the fact that he ever wanted to walk side-by-side unknowable. “Now, will you tell me why you were staring at me with that particular expression?”

“Ah. I am certain you will disrespect one of the spirits of these lands. It is my intention to prevent this outcome before it can occur,” Gawain tells his companion. He speaks so seriously that Lamorak’s confused countenance grows sharper and sharper the longer he gives Gawain his own ‘particular expression.’

“I did not take you for the superstitious sort,” Lamorak says, blinking rapidly and tilting his head away from the echidna.

“It is not a superstition. These are sacred lands. If we are not careful, we will be inviting forces beyond our understanding to interact with us,” Gawain argues, crossing his arms over his chest. This would not be the first person to question Gawain’s belief in ghosts. Lancelot comes to mind, but Gawain pushes that obnoxious knight’s face out of his mind lest he finds himself fuming with rage. Gawain is of the opinion that the others are the unusual ones. Many of the Knights of the Round Table are swordmasters who can use their souls to unleash unnatural powers. This proves the existence of souls. Gawain does not see how it could be so difficult to believe that the soul would persist after the body’s demise to cause harm or complete unfinished business.

“I will admit that I am wary of being cursed by these lands,” Lamorak supposes. He gestures his hand toward the tall, stone monuments that the two knights are approaching. Some of them have fallen. Others remain upright. They were originally placed to form a pattern on the ground. Almost all of them are marked with all or part of a rune. The druids erected them for a specific purpose, yet no one has been able to identify what that purpose is. Because of that, many have come to fear that they will be cursed by interacting with the stones. Gawain, personally, does not know how ‘cursed’ is more believable than ‘haunted,’ but the minds of the townspeople are strange, fickle things.

Gawain stops walking for a moment. He narrows his eyes at the Druidic henge. His first proper meeting with the azure hedgehog that later became his king was here. Gawain had tracked the enemy of Camelot, and then challenged him to a fight in these very ruins. After his defeat, Gawain thought the only way to be honorable was to take his own life. Sonic—King Arthur—stopped him. The azure hedgehog actually admonished him for his actions. He might have taken Galatine from Gawain, but he left behind invaluable advice. This imparted wisdom was solidified and strengthened by Sonic’s resolve to stand against the Dark Queen, eventually accessing the legendary power of Excalibur. For the briefest of moments, Gawain wanted to lose his life in this place, yet the exact opposite happened—he found a greater life. He found a genuine purpose that made him proud to be alive rather than duties he undertook to escape how awful the nights tinged by the townspeople’s screams and cries made him feel.

“Is that smoke?” Lamorak asks, already heading down the hill toward the henge. Gawain snaps himself out of his thoughts. He was so caught up in the past that he didn’t even realize that the henge of right now is slightly different from the one of the past. The grass is about the same height and definitely the same shade. The stones are arranged in the same way, the weathering that’s happened in the past few years unnoticeable. The difference is exactly as Lamorak said. There is a plume of smoke rising from somewhere in the center of the ruins.

Lamorak is already heading that way. Gawain hurries to catch up with him. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and there shouldn’t be fire in these lands. Either something has gone wrong or a group of travelers have chosen the wrong place to set up camp. The knights will need to investigate to confirm the truth, and that will allow them to pick the correct course of action.

It doesn’t take long for them to find the source of the smoke. It is, indeed, fire that has caused it. Someone has created a small campfire in the middle of a few stones. It is far enough away from any individual one that Gawain thinks the person who made the fire knows exactly how important and fragile these stones are. That does, however, bring into question why they created the fire here if they knew.

“Sir Lamorak!” A voice calls out excitedly. The figure standing in front of the fire whirls around. As they move, the hood of their red cloak slips onto their shoulders. Lady Honey—the most famous seamstress in Camelot—stands in front of the campfire. The happiness in her expression fades when her eyes slip past Lamorak and land on Sir Gawain. It is only for a fraction of a second, however. In the next moment, Lady Honey puts a smile right back on her face that does reach her eyes but still isn’t bright enough to be completely natural. “And Sir Gawain…”

“Why are you all the way out here, Lady Honey?” Lamorak inquires. He approaches the campfire she made. It is a rather small one. It will easily be put out. In fact, it can be put out by the bucket of sand Lady Honey has a short distance away from the stones surrounding the kindling. This is a level of preparation that gives Gawain certain impressions. He is certain about any of them, though, so he doesn’t say anything at the moment. “What is the purpose of this fire? Are you not warm enough in your cloak beneath the bright sun?”

“Umm…” Lady Honey eloquently starts. She glances between Lamorak and Gawain. It becomes clear that Lady Honey did not want to encounter Gawain. She must have been hoping that only Lamorak would arrive. The question, then, becomes why she would want that. Lamorak seems to have an answer in his mind as he puffs out his chest and tilts his head back to stare down Lady Honey and Sir Gawain. The echidna glares, hoping against hope that Lady Honey did not intend to confess to Lamorak. The hawk’s ego is already intolerable enough as it is. Gawain does not want to deal with his ‘bragging’ (for Gawain holds no affections in his heart for Lady Honey) all the way back to the castle.

“It is quite alright, Lady Honey,” Another voice adds. Gawain’s paws settle on Galatine’s hilts. He looks for the source of the voice. This leads his eyes upward. A figure clad in black robes sits on top of a tall stone jutting up from the ground. The figure does not lower their hood like Lady Honey accidentally did, but there’s just enough light sneaking into the darkness that Gawain notices turquoise irises. They are a vivid color, reminding Gawain of the lakes in the southern territories. Gawain finds the figure to be extremely suspicious, but not enough that he doesn’t find himself mesmerized by the coloration. “I am certain we can convince Sir… Gawain to help our cause.”

“What is your cause?” Gawain murmurs, unable to tear his eyes away from the figure. He tells himself it’s only because he needs to keep track of the stranger. He knows what Lady Honey is capable of. He doesn’t know what this figure can do. Gawain needs to be prepared. He doesn’t want another loss in the Druidic henge.

“We require your help. I set the fire in order to attract the attention of Sir Lamorak. I heard he would be patrolling the area. The reason for him was because I knew we could trade a favor for some gold coins,” Lady Honey says. She reaches into her pocket to pull out a coinpurse. She sets it down in Lamorak’s hand. The hawk closes his fingers around the coinpurse. He shakes it around. The jingling noise causes satisfaction to spread across his features, and he seems more pleased with that than the prospect that Lady Honey wanted to confess to him.

“What is the favor? What do you two lovely ladies need help with?” Lamorak asks. It is downright shameful that a Knight of the Round Table can be bought. If the ladies truly had an earnest request, Lamorak should do it without the need for payment. If it is something less than reputable, Lamorak should not engage with it at all. They are knights of the realm, after all. This sort of work is beneath them and should be delegated to mercenaries.

“Are you certain?” Lady Honey whispers, looking back at the other lady. Gawain watches as the stranger sighs. Wings extend through slits in the back of her robe. She pushes off the top of the stone. Her wings help carry her to the grouping. She pulls her hood back, revealing the face of a bat. She smiles kindly at the three people staring right at her, awaiting her words.

“We should tell them the truth. I am certain honorable knights such as them would be partial to that,” The woman says. She angles her body toward the two knights. “Hello. I am Rouge. It is our intention to help His Majesty recall his memories. This will also cure him of the infliction he experiences when someone utters his former name. For this to happen, however, we need you two to make sure the king comes to a specific place during his upcoming tour of the land. I swear to you that it will not hurt in the slightest.”

“Why do you not ask the king yourself?” Lamorak asks. Gawain nods in agreement, though his thoughts do linger on the prospect. Merlina admitted that she wasn’t able to bring his memories back. She promised to keep trying, but she hasn’t made progress in the year that King Arthur has been here. It might be time that they get outside help, especially since the king’s reaction to that name (Sonic) is getting worse. It is hard to tell since no one has said it around him in recent times, but Gawain knows that it is. To erase this weakness, someone needs to get to work.

Rouge glances over her shoulder at Lady Honey. The seamstress looks uncomfortable. She turns her head away from them and folds her fingers over her stomach. She breathes out heavily and closes her eyes. “To answer your question, I must be bluntly honest. I am under the impression that certain… individuals around His Majesty do not wish for him to have his memories back. It is not that they are malicious nor do they have impure intentions. They only wish to keep the king. After all, many suffered in the months when Camelot was ruled by no one. However, Sir Mordred and I believe that His Majesty deserves a chance to decide if he truly wants to stay here or if he’s merely being compelled by the fact that he does not know where else he belongs.”

Lady Honey’s eyes flutter open. She tilts her head back to Lamorak and Gawain. The two knights share a look between each other. Lamorak’s grip tightens around the coinpurse. Gawain narrows his eyes. Lamorak tilts his head to the side and lifts the opposing shoulder. Gawain, unfortunately, understands exactly what Lamorak is trying to say. It isn’t about the money—not really. It’s the simple fact that Lady Honey is, to an extent, right. Although they butt heads often, there are very few individuals that understand Lancelot as much as Gawain does. He knows that the ebony knight is very loyal to the king. Galahad is similarly impassioned in his beliefs. Gawain knows that Kay will never recover from losing his king again, especially after he’s gotten close with the new Arthur.

But Arthur comes from another realm. He must have people there. He must have an entire life. For as much good as he’s done here, does he not deserve to return to his home? There is a chance that he will refuse to, of course. Gawain honestly hopes that he does. But that doesn’t mean Gawain wants to keep his past from him. That wouldn’t be fair, not after everything Arthur has done for him and the other knights. If Gawain does not repay the favor, what kind of loyal servant is he?

Gawain and Lamorak—having come to similar conclusions—turn back to Lady Honey and Rouge. Gawain crosses his arms over his chest, and Lamorak puts the coinpurse away. “What did you two have in mind?”

“Have you come to kill me, my child?”

Morgan looks over her shoulder to find three intruders entering the inner sanctum of her mountainside pavilion. She was charting out the course of the stars before she felt the presence of one familiar and two unfamiliar creatures entering her domain. It is only because of the familiar one that she did not activate any of her traps or safety protocols that would grant her protection.

“No, Mother. That is not why I am here.”

The familiar one speaks. His voice is different from the last time she heard it. There are no variations in speed, volume, or deepness. Rather, the difference comes from fluctuations in emotion. They are subtle, of course, but she picks up on them immediately. Her child never had emotions in his voice beforehand. He was incapable of them as far as she was aware. Morgan’s lips twitch with a slight smile. She thought Arthur would kill Mordred. It never occurred to her that he would take Mordred in as a ward, instilling a capable heart in the dragon of calamity and destruction. It seems she underestimated this new Arthur, though she doesn’t find herself ashamed or embarrassed. In fact, she is happier for it because she knows that Mordred is better off with the new king than the poor dragon ever was with her.

“Then, why have you come with that… creature?”

It is an autonomous beast made entirely from metal. It is across the room from Morgan, yet she feels a sickness seeping into her body from its mere presence. Mordred is faring better as evidenced by him standing right beside the creature, but Mordred’s resistance can only be so much greater than her own. There must be an important reason he brought such a poisonous creature deep into her domain at the risk of himself, and for someone as cynical as Morgan, she can only consider it to be an attempt at assassination.

“This creature is known as Omega. The other one is known as Shadow. They come from another realm. It is the one His Majesty comes from. They are accompanying me. They do not wish you harm, and neither do I.”

Morgan doubts that. The metal beast—Omega—might not intend to harm her even if his presence does exactly that. The other one—Shadow—obviously wants to kill her. She is not entirely certain why because his anger seems oddly personal. It might be because he resembles that other knight—Lancelot, was it?—but she doubts Lancelot’s memories have entered this Shadow’s head. But what else could it be? Ah, well, Morgan supposes it does not matter. If Mordred says they do not mean her harm, it is enough for her to believe that they are not going to harm her even if they want to.

“What is your purpose, then, my child? What has brought you to me after I released you into the world?”

Mordred steps forward, leaving his companions behind. He removes his helmet—something she warned him never to do. It seems what she predicted would happen when he took it off didn’t end up happening. He has no shame as he tucks his helmet underneath his arm. Both of his companions are startled by his appearance, but Mordred pays them no mind. Instead, he stares right into Morgan’s eyes, letting her see the many scars that she herself put upon his flesh.

“You have caused me much suffering, Mother. I believe recompense is necessary. I have come to collect.”

Morgan turns around completely. She crosses her arms over her chest. She narrows her eyes at Mordred. He remains unflinching beneath her gaze. It is no longer apathy that makes him motionless. It is courage and determination. Morgan stifles a laugh, but is unable to stop a smile. Arthur has made significant progress with Mordred. It is that same progress that has pointed Mordred’s thoughts in a specific direction. Morgan nods her head solemnly.

“That is true. Very well, Mordred. I shall teach you the spell required to bring back the king’s memories. Come forth and learn one more lesson from your mother.”

Morgan offers her hand. Although she has caused him much pain and anguish, Mordred moves across the room. He takes her hand because he loves his king and believes in the king’s philosophy more than he hates or fears Morgan. And that, she supposes, is reason enough to assist him.

Chapter Text

There is a small village deep within the lowlands. It has a few dozen buildings loosely scattered around a fountain at the town’s center. The fountain is made from light gray stone. Although it has been weathered by time, there has been a conscious, active effort to keep the statue both clean and solid despite the many years. Because of this determination, the statue on top of the fountain still resembles the figure it’s meant to be emulating. It is a young woman dressed in flowing robes. She holds a vase underneath her arm. Water must have once flowed from the vase’s hollow opening, but it does not do that any longer. It has not done that recently, either, so the basin below the woman’s bare feet is filled with stagnant, partially dirtied water.

Arthur stands in front of the fountain. His head is tilted back to look into the woman’s serene expression. She does not look back at him. Instead, her gaze is downcast at the water. He might be projecting, but he genuinely believes that she’s saddened by the state of her fountain. The townspeople were able to keep her from cracking or crumbling, but it seems none of them have the necessary skills to fix the system that makes the water continuously flow. It’s possible that it was made by magic, after all, and Arthur knows that skill hasn’t been developed in the populace as well as it could have been. This realization leads Arthur to two conclusions: he needs to commission either a mage or an inventor to fix the fountain, and he needs to start working on a program that will develop the magical talents of the townspeople.

This second conclusion has been one he’s been thinking about for a while now, though. After spending so long in the capital, he’s grown intimate with those who can command the supernatural arts. The regular citizens of Camelot, however, are not as personable with it. There are no longer any active laws against magic users, but prejudice rarely lies dormant. Arthur has been meaning to remedy this situation. It is something he wants to do before he gives up the crown, another step in his pursuit to grant Camelot freedom without endangering them. Having more magic users will certainly be good for the strength and longevity of the kingdom.

Arthur’s thoughts are interrupted by a light pressure touching his heel. Confusion flits across his expression as he turns around. He lifts his cloak, noticing there is now a ball right beside him. Arthur nudges it with the toes of his boot. It moves away from him, but it doesn’t go very far since he didn’t put much force behind it. He has, however, confirmed that it truly is a simple ball.

Arthur hears footsteps approaching him. He lifts his viridescent gaze from the ball to the gaggle of children that have come rushing over to retrieve it. They stop when they notice him. They look at him suspiciously with soft hints of curiosity. The older children tuck the younger few behind them, but necks begin craning to bring everyone’s eyes to Arthur. Although they might not be aware of who he is exactly, they undeniably notice the quality of his cloak or the metallic gauntlets he wears. He is, in their eyes, a knight or a noble. Perhaps the eldest among them might assume he’s the king, but Arthur doesn’t blame a village this far away from the capital from not knowing the appearance of their king. He hasn’t been the ruler for that long, after all, and it isn’t like he grew up in Camelot as a prince.

Arthur smiles at the children. He moves his fingers to his cloak. He unties it. Arthur tosses the fabric against the edge of the fountain, ignoring how part of the fabric descends into the water. Next, Arthur sets his belt down on top of the cloak. Thankfully, Caliburn is hidden away in the scabbard, so the sword cannot complain about Arthur leaving him behind. He also isn’t able to lecture Arthur for his next actions.

Arthur tucks his boot beneath the ball. He lifts it up into the air. The ball flies up, twisting in the air. The children’s eyes inevitably follow it rather than Arthur. The king’s smile widens, and he catches the ball on his knee. He makes it bounce upward again. He does a high-kick over the ball. As his foot lands back on the ground, he catches the ball with his other boot. There are a few mesmerized gasps at the display of athleticism and skill. Arthur decides to stop showing off. He kicks the ball back over to the children. By jogging over behind it, he nonverbally informs the children that he’s going to be playing with them.

The oldest two kids look between each other. They seem suspicious, but the other children have been waiting too long to resume their game. They allow Arthur to join them without any trouble. The eldest—still kids in their own right—shrugs toward each other. They take part in the game as they did before, losing their wariness of the stranger in their village who wants to kick the ball around with them in one of the stone-covered streets.

The children and Arthur are not alone for long. While the other adults do not participate in the game, they are aware of it as they go about their daily business. Every single one gives Arthur a long look before realizing that he’s their king. There’s occasionally an attempt for someone to tell the children, but Arthur smiles and shakes his head at them. The village adults don’t seem entirely happy about leaving the children to rough around with their king without showing what they deem as ‘proper respect’, but there isn’t anything they can do about it. 

Arthur isn’t trying to upset anyone. He’s mainly doing this because he enjoys playing a simple game of passing a ball around. There are no complicated political maneuvers. There are no titles that must be remembered, or bows that have to be given at very specific angles. Although he doesn’t have memories to prove this fact, Arthur gets a feeling that this is all familiar to him. He used to be like this—just enjoying himself however he pleased. Games like this were something he would constantly get invested in. There’s an emptiness to this realization, but Arthur can’t do anything about it. His memories remain trapped behind an unbreakable wall; there’s nothing else he wants to fill this hollowness with.

Arthur’s distraction makes him miss the ball being kicked to him. It hits his ankle. He falls forward, pitching onto the ground. He rolls once before landing on his rear end. His legs are spread out in front of him, and he sits up because of his paws pushed against the stones beneath him. The ball rolls to a stop against his back, bumping him a few times before it isn’t moving any longer. The game has been paused as the children look between each other uncertainly. The adults doing their chores or working at their jobs shift closer. Before anyone can offer an apology, Arthur releases a loud laugh. It shakes his entire body and causes him to throw his head back to laugh into the sky. The younger children instantly join in his laughter. The other kids follow suit, and even a few adults chuckle at the perceived failure.

His laughter quiets, but a smile remains unflinchingly wide on Arthur’s face. He rises to his feet. He reaches behind him to grab onto the ball. He twists it around in his paws. Arthur throws it down to the ground. It bounces against a stone. As it rises, one of the children rushes forward to catch it. Continuing the momentum, they bounce it to another kid. This process continues, and Arthur steps further away to remove himself from the new game the children are playing.

Arthur watches them for a little while, but a sudden breeze brings along a new individual with it. Arthur doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know someone is now standing at his shoulder. One of his knight’s talks quietly enough that no one—especially not the children—are able to overhear them. “Your Majesty, we must continue with the tour.”

Arthur holds back a sigh. The only reason he’s out this far is because he and some of his knights are visiting the villages on the outskirts of Camelot. This tour will let them see what problems the kingdom is still facing. It was also supposed to be a way of introducing Arthur to everyone. This latter reason has been dropped almost instantaneously. Arthur prefers when people don’t know he’s the king. They are more open that way. They actually tell him about their problems, and they do so straightforwardly instead of hiding behind respectful phrases that neither they nor he completely understand. Additionally, Arthur can talk to these commoners about anything. They can have silly or meaningless conversations, ones that should never involve someone of the crown. It feels like healing even if Arthur isn’t certain what injury he sustained.

But his knights are right. He cannot stay indefinitely in a random village. The truth of his identity will bring trouble, and he can’t create change from this position. He needs to learn all the problems. It is only in this way that he, his advisors, and his knights can come up with solutions when he returns to Camelot Castle. After solving more than a few problems, he’ll be able to take down the monarchy and give this nation the freedom it deserves.

“You’re right. Where are we going next?” Arthur asks. He turns around to look at the knight in question. Sir Gawain stands there in his complete armor. He holds Arthur’s cloak and belt in his paws. Arthur puts the belt back around his waist. As he reaches for the cloak, he realizes that it isn’t wet. He doesn’t know if his knights actively did something to dry it off, or if he has been playing the game with the children for so long that it dried in the sunlight.

“There is a location in the forest that the knights would like to show Your Majesty,” Sir Gawain admits, gesturing into the forest that grows near the village on the other side of the fields. Arthur starts tying the cloak back around his shoulders as he looks in the direction. He narrows his eyes slightly. Although the day is bright and warm beneath the sunlight, the forest looks dark. Fortunately, Arthur has never felt unwelcomed by nature. It is more of his home than any castle could be. If he could, he would have moved into Camelot’s beautiful environment a long time ago.

“Is there another village there? Or is it some ruins?” Arthur asks. The knights have kept him on a strict schedule. They know that Arthur will linger longer than he should in any given location otherwise. While Arthur could probably bribe Lamorak, Gawain and Agravain are another matter to deal with. They are not as easily swayed, and that means Arthur needs to follow the time blocks to the letter.

“It is neither. Nevertheless, it is important, Your Majesty,” Gawain answers truthfully.

Arthur scrutinizes the knight for a long moment. He has known Gawain for a little over a year now. He apparently knew him beforehand, too, though Arthur doesn’t remember that. He doesn’t need to, though, because he thinks he has as good a grasp on Gawain as he does any of the other knights. It is because of this that Arthur trusts Gawain. Although the situation seems suspicious, he knows there is a good reason for Gawain’s secrecy and hesitation to outright say where he and the other knights plan to take Arthur.

“Lead the way, Sir Gawain,” Arthur says. The knight nods at the given order. He moves past Arthur. He marches straight through the street, never one for hiding himself away. The armor glitters in the light, attracting other people’s attention. The villagers glance at him and the regal figure following after Gawain. They do not stop the two armored individuals. They merely let them go, just as silent as they are. 

When Arthur makes it to the edge of the village, he hears one of the children shout. He glances over his shoulder. A few of the children have gathered together. They wave their hands—some wave their entire arms—to tell him goodbye. Arthur’s face splits with a smile at the friendliness and warmth in their gestures, especially since he knows that not a single one of them knows who he is. While they could still be waving goodbye to someone they consider important, he thinks this gesture is only for the adult who played and laughed with them. He doesn’t hesitate to wave back at them. The children are pleased with his farewell. 

Arthur turns back around. Gawain is waiting for him at the wooden bridge that crosses over a small stream. While the stream isn’t deep or wide, the king and the knight take the bridge to the other side. When they get there, Lamorak and Agravain are waiting for them. The former leans against a tree with his arms crossed over his chest. The latter has his helmet tucked into his paws, moving the metallic material around to examine its condition and how the light reflects across it. The two knights ready themselves when they notice the approaching figures.

Gawain and Lamorak nod at each other. They start a trek through the grassy field toward the forest. Agravain remains on the dirt path that cuts toward a different part of the forest. He remains there for a few seconds. Since his helmet is still in his hands, Arthur can see the confusion in his heterochromatic irises. Arthur follows after Gawain and Lamorak. Before he steps into the grass, he gestures his paw toward Agravain. The jackal looks at his king. Agravain hardly ever smiles, but Arthur notices that the confusion dissipates when he starts to approach Arthur. The king’s grin widens. “Come on, Sir Agravain. We shouldn’t lag behind.”

“You sound like the knight of the lake, Your Majesty,” Agravain complains. He says ‘knight of the lake’ as if it were an insult. To Agravain, it likely is. Arthur is well-aware of the many rivalries existing within his knightly order. For as stalwart and loyal as Lancelot is, he has problems with both Gawain and Agravain. There is also some trouble between him and a few of the others. Somehow, Lancelot manages to keep those from blossoming into anything further. There’s also his odd relationship with Galahad, but that has been improving in recent months.

“I do spend a lot of time with him. I suppose his punctuality is rubbing off on me,” Arthur shrugs. Arthur wishes that were the case. He wouldn’t be in so much trouble with his knights and advisors all the time if he could just show up to his meetings on time. As much as he despises the schedule for this tour of the countryside, at least Arthur gets some freedom and moments with nature. He would prefer doing this forevermore instead of being stuck in Camelot Castle.

“All he does is rub me the wrong way,” Agravain mutters under his breath, never one to put his emotions aside even in the presence of his king. If it were a regular noble, they might have punished Agravain for this simple fact. Arthur, on the other hand, only starts laughing in delight. As long as his knights don’t kill each other, he loves hearing about how they aren’t always fond of each other. It amuses him more times than it confuses him.

Agravain coughs into his paw. He speaks louder this time, clearly intending for Arthur to hear him. “Speaking of the wrong way, what are—”

“Your Majesty,” Gawain calls out. Arthur pulls his eyes away from Agravain to see that they are right in front of the forest. Although Gawain implied that their destination would be inside the forest, the two knights have stopped before entering it. In fact, it seems that what they wanted to show Arthur is also in front of the forest. This wouldn’t be a problem, but it’s definitely not what he was expecting.

The grass has been cleared away in a large area. It was cut precisely, perhaps by a soul surge attack of some kind. In this flattened area, small rocks no larger than Arthur’s fist jut out of the ground. They are arranged in a very specific pattern, too. There is a circle that’s filled with criss-crossing lines and other curves. At each cardinal direction, there is a larger rock that’s streaked with jewels or some other element. This is, obviously, something that was deliberately constructed. It cannot possibly be naturally formed.

And this leads Arthur to the second surprise. Although Arthur cannot confirm that they were the ones to construct this glyph on the ground made from rocks, Mordred and Honey are messing with the rocks to make sure they are properly arranged. When they hear voices and footsteps approaching, they turn their head. Honey rises to a standing position. Mordred remains at the southern point of the circle, as far away from Arthur and the others as possible.

“...what’s going on, friends?” Arthur murmurs questioningly. His paw falls onto Caliburn’s hilt. His fingers remain loose around it since he doesn’t want to immediately assume the worst about the situation.

“Your Majesty,” Honey says. She moves closer toward him. Agravain shifts at Arthur’s side since Gawain and Lamorak step away from Arthur and Honey. The king raises a paw to Agravain, stopping the knight from immediately attacking Honey or ushering her away. Honey seems grateful for this, but she doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she talks about something. “Sir Mordred and I have been looking into a way to return your memories. We have found a way we believe will work. I doubt this is the method Archmage Merlina used, so there is a chance for its success.”

“Oh,” Arthur states. He looks away from Honey to Mordred. His helmet hides his face, but Arthur can tell they’re making eye contact. This forces Arthur’s gaze toward the circle on the ground. He stretches his fingers at his sides. He reminds himself that they don’t know. Merlina and Arthur have told no one that her failure was because of him—because he’s certain he’s the reason his old world is in shambles. Arthur tilts his eyes back to Honey. “Why were you looking into this?”

Honey’s expression shifts. She seems conflicted as she looks down at her gloved paws. “Because of you, Sir Mordred and I were able to change our fates. This was because you taught us. You gave us more information than we were previously allowed. This altered the course of our lives. We just want you to have that same option. To choose Camelot, or to have the chance to choose your original realm.”

Honey’s voice is earnest. Gawain and Lamorak are nodding along with her words. Arthur knows Mordred enough to know that he, too, genuinely believes this. Arthur sucks in a tight breath. This is, in fact, one of the lessons Arthur imparted on Mordred as he was helping the white knight adjust to a life where he could follow his desires. If he refuses this, what kind of message would he be sending? What if this makes them go back on all the progress they’ve made? Arthur can’t have that.

“Fine,” Arthur says with a tight, half-smile. “Let’s try this new method.”

Honey smiles. She hurries around the side of the circle to Mordred. She stands behind him, and Gawain and Lamorak move to be with her. Agravain remains where he was standing even as Arthur steps over the perimeter of the glyph. He makes sure not to knock anything over. Thankfully, there’s a perfect spot in the middle for him. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the start of this spell.

As expected, Mordred is the one to cast it. He places his paws, one over the other, on the southern point’s crystal. His magic seeps out of him as a white light. It stretches out in thin lines, overlaying the rocky pattern on the ground. The light illuminates everything around it in a pale glow, brighter than the sunlight. It blinds Arthur for a moment, completely filling his vision until he can’t see anything else around him.

The light doesn’t dissipate, but it does fade. Arthur blinks rapidly, readjusting to seeing colors. This is made harder when a freezing cold slaps against him. It touches his eyes, making him uncomfortable. He tries looking away from the source, but it comes from every direction. Finally, the wind twists into an upward funnel. It rises higher into the air, following the track of the circle’s perimeter. Arthur stands in the center of a tornado. It does move inward or away from him. The winds are strong enough to disrupt the silhouettes of the others standing around him.

Arthur reaches his paw toward the wind. He stops when his vision begins flicking with other images. They flood his mind, one after another, too quickly for him to understand any of them. Emotions surge forth from the depths of his flesh—anxiety, caution, desperation. He remembers the burning sky and the frenzied ocean and the twisting pain of metal tearing into his flesh—of becoming his flesh.

Arthur can’t stand it. He turns on his heel. He attempts to leave the circle, wind be damned. He’s stopped when he slams right into a wall made from black and red blocks. He stares at it, knowing who exactly it belongs to. He hears shouts on the other side of the wind. They are too distorted for him to understand, however. He tries approaching them, but his feet are stuck. He looks down at the ground. Ice has begun covering his boots, rising over his ankles. He’s tethered to the ground by the frost growing over his legs. Arthur pulls at his legs. The ice shatters, cutting into his flesh. Blood drips onto the ground in the spaces he stumbles back to touch. He doesn’t make it far before his muscles lock up. His thoughts are consumed by emotions without memories or explanations. Pain floods every system. Despite this, Arthur manages to wring a single understanding from this experience: he’s going to die if he stays in this spell.

Arthur reaches for Caliburn. Recklessly, he draws the blade. He hears the sword insult Arthur for his mistreatment of the sword, but Arthur ignores that as he slices through the red-black wall and the wind behind it. The power of his soul—and perhaps the power of something else—shimmers across the sharpened edge. Arthur slices right through the spell, and this breach creates an explosion of colors that sends the rocks in every direction away from him. The wind falls motionless, and the wall disappears. The knights and seamstress who did this to Arthur are also thrown back, landing awkwardly on their knees or butt.

Arthur turns around to get answers from Mordred. He stops when he notices three figures in the forest. One is a strange creature. One is merely unfamiliar to him. But the last one… It’s the Fae who has taken the appearance of Lancelot. Arthur finally understands the truth. He glares at the three figures before glancing around at the other knights. Gawain and Lamorak led him here. Honey convinced him to step inside the trap. Mordred activated it, and it was both his and Agravain’s magic that kept him from fleeing.

“What a shoddy assassination attempt,” Arthur grits out. He removes the cloak from his body. He throws it aside. His belt and armor, however, are left on. They glow in the warm sunlight as Arthur prepares his stance to attack the figures around him. The three in the forest are rushing forward, and the knights around him are talking nonsense. Arthur laughs under his breath. “You would have been better off trying to poison me. But since you have chosen this path, allow me to show you what a real attempt looks like.”

Golden hay falls from the sides of the dummy from where it has been cut open. The sword that performed this action has been dropped onto the sand. Its wielder lies flat on the ground beside the blade. Marine’s arms and legs are spread out as far away from her main body as they can go. Marine’s master, Percival, drops her face between her fingers. She squints at her squire after a few moments of listening to the raccoon heave with every breath she takes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m tired! We’ve been training all afternoon!” Marine complains, tilting her head forward to look at Percival. Once her words are said, she plops right back down on the sand, too exhausted to keep her head up.

Percival resists the urge to roll her eyes. She marches toward her squire. She grabs onto Marine’s paws. The raccoon resists by doing weightless, but Pericval doesn’t stop until Marine is standing upright. Percival kneels in front of her. She lifts the training sword to set it back in Marine’s paws. She closes the raccoon’s fingers around the hilt, helping her squire hold up the weight for a few seconds. Marine’s arms adjust slowly. As they do, Percival begins her lecturing. “You are training to be a knight of the realm. If your goal is still to become a Knight of the Round Table, you must redefine your limits every single day. Even if you are tired, you must persevere. This is for the sake of your life, the lives of your comrades, the lives of this kingdom’s people, and the life of your king. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Marine says definitively. She pulls her paws from Percival’s grasp. The knight can tell she’s about to start practicing, but Marine makes the mistake of looking over Percival’s shoulder. She suddenly screams, dropping her sword and stumbling back.

Percival sighs, rising to her feet. “What is it, child—” Percival stops when she’s turned around. Marine slams into her legs to hide from the figure shambling towards them. Percival nearly draws her blade, but she realizes that this figure is their king. He’s covered in blood—red, silver… and green?—some of it his own… some of it decidedly not. He drags his sword behind him. Caliburn is yelling endlessly about the indignity, but Arthur’s expression is blank. Percival rushes toward him. “Your Majesty, why are you here— what happened— where are your knights—”

“Mordred, Gawain, Lamorak, Agravain, and Honey are all traitors to the realm. They have sided with the Fae and attempted to kill their king. They are wounded, but they live. Capture them alive and we shall give them a befitting punishment for their actions,” Arthur says softly. He stares Percival down. His eyes even flick to Marine. The squire makes a soft noise, and that pushes Percival into action. She takes a step back. As she kneels, she presses a paw to Marine’s shoulder to make the raccoon bow with her.

“Yes, Your Majesty. We will follow your orders and spread the news.”

Chapter Text

Light gray steam rises from the opening in the tea kettle. It swirls around her face, warming her features when the rest of her pavilion is held in damp coldness. Nimue does not shiver at the cold. She is both used to it and unaffected by it. Her paws remain steady as she takes the kettle into the largest room inside of her pavilion. She sets it down in the middle of the long wooden table. The cold reclaims her face when she pulls herself out of the rising steam, but its warmth continues to linger in her fingertips. She folds her fingers together, letting her heated palms press against one another. She keeps her pale eyes on the kettle as she walks around the table. It is only when she settles in the chair at the head of the table that she looks over her guests once more.

It is an odd assortment, even for an ancient Fae such as herself. She has drank tea with many individuals at this table. She has never been seated among so many knights. She has never entertained creatures who can mimic other appearances despite not being enchantors or changelings. She never thought she would allow a metallic beast capable of speech—a weapon uniquely suited to killing her—or the White Dragon—the prophesied destroyer of Camelot—into her pavilion. The two mortals are the least of Nimue’s problems, even if she’s never allowed regular mortals into her domain before this point (only making exceptions for kings and heroes).

“Forgive me. I could not help but overhear the conversation taking place while I was in the other room,” Nimue starts. She speaks as softly as a breeze passing over the lake surrounding her pavilion like a moat, but everyone silences themselves. They turn to her immediately. Some even shrink in on themselves with something akin to shame. The majority, however, seem more shocked and removed from their emotional states. Nimue smiles at them, projecting an image of complete kindness despite being confused herself about the situation. “You have become traitors to the realm, yes?”

The group looks between each other. Well, everyone except for the metallic beast, the one who has stolen Lancelot’s appearance, and the White Dragon. They are merely staring at her (in the beast’s case) or at the table (the other two). Nimue pays special attention to them. The knights are one matter, and the mortals are another, but these three deserve her complete attention. They are the most dangerous. Nimue could defeat one of them with her magic, but she knows that she couldn’t fight all three of them at the same time. She would need to flee, and Nimue refuses to do that. This pavilion is more than her home; it is a sanctuary for Fae creatures. There are people here Nimue needs to protect. 

Technically, though, these three and the others are part of the people she needs to protect. They have come seeking refuge. As long as they follow the rules, Nimue’s paws are tied. She must help them, too.

“His Majesty has declared us traitors to the realm.” A mortal speaks. She is a cat wearing thick robes. She shivers the most out of the group. Nimue can’t tell if she’s truly that cold or if her emotions are overflowing into a physical response.

“Have you betrayed him?” Nimue asks simply. She knows the king. ‘Sonic’ is one of his names; ‘King Arthur’ is another one. Nimue calls him the latter more often than the former. Nimue, as a Fae, understands how important names can be to people. If the azure hedgehog wishes to adopt the name of this land’s rightful ruler, Nimue doesn’t have a reason to ignore his request.

“No,” The cat responds.

The hesitance in her voice is made clearer by one of the other knight’s—the jackal—sighing. He leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest lazily. “We did betray him.”

“We did not,” The echidna—Gawain—declares. There is no hesitation in his voice. He means every word he says with an unshakeable belief. “It was a mistake. We were careless and uninformed. If His Majesty had given a moment to explain ourselves, he would have learned the truth.”

 “I don’t blame him for not giving us that moment. He thought he would have to fight all eight of us. He did have to fight all of us. His Majesty has gotten better as a swordsman, hasn’t he?” The hawk adds. He lifts his wing to show the bandages wrapped around himself. Almost all of the guests at her table are covered in bandages. When they came seeking safety, patching them up was Nimue’s first task. The only ones who didn’t need this kind of assistance were the ones Nimue would have guessed—the metallic beast and the shapeshifter. The dragon was only injured because a sacred sword was used.

“What mistake could the eight of you make that would result in the king branding you as traitors to the realm?” Nimue asks. Arthur is one of the kindest, most forgiving individuals Nimue has ever met, and she’s known a lot of creatures in her long lifetime. She doesn’t even doubt that Arthur would forgive blatant assassination attempts. He technically did in the White Dragon’s circumstances if the story he told her over tea is anything to go by. She assumes that if they fought, an assassination attempt did take place. Why didn’t Arthur forgive it this time? Why didn’t he seek more answers?

“This is our fault,” The other mortal—the bat—says. She rises to her feet. This brings the attention of everyone to her. She sets her hands on the table. Her companions narrow their eyes at her, but she continues with her explanation while gesturing to the metallic beast and the shapeshifter. “We’re from Sonic’s home dimension. We were tasked with retrieving him. In our pursuits, we learned that he had lost his memories and was acting as King Arthur. We recruited the help of the people at this table to help us. The plan was to give Sonic his memories back. We wanted to give him the chance to choose to come back to our realm… or stay here, I guess.”

This makes some sense to Nimue. It certainly explains the existence of this mortal, the shapeshifter, and the metallic beast. They come from another world, as distant and unreachable as the Underworld. Arthur’s memories have also been a taboo. Any attempts to bring them back would have been met with resistance from several parties. Arthur himself might have been resistant. He has never outright said it, but Nimue was always under the impression that part of him didn’t want his memories back—or that he was scared of what he might find if they finally did return.

“I wasn’t recruited,” The jackal notes, raising his paw.

“Be silent, Agravain. No one has forgiven you for that stunt you pulled,” Gawain mutters darkly beside the jackal.

“I thought it was necessary! You wanted to keep him in the spell circle, no?” Agravain argues, throwing both of his arms around as if that could further his point or give more credence to it.

“Spell circle?” Nimue prompts, ignoring whatever the argument between Gawain and Agravain is for the moment. She might return to it if she deems it necessary to have more answers. At present, however, Nimue needs to know why these eight have been deemed traitors to the realm. Was it because they tried getting Arthur’s original memories as Sonic back? While that’s likely the answer, Nimue knows there is more to it.

“I went to Mother for a spell to bring back memories,” the White Dragon answers. His voice is faraway from the moment, twisting in the air like a cold, blunt wind from the northern lands. There is nothing explicitly emotional about it, but Nimue feels as if she’s only staring at a frozen lake. Far, far beneath the ice, the water continues following the current, and in those depths, the White Dragon—Mordred—has buried what he genuinely feels.

Nimue knows this because Morgan was the same way. Nimue’s old friend did not like feeling emotions, what few she was capable of. She thought they were a waste of time; she thought they made her weak. It was those emotions that created the rift between her and the original King Arthur. This rift removed her from Camelot Castle and all her friends. She spent some time with Nimue in those first few days, but her desire for revenge led her to leaving in the middle of the night. Nimue knew she was angry, but she failed to see how much. She didn’t realize how far Morgan would go. If she did, she might have been able to save her friend.

If she did, she might have been able to save the White Dragon. He was a victim of Morgan just like so many other mortals were. No matter what destiny the dragon has, he was once a hatchling—a small child. He was young enough that efforts could have been taken to teach him how not to destroy. Arthur is doing this now, but Nimue could have done it from the beginning. She just… didn’t have a chance to, then, which is likely the reason why she allowed the White Dragon into her domain today despite knowing exactly what he’s capable of.

“I see. Did Morgan teach you a faulty spell? Is she lashing out against the new king?” Nimue asks carefully.

Mordred shakes his head. “Mother is apathetic towards the new king. She is only displeased in being unable to kill the former. The spell also wasn’t faulty. It did exactly what it needed to do. However, we were mistaken about one fact. We believed that His Majesty’s memory loss was due to trauma or perhaps injury. It is not. He has been cursed by a force more powerful than I have encountered before.”

“A curse?” The cat asks, brows furrowing together. She crosses her arms over her chest. She nods slowly to herself. “That would make sense. Why else would he have such a visceral reaction to his original name being called?”

“But who would curse the king like this?” Gawain asks, leaning forward against the edge of the table. He stares into the eyes Mordred hides behind the shadow of his helmet. While the others have removed their armor, Mordred remains completely encased in the white-tinted material (for it obviously isn’t made from metal. Mordred and Nimue, after all, are not burnt by its proximity. No, the sickness in their bodies comes from the metallic beast that stands at the corner of the table as if it has any right to be in her pavilion).

“The Chaos Emeralds,” The shapeshifter says (how strange. He even sounds like Lancelot). The shapeshift lifts his attention to the bat and the metallic beast. “You saw it, too, right? His eyes flashed with the colors of the Chaos Emeralds. Rouge, you said that he was in super form when he disappeared. They must have sealed his memories when they sent him to this realm.”

“Why would they do that? Are they even capable of doing that?” The bat—Rouge—responds. Her voice is quieter as she talks directly to him, but the entire room is silent. They can all hear exactly what she says and how she says it.

“Sealing memories is the tamest power the Chaos Emeralds have,” The shapeshifter reminds her. “As for why… I don’t know. I assumed that they sent him away because they responded to his desire to get away from the Metal Virus. There could be a similar reason for his memories being sealed.”

“You’re telling me that Blue wanted to forget everything, so the Chaos Emeralds helped him?” Rouge’s voice is tight with blatant disbelief.

“I don’t know,” The shapeshifter snaps. He twists away from her. Nimue scrutinizes his expression carefully. He sounds angry. He looks angry. Nimue doesn’t think he is, though. At least, not in the way he might want to be. He doesn’t like being confused, that’s for sure. Nimue doesn’t blame him for that. She’s in the same boat, after all. She doesn’t like how little about this situation she understands even after being given so much information. 

“What are the Chaos Emeralds? Are they sacred artifacts?” Nimue asks. The others look at her strangely. Nimue keeps her expression carefully composed. She knows why they’ve shown her these expressions. Nimue is old, traveled, and possesses great knowledge. They were likely assuming she knew what the Chaos Emeralds were. Unfortunately, Nimue has never heard of them before. She doesn’t understand how. If they are capable of sealing memories and teleporting individuals, they must be extremely powerful. Additionally, Nimue can assume based on specific word choices that these emeralds respond to desires. She would definitely know something about artifacts that can do that.

“Something like that. The Chaos Emeralds are from our dimension,” Rouge shrugs. “If they are what sealed Sonic’s memories, how do we break this curse?”

“We could use the sacred swords. Galatine, Arondight, and Laevatein. Maybe even Galahad’s sword,” Gawain mentions. He reaches around to pull out his weapons. He lies Galatine on the table in front of him. Nimue can feel the power radiating from the blades even from this distance. They were, after all, forged by her. She guided the natural magics of the world and destiny to produce the sacred swords. This technically makes her their blacksmith even if the material she used is what truly makes them special.

“I knew you were stupid, Gawain, but really?” Agravain states.

Gawain reaches for one of Galatine’s blades. He’s about to use it when the hawk gets between them. “Let’s not fight. He’s right. We might have Galatine here, but Arondight is with Lancelot and Laevatein is with Percival. And you even outright said Galahad’s name! Those three are never going to give up their weapons to anyone the king has deemed an enemy to the kingdom. They likely aren’t even going to give us a chance to explain ourselves.”

“What do you suggest we do, then?” Gawain grits out.

“WE SHOULD MURDER THEM AND STEAL THEIR WEAPONS,” The metallic beast says. Although there’s a strange quality to his voice—almost like magic but definitely not that—Nimue can tell that he’s being entirely serious.

“Omega—” Rouge hisses at him.

“IT IS THE SIMPLEST SOLUTION TO OUR PROBLEM,” The metallic beast—Omega?—responds.

“What about the Holy Grail? Its power is comparable to all the sacred swords, and it’s well-known for its purification capabilities. If anything can break the curse, wouldn’t this be it?” The cat mentions, ignoring the metallic beast and bat for the time being. Nimue considers that to be the right choice.

“That’s not much better. Only Percival and Galahad know where the Holy Grail is,” Agravain answers.

“That is not true,” Nimue intervenes. She considers it for a moment. Eventually, she gathers the words she wants to say. “The Holy Grail, as the mortal has said, is a sacred artifact. It is known to bless and purify individuals. It would be capable of breaking the curse on the king. However, you are mistaken. Although it has blessed Dame Percival and Sir Galahad, they do not own it. I can summon the Holy Grail to a different location. I will simply need some time.”

“We don’t have time,” The shapeshifter says.

Nimue narrows her eyes at him. “If that is so, you can attempt to steal the sacred swords from the knights. You will also need to acquire Caliburn, though that might come with drawing the king out to whatever grounds you wish to conduct the spell in.”

The shapeshifter considers Nimue for a long moment. He looks away from her, but she can tell that his thoughts remain with the idea. Nimue isn’t bothered either way. While she doesn’t know how strong he is, she knows that the knights will be a challenge. If he does manage to get the swords, though, it will be easier for them.

“Would you conduct the spell?” Mordred asks. Nimue turns towards him. He stares right at her. There is enough natural light pouring into her pavilion that she’s able to see his eyes. They are as pale as death creeping across snow-ladden fields. Yet, in those depths, there is a vibrancy—a warmth—that was fostered by the king’s very paws. It is this flame, or the mimicry of one, that allows Nimue to know that Mordred cares as much about Arthur as the king cares about him (a fact she knows simply because of how Arthur talks about his little protege). There is a reason Mordred is asking this. He either doesn’t trust himself to perform the spell any longer, or he believes Arthur will be more receptive to it if Nimue is the caster.

It matters not which answer it is, or if it’s some secret third option. Nimue nods her head slowly at the White Dragon. “I will. I have failed my friends in the past, and I refuse to let this pattern continue. I will save Arthur from the pain he feels upon remembering his name. I will free from the chains Camelot has bound him to. The decision he makes, however, must be respected. Whether he chooses to stay or to leave, we must not get in his way.”

“Understood,” The cat immediately says. The others are slower to agree, but they sound firm in their decisions. Mordred is the only one who truly hesitates. The shapeshifter is the only one who remains silent. Nimue decides to leave it be. They will either understand in due time, or they will be faced with a challenge they cannot overcome on their lonesome. Nimue will simply continue on the path she’s been set on: to break the curse on her dearest friend.

He has a special seat. It might only be made from wood and fabric, but it was created a long time ago just for him. He was told that the first time he entered the room with the legendary round table. He was guided over to the chair. He remembers how the other knights were quick to discourage him from sitting down, but the king at the time silenced them with a single hand gesture. The room remained tense as he lowered himself into the chair. Everyone was holding their breath. Nothing happened until the king broke out into loud, boisterous laughter. No one joined him, but he didn’t seem to mind. He only told the young knight who had recently joined his round table that his arrogance would not be punished today. Galahad didn’t know what he meant until he later found out that everyone who sat in the chair before him died gruesome, painful deaths. The chair only had one person capable of sitting in it, and that person was Galahad. No one knew this, not even the king; he would have been just as amused if Galahad had perished.

Galahad continues to sit in this chair. Everyone knows it is his, and no one has tried testing to see if the chair will horribly kill an imposter. There’s also the matter of the emblem on the table in front of Galahad’s chair corresponding directly to him. Just like all the other knights, Galahad has a designated spot at the round table. It proves his status as a Knight of the Round Table, one who is loyal to the king.

This distinction is necessary because there are four less spots at the table. While the missing chairs could be excused as a servant removing them—doubtful since servants aren’t allowed in this room—the missing emblems on the table is something that could have only happened through magic. It means that Mordred, Agravain, Gawain, and Lamorak have truly betrayed the king. Not that Galahad doubted His Majesty; it’s just… surprising, he supposes. Alarming is another accurate word.

“Lady Merlina.” Lancelot speaks. Although there is no head of the table (it is round, after all), Lancelot has taken charge of the discussion. He gathered all of the loyal knights to discuss what they are going to do about the traitors. The king has given them a mission to capture the disloyal ones alive. Although Arthur is not here at the moment, the knights are still going to take their duties seriously.

Merlina steps up to the table. She normally is not permitted in this room. It is only for the king and his knights, after all. There’s a reason why she doesn’t have a seat. However, the king gave permission for them to use whatever means necessary, and Lancelot decided one of those means was using the magic of the imperial mage. The remaining knights—Galahad, Percival, Kay, Bedivere, and Tristan—did not refute these actions. Galahad doesn’t know about the others, but he agrees with Lancelot’s decision for tactical reasons that do not involve their close relationship.

“I apologize. I am unable to find them. They are either seeking refuge with Lady Morgan or with Lady Nimue. They might have even contacted another powerful mage to assist them in hiding from my scrying spells,” Merlina states. She holds her staff in both of her hands. She leans nearly all of her weight against it. Her face seems twisted with emotion, but she has the decency to hide it beneath her hood. This gives the impression of seriousness that Galahad can respect.

“Is there no way of knowing who it is?” Percival asks.

Merlina shakes her head. “All I know is that it is someone powerful.”

“Who are we hoping it is?” Kay leans back in his chair. His head has been set on the back of his chair, nearly hanging over the edge. He stares at the ceiling. Galahad wrinkles his nose at him. He reminds himself that Kay isn’t a bad knight. He wouldn’t be here otherwise. In fact, Kay might be exactly what Arthur needs right now. Kay’s loyalty is extreme, and that should provide some comfort to the king who is still reeling from being betrayed.

“We should hope that it is Lady Morgan. We know her tactics; she summons monsters from the Underworld. This is, of course, if she is working with the traitors. She could merely be hiding them,” Tristan answers. He twists a red piece of fabric between his fingers. It is a token from his lover, Lady Iseult. While it could be used to comfort himself, Galahad thinks Tristan is reminding himself of what prophecy Iseult has recently spouted. “Lady Nimue is more powerful than Lady Morgan. We have never fought her and therefore know none of her plans. If she is hiding them, she has chosen to give them her loyalty instead of the king.”

“That would devastate him,” Percival murmurs. Bedivere nods alongside her, face torn with concern. While they all want to capture the traitors, some of them are more aware of Arthur’s mental state. Galahad isn’t certain if it’s because they genuinely care for Arthur or if they simply don’t want another corrupted king ruling over the land. After a betrayal of this magnitude, Galahad wouldn’t blame Arthur for indulging in tyranny, but he also has so much faith that he doesn’t believe the king would do so, even if he were hurt.

“We currently cannot find them, but that does not mean we cannot prepare for them. We know that they want to assassinate the king. What plan would they undertake to do this?” Lancelot says. He waves his paw. Merlina takes a step away from the table, but she remains here. Well, physically, her body remains in the room. Galahad can tell from the look in her eyes that her mind has drifted. He doesn’t sense any magic in the air, so she must be intensely focusing on the traitors. 

The others, however, are similar. No one answers Lancelot immediately because they’re all thinking about what their former comrades would do in order to succeed. Galahad has a few thoughts, but he isn’t able to piece them together before Tristan sighs. He throws the piece of fabric onto the table in front of him. The flash of moving color draws everyone’s attention to him. “I cannot be alone when I say that I do not understand this. I can believe Lamorak and Agravain would betray the king. Lamorak has always been concerned about money, and Agravain’s hatred for Sir Lancelot runs deep. The others are an entirely different matter. I might be able to be persuaded into accepting Gawain’s betrayal, but Mordred and Honey have such deep care for the king. We have all borne witness to this fact. What reason would they have for these actions?”

Bedivere nods his head frantically, leaning forward to show everyone his agreement. Percival narrows her eyes, looking at them both from the corner of her vision. She speaks softly—almost lightly—but there’s a depth trapped with each whispered word that gives her statement a darker connotation. “Are you suggesting that the king has lied, Sir Tristan and Sir Bedivere?”

“Of course not.” Tristan whirls his head toward Percival. He meets her eyes unflinchingly. While Bedivere switches to shaking his head, Tristan adopts Percival’s same mannerisms as he whispers back to her. “Are you questioning my loyalty, Dame Percival?”

“Cut it out,” Kay tells them both, sounding more annoyed than disturbed. He tilts his head forward. “Sir Tristan and Sir Bedivere are being rude and disrespectful, but it isn’t like they don’t bring up a point we should consider. If we want to figure out what the traitors are going to do next, we need to know their motivation beyond wanting the king dead. That’s going to influence their plan, no?”

“They could be trying to make Mordred the new king,” Galahad declares. The others look at him pointedly. He shifts in his chair. “The nobles have been whispering about it. They assume that Mordred is His Majesty’s bastard son or long-lost brother. They, at least, are certain there’s a blood connection. If there is, Mordred has a right to the crown. He could be vying for that title. As for Honey, she works closely with the nobility. She would have known about their rumors. She was an orphan who grew up on the streets. I’m sure she, like Lamorak, would be willing to help put a new king on the throne for a fair amount of money.”

Galahad feels his stomach twist. He’s almost disgusted with himself for even mentioning this. He knows Honey. There was a time when he felt like they were friends. She even helped him convince Lancelot to wear a matching outfit with him. She was so kind and respectful about it. He doesn’t want to imagine her betraying the king who saw value in her, raising her to the status of the kingdom’s most acclaimed seamstress. But Arthur has named her a traitor to the realm, and that simply must be so. There were wounds on Arthur’s body that could have only come from her blades—the blacksmith confirmed it. No matter what past they share, Honey is an enemy… just like all the other knights are.

It doesn’t matter how close Galahad was with any of them. It doesn’t matter how he considered them to be his friends—or even something like a brother in Mordred’s case—they are traitors. They tried assassinating the king. They wounded his body, broke his trust, and ripped apart his spirit. Galahad doesn’t care what bonds he had with them before. He can’t forgive anyone who would do that. This is more than a loyalty to his king; this is his personal loyalty to Arthur.

“We are not here to attack or pick apart anyone’s character. The truth of the matter is clear: they are traitors. Our mission is also clear: we are to capture them alive. That is all we need to know,” Lancelot says after a long moment has passed. He doesn’t look at Galahad even though his statement is directly about the silver knight. Galahad ignores the sting, deciding there are more important matters at the moment. “What do we believe their immediate plan is going to be? Will they attempt a frontal assault or another trick?”

“There are only eight of them. Nine if we assume whoever is hiding them is going to help them. They would never be able to enter the castle. They might be able to figure out where the king will go when he escapes the castle, but I would not guarantee that,” Kay answers. “A secret attack is more likely.”

“I will increase the magical protections,” Merlina nods.

“We should ask the blacksmith if there are technological defenses we can implement in the castle,” Percival adds.

“I’ll see what Lady Iseult is able to glean from her visions.” Tristan pulls the piece of red fabric off the table, letting it drop back into his lap.

“These are all defensive measures. Are we not going to go after them?” Galahad asks, turning his attention toward Lancelot. The others can be passive, but surely Lancelot wants to follow the orders of their king more than any of them. Surely, he will not stand for those traitors having their freedom after what they did. And there’s also the matter of the shapeshifter and the White Dragon being two of these traitors. Lancelot has business with both for two very different reasons.

“We cannot be too hasty,” Lancelot admits quietly, sharply, like an arrow hurtling toward a target. When it hits, determination blooms in his crimson eyes. “However, you are correct. We cannot allow these traitors to roam the land as they please. We have to capture them before they can enact another plan or even convince the townspeople to join their cause. We must learn what they are doing and when they are doing it. Lady Merlina and Lady Iseult should gather what information they can through their own magical means. Dame Percival, Sir Galahad, try resonating with the Holy Grail. It might provide information about where the White Dragon is. Sir Bedivere, Sir Kay, you must protect the king. Sir Tristan, you and I will use our own skills to discover more information. We should also be mindful of any reports of openings to the Underworld. While this might not lead us to Lady Morgan, we should not neglect the townspeople while we are searching for the traitors. Am I understood?”

Lancelot rises to his feet. He looks down on all of them from his higher angle. He does not, however, underestimate any of them. He wholeheartedly believes that the knights in this room are both capable and loyal. If nothing else, he trusts himself to be, and he will do whatever it takes to protect the king and the kingdom. Galahad has always respected Lancelot, even in the days when he wasn’t certain how much he liked his father, but right now, he doesn’t think it’s possible for him to respect him any more than he currently does.

“Understood,” The knights say in unison, agreeing to this current plan of action until they can gather more information.

With this, the meeting concludes. The knights file out of the room. In the adjoining hallways, they break away from each other and form into the small groups they were assigned to. Galahad goes with Percival, heading toward the vaults where the Holy Grail is kept. He stops, however, when he looks through the window. Percival continues a few more steps before realizing. She glances over her shoulder. Galahad smiles at her. “Please go ahead, Dame Percival, and prepare for the ceremony. I have a matter that I must swiftly handle. You know how troubles weighing on the mind affects the results of the ceremony.”

“I do. Handle your matters swiftly, Sir Galahad. I will not wait long,” Percival agrees. She continues forward, leaving the hallway. Galahad waits. When silence has blanketed the hallway so completely that he feels suffocated by it, he moves toward the window. He pushes it open. The sound of nature scatters the silence just as the warm breeze blows away the chilly draft.

“Your Majesty?” Galahad calls out to the figure sitting at the junction point of a branch and the trunk. When they tilt their head, Galahad’s guess is proven correct. Instead of resting in his chambers, Arthur has climbed the tree. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his legs hang over one side. He was previously lost in thought, but now, he gives Galahad his entire attention. Arthur reaches a paw toward Galahad while the other one pats the space behind him. Galahad glances around the hallway. No one is there, so he climbs over the windowsill. He steps onto the nearest branch. He balances carefully, bringing him to the trunk. He’s somewhat in front of the king, though there’s still a fair distance between them. Not enough that they can’t lock eyes.

“Be honest with me, Galahad,” Arthur says. His voice is quiet. More than that, it’s tired. There’s no amusement, only a gaping hollowness like a wound bled dry. “I don’t care what your answer is as long as it’s the truth. Disrespect me if you have to, just make sure you aren’t lying to me.”

“I understand, Your Majesty. I will only speak the truth,” Galahad tells him. He would never lie to his king, even if he were capable of doing so.

“If I asked you, not ordered, just asked you to…” The king pauses. Arthur takes a deep breath. His eyes fall shut as he does, but they reopen when he exhales. He finishes his statement, a touch more emotion in it than before. Still, he says it so conversationally—so nonchalantly—as if he were merely asking about the weather. There is no gravity to his words, just a detachment. He follows it up with, “...would you do it?”

Galahad is being honest when he answers. He doesn’t hesitate—doesn’t even think about it—he just answers in the same distant, serious tone. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Chapter Text

The sun hangs low in the sky, reluctant to part with the horizon. Reds and oranges swirl outward, briefly touching the night’s black fading into the day’s blue. It is a mesmerizing display. There is an artistic flare this time with the shape of the clouds, each one trading their usual white or gray for a softer shade of the daybreak. It is a sight to behold for anyone lucky enough to observe it. Frankly, there is a quality to it that proves it should be admired. The sleeping masses should rise from their beds, if for a short while, to bear witness to a phenomenon that might happen every morning but also never happens exactly like this every morning.

However, ‘should’ is a loose word, and the truth of the matter is that no one is there. At least, there is no one admiring it in the training fields surrounding the castle. This is a strange fact. The training yard is almost never empty. Even in the dead of night, there are knights who are preparing to be nightly guards getting used to working beneath the moonlight. Dawn is always the busiest time, too, for the young squires get their respite by watching the sunrise and the Knights of the Round Table go about their training at first light.

A mere glance would inform an observer that this fact is no longer true. The training fields are surprisingly empty. It is silent other than the occasional burst of wind. There are no squires getting ready for the day or spending time with their friends. There are no young ladies and lords unsubtly hiding in the hopes of seeing the knights in action. There is only one person in the training yard, and he is not looking at the sunrise. 

Sir Lancelot, the Knight of the Lake, focuses his attention on the dummy he is fighting against. The light of dawn might reflect off his blade, but that doesn’t mean anything to Lancelot’s mind. He retains complete control over his actions, brandishing Arondight against illusory foes that his mind conjures. His memories spit forth recreations of the monsters from the Underworld that he has fought for many years in Camelot’s defense. This determination to defeat the past and train for the future causes his movements to be fluid and graceful even as the cold wind tries to lock up his muscles.

Lancelot hears the crunch of grass. Footsteps move onto the rocky dirt. A softer, more controlled breathing the labored heaving Lancelot is experiencing reaches his ears. Lancelot is content to allow the other to move as they place since he doesn’t think they’re getting close to him. This is, however, until he hears a voice call out to him. The voice is as familiar as the playful, provoking tone is. “Sir Lancelot, shall we spar this chilly morning?”

Lancelot whirls around on his heel. He steady his body in the same moment he extends Arondight as far as she will go. The blade’s edge nearly slices into someone’s neck. Lancelot’s angry, narrowed eyes slowly widen when he realizes that he is not staring at Gawain. The fur is a deeper red, more crimson than ruby. The eyes are also completely different. Honestly, the entire body is different, and Lancelot doesn’t know how he could be so foolish as to mistake Bedivere for anyone other than himself, especially when Bedivere currently wears an expression—surprise and fear—that Gawain would never wear.

“Is the great knight getting confused?” A giggle echoes in his ears. Lancelot glances over his shoulder. He doesn’t find anyone. He should have known better than to think Agravain would be here, too.

“I apologize, Sir Bedivere,” Lancelot says as he turns back to Bedivere. He lowers Arondight away from Bediver’s neck. He puts the tip of his sword into the ground. He crosses both of his paws over the hilt. He takes a deep breath, trying to soothe the growing burn in his chest from his previous exertion and the phantoms he has allowed to distract him. He needs to be better than this. Being a knight requires more than physical strength and battle prowess; he needs mental fortitude. If he lacks in this quality, he should give Arondight back to his liege for he is unworthy of his placement at the round table. “I seem to have mistaken you for someone else.”

Bedivere raises his eyes from Arondight to Lancelot’s face. The emotions he felt while being threatened melt away into a neutral expression. He scrutinizes Lancelot carefully, turning his entire body toward the knight of the lake. Lancelot does not flinch; he does not move at all. He allows Bedivere to search through his physical appearance and whatever expression he might be showcasing on his face. Although he is most known for his loyalty and truthfulness, Bedivere is also excellent at deduction. He mainly uses this skill to track bandits or animals through the forest, but it has also helped him in discerning the weaknesses of monsters.

Additionally, it can be used to understand people. Lancelot has never been fond of the weight set on his shoulders when Bedivere applies these skills to him, but he believes it is only fair in this case since he did almost behead the poor wolf. Lancelot will accept whatever conclusions Bedivere draws, though it’s unlikely Lancelot will actually be able to figure out what they are given Bedivere’s hesitation to speak aloud.

A smile rises onto Bedivere’s features. He was holding his spear in both paws. He removes one to wave it politely but dismissively at Lancelot. The hedgehog releases the breath that has been tightening his throat. Bedivere turns his body, content to leave whatever happened a moment prior in the past. Lancelot knows that he should do the same, but a long look at the partially destroyed dummy leaves Lancelot mindlessly speaking, “Would you like to train with me, Sir Bedivere?”

The wolf does not stop, but he does slow. He looks over his shoulder. Bedivere’s brow is arched, and there’s a quiet frown on his face. Lancelot makes a brief noise under his breath that might qualify as a chuckle in situations less tense than this one. Although it is difficult to rank the Knights of the Round Table by power level since they all have specialties, it is rather clear that Sir Bedivere is the weakest among them. In contrast, Sir Lancelot is often attributed with being the strongest. A training session between them could quickly go awry since the gap between them is, unfortunately, rather vast.

“You do not need to worry. I will refrain from using my full strength. I can assure you that it is not my intention to abuse you.”

Bedivere stops with this statement. He turns around. His expression is tight, but more than that, it seems conflicted. Lancelot feels a shock of shame run up his spine. He opens his mouth to alleviate the situation he unknowingly caused. Bedivere shakes his head. He approaches Lancelot, gradual but steady. Lancelot freezes in place when Bedivere stands in front of him. The wolf makes certain that he and the hedgehog are making eye contact. This keeps Lancelot from acting when he sees Bedivere place a paw on Lancelot’s sweat-damp shirt. More precisely, it is right over Lancelot’s heart. Bedivere loses the complications on his face. Now, he looks like he’s prompting Lancelot to answer a question—or to simply understand what Bedivere is trying to imply.

Lancelot supposes he could pretend as if he doesn’t understand. It would be easy to, and he knows that Bedivere would not blame him nor would he force the matter. Unfortunately, Lancelot has honor both as a knight and as a man. It is also too late for him to mask himself. Bedivere’s paw drops away, and the wolf’s expression makes it clear that he is aware that Lancelot knows the truth. 

They could technically leave it at that, but Bedivere is a kind-hearted individual. This is why he walks over to the side of the training field, sitting down on the wooden bench and patting the space beside him. Lancelot wants to discuss this further, which is the reason why he sits beside Bedivere. He moves Arondight back into its scabbard. Bedivere adjusts his spear behind the bench, leaving it to gravity’s whims. 

A cold zephyr blows through. Lancelot blames that on the reason why he shivers. Bedivere doesn’t go out of his way to make it harder for Lancelot to believe this. No, it’s the emptiness of the training yard that makes it impossible. It’s the silence that permeates so thickly that it might as well be a solid weight. It is this awareness of all that has been left unsaid by one voice or another, whispers that once flitted across this very area in times past.

“Don’t be quiet now, Sir Lancelot. We all need to know what you want.” The seamstress told him that when she was designing matching outfits for him and Galahad. The phrase made sense in that context. It, unfortunately, also makes sense in this one. Lancelot inhales shakily, gathering his wits and his words in the same instance. After a rumbling exhale, he finds himself following her guidance.

“It is… strange.” It is such a basic statement that hardly covers everything it needs to. Lancelot feels like a fool, and he wishes to silence himself permanently. He is stopped from cutting out his own tongue by Bedivere’s solemn nod. Not necessarily to comfort Lancelot but certainly to encourage him, Bedivere wears his exhaustion plainly on his face. They are all feeling the effects of recent events. While Lancelot could take this as someone telling him that he isn’t special, Lancelot instead takes it as him not being alone.

Lancelot turns away from Bedivere, staring out at the sunrise he had been ignoring since he came outside for his training. “My mind returns often to the words spoken by Sir Tristan. I do not wish for it to be so, but I agree with him. I do not understand this recent turn of events. Do not mistake me, Sir Bedivere, I do not deny them. I understand that the knights we once served alongside are traitors. We must do what it takes to carry out the king’s will. I have no qualms about that. I will not hesitate when the moment does arrive. However… until that moment does, I am left to think. It is a dreadful reality I find myself faced with. I do not wish to consider it any longer. It is impossible not to do so when I see the training field like this, or when I walk the quiet halls of the castle, or when I look into the eyes of my brothers-in-arms. I once considered Gawain, Agravain, and Lamorak to be my brothers. I cannot forgive them for hurting the king, yet I… perhaps there is a misaligned part of myself that merely wishes to understand why they have chosen this path.”

Lancelot’s shoulders fold inward with a sudden weakness. It is as if those words were the infrastructure holding him aloft. Without it, he is left as weak as a home made from straw when the wind blows. He cannot ignore the relief that travels through his limbs with the same prominence of magic. However, it does not make the shame at having such thoughts—of admitting them aloud—flee from him. It is partially the reason why he stoops low in a physical sense, letting his eyes drift from the beauty on the horizon to the dirt beneath his feet.

Lancelot feels pressure against his shoulder. His eyes move before his head does, if only to see what expression Bedivere wears. Lancelot does not want it to be one of judgment or revulsion, but he discovers immediately that he would rather that than the complete and utter understanding woven into each feature. Bedivere, like Lancelot, has known the other knights for a long time. Even if they were never friends—for Lancelot never paid enough attention to determine the exact nature of his fellow knights’ relationships with each other—the amount of time they spent together amounts to something. It amounts to a feeling of incomparably wrongness in the world with the other’s absence and, in this case, betrayal. Bedivere has not only experienced it, but he’s done so enough that he can empathize with Lancelot.

As heart-warming as it is, it causes Lancelot to sigh and look away. A gentle squeeze to his shoulder—a simple reassurance of Bedivere being there for Lancelot—forces words that the knight of the lake would rather bury to slip past his many defenses. Quietly, as if he weren’t speaking at all, Lancelot says, “I have found that my greatest concerns are not with their actions. It is not even their betrayal that I consider so often. Rather, it is about Sir Galahad… and His Majesty… and perhaps, in this moment of unbridled weakness, it is also about Sir Mordred.”

Bedivere hums questioningly. Lancelot forces himself onto his feet. He leaves Arondight and Bedivere behind as he strides forward. He stops after some distance. It feels safer this way. Frankly, Lancelot should continue onward until he’s completely extracted himself from this situation, but he doesn’t. He turns toward the side, allowing Bedivere to see half of his expression without looking at the wolf. He crosses his arms over his chest, pretending he is not holding himself in some cruel mockery of comfort. “I am certain you have noticed how… invested Sir Galahad is in this situation. He is prepared for battle against the traitors. This is true, and it is necessary. However, the strength of his hatred… worries me. He wants to draw blood. I do not wish for him to lose himself in a desire such as that one. Revenge is…”

Lancelot trails off. He almost says ‘unbecoming of a knight,’ but he realizes that isn’t what he means. He doesn’t really care if Galahad acts in accordance with the principles of a knight or not. He cares far more for the mental wellbeing of his son. He doesn’t want Galahad to lose himself, just as he said. That is his only concern.

“As for His Majesty… Well, I likely do not need to speak further about such matters. We are all concerned about our king.” While Percival was the first one to meet the king after the betrayal, Lancelot spent a fair amount of time with him in the aftermath. He was there to help the king wash off the blood and bandage the wounds. Lancelot engaged in conversation with Caliburn, waiting for the king to find his voice after hours of silence. Eventually, when the castle was asleep and the sacred sword was sheathed, Arthur gave Lancelot a clipped, nondetailed version of the story. Despite this, Lancelot was able to gather so much more information from tone and body language. It was clear within the first sentence that Arthur was more hurt than he was angry. 

Even now, he seems more hurt than angry, and Lancelot doesn’t know what to do about that.

“And I dare not mention any of my thoughts concerning Sir Mordred.”

Because none of them are what they are supposed to be. Lancelot should hate this traitor as much as the others. But he doesn’t hate any of them, especially not Mordred. Every time he thinks about the wounds on the king’s body that came from Mordred’s ice, he also thinks about all the times Mordred would follow Arthur around. He thinks about how interested Mordred was in everything Arthur—and the other knights—had to teach him. He thinks about how Galahad would drag Mordred into pulling pranks together, and how those two and the king would be the ones laughing the loudest. Mordred is the White Dragon. He is the fated destroyer of Camelot. He is Lancelot’s enemy, the one the stars paired him with long before either of them were born. Yet, he is also the equivalent of a child, still learning and developing a sense of self.

And though Mordred himself might not have been aware of it, he cared for Arthur. Why would he betray the king? Is it truly a matter of succession or the manipulations of destiny? Is Mordred still somewhere deep inside, or has the little hedgehog with large eyes disappeared forevermore?

Lancelot huffs, troubled. He hears a similar noise echoed by his companion. Lancelot raises his attention to find Bedivere approaching him. The knight holds Arondight in his paws. Lancelot’s confusion is washed away when Bedivere puts the hilt in Lancelot’s paws. As Bedivere closes Lancelot’s fingers over it, he gives Lancelot a rough smile. There’s only so much comfort Bedivere can offer Lancelot through his understanding of the situation. The wolf could agree with Lancelot’s unsaid thoughts, or he could be completely against them, but it doesn’t matter. None of it does. The king wants the traitors captured, and they, as his knights, will do exactly that. Bedivere, at least, has the decency to look somewhat apologetic. That’s all he can give Lancelot.

The knight of the lake smiles at Bedivere. Even if that’s all there is, it’s enough for him. As he said before, he will not let sentimentality stop him. He will capture all of the traitors. If the king demands it, Lancelot will punish them, too. Even Agravain and Gawain and Lamorak. Even Honey. And even Mordred.

A dozen tomes are stacked precariously around the edges of the table. Although their ages are different, it is impossible to tell since they are all ancient. The pages have long since yellowed and crusted. The leather is broken in many places. It carries the musk of a forgotten past, written by scholars and mages whose names have been lost to history. At the moment, the majority of them form incomplete walls around the reader sitting at the table. A few of them are open to various pages, showing diagrams and words in languages that no one has spoken since the tomes’ creations.

Tristan sits at the edge of his wooden chair. His knees are bent under him and his feet are flexed, keeping him from falling onto the ground of the library’s back corner. He hunches over a piece of parchment. It is still white in its youth, though it has been covered in the scrawlings of black ink. This ink comes from the quill he holds tightly in one of his paws. It is almost the point that the feather shatters, but he somehow manages to keep his strength in check.

Tristan frequently throws his eyes from the parchment to the books around him. He absorbs the information from the pages. He lets it simmer inside his mind. He combines it with other ideas and concepts until he has something worth putting down on the parchment in front of him. His scribblings, however, wouldn’t likely make sense to anyone else due to how quickly and tinily they have been written. There’s also a matter of even Tristan hardly knowing what he’s turning into inked words. He is just trying to get the information outside of his head as if that will help guide him toward a better solution.

Tristan’s focus is so centralized that he doesn’t notice someone approaching him until they are walking past the table. Tristan throws himself upward and backward. As soon as his spine hits the back of his chair, he makes eye contact with a pair of pale blue irises. The panic leaves Tristan’s body. Unfortunately, nothing takes its place. Tristan nearly slides right out of the chair from how much he deflates. Luckily, Iseult reaches for his arms, pushing him back into his chair and keeping him there. Her light-hearted expression at seeing him descends into concern. Tristan would love nothing more than to wipe it away, but that would require more actions than Tristan can do within the span of a few seconds.

“How was the gathering, my lady?” Tristan asks. Oh, holy ones, his voice sounds tired and shredded. He unsubtly coughs to the side, trying to make it sound less unused.

Iseult is cautious. She considers pressing for answers from him. As she thinks, she kneels beside him, still keeping him from slipping from his chair despite him no longer needing her help. Eventually, however, Iseult merely answers his question. “Truthfully, I would not call it a ‘gathering.’ The nobles only wanted to invite me so that they might probe for answers about the recent betrayal.”

“Are they not content with the official royal decree?” Tristan asks, already knowing what the answer is. The statement Arthur approved of sending out to the people only stated that Agravain, Gawain, Lamorak, Mordred, and Honey were traitors to the realm. It also added that they had additional accomplices, but those three were left without names or descriptions regarding their appearance.

Iseult gives him an unimpressed look. He grins (rather tiredly) at her. “Do not jest with me, good sir. The nobles will never be satisfied until they understand a situation in its entirety. How else are they going to apply sufficient pressure in order to get what they want? There were at least a dozen nobles, and I was there for the greater part of the afternoon, yet it was only one maid who dared ask me if His Majesty was faring well.”

“Can you blame them? The king is kinder to the servants than he is to the nobles,” Tristan remarks coolly. One of Arthur’s first missions in his crusade as the king was to take as much power from the nobles as possible and redistribute it to the people. Although this is not an undertaking that can be easily accomplished within a year, he has done more than Tristan would have ever thought a king was capable of. He supposes he has grown too used to having a tyrant command him.

“I would not know. He has been plenty kind to me,” Iseult murmurs softly and earnestly.

Tristan’s smile grows. He pulls his arm back until he’s grabbed onto Iseult’s hand. He raises it, kissing her knuckles. “That he has been.”

Iseult is almost swept up in the romantic gesture. Almost, Tristan reminds himself, but Iseult looks into his eyes with rising emotions. “How could they do this to someone so kind?”

Tristan closes his eyes. He wants to agree with Iseult. Not only is she his love, but he also genuinely agrees with her line of questioning. But the truth is plain, and Tristan doesn’t want either of them getting in trouble for daring to harbor such thoughts. When he opens his eyes, he takes Iseult’s hand in both of his paws. He looks right into her eyes, whispering this precious secret between them. “We cannot ask such questions. We will not find satisfying answers. We can only follow the orders of His Majesty.”

Tristan watches the argument leave Iseult’s eyes. She looks downward, nodding her head solemnly. Tristan is suddenly struck with a terrible feeling. He searches his mind for something he can say that will make Iseult feel better. In the end, he doesn’t find anything, and Iseult picks herself back up. She glances back at the tomes and parchment on the table. “How are you progressing?”

“It would be dishonest to call it progressing,” Tristan admits, only because he’s talking to Iseult. She frowns at him, rising from her kneeling position to look over the parchment. Tristan grimaces. True love might conquer all, but he doubts it makes his writing more legible. For this reason, Tristan begins abstractly explaining what’s been written down and what he’s been thinking about. “Lady Merlina was correct. Whoever is hiding the traitors is powerful. Neither she, I, nor Sir Lancelot are able to determine where they are. Our only understanding is that they have not been doing anything. They have remained hidden.”

“I see,” Iseult murmurs. Tristan taps his foot against the floor. He has ideas about what they could be planning or where they could be, but he doesn’t have enough evidence. He doesn’t want to bring his ideas to the others until he does otherwise he’ll only be leading them astray or even giving them false hope. Tristan just needs something to be certain. He needs one fact—one measly understanding about their intentions and resources.

Iseult’s fingertips brush against the parchment. Although the ink should have been dried by now, it begins to smear with her touch. Tristan reaches for his handkerchief. Before he pulls it out, he realizes that the ink isn’t behaving how it should. It isn’t just smearing; it’s literally rising from the page. No matter the direction, it follows Iseult’s movements, and she begins swirling it around the page. Tristan looks up at her. Iseult’s eyes are swirling with flames, reflecting environments and situations she is not currently present for. Tristan rises to his feet. His paws hover around her body, unwilling to break her out of this trance in case it hurts her.

After a moment, Iseult turns toward him. The flames continue to flicker in the depths of her gaze, but she seems to be capable of seeing him as he is. “The Holy Grail. Fate. A lance. Sacrifice. Camlann.”

“What—”

Before Tristan can question her prophecy, the doors to the library slam open with such force that Tristan and Iseult turn toward it. Percival’s squire—Marine—rushes into the room. In between heavy breaths, Marine speaks, “Sir Tristan… the Holy Grail… it’s missing!”

Sir Kay stands beside a pair of heavy, wooden doors. Across the hallway from him, there is an empty suit of armor. Beside him, there is a rolling cart. A tray sits on top of the cart, and on top of that, there is a plate, utensils, and napkins. The cups and pitcher of water are on the shelf closer to the floor. It continues to steam gently, filling the entire hallway with the aroma of freshly cooked food prepared from the best ingredients. Although he is not hungry, Sir Kay does feel a little tempted to sneak a bite. He likely would have already done so if this was for the former king (did the illusion never get angry because it thought Kay was his brother, or did it never get angry because the illusion didn’t need to eat and was going to throw the food out anyway?).

Sir Kay has been in this hallway for a long while. The cart hasn’t been for as long, but it is getting to the point that the food will likely get too cold to eat soon. It isn’t the chef’s fault nor is it the fault of the kitchen maid who brought it. They both want to take care of the king. Since the kitchens are so far from the rest of the castle’s important rooms, they didn’t know the king’s meeting was running rather long. To servants, meetings need to be as brief and productive as possible; the nobles, unfortunately, do not share the same opinion. Kay knows which group he prefers.

The nobles, at least, cannot keep the meeting from going on for a long time. Eventually, the doors are pushed open by grumbling nobles. The lords and ladies march out of the room with their personal servants hurrying after them. Kay watches them all go. They treat him no differently from the inanimate object across the hall from him. He might be a Knight of the Round Table, but he is still nothing in their eyes. Kay isn’t bothered by it. In fact, it has some benefits, such as the simple fact that once the last of the advisors leave, Kay is immediately able to push the cart into the meeting room.

Arthur sits at the head of the table. He’s slumped over the wooden surface. He twists a quill between his fingers, splashing ink into his glove and the paper beneath his wrist. The chairs surrounding the sides of the table have been pulled out. There are items that were left on the table, including papers, books, and even a few candles that continue to burn. Kay considers cleaning up the space. He decides against doing that right now. If the mess is still here by the time he and Bedivere switch shifts, he’ll take care of it.

“Your Majesty,” Kay starts. His response is a loud groan. It echoes throughout the room. Kay feels a flicker of amusement in his heart, but it is quickly washed away by the observations he makes regarding Arthur’s appearance. The king seems more than annoyed; he’s exhausted. Although Kay would never dare say anything disrespectful about his lord, he internally acknowledges that Arthur is not looking healthy. “I have brought your meal.”

Arthur’s arms slide back. His paws push against the edge of the table. He sits upright, revealing that his cheek has also been stained with ink. The papers he was lying on have been smeared, though they aren’t entirely illegible. Kay sets the tray from the cart onto the table. As Arthur is staring at the food (and hopefully feeling his stomach rumble at the smell of it), Kay gets an extra napkin from the cart’s surface. His intention is to merely hand it to Arthur, but when the king’s gaze grows listless, Kay feels a surge of familiarity compel him to reach forward. He starts to wipe the ink off Arthur’s face himself. The king’s brows furrow together, but he remains silent at Kay’s actions.

Kay does not completely remove the ink from Arthur’s face. Likely, all he’s done is stain the fabric in his hands. But Arthur smiles gratefully—if a bit tinily. Kay returns the smile. He moves back to the cart. He puts the napkin away. He leans down to get the pitcher and a cup. As he’s pouring, Arthur pokes at his food with his fork. Although it should be a hearty meal made with the best ingredients and by the most acclaimed chef in the land, Arthur sighs with a roughened edge of disappointment. Under his breath, Arthur mutters, “I’d kill for a chili dog.”

“What is a ‘chili dog,’ Your Majesty?” Kay asks. He sincerely doubts that it is a special kind of dog because he refuses to believe Arthur would eat one of those animals. Arthur is rather fond of the howling mutts, actually. He will play with them even when there is no hunting to be done.

Kay’s question is light. It isn’t emotional in the slightest. It isn’t loaded or charged with anything. Despite this, it is obviously the wrong question to ask. Arthur’s body collapses forward. He drops his face into his paws. Kay flinches when Arthur speaks, realizing how heartbroken he sounds. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Kay quickly sets the pitcher on the table. He squats down beside the king’s chair. He sets a paw on the chair’s arm and another on the edge of the table to keep himself balanced. Kay leans forward enough that Arthur looks at him between his fingertips. There’s a strange color pulsating around the perimeter of his vivid green irises. It must be magic; Kay isn’t too worried since he knows that nearly everyone in the knights is magical to some degree. “It is a type of food, yes?”

Arthur opens and shuts his mouth several times. Eventually, he sighs. His arms fall down to cross over his thighs. He presses his forehead to the side of the table. He stares down at the ground, nodding slightly. “It is. I can’t… No, I almost remember it. It’s right there. It’s like… There’s bread. And there’s meat. Cow, maybe? I could draw it… I think.” Arthur throws his head back, staring at the ceiling with a hardened expression. “Ugh! What does it even matter? Who cares if I can’t—”

Arthur cuts himself off. Kay waits, but Arthur doesn’t say anything else. The knight glances around the area. Eventually, he dares to speak. “It does matter, Your Majesty. If you are able to draw it or provide more details, I could make you a chili dog.”

Arthur’s head falls against his shoulder. He looks at Kay like the viridescent hedgehog said he would perform a miracle. “Really? You would do that for me?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I might be a knight, but I am not unfamiliar with the kitchens. I will make you a chili dog,” Kay smiles. He hopes it hides how painful this confession is for him. His memories are twisted. He remembers, as a child, making food for him, his brother, and his father. None of that was real, but the memories were good enough that Kay was able to make meals for his fellow knights when he was first made into a knight. He thought he would bury the skills that were forced upon him, but he doesn’t mind using them again for the sake of his king. After everything that’s happened—both with the traitors and the nobles—Kay wants to do something to make Arthur feel better.

While this is primarily because of his loyalty and friendship to the king, it also comes from a place of understanding. Kay knows what it’s like to have constant conflicts with one’s memories. Neither he nor Arthur can trust what’s in their mind. It is a lonely existence, but perhaps, together, it does not have to be so extreme.

Arthur’s face lights up. His body relaxes. Kay doesn’t expect it, but Arthur grabs onto Kay, pulling the knight into a hug. “Thank you.”

Kay gets a feeling that Arthur is thanking him for a lot more than promising to make food for him, but Kay doesn’t think about that. He, instead, returns the hug, trying not to think about a fake past with a brother who never was. That Arthur wasn’t real, but this one is. This is Kay’s king and his friend. He’s looked out for Kay more times than the knight can count. He’s done more for this kingdom in a year than the former king did in his long reign. Kay is going to protect him, and he’s going to comfort him, and he’s going to find some way to capture those traitors (even if they’re the friends he used to drink with and joke around about).

Their hug is ended by knocking on the door. Arthur groans again, separating himself from Kay and dropping back into his chair. “Heavens above, this is why I’m not the one who does these meetings!”

Kay snorts as he jogs away from the king. He opens the door for whoever was knocking. He is about to tell them off for interrupting the king’s meal time, but he stops when he sees Dame Percival. Her stern expression causes Kay to give her the space to enter the room. Percival bows to Arthur, but she doesn’t wait for permission to speak. “My king, the Holy Grail has disappeared.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “Where is it? Did someone steal it?”

“No, Your Majesty. The Holy Grail is a divine construct. It can disappear from the vaults and reappear elsewhere in the world. Unfortunately, the traitors could get to it before we do,” Dame Percival admits.

Arthur tenses, caught up in the information. Kay steps forward, setting a paw on Percival’s shoulder. She and Arthur look toward him. “They could, but they won’t. We’ll get the Holy Grail back, and we’ll capture the traitors while we’re at it. Do not worry, Your Majesty. Your knights will not fail you—not like the others did.”

For a moment, Arthur looks unconvinced. This expression disappears with a sigh. He lifts the fork with one paw and waves the other one. “Good. See to it that it’s done. I’ll finish my meal. You can make me a chili dog once you’ve finished this task. You’re both dismissed.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” They both respond. Dame Percival leaves first. Kay goes after her, looking over his shoulder. At least Arthur is eating, Kay thinks as he closes the door. In the hallway, he glances at her. “Do you have an idea where it will reappear?”

“I do. It will take time for it to reappear in our realm. In the meantime, we should wait. Sir Lancelot sent his sister to Lady Nimue’s pavilion. If the traitors are there, she should be able to find out for us. Hopefully, she will also find out what their plan is.”

Chapter Text

The lake surrounding Nimue’s pavilion is filled with pleasantly warm water, neither chilly nor boiling. The depths are a dark navy blue, not quite reaching pure black. The water closest to the surface is a lighter shade of blue with the sparkles of refracting sunlight. It splashes on the few rocks that jut up from the lake’s bottom. It also creates patterns on the smooth stone base used to hold the pavilion in place. While most of the pavilion has a shallow area at the bottom of its wraparound staircase, there is one side that drops straight down instead of having an incline. It is this side that the aquatic Fae—including nymphs like Maria—are encouraged to use when they are visiting Nimue since it allows them to spend the most time in the water and avoid getting sand caught up in their magical bodies.

With the same grace as a dancer on land or a bird in the air, Maria swims through the lake. She is also quick about it. She makes it from the shoreline to the base of the pavilion within a matter of moments. If the circumstances were not so dire (she’s inferring that they are given how hard Lancelot tried not to let her figure out how anxious he was), Maria would have congratulated herself. She would have kept track of the time in order to brag to her brother or the other aquatic Fae later. But her thoughts are so far away from counting seconds that she doesn’t even consider the opportunity she let slip right past her.

Maria swims closer to the stairs along the side of the pavilion, right on top of the stone block. The bottom step is always submerged beneath the surface. The other ones are usually above it, but they are still splashed by the waves rocking upward. Maria grabs onto the bottom step. She’s about to pull herself onto the steps when she realizes there’s a figure standing on the steps. This is surprising in and of itself, but it doesn’t take long for Maria to recognize the blacks and reds of the figure. A frown pulls on her lips. What is her brother doing here?

Maria breaks the surface. She shakes her head slightly, waiting for her lungs to get used to dry air instead of the water she usually breathes in. Maria blinks rapidly. Once she settles, she locks eyes with Lancelot. Despite her confusion, Maria automatically smiles at him. She pulls herself further onto the bottom step. She’s about to grab his ankles and drag him into the water when she hears a sigh. It is long, heavy, and in some places, a little broken. Maria knows that it came from Lancelot which is the reason she freezes and tilts her head back to meet his eyes once more.

He doesn’t look the same as she last saw him. He’s still exhausted, but he wears it differently. There’s also a measure of pain in his eyes that cuts Maria as deeply as she knows it must be harming him. Lancelot drops his face into one of his paws (at least he’s wearing his gloves since he isn’t wearing his armor or any other kind of clothes right now). “Of course you would be here.”

“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be here?” Maria asks, brows furrowing together. Lancelot was the one to ask her to speak with Nimue, and if she could, check if the traitors were hiding out here. Maria’s frown deepens. Does he not trust her?

“I’m already dealing with enough. I don’t need to be dealing with you, too,” Lancelot answers. There’s a roughness in his voice that confuses Maria. She’s never heard him like this before. Someone overhearing him would assume he’s angry and exasperated, but Maria knows that this upset goes deeper than that. It is born from something else entirely. It is something that has been festering for a long time. She feels terrible that she hadn’t noticed it before. How can she call herself Lancelot’s sister when she couldn’t tell that he’s been harboring this?

Maria crosses her arms over the bottom step, pulling her upper body over it. Her legs continue kicking slightly beneath the water. This keeps her afloat above the waves. Lancelot seems troubled by her movements, but he calms himself once she’s settled. Maria avoids moving any further to keep him pacified, but she can’t stop her voice. “What is wrong? What are you ‘dealing with’?”

Lancelot shifts his body away from her. He crosses his arms over his chest. His expression hardens. It’s a little more difficult than it should be for her to figure out what he’s feeling underneath that, but this is her brother. She refuses to let him simmer in his own negativity. She swims toward the side, putting herself right back into Lancelot’s field of vision. “You can tell me anything. I promise that I won’t get mad.”

Lancelot looks at her like she threatened his life and everyone else’s in the pavilion. She manages to keep herself from flinching, but her spine does shiver at the expression. Fortunately, it swiftly disappears with yet another sigh. Lancelot sinks down to sit on the steps. He’s out of her immediate reach, and she can’t put him into it since he gets fidgety every time she moves. Maria, therefore, keeps herself mostly submerged under the water while waiting for Lancelot to talk to her (it didn’t used to be this troublesome to get him to explain himself. This is a bad habit Maria will definitely need to correct).

Lancelot’s arms are still crossed over his chest. He taps his fingers against his upper arm. He leans forward, but he stares out at the forest near the shore. If his eyesight extends further, he might be able to see the shadow of Camelot Castle on the horizon. Maria has never personally been there—far too much metal and too little water—but she believes she could navigate it from the stories Lancelot has told her about it. He was so proud of himself for becoming a knight for the kingdom. She was even more proud of him, and she loved hearing about his adventures and royally given missions.

“I assumed this would be easy,” Lancelot admits softly. His voice is nearly too quiet for her to hear, but she does. Maria wants to ask him what ‘this’ is. She doesn’t, though. She knows that she needs to give Lancelot time to parse through his thoughts. No matter how long it takes, she’s going to listen to this (and then, afterward, she’ll ask him what he’s doing at the pavilion when he specifically asked her to come. Maybe they can look for information together if he hasn’t already done it himself).

“He… he has always been like this. He disappears, goes on his adventures without telling anyone, yet he always comes back when he’s needed. We knew this time would be different, but it’s more than any of us considered it would be,” Lancelot continues. Maria finds herself completely lost. She assumes this is the ‘this’ Lancelot mentioned before, but now she doesn’t know who ‘he’ or ‘we’ are. If she were to guess, she would say it’s King Arthur and his fellow knights. It would make sense given this is Lancelot.

“This is different. Is it because the virus wasn’t like anything we’d experienced before? That’s what Rouge thinks it is, anyway.” Who is Rouge? Maria knows about everyone in Lancelot’s life. There’s no way he wouldn’t have told her about this ‘Rouge’ character. Confusion ripples through her body, but an idea is starting to blossom about what could be happening right now. Was she too quick to assume this was Lancelot instead of the shapeshifter she was warned about? But then, how does this shapeshifter know her? Does he have his own Maria, or did he siphon enough of Lancelot’s memories with his transformation that he genuinely believes he’s Maria’s brother?

It doesn’t matter. If this is Lancelot, she needs to know this information to be a good sister. And if this is the shapeshifter, this information might prove valuable to the Knights of the Round Table. She might be able to trick the shapeshifter into telling her what the traitors’ plan is. That would be easier than trying to get Nimue to tell her since the Lady of the Lake is clearly harboring the traitors (if this is, indeed, not Lancelot).

“Even if we get his memories back, would he even want to come back?” The hedgehog—for who knows who this actually is—concludes with another heavy breath. Maria can tell that he’s holding a lot back. It remains trapped in his head, haunting him even as he tries to process his emotions through her.

Maria considers her conversational options carefully. After a moment of deliberation in which the hedgehog sinks further inward, Maria asks, “What makes you think he won’t want to come back?”

The shapeshifter glances at her. Maria keeps her expression plain and neutral. Thankfully, the hedgehog doesn’t seem to realize that she isn’t who he thinks she is (or, at least, that her loyalties don’t necessarily align with his). Because of this, he answers,“I remember his expression.” He turns toward the water, though she doubts he’s looking at the actual reflections on the surface. “I have been told it was near the middle stages of the spreading virus. He was already that…”

The hedgehog trails off. Maria tilts her head to the side. This is the second time he’s mentioned a virus. If he is still talking about Arthur, could this be the plague that the king was worried about the first time he came to visit her—the one he thought would kill her? She has always been curious about that, but Lancelot warned her against pushing for answers Arthur couldn’t currently remember. She left the  matter alone because of that, but if this shapeshifter has more answers, she wouldn’t mind getting them from him. “That…?”

The hedgehog’s eyes narrow. His gaze is sharp enough that it feels like he could slice flesh open with a single glance. Maria isn’t in his direct line of sight, but she still feels the weight behind it against her shoulders. His voice, in contrast, is light and breathy enough that it could float away from her like petals in the breeze. “Emotional.”

Maria can tell that isn’t the word he wants to use. He knows that she can tell this when he glances over at her. He seems almost ashamed for saying it, but he doesn’t back track. He just presses forward, as stubborn as the hedgehog he’s stolen the appearance of. “I do not know myself what he was like in the moments before his disappearance. If this is what the Chaos Emeralds assumed he wanted, I can make accurate guesses.”

“And that’s why you think he won’t return with you?” Maria asks. While she knows that she’s missing a lot of details, she believes she has enough critical information to recognize that this doesn’t make all that much sense to her.

“He wanted to avoid the consequences of his actions,” The hedgehog grits out. There is more of that anger and annoyance that poorly masks a bloodied wound in his voice.

“Or maybe he thought this is what everyone wanted,” Maria responds softly. If they are talking about Arthur, she only needs to think back to how he reacted during their first meeting. He was so guilty and distraught. He genuinely thought he’d doomed her to death, and that tore him up. Their other encounters only reinforce this idea for Maria. She might not know the situation, but she does know Arthur. It’s because of this that no matter how quiet her voice is, it’s confident. “Maybe he thought everyone would be safer if he removed himself. Or even happier. He could have thought he was saving everyone. He’s always thinking like that, no?”

The hedgehog clearly hasn’t thought about it like that if the way he’s looking at her means anything. Maria giggles kindly under her breath. “I don’t know what choice he’ll make if he gets his memories back. I don’t know why he chose to come here, or if he chose at all. But clearly, you need to talk more with him than you do with me. You’re both… ‘emotional’ about this matter.”

He narrows his eyes at her. She continues smiling, not regretting her word choice in the slightest. Maria looks away from the hedgehog. Her eyes tilt toward the pavilion behind him. There are many strong, uniform pillars that hold up the colorful roof. The architecture is beautiful. Maria has always thought that. She admires this pavilion and everything it represents. It was a second home to her and Lancelot when they weren’t quite sure of their place in the world. Nimue never expected anything from them, even when Lancelot had a grand destiny and Maria was never meant to be more than a footnote. If Nimue has decided to protect the traitors, she must have a good reason.

Since Maria is staring at the side of the pavilion, she notices the person stepping outside. It is a bat. Maria doesn’t recognize her, but the bat clearly knows Maria from somewhere. The bat looks between Maria and the shapeshifter, hurrying over to them with her wings slightly flapping to help her pick up speed. “Shadow, is this…?”

The shapeshifter frowns. He looks over his shoulder at the bat. He then notices that the bat is staring right at Maria. His eyes widen. “Wait—you can see her? She’s not a hallu—”

Maria doesn’t hear the final part of his sentence. She grins at the bat and the hedgehog before pushing herself beneath the water. She disappears as best she can, deciding that she should probably go find Nimue or evidence of the plan now.

Part of her does hope that the hedgehog is able to talk to whoever ‘he’ actually is, even if it is Arthur.

Diagonal shafts of sunlight stretch across Clarent’s surface, highlighting how clean and sharp the blade has become under Mordred’s care. The white knight himself sits in the shadows of the pavilion’s many pillars. His legs are bent in front of him with his heels digging into the smooth stone surface, unweathered despite its many years beneath the elements. Mordred runs his gloved fingertips across Clarent as if it were a piece of fabric capable of being smoothed out.

The white noise filling Mordred’s mind is pushed aside to make way for a sound coming from the world around him. It is not the waves, or the wind, or even the animals swimming in the lake or running across the distant forest. It is a sound most similar to a bird’s flapping wings, but distinctly different in all the ways that matter. It is, if nothing else, familiar to Mordred, which is likely the reason why his mind has allowed him to hear it despite him feeling disconnected from reality for the better part of the past few days (if it has, truly, only been days).

Mordred lifts his eyes away from the stolen sword. He watches as Morgan le Fey lands on the steps beside the pavilion. She turns her back to the sunlight, casting her own shadow across the stones. Her eyes glow dimly as she meets his own. Morgan tilts her head to the side. She recognizes him immediately. She likely only came over here because she either saw or, more likely, sensed him. Mordred knows that she can. Even if she didn’t know him as intimately as she does, a mage as powerful as Morgan would be able to tell that he’s the figurehead of a grand, centuries-old prophecy. The weight of destiny rests on his back, and everyone with a lick of sense would be able to understand as much.

“What are you doing here, Mother?” Mordred asks politely. They are deep within Nimue’s domain. The Lady of the Lake is not going to appreciate Morgan’s appearance, especially since it’s clear that Morgan hasn’t shown Nimue proper respect by going to see her first and get permission to be here. Mordred, at least, doesn’t have the same sensibilities as the other Fae, so he’s not going to go out of his way to get Morgan in trouble. This is a personal choice—one that has nothing to do with her status in relation to him.

“I have heard whisperings of the plan you wish to enact,” Morgan answers. She moves her claws through her hair. It is an unnecessary action. Mordred doesn’t even understand why she does it. He has never understood Morgan behind recognizing the hatred and rage that once powered her every action. Mordred thought that perhaps learning more about the world through Arthur and the other knights might allow him to understand Morgan more. In some ways, he believes he understands her less, but that is a matter for a very different time.

“It is our only option. Your spell was ineffective,” Mordred tells her. There is no anger in his voice. While he is disappointed that the spell didn’t work, he is not blaming Morgan. He gave her all the information he knew. This, unfortunately, did not include the simple fact that Arthur is not suppressing his memories himself—he’s been cursed by an artifact that is comparable in power to the sacred swords or the Holy Grail. If he had told her that, Morgan would have told him that her spell would sooner kill Arthur than grant him the reprieve and peace that they all wished to give him.

“An unfortunate outcome,” Morgan somewhat agrees but mostly doesn’t care. She holds no emotions for the current Arthur. If he dies, she will shed no tears and carry no guilt. Mordred considers that fact because he is not certain that he would be as carefree. Morgan interrupts such thoughts with her stalwart, uncompromising voice. “You cannot go to Camlann, son.”

“Have you truly come to stop me? I do not understand your intentions or purpose,” Mordred admits. He thought, dimly, that this is why Morgan would arrive. He allowed himself to hold onto doubts, however, because as he said, he cannot tell what the point would be. At least, he isn’t certain that the point he considers important would also be viewed as such in Morgan’s eyes.

But the look that crosses her face is one that Mordred does understand. It is swift, and light, and hardly there at all, yet there is just enough presence that Mordred can tell, on some level, that she is feeling very specifically about this interaction. “You cannot get close to the Holy Grail. It is the embodiment of purity and goodness, the source of life and light. You are the White Dragon. It is not that you have impurities; you are an impurity upon the land. You are the thief that robs all life. The poison that destroys all land. The storm that blots out the sun and stars. The Holy Grail will annihilate you. I will not be able to save you. Not even Excalibur’s scabbard can return life to that which is dead.”

“I understand,” Mordred nods. He rises to his feet, leaving Clarent on the stones. He turns toward Morgan. She’s taller than him, but he can feel the light of day on his face as it warps around her body. It is warm and pleasant, soft and aromatic. Mordred has grown to adore the day—the wind—nature itself. Morgan is not wrong in calling him the destroyer, yet it was through another’s kind paws that Mordred learned appreciation and adoration. It is because of that person that Mordred continues speaking. “I know very well what the consequences will be. I will do my best to stay far from the Holy Grail. However, if this is the price I must pay to settle my debt, I will not hesitate. If it is his death or pain or nothing at all, I will face this battle unflinchingly.”

Morgan’s eyes travel across him, perhaps searching for proof that he is not as confident as he claims to be. She finds nothing. Mordred knows this because she sighs and returns her eyes to his face. Although she is almost completely incapable of feeling emotion, there is a wisp of sadness there. Morgan sets her hand over her chest—over a heart that has likely never beat or bled for another. “I see that I cannot stop you. In that case, I will make a promise to you. If your life is ended by the Holy Grail, or by another force like a sacred sword or the Red Dragon, I will find a way to grieve you.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Mordred smiles. It’s an oddly comforting thought to know that someone—to know that Morgan—will grieve for him. She doesn’t have to remember him. He was a failed plan to kill an already dead man, after all. But in all the ways she’s capable of, she cares about him. He, in turn, cares for her, in the few ways he’s learned how to. And that, he supposes, is more than enough for him.

Morgan nods. She turns toward the shoreline. Her wings spread out. She flaps once to send herself into the air. She continues forward, flying far away from the pavilion. Once the red and black dot on the horizon is gone, Mordred turns around. He puts himself in a respectful position. “I apologize for my mother, Lady Nimue.”

The owner of the pavilion steps out from the pillars. Her paws are folded over her stomach. She continues staring in the distance where Morgan had flown away. “There is no reason to apologize. I have known Morgan for a long time. She was once my friend. She is still my friend. I have given her eternal permission to visit. Even if I did not, I do not blame her for actions. She came to warn you about Camlann, did she not?”

“She did. Rest assured, I am firm in my decision,” Mordred agrees.

Nimue’s body continues facing the distant shore, but she tilts her head to him. They make eye contact as Mordred shifts himself around. “Do you care so little about your life?”

“Do not be mistaken, Lady Nimue. I care very deeply about my life. I have a desire to continue surviving that extends beyond what my instincts dictate for me,” Mordred assures her. He closes his eyes. Memories unspool in his thoughts, precious moments that should have never belonged to the White Dragon. He is calamity itself, and yet, Arthur accepted him into his home. The other knights—although resistant—accepted him as well. They have taught him much. It might be foolish to think all of that led him to this moment, but it might not be untrue. “It is only that I am not afraid. After all he has done for me, is it not right that I do as much as I can for him? He risked his entire kingdom to give me a chance at living as something more than what was dictated to me by the stars. I am willing to risk just as much to grant him the opportunity to know exactly who he is and what he wants.”

Mordred opens his eyes. Nimue is smiling softly, her gaze downcast. While she seems close to tears, she is not unhappy. Rather, she is simply feeling an excess of emotions—far more than Mordred could individually understand. There is, however, enough that he knows enough. “It sounds to me like Arthur achieved what many Fae strive towards in giving you a soul. How he managed this with the White Dragon is beyond me.”

“I do not think that is what happened,” Mordred shakes his head. He takes a deep breath, feeling his chest swell with pride. “I rather think it was because of him that I realized I had a soul all along.”

Nimue hums, considering it. Once she’s done, her smile widens. “Well… that’s no less impressive, especially since your acknowledgment of your own soul has come even before you realized that you might be sacrificing it.”

“How else am I meant to understand the gravity of what I’m risking?” Mordred notes dryly.

“I suppose you aren’t wrong.” Nimue steps further down to the edge of the water. She remains on the steps instead of stepping into the sand. Mordred watches her curiously. Nimue glances over her shoulder at him. “You should rest, little one. I will remain out here for a moment longer.”

“I understand. Have a good day, Lady Nimue. I will see you in the morning. I promise that my will shall not waver during the night,” Mordred tells her. He picks up Clarent as he walks away. 

Before he completely leaves, he hears Nimue call out to the water, “Did you hear everything you wanted to?”

The only response she gets is splashing water.

Chapter Text

As the clouds gather into a blanket over the sky, they darken from light gray-white to a few shades away from pitch black. There are cracks of light throughout the clouds as the sunlight pierces through the thinnest parts. It creates enough illumination for the forests, fields, and hills in the western parts of the kingdom to be viewable by those with sharp eyes. Tristan is among the few who stand in one of the fields separating the hills from the forest even as the weather worsens. He raises his palm toward the sky, judging for the exact moment when rain will begin dripping from the heavens like tears. It has not happened yet, but the charged tension in the cooling zephyrs can only come from electricity waiting to strike as lightning.

A different sensation from the wind moves across his shoulder. Tristan tilts his face from the sky to the figure standing beside him. Bedivere adjusts his helmet with one paw while the other one gestures into the distance. Tristan already knows what he’s going to find, but he forces himself to look, anyway. He and the other knights were discussing who they would end up meeting at each of their stations. Tristan wasn’t necessarily expecting anyone specific, so he doesn’t feel much surprise when he sees Agravain. 

His surprise, honestly, comes from the simple fact that he doesn’t recognize who has joined Agravain. Tristan doesn’t even know what kind of creature this is. It is unique in composition like a monster from the Underworld. Those beasts, however, have never been made from metal. They are poisoned by metal, after all. This creature, then, must be a construct created by a mage. If that’s the case, they were likely made to defeat the Fae which makes it slightly peculiar that they ended up facing off against Tristan and Bedivere, two regular mortals. It’s fortunate for the Knights of the Round Table; no one in their ranks who is a Fae will have to contend with this strange construct.

Tristan closes his eyes. He feels the gentle thrumming of magic inside his body. He expands it outward in the way Lady Iseult taught him long before they even had a relationship worth protecting. Tristan’s fingers grasp around a solid rod, and there’s a light weight hanging off of his forearm. Tristan opens his eyes. He holds a spear and a shield made from a crystalline material. These are his primary weapons, though he is skilled at a few others. For now, he will use these to contend against Agravain and the construct beside him.

Tristan quickly corrects that statement. Agravain immediately attacks Bedivere. The knight beside Tristan reacts quickly enough to protect himself with his whip-spear combination weapon. Bedivere manages to knock Agravain away from him in the direction opposite from Tristan. This puts their battle a few feet away from the knight. Tristan doesn’t doubt that they’re going to keep it contained to themselves. While Agravain absolutely hates Lancelot, he does have an unequal rivalry with Bedivere. In all those circumstances, however, Bedivere didn’t have proper motivation. Protecting their lord and keeping the traitors from taking the Holy Grail has given Bedivere a boost of strength. Time will tell if he’s able to maintain this momentum, though, and Tristan doesn’t have time to wait and watch.

Tristan turns toward the construct. He adjusts his body, balancing on both of his feet. He raises his spearhead to point at the construct’s midsection. Although he is uncertain what level of sapience this construct possesses, his instincts as a knight shine through (unlike Agravain… Bedivere gets a pass because he doesn’t usually talk). “I am Sir Tristan, Knight of the Dark. Before we duel, permit me the knowledge of your name and master.”

The construct’s red eyes (are they eyes? They seem to be made from glass) flash with an internal light. It resembles magic in appearance, but Tristan doesn’t sense any of it in the air. He doesn’t sense any when the construct speaks, either, even though there’s a clear otherness to the way their voice sounds. “I AM E-123 OMEGA. MY MASTER IS DESTRUCTION AND REVENGE. PREPARE TO BE ANNIHILATED FOR STANDING IN MY WAY.”

Tristan hardly has the time to process the words (seriously, what is wrong with this construct’s voice?) before the construct is changing shapes. Hollow metal rods extend from one of its arms. Omega points the metal rods at Tristan. He recognizes danger even if he doesn’t understand much else, leading him to raise his shield and bracing himself. This is the smartest decision he could have made. Projectiles—smaller and faster than arrows—leave the darkness of the rods. They collide against Tristan’s shield. There is enough force that he’s being pushed back. Tristan digs his boots into the ground. He feels the dirt shift beneath him. He’s about to start sliding backward. If he goes back too far, he’ll fall flat onto the ground.

Tristan moves his other arm behind him. He twists his spear around between his fingers. When he’s adjusted, he forces himself to take a step forward. He throws the spear at the same moment, watching it fly over his shield. Omega also notices the spear as it refracts the minimal light in the thick air around them. Omega dodges to the side, a touch more agile than Tristan would have given him credit for. Tristan is almost impressed, but he has pushed down all of his emotions to keep himself from hesitating during this conflict (though, perhaps that was unnecessary since he doesn’t care what happens to Omega).

While Omega is distracted, Tristan lowers his shield and races toward him. The spear landed in the ground, sinking down enough that there’s a counterweight to Tristan’s actions. The knight grabs the shaft. He kicks his body upward. He slams his heels into Omega’s breastplate (or this construct’s equivalent). Tristan’s body remains in the air as the construct stumbles back two steps. Tristan throws his arms into the air, giving himself some extra upward force. He manages to snag his legs on Omega’s ‘shoulders’ (he seems humanoid enough for that to be an apt term). Tristan balances himself on his knees. He raises his shield into the air. He holds the edges with both paws, ready to slam it down on the construct’s head.

The shoulders lift upward with a suddenness that causes Tristan to lose his balance. He flips off the construct, landing in a crouched position. He holds his shield up in front of him. Omega turns to face him. It seems there were… drawers in the construct’s shoulders. Tristan sees shapes that are almost reminiscent of arrows made from metal and color, but there are enough differences that Tristan knows what he’s seeing isn’t what he thinks it is. This thought is proven correct when the strange shapes in the drawers fire forward. Tristan, obviously, has enough sense to shield himself, but he didn’t expect for the arrows to turn into fire and smoke. Tristan is thrown back by the force. He isn’t able to catch himself until he’s several feet away.

Omega runs through the fire and smoke as if it doesn’t affect him. It likely doesn’t, Tristan thinks, as Omega aims his hollowed-out arms at Tristan and fire comes out of them. It doesn’t send him back, but the heat suffocates him even when he can protect himself from the flames with his shield. He summons another spear in his other paw. He jabs it underneath his shield. He feels resistance as he forces the spear forward even more. Once the fire stops, Tristan lets go of his spear. He jumps backward, peering over his shield. The spear struck Omega in the side. It was hard enough to tear the metal, though Tristan doesn’t know how much this counts as an injury.

Tristan prepares another spear. Omega’s form changes again, presumably to bring out another weapon that Tristan doesn’t entirely understand but will protect himself from, anyway. 

At least, this is Tristan’s plan, but it fizzles into nothingness when he hears a noise. His eyes dart away from his opponent to the other fight that had been happening nearby. Bedivere is on the ground. His weapon is far away from him. Agravain holds a sword in one paw while the other one is conjuring magic. It is clear that he intends to grievously injure Bedivere, if not outright kill him. Although it would be within his rights since they were dueling, Tristan abandons his own fight to rescue Bedivere (if anyone asks, he’ll just say Agravain and Bedivere weren’t having a proper duel because they didn’t introduce themselves to each other).

Omega follows after Tristan, but neither of them make enough noise to snap Agravain out of his course of action. The jackal doesn’t even notice Tristan grabbing onto Bedivere and pulling him away until his spear lands in the wet dirt where Bedivere once was. Agravain looks up with an expression filled with malice and irritation. Tristan kneels behind Bedivere, keeping the red wolf sitting upright against his knee and the side of his thigh. Bedivere breathes heavily, panic slowly giving way to gratitude when he realizes that he isn’t dead and that’s all because of Tristan.

The knight of the dark’s attention flits between Omega, Agravain, and Bedivere. He realizes rather immediately how terrible his situation is. Bedivere is too injured to continue fighting. Even if he stubbornly persists, he won’t be much help. Omega only has one hit, and Tristan knows that isn’t going to slow him down. Agravain’s wounds are shallow. He technically doesn’t have long left before he loses energy, but it will be plenty of time for both him and Omega to put Tristan on the defensive and maybe even finish him off.

As Tristan is considering his options (what few he has), a bright light appears in the sky above them. It takes a moment, but everyone’s attention is inevitably drawn to it. Where the sky is gray and dark blue-black, this color is vivid red. It is made from fire; Tristan realizes this in the same moment he recognizes what it is. The light and colors clear away to reveal the shape of a flying bird. Tristan knows exactly who it belongs to. To an extent, he can even infer why Iseult would send it here. Unfortunately, he also knows what’s going to happen if it—

The bird collides directly with Tristan’s chest. He rises to a standing position and stumbles away from Bedivere. The crimson wolf flops onto the ground, but he’s quick to turn himself around to look at Tristan. Omega and Agravain are staring at him, too. Omega fires more of his not-narrows, but the flames they produce are absorbed by the red-tinted bubble forming around Tristan’s body. Once enough fire has been siphoned, a flame sparks to life over his heart. It spreads outward, consuming his entire body. He does not feel pain, however. He doesn’t even feel the heat. Instead, it’s a growing coolness as his body crystalizes into the same material that he forms his spears and shield out of.

Once the fire clears, a crystal shadow loosely resembling Tristan stands in front of his enemies. A flame dances wildly in the compartment in his chest while the rest of him holds a swathing, pulsating darkness. It is a combination of his and Iseult’s magic. It is the disaster that the prophecies warned against when the two were told they could never be together. Iseult must have foreseen his death in this battle which is why she sent the key to her magic to him. Tristan would consider the truth that his death was nigh later. Right now, his entire body pulsates with enough magic that he cannot think or feel clearly; he only knows the impulse to destroy and emerge victorious from this fight.

“Shit,” Agravain curses. He drops his sword. He uses both paws to construct walls made from red-black blocks around Tristan. The crystalline hedgehog drops into the shadows this creates. He reemerges in Agravain’s shadow. The jackal glances over his shoulder in time to see Tristan. It’s too late to act for Agravain, but Omega saves the jackal by spewing forth fire from his hollow arm again. Tristan freezes, but he absorbs the flames instead of being burnt to a crisp by them. When they’ve cleared, Tristan throws his fist forward. A symbol made from firelight and shadows flares to life on Omega’s chest. Once it’s completed, Omega is thrown backward so far that he lands among the trees he and Agravain originally emerged from.

Tristan turns away from Omega. Agravain has cast his infamous illusion magic. There are several versions of him preparing to fight against Tristan. It is clear that the hedgehog is no longer in his own head because he doesn’t laugh at the display like he normally would. No, he’s completely silent as he immediately cuts through the many jackals. He destroys them swiftly with fatal blows, ignoring the possibility that one of these could be the real Agravain. In fact, perhaps Tristan is hoping that one of them is his main target. This isn’t likely since he doesn’t have the capacity to ‘hope’ right now.

There’s a reason this form isn’t supposed to be unearthed. It is too difficult to control. It eats away at Tristan’s sense of self. Without that, he’s merely a collection of unchecked power, a weapon of destruction not incomparable to the White Dragon of legend. The fears of the townspeople and nobles are well-founded, after all. 

Omega rejoins the fray. The symbol has been burned into the metal, but he doesn’t acknowledge it in the slightest as he tries firing more of his not-arrows at Tristan. He dodges any spears telekinetically thrown at him, but he does get tangled up in shadowed tendrils. Tristan decides to deal with him after he deals with Agravain, especially since he finally has the jackal on the ropes. The illusionist has fallen to the ground, staring up at the floating Tristan with wide, panicked eyes.

Tristan summons a spear above his paw. He leans back. Before he can throw it forward, however, Bedivere slides in front of Agravain. Tristan narrows his eyes at the interruption. He sucks in a tight breath. His body vibrates with unreleased energy. His mind consistently roars for him to eliminate all of his enemies, but there’s a part of him that continues to whisper that Bedivere is not their enemy—even if he is getting in Tristan’s way. This part sounds an awful lot like Iseult, and Tristan has learned to listen to her no matter the circumstances.

“Tristan.”

Agravain and Tristan both flinch at the sound of Bedivere’s voice. It is scratchy and shaky, but the resolution packed tightly into that voice is unwavering. Bedivere’s body does not tremble in the slightest as he stares into Tristan’s eyes, despite knowing damn well what Tristan is capable of right now. Bedivere takes a deep breath. He continues speaking, softly but assuredly. “We’re only here to stop them from getting the Holy Grail… we’re only here to protect King Arthur.”

The shock of hearing Bedivere’s voice creates enough cracks that the mention of Arthur’s name floods Tristan with emotions. He is the king that Tristan has served for over a year. Arthur has helped all the knights numerous times. He’s given them strength and confidence, proving that he deserves their trust time and time again. He was also the one who never accepted Tristan and Iseult’s fate—who convinced them to fight against destiny for their own happiness. 

Iseult’s image in his head reminds him of something she told him. “Yes... you will. Your loyalty will be rewarded. But only you have a choice between kindness and cruelty. Choose understanding, my love, even for those who cross blades with you.”

Tristan—the real Tristan—sighs. The spear above his paw disappears. He sinks closer to the ground. His feet touch against the grass-covered ground. He moves his paw to his chest. He doesn’t know how he does it—didn’t even know he could do this—but he manages to pull the bird made from fire from his chest. It flies outward, taking his crystalline appearance with it. The bird loops around, landing on his forearm. It is as warm against his fur as Iseult is. Tristan smiles at the bird. He leans closer, sharing a message with it. “Tell your master that I appreciate her help, but I’ve decided to choose kindness and understanding.”

Tristan throws his forearm upward. The bird flies in that direction. It shoots through the cloudy sky, returning to Camelot Castle (or wherever Iseult is if she isn’t where Tristan left her). Tristan takes a deep breath. He turns back to Bedivere and Agravain, keeping Omega in his peripheral vision. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Fine. Bedivere has convinced me to spare your lives. If you want it to remain this way, tell me why exactly you decided to betray our king.”

The wind howls like a starved beast as it cuts through the forest, whipping around each of the tall trunks. It carries with it the heaviness of barely restrained lightning and the frigid temperatures of the hinterlands. Rouge is flying herself and Honey—who is carried by Rouge’s arms tucking beneath her armpits and crossing over her collarbone—against the wind. Honey’s ears twitch with Rouge’s controlled breathing, so she finds herself impressed with Rouge’s strength. She is also very much pleased that Rouge, like Honey herself, can see in the dark (or has some form of navigation). After all, between the dark clouds covering the sky and the canopy of branches and leaves above them, light is hard to come by in the forest.

At least, it isn’t coming from above them. Honey’s eyes catch on a spark appearing near the ground. It flashes, sudden and fleeting. Honey saw it, however, so she immediately reacts to it. Honey throws her arms upward. Her paws grab onto the flesh right below Rouge’s shoulders. The bat stops when she feels the tight pressure. Honey surprises Rouge with her next actions enough that she doesn’t get the chance to stop Honey. The cat throws Rouge downward at the same moment she kicks her legs into the air. This separates them. In the few feet between them, a solid beam of pink-white light rips through the air. Honey’s ears fold against the top of her head to keep the light from burning away her fur or flesh. Rouge adjusts her body in the air, flying away from where the source of the beam came from.

Honey’s wings spread outward. They cannot make her fly, but they do assist her in gliding when they catch the wind. She glides backwards because of the wind. Before she can be flung out of the entire forest, one of her paws grasp onto a tree branch. She braces the sides of both of her feet against the trunk. Her wings fold against her back between her shoulder blades. She tightens her grip on the tree branch to keep herself from falling to the ground below. With this vantage point, she examines the forest around them for where the source of the light came from.

There are two figures standing on the forest floor. The one who fired at Rouge and Honey is obviously the royal mage, Merlina. Her expression is masked by the shadow of her hood, but her body is held in a completely offensive position. Runes and other ancient symbols float around her body, appearing and disappearing with varying levels of illumination and iridescence. She holds her wooden staff in front of her, possibly preparing another spell.

Honey isn’t surprised to see Merlina. She doesn’t feel anything about it, honestly, since she was never close with the royal mage. The same cannot be said with the figure standing beside Merlina. The blacksmith—affectionately nicknamed ‘Smithy’—is someone Honey has known since she first opened her shop. They aren’t that far apart, after all, and one would be surprised how many people want clothes that match their armor and weapons. Their collaborations have led to an easy companionship. Honey would consider them friends. She still considers them that even when Smithy raises his slingshot, aiming a spherical projectile capable of exploding at her—even when he fires it.

Honey reaches up to grab the branch with her other paw. She kicks her legs forward this time. She swings upward. She stops when her body is vertical with her feet above her head. The projectile arcs beneath the branch. It lands on the ground a short distance away from her. It sounds like thunder when it explodes. Honey’s position allows her to see that there are no flames with the explosion. Either Smithy doesn’t want to kill her (or whoever he thought he was going to be facing off against) or he doesn’t want to start a forest fire. Frankly, knowing him, both should be true, but Honey is uncertain about a lot of things at the moment.

The one thing she isn’t uncertain about is that she needs to find the Holy Grail. It’s the only way to free Arthur from his curse. And, perhaps a little selfishly, it is the only way to prove her innocence when no one will listen to the “traitors.”

Honey bends her legs down. She pushes off the branch with her paws. She lifts in the air. With a single twist, she lands one foot after the other on top of the branch. Smithy aims another projectile at her. Honey runs forward to the tip of the branch. As she’s running, she grabs a small knife from a sheath tied around her thigh. The blade twists between her fingers, a habit that was never purged even after Arthur worked so hard to make her a proper, law-abiding citizen. Honey never thought she would have to use these skills again, but she isn’t afraid to. She doesn’t hesitate even when her stomach sours at the thought.

Smithy fires that projectile. Honey yanks her red robe off her body. She balls it up and throws it at the projectile. The wind grabs onto the fabric. She, however, planned it out right. The projectile touches fabric, and it instantly explodes. The robe will be riddled with holes and whatever else was packed into the projectile. Honey doesn’t care. She has plenty of fabric at her shop to make herself a new robe once this all blows over. Her only regret is that now she has to deal with the chilly temperature, her fur standing on end.

Honey reaches the end of the branch. She leaps off of it. She keeps her wings against her back to avoid being thrown backward. Because of this, she hurtles downward. Thankfully, she’s at the right angle to push the toes of her boots into another tree’s trunk. Her knees bend. She gains control over her own momentum, so it doesn’t hurt as she springboards to the ground below. She lands in a roll, pushing aside dirt and underbrush. Once Honey has popped back up, she throws the knife at Smithy. Her strength is stronger than the slowing wind, so it flies hilt-over-blade toward the blacksmith. The kit swings his leg back to make his body sideways. The knife goes past him, landing in the underbrush several feet behind him.

Smithy clearly isn’t a fighter. If he was, he would have known not to take his eyes off his opponent. Honey hopes he learns this lesson next time (hopes there isn’t a next time for him) as she slams her fist into his side. Smithy releases a garbled noise. He stumbles back, nearly dropping the projectile he already has the cup of his slingshot. It seems like he’s learned his lesson to a certain extent as he turns himself to face her. It’s because of this that he’s able to react. He raises his slingshot towards her. Honey senses the thrum of magic right as her foot collides with the slingshot’s base. Although he was guarding himself, the force still sends him back several feet. He manages to slow himself before he collides with any trees, but he does trip over something—either an exposed root or perhaps a rock.

Instead of attacking him when he’s down, Honey runs over to find her knife. Before she can find it, she senses even more magic. The surge of it causes Honey to freeze. She turns to find Merlina nearby. She thought Rouge was distracting her. This doesn’t seem to be the case, at least for the moment. Honey knows this because a spell is fired directly at her. Honey manages to move out of the way for the most part. The spell still tears the flesh around her shoulder. Blood drops down her fur. Merlina’s expression is seen in the light before the spell dissipates. Honey recognizes unhappiness. Fortunately, Honey doesn’t have to fight that as Rouge reappears to kick Merlina in the head. The two of them start fighting again.

Thankfully, Merlina’s spell had another effect besides injuring Honey. The light made the blade glint from where it was hidden. Pain be damned, Honey dives for the knife. Once her fingers snag around the hilt, she twists her legs around and creates a muddy streak in the ground. Honey runs toward Smithy.

The kit narrows his eyes. Panic rises in his baby blue irises as he notices the knife in Honey’s paw. He takes a deep breath. Every feature sets with determination as he points his slingshot downward. Honey is confused until she notices a peculiar projectile in the cup. While it isn’t as noticeable as magic, Honey knows the strange pull from a Soul Surge. She didn’t know Smithy had one; she thought they were exclusive to swordmasters (and masters of other weapons). Because she didn’t know this fact, Honey doesn’t know what the effects of the Soul Surge are, either, until she’s standing right in front of Smithy and he fires his slingshot. He squeezes his eyes shut as numerous explosions rip apart the ground. They are tiny and controlled, but they are also mighty. Honey is flung backwards. Her back slams against a trunk. She slides down until her butt hits the ground.

Honey remains there for several seconds. A ringing noise overpowers the thoughts in her head. Her vision blurs with numerous colors. She feels queasy, but she keeps herself from vomiting. Honey takes a deep breath. As she settles one paw against her chest, feeling her heartbeat, she realizes that she’s been wounded. Shallow cuts and minor burns, mostly. It isn’t anything extreme nor is it something she hasn’t dealt with before. Once the ringing finally abates and her vision clears, Honey would dare say that she’s fine and she can continue fighting.

Smithy doesn’t know this, however. His expression melts with horror. He drops his slingshot on the ground. His tails start spinning behind him. This lifts him into the air, cutting down on how long it would take for him to reach her. Smithy drops down between her knees. He’s extremely close, fretting over any injury he can see. Honey is moved by his concern. It warms her heart, but it also makes her sick to her stomach. She knows what she needs to do, and this display makes what she has to do next even harder to do.

But not impossible.

Honey grabs Smithy’s shoulder. She shoves him around until his back hits her chest. He makes a startled noise. It quickly cuts off as she presses her knife against his neck. Any sudden movements will cause his throat to be slit, and he knows that. Honey takes a deep breath, hating how familiar all of this is. When she was a kitten and even after she became a woman, she would use people’s ‘concern’ (for sometimes, it wasn’t real) against them. She thought she had changed in the past year, but maybe this is the person she will always be, even after everything Arthur has done for her (especially in his case because she repaid his kindness with hurting him, and now he thinks she’s betrayed and abandoned him, and in some ways, didn’t she?).

“Merlina!” Honey yells, keeping her voice firm despite the many emotions roaming around her mind. The royal mage in question stops. She turns toward Honey. Her eyes widen when she realizes what position Smithy is in. Rouge, too, seems startled, though she hides it better. Honey tightens her grip on Smithy, almost able to convince herself that this is just a hug. “Stop this. Just… listen to what we have to say. Please. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I don’t want His Majesty to be hurt, either. We aren’t the traitors you—and he—thinks we are. Just give us a chance to prove it.”

Merlina seems hesitant. Smithy shifts slightly in Honey’s hold. She instinctively moves the knife away from him. She hurriedly puts it back when he settles, pretending that she didn’t have a moment of weakness. Whatever Smithy did has convinced Merlina to drop her staff, however. Rouge quickly kicks it away before she and Merlina approach Honey and Smithy.

Rouge is the one to talk. She tells Merlina and Smithy about the dimension she came from—the home that Sonic belongs to—and why she came. Once she reaches the part about their failed attempt, Honey’s arms drop to her sides without any energy. She expects Smithy to run immediately. She wants him to do that, really. But all he does is turn to hug her. Honey blinks in surprise. She looks down at him, trying to catch his eyes. She whispers, “What are you doing?”

“I missed you when you were gone,” Smithy whispers, confirming that they were—are?—friends. “I’m glad you aren’t a traitor.”

Honey drops the knife, leaving it on the ground. She returns Smithy’s hug. She tucks her head against the top of his head, between his ears. She doesn’t say anything as she and Smithy listen to the rest of Rouge’s tale. While the feeling doesn’t completely go away, she does feel somewhat better within the tight embrace.

Chapter Text

“Are you certain you are prepared for this?”

Kay raises his eyes from his sword. He looks over his shoulder. Percival stands on the steep slope of the hill. Her legs are spread to maintain this precarious balance, and her arms are crossed over her chest. The hilt of Laevatein glows faintly with warm orange heat at her side. Percival’s eyes are pointed upward to the top of the hill in front of them and the gray sky far above them. 

Unlike Percival, Kay kneels inside the valley. He feels a stream of water—thinner and shallower than a ribbon—splashing against his fur between the natural cracks in his armor. He rises to his feet, moving the sword to his side. He turns to face Percival. Even when she’s speaking to him, she does not move to look at him. Kay forces the annoyance out of his body and tone, leaving his voice deceptively neutral when he responds. “Are you doubting my capabilities or my conviction?”

“No one would dare doubt your conviction,” Percival responds. Kay narrows his eyes. An argument sits on his tongue, but he doesn’t get a chance to say it. Percival turns her head toward him. Her golden eyes seem to shine more ferociously than the heat gathering around her body. “I do not doubt your capabilities. While your status as a knight might have been influenced by the former king, the current one would not have given you a seat at his round table if he did not believe you possessed the necessary skill.”

Kay always found it strange just how much Arthur—the current one—believed in him. Of course, Arthur believed in all of them. Frankly, Kay doubted there was an individual that Arthur didn’t have high hopes for. He thought they were all capable of so much more than they gave themselves credit for. When they felt weak, he reminded them of their strength, and when they felt like destiny was going to destroy them, he reminded them of their resilience. Kay was no exception, even in the beginning when his drinking problem was more than a ‘problem.’

“If this is true, what is the meaning behind your question?” Kay asks, arching a brow despite Percival being unable to see it. His helmet covers his face with too many shadows. His body language will surely be more helpful in expressing himself, but he maintains standing on the ground with his sword positioned in front of him.

Percival does not answer immediately. Her head tilts away from him. Kay waits patiently for as long as he can. When he finally reaches a point when he’s going to demand an answer from her, Percival glances back at him. “I only speak with concern. We are all loyal to the king, yet we possess friendships. I know that you in particular, Sir Kay, are more prone to this due to your friendly nature. I do not wish for our enemies to take advantage of this.”

“An astute observation, Dame Percival, but it is an unnecessary and inaccurate conclusion. My loyalty to the king supersedes my loyalty to any individual Knight of the Round Table. It might be better to suggest that I could take advantage of the friendships I have managed to forge and maintain throughout my knighthood,” Kay brushes aside her concern (especially her admission of possessing that emotion. It must be from all the time she’s spent with her squire. Kay knows that having one of those is prone to developing emotions in their masters). Kay considers her words thoughtfully, though. It is true that Kay would consider himself close with the other knights. Despite this, the person he is closest with has to be the king himself. After everything Arthur has done to undo the damage of the previous king—and the way he helped Kay, specifically—is enough to convince Kay that he needs to be protected.

“Very well. Let us hope your resolve is as strong as your belief in it is,” Percival tells him. She draws Laevatein from its scabbard around her waist. She moves two fingers along the edge of the blade. As her digits move, the blade is consumed with flames. Percival moves the sword in front of herself. The flames illuminate the shadowy valley, brighter than the sunlight leaking in from between the thinnest parts of the stormclouds.

Kay notices something reflecting the firelight in his peripheral vision. He turns his head upward. Gawain and Lamorak stand at the top of the hill. They stare down at the two figures down below. Kay prepares his own sword. Although it is not a sacred sword, it is sturdy and sharp. It will serve him well in this conflict. All he needs to do is stall until King Arthur acquires the Holy Grail. Percival will know when that happens, so Kay won’t be fighting indefinitely. It matters not if these two are who he would consider to be his closest friends of them all. He will put that all aside, and he does so in this specific moment.

“I am Dame Percival, Knight of the Grail and the wielder of Laevatein. You shall not pass this point. You can choose to walk away now, or you can face my blade in a trial of combat,,” Percival yells. Her voice echoes like thunder, louder than the flickering of the flames surrounding her. 

“I am Sir Kay, the Sworn-Brother of the King,” The hedgehog proclaims.

Gawain and Lamorak share a look. The latter shifts his weight, but Gawain holds an arm out in front of him to stop Lamorak from moving further. Gawain draws one of his twin-blades. He points it at Percival, clearly mimicking her. “I am Sir Gawain, Knight of the Sun.”

“And I am Sir Lamorak, Knight of Speed.” Before he’s even finished his statement, Lamorak pushes Gawain’s arm away. He jumps down from the top of the hill to the valley below. He brandishes both of his swords in the air, aiming to strike down Percival when he lands. He is thwarted by Kay shoving Percival aside. He intercepts the hit with his sword. His knees nearly buckle beneath the force, but Kay manages to swing his sword forward. He throws Lamorak away from him and Percival. The hawk flips in the air, landing on his feet a short distance away with both blades prepared for another strike.

Kay does not allow this to happen. He immediately chases after Lamorak. The hawk easily dodges Kay’s horizontal slash. Kay allows his momentum to continue. He spins around, simultaneously ducking his body into a crouching position. Not expecting this, Lamorak simply slashes the air where he thought Kay would be but is now above the hedgehog in question. As Kay finishes his complete turn, his sword smacks right into metallic boots Lamorak wears around his calves. It doesn’t do any damage, merely sends a shiver up Kay’s arms and makes a ringing noise echo in the valley. Kay tries pulling his sword away, but Lamorak smacks down against it with one of his swords. Kay clings tightly to his hilt, letting his body fall onto one thigh instead of releasing the sword. Lamorak, however, was expecting this; he was counting on it. He lets go of the same sword. Using his free hand, he grabs onto Kay’s throat. While known for his speed, Lamorak isn’t lacking in strength, and Kay is easily hoisted off his feet. He lets go of his sword. He claws at Lamorak’s wrist as best as he can, especially when Lamorak raises his other sword to strike Kay down (is he going to kill Kay? Will it only be a maiming? Or is he trying to make Kay afraid?). 

Kay eventually realizes that his current plan isn’t going to work. He does so before he’s struck with Lamorak’s blade—the one he’s still holding. Kay takes as big of a breath as he can with Lamorak restricting his windpipes. He grabs onto Lamorak’s forearms and elbow with both hands. He kicks his leg upward. He twists around in the air. He knows he’s made it when his foot makes contact with the side of Lamorak’s head. The other foot follows right after it. Either because of the force or because of surprise, Lamorak falls to the side. His hand falls away from Kay’s neck, but the hedgehog keeps his own grip tight. Once they’ve settled on the ground, Kay reaches behind him. He eventually finds his sword. He holds onto the blade. It cuts through his gloves and flesh. Blood slides down the reflective metal, landing on Lamorak’s helmet when Kay raises the sword high in the air. He himself isn’t sure what he’s trying to do, but it definitely looks like Kay is about to remove one of Lamorak’s eyes.

Lamorak, at least, probably thinks Kay is going to do that which is half the reason he hurriedly throws the twin-blade he was still holding onto at Kay. At the same time, his arm jerks violently to knock Kay off-balance. The hedgehog stumbles off of Lamorak. He would’ve been able to catch himself if Lamorak’s fan-like blade didn’t hit the side of his sword. It is enough to make Kay fling backwards. He rolls uncomfortably before he manages to stop himself. He splashes in the thin layer of water as he straightens his spine and readjusts the hold over his sword to stop hurting himself.

“Someone’s bloodthirsty,” Lamorak whistles, picking up the other twin-blade he left behind. He strikes the edges together, testing their sharpness against one another. Sparks sizzle into and fizzle out of existence from his actions.

“Says the one who attacked even before finishing stating who he was,” Kay argues with him. Unfortunately, Kay realizes after a moment that this banter is too easy—too amusing. It’s familiar, as well, and that makes Kay feel ashamed. Lamorak isn’t his friend right now. He’s both Kay’s enemy and, more importantly, an enemy of the king. He’s a traitor to the realm. It is these thoughts and Kay’s own insistence of making things right that forces him to continue speaking, “Says the one who is trying to kill the king.”

Lamorak sighs. “We are not trying to kill the king. We’re trying to save him. If you would listen—”

Kay stops listening, though not because he wants to do the exact opposite of what Lamorak tells him to do (it is ironic, however). Kay stops because he notices something strange with the lighting. His shadow is suddenly darker against the ground in front of him. Lamorak’s armor is reflecting the warm reds and oranges of flames. Kay whirls around to find Percival and Gawain’s fight getting dangerously close to Kay and Lamorak. The two need to be keeping tabs on these two to stay as far away from them as possible…

…or, Kay can throw himself into the fight. Kay ducks beneath a stream of fire from Percival. Gawain was also dodging it. He was about to hit Percival in the leg with Galatine (a familiar move to Kay). The hedgehog stops this by kicking the inside of Gawain’s knees. The knight is knocked off-balance. He flattens to the one side, whirling around to look at Kay. The knight shuffles back enough to be out of Galatine’s arc. Percival stops her flames. She looks between Gawain and Kay, though neither can see her expression without the flames throwing light into the cracks of her helmet.

“I suppose it is time to switch,” Lamorak shrugs. He readies his blades. He throws himself forward at an accelerated speed. He manages to tackle Percival before she even has a chance to react. As they hit the ground and start rolling, she explodes with enough fire that Lamorak is thrown off of her. The tips of his feathers are smoking, but he pats them down with a vicious smile appearing on his face.

“I presume you are not going to listen, either,” Gawain notes, adjusting himself accordingly. Kay hardly hears these words before he’s running toward Gawain. He throws his sword down in a vertical slash. It slams against one of Gawain’s twin-blades. The noise is atrociously loud, echoing in every hollow part inside his body. Gawain uses Galatine’s other half to throw a slash at Kay’s side. The hedgehog is forced to disengage in order to dodge.

Gawain twists Galatine in both paws. He taps the blades together. With a deep breath, Gawain throws Galatine downward. When the blades hit the ground, the blast is powerful to shatter the surface. The uneven terrain is tricky, but Kay puts faith in his agility. He leaps from one rock to the next, never once losing his balance. For a brief moment, he’s enjoying himself. While his main goal is just to get to the other side, he almost giggles at how much he’s having fun.

This fun ends, of course, when he reaches his destination. He is immediately thrown into conflict with Gawain. Their blades strike against one another. Kay knows that he’s losing ground since he’s the inferior swordsman of the two, but he’s strong to keep Gawain preoccupied. He remains standing, ignoring the shallow cuts and bruises that are placed onto his flesh. His wrists are likely going to break at this rate.

He thinks they might have broken when Gawain hits him with a particular strong, double-handed attack. Kay is thrown back. He grits his teeth. Gawain seems to be waiting for Kay to rise onto his feet instead of attacking him when he’s down. Kay glares at Gawain all the same, ignoring how he’s struggling to wrap his fingers against the hilt of his sword.

“Are you finally ready to listen?” Gawain asks. Kay doesn’t respond. Gawain’s body tenses. Kay manages to make it to his feet. He positions his sword in front of him. Gawain sighs. “Fine. I just need to beat you down more.”

Before Gawain or Kay can move, a loud noise attracts their attention. Percival is completely surrounded by flames. Lamorak struggles to get away from her as she’s grabbed onto his forearm. Kay recognizes a Soul Surge when he sees it. He can also feel the pieces of Percival’s soul in the heat that ebbs outward. Kay’s heart sinks. She’s going to seriously hurt Lamorak—if not kill him—this way. But… he is a traitor to the realm. While Arthur did say he wanted them to be captured, he didn’t really seem all that bothered by the prospect of the traitors being killed if that’s what it took.

Kay feels a Soul Surge coming from the opposite direction. He stares at Gawain. What little sunlight is scattered across the land gathers around him. It glows golden all around him in a thick aura. He prepares Galatine. When he finally launches it forward, the golden light moves alongside it. It is heading towards Percival. If it hits her now, the clash of energy is going to hurt her and Lamorak both. It might even kill them.

That thought gives Kay the strength to throw himself forward. He intercepts Galatine with his sword. He feels Gawain’s soul all around him. Before he can draw any conclusions about it, his sword shatters. The pieces fall to the ground at his feet. Kay’s eyes widen in surprise a second before Galatine finds its resistance with his body. The blades strike right through his chest, and the sunlight explodes to send him flying backwards. He only stops when he hits the side of the hill. He rolls down the slope, stopping in the water at the bottom of the valley.

Kay’s consciousness swims. He can tell that the other three have shouted his name and they are gathering around his body. They’re trying to help him. Internally, however, his mind is stuck on the sensation he felt when he was stopping Wild Meteor. It was Gawain’s soul, of course, but…

Kay blinks his eyes rapidly as he finally snaps back into complete awareness. Percival is right above him. Gawain is on the other side of his body. Lamorak stands behind the echidna, trying and failing not to look concerned. Their attention is too focused on him for them to be fighting with each other. Kay forces himself to sit up, against their wishes and floundering. He leans partially against Percival while staring into Gawain’s eyes. His voice is weak, but he manages to say, “I’m ready to listen now…”

“What are you—”

“Gawain’s soul,” Kay tells Percival. Her expression shifts slowly into understanding. Kay looks back at Gawain and Lamorak. “Whatever you have to say better be important.”

“It is. It involves His Majesty, the king, we…”

“If I asked you, not ordered, just asked you to… execute the traitors and their accomplices...would you do it?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Galahad exhales shallowly. His eyes flutter open. His vision is immediately filled with the sky. The sunlight creeps through the gray clouds like veins filled with blue-white blood. It reminds Galahad of so much in this world—all that which he considers the most precious. They are worth protecting, and Galahad is going to do exactly that without accepting any alternatives.

Galahad’s eyes flick to the pond they are standing beside. The other knights and their allies have positioned themselves in every cardinal direction around the hills of Camlann, more specifically the central and largest hill of them all. King Arthur is there now, and the Holy Grail will descend there soon. It is their duty to prevent the traitors and their accomplices from reaching that hill. Any number of opponents can appear on the other side of the pond. It might be everyone, or it might be no one. It is of little consequence to Galahad because he will defeat whoever it is without mercy.

Galahad feels pressure against his shoulder. He tears his eyes away from the pond. His father stands right beside him. Lancelot has pushed his helmet aside enough to reveal his expression. No one else would be able to recognize it, but Galahad is—among other things—Lancelot’s blood. He understands that Lancelot is concerned right now. Galahad knows Lancelot personally enough to know that he isn’t wary about this upcoming fight. If that isn’t it, though, what else could it be? The alternative is that he’s worried about Galahad, but that’s preposterous. There’s no reason to be. It’s a waste of time and emotional energy; Lancelot should know better than this.

“I know not who will appear on the other side of the shore,” Lancelot begins. He refuses to look at the pond. Instead, he moves his other paw to grab onto both of Galahad’s shoulders. He’s left Arondight in the ground behind him, sinking slowly into the wet sand. Galahad stares at Arondight up until Lancelot squeezes his shoulders to gather his attention. Once they’ve made eye contact, Lancelot continues. “But I know who I stand beside. I will not allow you to forget yourself.”

“I do not understand your intentions for saying this,” Galahad admits.

Lancelot shakes his head. “Do not feign ignorance with me. I was never a worthy parent, but I am still your father. You and I both know that your head and heart are not in the proper places. They are wandering close to lands unknown. In those darkened places, you could lose yourself. I will not permit this to happen, yet I still wish for you to make an oath that you will do your best to stay in the light. Do not let anger and resentment erase the joy this world has given to you.”

Galahad inhales sharply through his nose. He opens his mouth, undecided about whether to make the oath or argue about its necessity. Unfortunately, he does not get to make either choice. The wind around him and Lancelot increases in speed and strength. It was chilly before, but this zephyr has been unleashed from the depths of winter itself. Galahad trembles minutely as he forcibly keeps himself from shivering at the temperature dropping. Lancelot doesn’t seem affected by the cold in the slightest, yet he is still aware of it. Galahad knows he is because he’s turning around even before Galahad’s eyes move away from him.

Their opponents have arrived. Obviously, the temperature difference equates to Mordred. The knight runs across the top of the pond. A thin sheet of ice forms every time his foot lands against the water’s surface. Between the ice and the reflective material of both Clarent and his armor, a sheen of white light appears around Mordred’s body. It almost seems supernatural; technically, it still might be considering the extent of his power as the White Dragon.

Galahad is almost unnerved by the sight of Mordred, but his anger intensifies when he sees the shapeshifter—the one who resembles Lancelot beside him. The shapeshifter’s shoes somehow allow him to hover above the water’s surface. That might actually be magic, especially when there’s a literal streak of red-orange light following in the wake of his increased speed. It is familiar to Galahad since he’s fought the shapeshifter once before and therefore knows some of his capabilities.

“He looks nothing like me,” Lancelot mutters under his breath. Galahad glances at his father from the corner of his eye. While Galahad will admit that there are some unmistakable differences between Lancelot and the imposter, it isn’t fair to say they look nothing alike. Still, Galahad doesn’t feel like arguing with his father about this particular point, and there isn’t even enough time to do it either. 

While Galahad wouldn’t mind a rematch with the shapeshifter, he sets his gaze upon Mordred. It wasn’t that long ago that Galahad considered Mordred to be his dearest friend—as close to a brother as one could be. They were both, after all, creatures of the Underworld. They were brought into this world and given a chance to be more than their fates were predicted to be. When Arthur first introduced them, they quickly became acquainted with each other. They went on missions together. They sparred constantly to improve their skills. They learned more about the world and about what it meant to possess a ‘soul.’ The imposter is terrible because he attacked the king and did so in Lancelot’s appearance, but Mordred betrayed Arthur… and Galahad, too.

Before the shapeshifter and Galahad can make it to Lancelot and Galahad’s side of the pond, the silver knight steps forward to face off against the snow-bound one. The water splashes against his metal shoes, sinking inward into the fabric he wears to keep from developing blisters. He draws his sword from its scabbard. The runes illuminate with cyan light at the same moment Galahad throws his paw forward. Mordred is trapped in a cocoon of cyan energy, stuck in place over the water. The ice continues expanding beneath his feet, thickening downward and spreading outward.

Galahad vaguely hears Lancelot trying to say his name to the imposter. He even thinks that the shapeshifter responds a second before attacking (Shadow, was it?). Galahad doesn’t do that. He doesn’t want to duel with Mordred because the armored hedgehog in front of Galahad is no honorable knight. Mordred does not deserve that much respect. He will be lucky if Galahad doesn’t use dirtier tricks than he ever permitted himself to use before in their usual, friendly exchanges.

With his magic, Galahad pulls Mordred all the way toward him by closing his fingers into a fist and throwing his arm back. His other paw moves forward with his sword in hand. Ice spreads across Mordred’s armor, providing him with additional protection. It would have been useful if Galahad had been aiming to stab him, but Galahad actually shoves his fisted paw and the hilt of his sword underneath the hatch of Mordred’s helmet to punch the dark blue hedgehog in the jaw. Galahad releases his magic at the same time, leaving Mordred to drop into the water. The ice protecting him shatters, melting away in the pond’s shallow perimeter.

Galahad grabs his sword with both paws. He strikes it downward at a slight angle. Mordred tosses his body to the side. He throws his arm up at the same time. Pond water is flung upwards. It instantly freezes when Galahad’s blade intercepts it, thereby freezing the sword in place. Pain races up Galahad’s arms at the ricocheting force. Galahad refuses to let go, though. He instead braces his foot against the ice. He pushes against it while pulling with his paws in order to free his sword. He starts to see cracks in the ice. With a little more force, it will shatter.

The sound of splashing causes Galahad’s eyes to shoot to the side. He sees Mordred trying to run past him. Since this isn’t a proper duel, he must simply be aiming to get to the largest hill of Camlann. Galahad grits his teeth. He continues pulling with one paw. The other one lets go. He tries grabbing Mordred with his magic. The white knight must notice. He swivels around on his heel at the last moment. Projectiles made from ice leaving the swinging arc of his arm. Galahad’s magic grabs onto them, instead. Galahad decides he can work with this. He flips the icicles around. He sends them flying toward Mordred. They land against his armor, exploding into icy sheets. This causes his movements to be jerky, and he comes to a stop when one of them freezes his foot against the grass.

As Mordred removes the ice with his powers, Galahad finally breaks his sword free. The ice shatters behind him as he whirls around to face Mordred. He continues swinging his sword. An arc of cyan magic leaves his blade. It shoots across the air. Mordred drops down to avoid it. Galahad has already shot across the grass using his magic to lift himself off the ground. He dives toward Mordred, dropping his sword a moment before contact can be made. This is so both of his paws are free to wrap around Mordred’s throat as Galahad drops on top of the white-armored enemy.

“Why did you do it?! After everything Arthur did for you, how could you spit on his kindness like that?!” Galahad demands. Mordred grabs onto Galahad’s wrists. While Mordred tries pulling them away, ice begins spreading across Galahad’s body. Every breath that leaves him comes out as gray-white steam. He can feel his heartbeat and the flow of his blood slowing dramatically. Despite this, he refuses to let go and to stop squeezing. At this rate, Galahad and Mordred are going to end up killing each other instead of one of them subduing the other.

Their chaotic actions are stopped by the introduction of a new variable. Something slams into the side of Galahad’s head. His helmet bangs against his flesh. His body is thrown to the side. As his paws are ripped from Mordred’s hold, the ice shatters. The sharpened edges create shallow cuts in Galahad’s skin. Silver-red blood splatters against the ground, especially in the place where Galahad finally stops rolling.

The silver knight raises his head from the flattened, bloody grass. The imposter—Shadow, Galahad recalls—stands beside Mordred’s body. He kicked Galahad in the head, and his body language shows that he’s prepared to do a lot more than that. As Galahad is pushing himself onto his feet, he feels a fluctuation in the magic in the air. Lancelot teleports behind Shadow with his sword prepared. There isn’t much anyone can do against Chaos Punishment. Unfortunately, there are a few solutions. Mordred finds one as he grabs Shadow’s shoulder, shoving the ebony hedgehog aside to freeze Lancelot in a wall of ice similar to what Galahad’s sword was stuck in earlier. 

Galahad’s magic surges to life. He grabs onto Mordred and Shadow with his magic. He flings them in the opposite direction of their chosen destination. If Galahad were lucky, they would have immediately drowned, but Mordred lands first, so he and Shadow balance on an island of ice in the middle of the pond. Galahad decides to handle that after he grabs his sword off the ground and uses his magic and a well-placed flash to break Lancelot out of his icy prison.

“Thank you,” Lancelot tells Galahad the moment he lands on his knees on the ground. Galahad nods. Together, father and son look out at their opponents.

Galahad’s ears twitch with Shadow’s statement. “This is taking too long. We need to finish this.”

“You’re right. Let’s finish this now,” Mordred says immediately. Galahad reaches over to grab his father’s shoulder when he vaguely recognizes Mordred’s movements. Before anyone can say anything, Mordred plants Clarent into the ice beneath him. The entire pond starts to freeze over. Lancelot runs toward it. He dives beneath the water right before the ice curls across the sandy shore. Galahad was too late to do that, but he manages to watch Mordred revert back to his original form—the White Dragon.

A primal force of nature, the White Dragon stands above them all. The temperature plummets even further. The ice spreads as frost across the lands, even creating snowdrifts despite the gray sky not casting down a single raindrop or snowflake. The White Dragon is made entirely of pure, untainted white scales, though there are elements of blue accents at the very edges and in the curving edges. Its eyes, however, break the mold by being a shade of emerald green—not too different from the king himself.

“Father,” Galahad whispers. He steps onto the thick sheet of ice over the pond. “Come on.” He prepares his sword at his side. “Now would be the perfect time.” It is extremely difficult to run across ice, especially when the Executioner of Camelot is staring him down. “What are you waiting for?!” Galahad has never slayed a dragon before, and he doesn’t really want to start, but Lancelot is taking forever to—

The ice completely shatters. Galahad is thrown back. He nearly slides into the water, but he sticks his sword into the uneven ice block to cling on. Galahad uses his magic to lift himself onto the top. On the other side, Galahad feels a warm breeze brush against him. It comes from the flapping of another dragon’s wings. Technically speaking, Lancelot is a black dragon with red highlights (not dissimilar to his usual appearance), but there’s enough red that Galahad can hope that destiny decides Lancelot is a suitable candidate for the Red Dragon, Camelot’s protector and the one who will stand against the White Dragon (frankly, Galahad was always certain that Lancelot was the Red Dragon, and he thinks that Mordred’s appearance in their lives steadily pushed Lancelot himself into accepting this as fact).

The two dragons start fighting. Galahad would love to watch, but he is balancing on a miniature iceberg bobbing in the water of the pond they’re fighting in. Galahad grabs his sword and throws himself toward the shore. He lands on another ice. He nearly falls into the water, but only his heels get splashed with the freezing droplets. Galahad glances behind him as he starts running toward the next iceberg.

Galahad sees Shadow. The imposter has also been caught up in the dragon’s fighting. He seems to have an ability similar to Lancelot where he can teleport, but it’s far shorter distances. Galahad bites the inside of his cheek. He stops running, sliding toward the edge of the ice he’s standing on. He uses his magic to grab Shadow. He pulls the hedgehog toward him. The two of them can fight on solid land or something like that. For now, they need to get out of the way of the dragons.

Shadow’s expression is filled with anger and violence. When Galahad sets him down on the shore, he looks ready to dive back into the water to fight Galahad. It would be funny how vaguely similar this is to Lancelot’s work ethic if not for the simple fact that Galahad is trying to get them both back on the shore.

Before Galahad can yell at Shadow, a hand grabs onto his ankle. Galahad releases a clipped noise of surprise as the hand pulls downward. Galahad slips from the ice into the water, his sword having been left behind on the ice’s surface. Galahad is ready to fight the force until he feels a strangely warm pair of arms wrap around him. He tilts his head back to see a watery face with blue eyes and blonde hair. The spirit kisses his forehead, granting him the ability to breathe underwater. He can also now speak under here which is why he demandingly questions, “Aunt Maria?! What are you doing?”

“Galahad,” Maria says, moving to cup the side of his face with one of her hands. She looks more serious than he’s ever seen her. “I need your help. You need to use your magic to fly me up to Lancelot. I need to convince him to stop.”

“Stop? Aunt Maria, if he stops, Mordred is going to kill us all and destroy Camelot. You must know the legend of the White Dragon!”

Maria shakes her head with an air of certainty and finality to her actions. “No, you don’t understand. Mordred doesn’t want to hurt Arthur or the rest of Camelot. He’s only doing this because he wants to save the king. I overheard him talking at Lady Nimue’s pavilion. The shapeshifter is the same. We need to stop Lancelot before he kills Mordred. We need to give them a chance to explain themselves. Don’t you trust me?”

Galahad hesitates. He does trust Maria. That isn’t a question. Yet, does he trust Mordred? He never showed signs of wanting to destroy Camelot before. But he tried killing Arthur. He betrayed the person who cared about him and believed in him more than anyone else. How can Galahad trust that he’s not going to do the same to the nation destiny decreed he must destroy? 

“If I asked you, not ordered, just asked you to… execute the traitors and their accomplices...would you do it?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Arthur smiled, soft and melancholic. “I’m happy to know that I can unconditionally trust you.” Arthur suddenly leans forward. Galahad panics, hoping the king doesn’t fall from the tree branch. Arthur manages to balance, however, and grabs Galahad’s paws—both of them—in his own. “But I don’t want you to kill them. None of them. Just capture them, okay? And maybe we’ll all learn that this was just a misunderstanding. Do you think you could do that for me, Galahad?”

“I will,” Galahad says, both responding to the memory of his king and to the nymph who holds him. Galahad grabs onto Maria’s hand. He swims them upward. At his agreement, she begins helping them reach the surface. Once their heads break through, they turn toward the dragons. Galahad squeezes Maria’s hand. He focuses his magic, and suddenly, they are both completely lifted out of the water. Galahad forces himself to concentrate despite the sounds of conflict they’re approaching. 

Galahad puts them right in front of the Red Dragon’s head. Despite the differences in appearance, those crimson eyes are the same as Lancelot. Those eyes also recognize Maria and Galahad. Lancelot stops attacking to look at them both. Maria reaches the hand that Galahad isn’t holding forward, touching the space between the dragon’s nostrils. Steam lifts from the edges of her fingers alongside a sizzling noise, but Maria doesn’t show any signs of being hurt by the temperature. It makes sense. She found Lancelot when he was only a young hatchling, after all, so she’s used to the heat he produces.

“Brother,” Maria whispers kindly. She leans forward as if sharing a secret with him. “Please listen to me. This needs to stop. Your fight with the White Dragon is only going to cause more destruction, and none of it is necessary. I am certain that we all share the same desire. We want to protect Camelot and its king. You, Galahad, and I need only listen to what Mordred and the shapeshifter have to say. If I am wrong, you are free to destroy them both, but how about we try a different approach first?”

Galahad looks between Maria and the Red Dragon. Silence stretches between them. It goes on for long enough that Galahad believes the Red Dragon only transforms back into Lancelot because of the look Maria is giving him rather than her words. Either way, though, she manages to convince him to think about this in his knightly mortal form rather than his draconic Fae form. Galahad sends Maria down to Lancelot—and Shadow, apparently—without much trouble.

Galahad remains in the air. He turns around at the right moment for the White Dragon to roar at him. Galahad can’t help the shivers that wrack his entire body, but he manages to keep himself in the air. When the White Dragon stops, Galahad floats toward him. Like Maria did with Lancelot, Galahad places his paw on the White Dragon’s head. He hisses at the icy feeling. He is never going to enjoy the winter again after this fight. That’s a thought for another time, though, as he looks into those emerald eyes.

“His Majesty… Arthur would always say that you were more than this. That you weren’t just the White Dragon. You could be so much more. He believed in you like that. Even now, he still believes in you and everyone else. He doesn’t want it to be a betrayal,” Galahad takes a deep breath. It hurts his lungs, but at least it clears his head and makes the warmth of his tears disappear from his eyes. “I am the same. I believe in you, and I don’t want you to be a betrayer. Return to your form as Mordred and answer my questions. Tell me the truth, no matter what it may be. You and I may clash again. Hopefully, we can return to Arthur together as his loyal knights… as his…”

Galahad doesn’t finish his statement. Unlike with Lancelot, Mordred takes no time to turn back into himself. The cold and ice retract inward. Only enough of it remains to give him a place to stand in the pond’s center. Galahad lowers himself with his magic. He grabs onto Mordred’s offered paw, letting the white knight help him stand on the ice. Mordred squeezes his hand, and for a brief moment, they are able to make eye contact through the slits in their helmets. “I will tell you the truth, and we can rejoin Arthur’s side together.”

Chapter Text

Softly, slowly, the heavens begin to cry. One after another, teardrop after raindrop, it descends from the darkened clouds above to the rolling hills and outstretching fields below. It is no more than a drizzle that begins to platter onto the blades of grass, sliding down the wavy green exteriors. A few land on the pure white armor of a knight walking over a river. The raindrops and the water beneath his footsteps instantly freezes. The river manages to shatter the ice once his boot has left, but the frozen droplets glitter endlessly on his body, managing to capture and amplify the gray-tinted light piercing through the thinnest parts of the clouds in the empyrean above him.

The river suddenly curves around the base of a wide hill. Mordred does not follow the river. He instead steps onto the shore. The sand on the riverbank doesn’t have time to shift beneath him before it is consumed with frost. The blades of grass he steps on instantly fracture between the ice and the weight of both him and his armor. He stops when the ground starts to slant upward, trying to take him to the very top of one of the many hills dominating the area. The difference between this one and all the others is that it is the largest, both in height and width.

It has another difference to the other hills, as well. There is a figure standing on top of the hill. The almighty ruler of this sovereign kingdom glances over his shoulder. He easily meets Mordred’s eyes despite the latter wearing a helmet that completely obscures his identity. Arthur does not wear a helmet. He doesn’t wear any armor save for his bracers and metallic boots. He has left his royal circlet behind at the castle, but he continues to wear a thick, red cloak with a fur lining that marks him as someone of nobility in a factual sense. His demeanor, however, is what truly makes him appear honorable and virtuous. Even when he has an expression twisted in both amusement and sorrow, he is a king deserving of all those who stand beneath his banner.

Arthur turns his body to the side. This motion paired with the strengthening wind causes his cloak to be pushed back. It is enough for Mordred to see the scabbard of Excalibur tied to the belt around his waist. Caliburn is the sword inside the scabbard, however, implying that while Mordred might get close to fatally wound Arthur, he will never be worthy of being slain by the most holy of all the sacred swords. This truth is not lost on Mordred, of course, yet he does not allow his heart to falter at such provocations. He remains firm, setting his armored paw against the hilt of Clarent—the king’s original sword, he’s been told both by his mother and the other knights.

“I had a feeling this wouldn’t be able to keep you away,” Arthur notes, voice carrying far and wide despite the growing ferocity of the wind and the falling rain. Arthur shifts his body further to the side, standing diagonal to Mordred now. He reaches a paw back to trace his fingers along the edges of a lance that had been struck in the ground behind him. Mordred doesn’t need further explanation. Even if he doesn’t recognize Rhongomyniad, he felt the pressure of a spell when he stepped out of the forest into the Hills of Camlann. It was, in simple terms, a barrier meant to keep everyone—allies and enemies—away. The lack of allies was the price Arthur needed to pay to keep the traitors from approaching the Holy Grail when it inevitably descends.

Arthur’s paw drops back to the side. He turns completely toward Mordred, blocking Rhongomyniad from Mordred’s sight. Arthur smiles, though Mordred cannot tell what emotion is presented on his face exactly. It doesn’t necessarily feel like happiness, but there is nothing else it resembles, either. Arthur’s emotions are entirely his own, far too complex for someone as uneducated as Mordred. Yet, it is only the white knight who bears witness to such countenances, trying in vain to decipher a language he was only recently made to understand (and how hard they—all of them—tried to make Mordred understand the complexities of mortal emotion; how close he felt he was to understanding it, yet how far he realizes he truly was).

“You are the avatar of destruction and decay. Even magic crumbles within your wake. I shouldn’t have been surprised,” Arthur shrugs. Mordred remains silent. Because of his nature, he was the only one able to pass through the barrier. The others tried stopping him—told him to wait until they, too, found a way inside. Mordred did not wait. He wants the truth to be revealed to everyone. He wants Arthur to understand the situation and his history. Mordred wants the mortal who brought him to better tomorrows and guided him to a heart to call his own to know who he is and who he can trust.

As slowly as the quickening drizzle around them, Arthur draws Caliburn from Excalibur’s scabbard. “I am not, however, surprised that it’s you who appeared. Oh, White Dragon, have you realized the truth? If you wish to destroy Camelot and end this dynasty, there is only one to do it. This method does not involve freezing the land, killing all the people, or corrupting their hopes and dreams. No, the only way to do what the stars decreed is to kill me.” Arthur points the tip of Caliburn at Mordred, aiming right at the dragon’s heart. “Listen well. I am King Arthur, Knight of the Wind and the One Who Liberates. I am Camelot, and if you wish to fulfill your destiny, you will have to prove yourself strong enough to defeat me.”

Lightning strikes the land some distance behind Arthur. Its white-gold light explodes outward. It frames the king’s silhouette and casts the front part of his body in darkness. However, his eyes—as green as the verdant fields, as bright as the unyielding sun, as powerful as the kingdom he has been chosen to embody—glow with an immortal light. It continues to glow even as the lightning’s glow fades, replaced by the roaring cries of thunder. It shatters the world around Mordred and Arthur, and in the scattered remains of the previous silence, all the whispers previously folded away into the sound of falling rain and the whipping zephyrs echo endlessly within the battlefield that was chosen for them by the master of this world.

The darkness of the environment makes it easy to see the cerulean light that surrounds Arthur’s body, like he’s somehow brought down a piece of the sky trapped above the storm. The light reflects throughout every raindrop, reaching Mordred’s eyes and the hard surfaces of his armor. The illumination follows Arthur as he moves from the top of the hill to the bottom in the span of a single blink from Mordred’s eyes. The white knight prepares himself accordingly. He moves his sword in place, partially diagonal. Caliburn slams against Clarent with enough force to disorientate the wind around them. Arthur pushes forward. Ice snaps around Mordred’s ankles to the ground below, keeping him in place as Arthur tries to shove him away.

Arthur disengages first with a leap backwards, one foot on the flattened ground and the other one bracing against the shallow incline of the hill’s side. Arthur lowers Caliburn slightly, preparing for Mordred’s actions. The white knight pulls his feet from the ice, letting it shatter. Arthur tenses, expression shifting constantly between determination, hesitation, and a developing mirth. Mordred does not wish to comment on the king’s reactions to a fight. 

Instead, he glances down at his paw. He wonders what the right course of action is. He doesn’t think it is this one. He should be talking to Arthur; he should be telling the knight of the wind the truth about everything. He has his doubts about Arthur listening, but the king has always been willing to listen. But what good is the truth if Arthur wouldn’t be able to hear the majority of it without devolving into a state of pain? Arthur needs the Holy Grail first. Mordred just needs to stall until it descends from the heavens. Then, Arthur can take it, and Mordred will try, then, to get the king to engage with the grail. If everything goes accordingly, it should be able to break the curse inflicted on him, and then Mordred can tell Arthur the whole truth—or the others can if Mordred could simply remove Rhongomyniad.

Mordred’s thoughts are interrupted by a sudden force approaching him. Mordred’s legs slide apart, and he leans back. He doesn’t fall, but Caliburn gets startlingly close to cutting him open. Arthur brings Caliburn back to his side and twists his sword around. He hums thoughtfully in Mordred’s direction, “What are you thinking about, White Dragon? Did Sir Lancelot not teach you to always pay attention in a fight?”

Sir Lancelot did. Mordred remembers listening to the ebony hedgehog drone on and on about proper swordsmanship. Galahad was forced to sit for those lessons, too, and oftentimes, Dame Percival would bring her squire, Marine, to listen with them. Galahad and Marine would complain about boredom; Mordred was unfamiliar with such concepts. He didn’t feel any particular way about the lessons. He merely absorbed the lessons being taught to him. Arthur, however, agreed with the other two about boredom. When he decided to start teaching them, they traded proper lessons for watching Arthur and Caliburn argue with each other about the correct way to fight. It was less insightful but more entertaining, Mordred supposes, looking back at the memories with a certain… fondness, if that’s the correct word.

Caliburn slashes forward several times in quick succession, helping along by Arthur’s supernatural speed. Mordred isn’t able to keep up with them, exactly, but he does manage to bat them away from himself with Clarent. Of course, this comes at the consequence of pain shooting through his wrists. Mordred’s healing factor is impressive, though, so he isn’t much worried about that part. He’s more concerned about being slashed or stabbed with Caliburn. It—along with Excalibur—bypass the abilities granted to him to follow the course charted out for him. They are comparable to the Holy Grail that way, though Mordred can still touch those swords even if he can’t wield them to their full potential nor can he survive getting fatally wounded with the two halves of the king’s authority put in the form of a weapon.

“I am thinking about the past and the future. I am thinking about what I should say to explain the truth to you,” Mordred openly admits. He has been told that as a monster of the Underworld—a Fae—he is incapable of lying. Mordred has never actually tested this fact. He doesn’t understand the point of lying. There is no reason to forgo the truth. If he does not wish to speak it, he can simply remain silent. A lie of omission, perhaps, is the only form of dishonesty he can both perform and tolerate.

“The truth, huh?” Arthur notes, perhaps a touch somberly. Mordred considers, for a moment, that they might be able to lay their weapons to rest. Arthur will see that neither of them have to fulfill their destiny. Merlina said that Camelot’s fated ruination began at Camlann. Considering Mordred’s nature as the White Dragon and Arthur’s previous words, he knows what is supposed to happen here. Mordred doesn’t want it to happen, though, and he knows that Arthur doesn’t, either. He knows because he has hope that he meant as much to Arthur as the king has always meant to him—he hopes, more than anything, that Galahad was right about Arthur still holding onto the hope that Mordred could be more just like he did when they first ‘fought’ each other as a mortal and a dragon.

Such musings are dashed by Arthur shaking his head. The king grabs onto the hilt of Caliburn with both paws. The sword, at least, attempts at pleading Mordred’s case on the white knight’s behalf (strange, considering Caliburn has never been pleased with Mordred within Camelot or Arthur’s life). The king does not listen. The power of his soul overflows from him. The rain truly begins its downpour, misting the land and clouding them in complete darkness save for the glow around Arthur’s form. It is an inspiring sight, one that fills Mordred’s chest with a warmth that a creature of winter like him shouldn’t be able to feel. Then again, he shouldn’t be on Arthur’s side, either, and he shouldn’t possess anything resembling a soul himself. But he does, and he shall forevermore, and no matter what Arthur believes or does, Mordred will remain at his side as a loyal knight.

Arthur unleashes this power. He darts forward, sword at the ready. Mordred is helpless to stop the king, so all he can do is raise his own weapon defensively. Caliburn and Clarent smack against each other in rapid succession, creating a noise similar to the thunder that sporadically punctuates the storm around them. The ground beneath Arthur’s feet is marked by skids in the mud and torn blades of grass. Mordred, on the other hand, creates a growing permafrost. When their swords cross in a particularly violent manner, the ice sheet shatters with the shockwave of energy, but it quickly reforms as both combatants refuse to let up or slow down.

Caliburn practically vibrates within Arthur’s grasp. The consciousness locked inside the sword is completely out of it as his will is overpowered by that of Arthur’s overflowing soul power. Clarent has been completely encased in ice with so many sheets that it is not easily shattered. A thin, white mist follows in the wake of Clarent’s movements, seeping off the sword even when Mordred is holding the formerly stolen blade completely still at his side. It is enough to turn the rain all around him into crystals—most similar to hail.

Their swords are not the only parts that clash against each other. Occasionally, they’re able to get a hit on each other. It isn’t easy for anyone to tell that Mordred is, though. Any cuts he manages to make or bruises he leaves are healed by Excalibur’s pulsating presence. Mordred, on the other hand, is starting to drip with crimson blood covered in a silver sheen (the blood of the Fae, he’s been told, much to everyone’s surprise because they thought he—as a monster of the Underworld—wouldn’t have blood at all) beneath his armor. There seems to be, however, a genuine effort on Arthur’s part to keep all wounds to Mordred’s arms or legs. Arthur doesn’t need to be cautious since Mordred is wearing armor, but he is. He is, and that means something to Mordred.

Mordred knows he hasn’t been subtle about trying to bring the fight up the hill to Rhongomyniad, but Arthur hasn’t taken any strides to keep them from reaching the top. It is a smaller area than before, but it’s still fairly large. It is enough for them to continue their swordfight without the risk of slipping off the side (though that is a real possibility).

Mordred turns toward Rhongomyniad. Trepidation swirls inside his stomach, but he still reaches his paws toward it. He gets close enough that ice begins spreading across the edge (perhaps trying to protect him from touching metal despite him wearing gloves). Before he can make contact, he feels force collide with his breastplate. The white material snaps back to strike his stomach. While the bruise isn’t a concern, it does throw him back. Mordred has to strike Clarent into the wet dirt to keep himself from getting thrown off the hill entirely.

Mordred glances up at Arthur. The king looks at him skeptically. “What game are you playing?” Arthur tilts his head toward the forest. The rain is too thick for them to see if the others are still banging against the barrier, but Arthur’s stare holds so much conviction that Mordred genuinely believes that Arthur senses the others. “Either the traitors have defeated all of my knights, or you managed to convince some of them to switch sides…” Arthur snorts, continuing with a voice full of sarcasm. “And here I thought being a king would be easy. Chaos, I learned how to do paperwork for you all. Isn’t that enough to inspire loyalty?”

Mordred doesn’t answer the question. He tries to reach Rhongomyniad once more. Arthur laughs at Mordred’s second attempt. Since Arthur is staring right at him, it’s easy for him to swat Mordred away once more. The white knight will need to think of something more clever. He drops onto one knee. He presses his paw into the ground. The water that hasn’t slid down the sides of the hills as well as all the new raindrops freeze under Mordred’s command. From that, the same mist that has been surrounding Clarent rises from the grass. Between the rain and mist, visibility lowers dramatically. With the frozen ground, Arthur will need to gather more control over his balance, preventing him from unleashing his speed as he pleases.

“I do love a good challenge.” Arthur laughs openly. The small, crystalline particles in the mist and the rain that quickly freezes into ice reflect the blue light of Arthur’s power. The entire area is completely consumed by the vibrant color. Mordred made a comparison to Arthur stealing a piece of the sky earlier, but standing in this brilliant coloration, he finds himself wondering if Arthur simply has command over it. Is this what it means to be a servant to the wind? Is this what it means to be Camelot’s sky, a vital part of the entire kingdom?

Mordred rises to his feet. He closes his eyes. He is a dragon; he does not need every single one of his senses. His ears and nose pick up enough information. He can sense his opponent and Rhongomyniad within the mists. Additionally, he has perfect balance when moving around on frozen sheets of ice. He is positively affected by his actions, giving him an advantage that he needs.

Unfortunately, Arthur is not helpless even if he’s at the disadvantage. Whether it be luck or some internal system, Arthur manages to find Mordred within the mist no matter how far Mordred tries pushing him back. He isn’t as fast sliding around on the ice as he is running, but he isn’t lacking speed. He also doesn’t fall as Mordred was predicting he would. It seems Arthur has a lot more experiences than Mordred—and perhaps even Arthur himself—knows about.

As their battle continues within these no circumstances, Mordred brings himself to Rhongomyniad. Arthur is some distance away from him, trying to stop sliding. Mordred takes the chance to grab onto Rhongomyniad’s hilt. He pulls with one paw, but it doesn’t nudge. Mordred sticks Clarent into the ground (letting the ice grow along the sides to keep it from falling over). He wraps both paws around Rhongomyniad. He pulls with all the strength in his body. It is stuck too far down. That, or this is another property of the magic. Mordred should be able to break it like he did with the barrier.

Before Mordred can conclude his current actions, he senses Arthur approaching him. Mordred lets go of Rhongomyniad. He pulls Clarent from the ground. Mordred whirls around with Clarent rising above his head. He only wants to slash downward to create a shockwave of magical power that will push Arthur away. He’s too late, however. Arthur doesn’t fall, but he does start slipping on the ice. Mordred hears the noise of him losing control. Mordred almost reaches out a paw to grab Arthur—either to stop him or to make him slide in the opposite direction—but he’s completely stopped by a sudden, dramatic change marked by the sound of tearing metal.

The ice beneath his feet melts away, falling down the sides in numerous rivulets. The mist dissipates in an instant, improperly replaced by the rain splashing upward from it lands on the ground. A cough forces its way up Mordred’s throat, leaving his lips at the same time silver-tinted crimson drips onto the dirt. The burn of metal explodes throughout him, starting from somewhere deep inside of him. Without any strength in his body, his arms fall forward, meeting some resistance before the tip strikes the ground below him. Mordred’s body slumps in the same direction. His head lands against Arthur’s shoulder, and his helmet digs into flesh, unable to match the pain from deep within him.

“Damn it,” Arthur mutters in the midst of his own pained cough. A new liquid begins splattering against his pauldron. Arthur’s paw moves upward. It pushes against Mordred’s helmet, letting a rain-soaked glove brush against Mordred’s damp cheek. Arthur taps his thumb in a distinctive pattern, something he carried with him from far in the past. “This wasn’t supposed to happen… I just wanted you to… go away. I’m sorry… Mordred… I’ll make this right…”

Mordred doesn’t know what that means. He also doesn’t know why Arthur begins whispering words in the ancient language. If Mordred’s consciousness were entirely in his body, he might have been able to decipher what the spell is. As it stands, however, he only realizes that Arthur has pulled Mordred’s paws away from Clarent’s hilt. It isn’t a struggle since Mordred’s grip is so weak. Arthur places something in Mordred’s arms, forcing the white knight to hold it against his chest. Mordred nearly drops it, but he clings to it after hearing Arthur’s voice resonate with distress. Arthur lets go of Mordred. He grabs the hilt of Caliburn. He pulls it forward. Mordred cries out. Arthur finishes the spell he was saying. Light begins to burn the bottom of Mordred’s eyes. He doesn’t know what is glowing until Arthur pushes Mordred away from him.

In his weakened state, Mordred completely falls. He slips off the side of Camlann’s hill. His helmet is thrown off his head. His eyes widen enough to see the king still standing at the summit. Arthur smiles so widely that his eyes are closed. One paw drops the bloodied Caliburn onto the ground. The other paw curls weakly around the deep slash that has ripped Arthur from his shoulder to his waist. Mordred doesn’t get to see much more than that. His head and legs are evened out. He keeps rolling down the side of the hill until he makes it to the bottom, landing halfway in the river that he abandoned earlier. 

Mordred expects death to come for him. It never does. Steadily, his awareness returns to him in waves. He blinks open his eyes. The river water is beginning to freeze, fighting against the currents that want to keep flowing. Mordred shouldn’t have any magical power at the moment, though. Languidly, his paw pats around his body. He feels the hole in his armor where Caliburn pierced right through him. He doesn’t feel a wound. There’s blood, but that was from the initial hit instead of anything being opened. Mordred’s brow furrows together. He forces himself to sit up to look at it.

This is when he notices that Arthur shoved into his arms. Excalibur’s scabbard seems to glow against the ice, reflecting across Mordred’s white armor. Caliburn should have killed Mordred, but Arthur gave Mordred his scabbard. He spoke the ancient spell to activate its power. He allowed Mordred to be healed; he gave Mordred a second chance.

But if Mordred has the scabbard, then…

Mordred leaps onto his feet. He’s barely got a grip on the scabbard before he’s running up the hill. He struggles against the falling rain and the growing frost, but Mordred refuses to give up until he’s crested the hill. He’s immediately rendered motionlessly. Arthur lies between Clarent and Caliburn, both swords bloodied. A puddle of rust-colored water stretches out around him. His eyes have faded from their once magnificent color to something dull. And Mordred did this. He was the one who fought Arthur, and he performed that final slash on Arthur.

Mordred shoves the scabbard against Arthur’s wound. He forces Arthur’s arms to hold it while shoving the king onto his back. His armor is stained with blood. Mordred could care less. He starts muttering the spell that will activate the ritual. He mutters other spells—one that his mother taught him. The scabbard’s light starts fading, though, and Arthur doesn’t heave with a single breath. He made a choice, and Mordred can’t force him to take it back no matter what he does.

“Not even Excalibur’s scabbard can return life to that which is dead,” His mother had told him. He knew she was right, but he thought she was talking about him. She thought she was talking about him. For all their talk of sacrifice, they never once thought that Arthur would be the one to go through with it.

Morgan promised that she would find a way to grieve Mordred if he were to die. Mordred has decided that there’s no need to ‘find a way.’ Grieving comes to him easily. It wounds him worse than the stab did, filling his eyes with a fiery warmth that burns him and an ache so infused with his heart that he himself cannot breath. 

Mordred’s pain doesn’t distract him from a sudden light pouring over him. He tilts his head back. The storm has cleared just enough to let golden, radiant sunlight shine across this particular hill. A shimmering cup made from precious metals and glittering gemstones descends slowly, radiating with power and purity. Although Mordred has never seen the Holy Grail, he doesn’t doubt this is it. The appearance is what he would imagine it to look like, and the way every part of his body rejects the presence of the cup confirms what he already knew.

Mordred looks away from the Holy Grail. He doesn’t care about it when the pain of his heart is far worse than anything the grail could do to his body. Mordred curls himself around Arthur. Despite knowing it’s useless, he continues whispering the ritual of the scabbard as if it will somehow activate suddenly—as if the damage can be undone—as if Mordred could take back the way he did what he was destined to do and destroyed Camelot. He really is nothing more than the White Dragon, and he’s lost the most important person to him because of it.

The Holy Grail gets closer. Mordred lifts his gaze to weakly glare at it. He’s destruction and decay, as everyone from his mother to Arthur has told him. The Holy Grail is everything he is not. The Holy Grail is—

“It is the embodiment of purity and goodness, the source of life and light.” Morgan le Fey also said that. 

Mordred pulls himself away from Arthur’s body. The Holy Grail hovers in the air slightly above him expectantly. Mordred’s chest heaves. For a split second, undaunted hope fills him. Mordred reaches his paws upward. His gloves instantly burn away, leaving his fur and pawpads exposed. Mordred continues forcing his touch into the light surrounding the Holy Grail. Pain rips right through them in a physical sense. A creature like him has never known heat to this degree; a being of eternal winter should never know what the fires of the heavens feel like. Yet, Mordred does, and he continues onward despite it.

Once Mordred touches the Holy Grail, his armor starts burning away as well. The rain and ice turn into a fine mist that is blown away by the quickening wind and piercing light. Mordred’s flesh is cracked wide open. Blood leaves the cracks, and light seeps right into it. He’s been permanently annihilated, just as Morgan told him. But Mordred considers this to be a worthy price. 

Before his body is completely weakened, he brings the Holy Grail to Arthur’s lips. He forces them open. Water pours from the grail into Arthur’s mouth. It doesn’t matter how long Mordred pours; the water level never lowers in the cup. Still, Mordred doesn’t pour too much. Just enough that he hopes the blessing of the Holy Grail will flow through Arthur’s veins and bring him back to life.

Mordred clings to that hope and the Holy Grail, and at this point, he doesn’t know which one is going to kill him first.

He stands in the midst of darkness. A black void stretches out into infinity on all sides of him—including above and below—except for one. He turns to face it. It is a gigantic wall that he can not see the edges of besides the bottom one that meets the ground he’s standing on. It is made from no material he has ever seen before. It seems almost like glass or crystal, though, and it is seven different colors all at once. White, blue, purple, green, yellow, red, and cyan. They all merge without overlapping, continuously ebbing and bleeding into one another, always shifting and never remaining in the same place for long. Although the wall is flat, it gives the illusion of a restless sea churning with choppy waves.

He steadily approaches the wall. When he gets close enough, he sees a reflection in the material. He briefly believes it to be his own reflection, but that isn’t quite right. This reflection might be an azure hedgehog like him, but it is not wearing the same clothes as him. He wears metallic boots, and this reflection has red-and-white shoes with a peculiar design (reminiscent to the burnt shoes they found him in, if he recalls correctly). He wears a thick red cloak over a leather belt with his scabbard and a golden crowd on his head; the reflection isn’t wearing any clothes or accessories. The only similarity is their white gloves, and even then, his own are attached to his bracers. 

The reflection smiles at him. His eyes widen in surprise since he isn’t smiling. This might not be a reflection, then. It is a simulacrum of himself, similar to that shapeshifter who looks like Lancelot or how Mordred shares an appearance with him.

He reaches a paw to touch the wall. The reflection mirrors him with a widening grin. After a moment of staring, the reflection throws their paw back to show him the void on the other side of the multi-colored wall. He squints, pressing closer to see what he can find. There is a brief second when the colors part enough for him to see people and places. The second passes because of a sudden pain wracking his entire body. It brings him to his knees. He presses his fists and forehead against the wall, breathing raggedly to somehow calm the storm inside of him.

When the pain ebbs away, he lifts his head. His reflection has remained standing. They look down at him with an expression most similar to disappointment. Annoyance flares in his body. As if to prove the reflection wrong, he tries again to look on the other side of the wall. He lasts a few measly seconds longer, but he’s left crumpling on the ground once more. He thinks he even screams this time, though sound moves differently in this darkened domain than it does anywhere else.

He wants to give up. The pain is unbearable, and he isn’t confident that whatever is on the other side of this wall is important. His desire is quickly drowned in the floods of his determination and that pointed look his reflection gives him. Although they say nothing, he understands that his reflection is trying to remind him that throwing in the towel is not an option for him. He is someone who rises above pain. He is someone who never backs down.

He is someone who accepts the past because that’s the only genuine way to live in the present and relentlessly pursue the future. Freedom, to him, is all-or-nothing. If he lets chains bind him here, then he’s turning his back on everything he’s ever stood for. He’s forsaking himself, becoming no better than all the slavemasters he’s defeated over the years. He is no one’s prisoner—not even the Chaos Emeralds’.

Unsteadily, he rises to his feet. He rips his cloak off of his body. He throws it at the wall. The fabric hits it uselessly, but as it slides down, it seems to take away some of the coloration. He can see the other side a little more clearly. It causes him to hiss in pain, but he refuses to drop onto the ground again. His reflection grins at him, encouraging him to throw more of his outfit—more of his chains. With each thumping noise of his boots and bracers, his pain is amplified by several factors. However, it also causes cracks to form in the wall and the colors to dissipate away from each other. 

He grabs onto his crown. He holds it in both paws, ignoring how much he’s shaking from pain. He stares at the twisting, golden metal. His eyes land on the jewels embedded into the symbol of his authority and rulership. They are the same seven colors. He doesn’t need to know what they represent. A smile rises partially on his lips. He leans down to press his forward against the headpiece. In his mind, he thanks the Chaos Emeralds for trying to make him happy. At the same time, however, he rebukes them for misinterpreting his wish. It’s true that he wanted to rest, but only for a little while, and he never wanted to escape the people he loves and cares about. He’s more than willing to accept the weight of their anger and questions about his actions because he knows that he’s strong enough to do so. The Chaos Emeralds have insulted him, honestly, but he refrains from going that far.

“Now,” he whispers aloud. He turns his body to the side. He moves his arm back, leaving his crown in one paw. His reflection grins and taps his foot impatiently. He smiles back, throwing the crown forward. “Give me back my memories!”

The crown makes contact with the wall. The material completely shatters. In each fractured piece, he sees snippets from his past. They snap together in his awareness, reminding of all his adventures and triumphs and failures and friends and beliefs. At the heart of it all, his reflection—who is far more solid than a reflection—runs forward to him. They open their arms wide as if to grab him in an embrace. Once their arms loop around him, however—

Sonic’s eyes snap open. He instantly closes them again when a bright light stabs into his retinas. He turns his head away, scrambling at the grass beneath him for purchase. When he forces his eyes open again, he sees Caliburn floating in the air some feet away. The sword looks troubled. He might be yelling something, but Sonic can’t hear him over the sound of wind and… is that a trumpet?

Sonic turns his eyes back to what he originally opened them to. It still hurts, but he manages with a squint. It is still storming. The sky is covered in gray clouds. Rain pours from the heavens. There is, however, a hole that lets in sunlight. Sonic follows the sunlight to the ground several feet away from him. He sees it reflecting across the fallen Rhongomyniad, Clarent, and Excalibur’s scabbard. He also sees it landing on top of Mordred. The hedgehog sits on his haunches a fair distance away from Sonic. His paws are holding onto—

Sonic shoves himself onto his feet. He stumbles closer to Mordred. The wind batters him to the side. He fights against it, and while he succeeds in remaining in place despite the wind hitting him, his body smacks right into a sphere of golden power surrounding Mordred. Sonic throws his fists against it. Mordred turns to look at him. Half of his face is gone—turning into flecks that dissipate into white light—but he smiles at Sonic. The one eye that remains is filled with relief. That expression paired with the situation tells Sonic everything he needs to know about this situation. 

“Mordred!” Sonic yells at him. He knows that his voice doesn’t go far, and it definitely doesn’t reach Mordred’s ears. The hedgehog remains at the center of the vortex. His fur and quills are steadily fading from blue to white, revealing parts of his true nature. He isn’t able to achieve his draconic form, however, as his body flecks away like snow rising upward instead of falling to the ground. It is all because of the Holy Grail that he holds. It recognizes him as the White Dragon, and it has decided to destroy him even though he selflessly grabbed onto it to save Sonic’s life.

After all Sonic has done for Mordred—from the moment they first met to his sacrifice a few minutes prior—Sonic isn’t going to let him die. Not like this.

Sonic pulls away from the barrier. He runs back to grab onto Caliburn’s hilt. He knows that the sword probably isn’t happy with him right now considering how his fight with Mordred went. Sonic almost starts apologizing, but Caliburn helps guide Sonic’s paw to the barrier. Silently, they both agree to make amends later as they fight against the barrier keeping Mordred trapped.

Unfortunately, it isn’t enough. It’s like they’re hitting a fragile stick against metal. Sonic continues trying even when Caliburn tries convincing him to stop. Sonic didn’t come this far because of self-determination to stop now. If he gives up here, isn’t he going against what he told himself and the residual power of the Chaos Emeralds inside his mind? He can’t give up. He can’t do that to himself, and he can’t do this to Mordred, either. He is going to save both of them; he just needs to be stronger. 

Where can he get that strength from? Usually, he uses the Chaos Emeralds, but they aren’t here. He can’t go super without them, and it’s not like he can use the Holy Grail as a replacement since it’s with Mordred in the vortex. But… There is another potential replacement.

Sonic whirls around. He runs to the edge of the hill. He’s about to race down the side when he sees them, his knights and—now’s not the time to think about them. Sonic searches the face for three knights in particular. He actually finds them not that far from each other. Lancelot and Galahad are running together with Maria racing across the river on their other side. Percival runs ahead while Gawain hangs back to help Lamorak carry Kay. Sonic squeezes Caliburn’s hilt. He glances down at this sword. “Caliburn.”

“Call their name,” Caliburn responds with understanding in his voice.

Sonic nods. He points Caliburn at Lancelot first. The knight freezes at the attention. Sonic narrows his eyes. Together, Sonic and Caliburn say, “Arondight.” At the sound of its name, the sword shakes in Lancelot’s hold. Instinctively, he opens his fingers. Arondight flies forward, but Sonic is already turning Caliburn toward Percival. At this point, everyone stops moving to watch him. “Laevatein.” The sword burns bright with flames before starting its ascension from Percival’s hand to the top of the hill. Lastly, Caliburn and Sonic point at Gawain, uttering the name of the last sacred sword. “Galatine.” The twin-blades pull out of their scabbards to meet their brethren.

The swords converge where Sonic is. Instead of hitting him, they merge with him. In a flash of light that overtakes both the sun and the Holy Grail, the armor of Excalibur snaps into place around Sonic’s body. He turns to face the vortex again. He isn’t certain if he will be strong enough to defeat it now, but Mordred doesn’t have much time left and Sonic has no other options. He has to use this form, so he prepares Excalibur in his paws for a strike.

He feels the thrum of infinite power within his body. This form isn’t all that different from going super with the Chaos Emeralds, honestly. It’s just that instead of channeling the dreams and wishes of an entire world, Sonic is only able to grasp onto the desires inside the hearts of Camelot’s people. It is enough, however, because Camelot is a world unto itself. Whether he bears the name of Arthur or Sonic, Camelot is his to protect. The memories of an entire year of being this kingdom’s sovereign flash in his mind—those he’s saved, and inspired, and believed in with his entire heart. It is those same people who grant him strength now. It is a responsibility as much as a boost in power, and Sonic isn’t going to forget that any time soon.

Now, let him save one more life.

Sonic raises Excalibur high above him. He takes a deep breath. Heat snakes through every single one of his veins and arteries. His head feels fuzzy with the amount of power he’s wielding. He hears thousands of whispers, people entrusting their hearts to him as they have for his entire reign as king. Sonic braces his feet and legs against the ground, prepared to unleash a flood of energy and power. With how much he’s channeling from the will of his people and how much of his own willpower he fills the sword with, he doesn’t doubt that he’ll be able to free Mordred from the final chain binding him.

Sonic takes one step forward. He throws his arms downward. Excalibur curves in a downward slash. An arc of pure, unadulterated energy leaves the blade in a thin but long slash. It explodes outward with enough force and power to cleave both the land and the clouds in two. More sunlight falls onto the crack now left in Camelot’s land. There is another explosion that occurred when the energy hit the barrier formed by the Holy Grail, causing Sonic’s golden armor to fracture. It falls to the ground around him in chunks. He leaves Excalibur with it as he rushes forward. 

Sonic literally kicks the Holy Grail away from Mordred. It flings somewhere down the hill, hopefully drowning itself in the river or falling in the crack. Sonic doesn’t care as he drops down in front of Mordred. He touches the side of Mordred’s face—the part that’s still there—with one paw while scrambling for Excalibur’s scabbard with the other. Luckily, this armor, although cracked, allows him to magically bring the scabbard to his palm with a little effort. 

Like before, Sonic shoves the scabbard against Mordred’s chest. Although his voice is shaky, Mordred actually joins Sonic in reciting the ritual to activate its healing properties. With their combined effort, it works faster. It still takes forever for Sonic. He doesn’t feel any relief until Mordred’s entire body is reformed in front of him. Even then, anxiety churns in his gut from how some of his fur and quills are stained white like freshly fallen snow. 

Sonic drops the scabbard. He throws his arms around Mordred’s shoulders. He shoves Mordred’s face into his shoulder. “You stupid, stupid child. I can’t believe you would do something so dumb!”

And with that insult, the events of the day slam right into Sonic, one after another, causing him to slip into a dreamless slumber.

Chapter Text

Sonic remembers that day—that singular moment. The sea was far below him, stretching so far in every direction that he could have been fooled into thinking the entire planet was only water. The choppy surface was frequently broken apart by cresting waves, but at the moment, it was also reflecting the underside of Angel Island and the mechanical ship Eggman and his allies had rode in on. It also reflected the golden light of his super form, illuminating the darkness all around his being. Silver was with him, too, cast in his own celestial glow alongside the actual sun. With Silver’s help, they were able to use that warping stone to extract the Metal Virus from every living being on the planet, sending it far, far away where it would never be able to hurt them again. And when they were finished, the Chaos Emeralds that permitted this power to the two hedgehogs performed a similar act on Sonic. They cast him into another dimension entirely, sealing his memories to keep him in that new location. It was given like a gift, though there were too many positives and negatives to the experience for Sonic to agree or disagree with that assessment.

Either way, it’s over now. The few memories of sky and sea and fire have been slotted into their proper place in his mind. He has context for them, too. He broke the gift—or curse—bestowed upon him by the Chaos Emeralds. His entire history is easily accessible to him now. Sonic nearly snorts as he mulls over it. He’s lived such a long, complicated, and diverse life that it astounds him how he could have forgotten it all, even with the intervention of the Chaos Emeralds. But that’s what happened. All he was left with was pain, fear, guilt, and phantom sensation that inevitably led him to the moment he’s currently lying inside.

Sonic’s eyes snap open. His memories of being Arthur have not been replaced or minimized, so the ceiling he’s currently staring at is familiar to him. Sitting upright, this entire chamber is familiar. He has spent nearly every single night in this place. It became his sanctuary, in some conventions of the word. Although he was always more fond of nature, he didn’t mind spending his time in this room. He was able to hide from the servants and nobility here. He could relax and goof off in a way that wasn’t deemed appropriate for a king without anyone being able to judge him (not that he personally ever cared, but the knights thought he should at least try to maintain his reputation to avoid any complications further down the line).

As Sonic reminisces, he hears quick and light footsteps racing down the hallway on the other side of the door. A smile flits onto his face. He sets his elbow on his raised knee, holding the juncture between his neck and head in the palm of his gloved hand. He stares at the wooden door. First, a shadow appears beneath it. There’s a soft murmur, moreso a complaint. The shadow moves around. The doorknob jingles, and then the hinges start to creak. A raccoon stands on the other side with a tray balanced on her forearm. After an entire year, she trusts herself to not have spilled anything, so she doesn’t even look as she bounds into the room.

“Morning, Marine,” Sonic calls out. The squire startles. She freezes in the next second, finally putting together why she startled in the first place. Marine throws her head back. Although she’s not the wannabe sea captain from the Sol dimension, this raccoon looks remarkably like Blaze’s sidekick. It’s to the point that Sonic’s heart squeezes. It only gets worse when this Marine looks at him like he’s hung the moon and stars for her.

Marine races across the room. She shoves the tray onto his nightstand haphazardly. Sonic barely gets time to catch a whiff of what the cooks have prepared for him this morning; Marine is already throwing herself against the side of his bed. He snorts, assuming she’s checking him over for any injuries. “Your Majesty! You’re awake! Do you feel fine? Did you sleep well? Is there anything you need me to do?”

“It’s not ‘Your Majesty’ anymore,” Sonic replies, wrinkling his nose at the display. He does, however, keep the smile on his face. While it might unnerve him, he’s still aware of how much power his expression holds over Marine. If he looks even the slightest bit displeased, she’ll do everything she can to make that go away. It’s because she has that much loyalty and faith in her king. Sonic knows why she does since he still remembers everything he’s done as Arthur, but it’s still a harrowing experience that makes him just a bit more cautious around her than he usually would be. “Just call me Sonic, m’kay?”

Marine blinks at him. Her face is frozen in the emotion it was a second before, but he can clearly see the confusion starting to take root. Sonic bites the inside of his cheek. Eventually, he shrugs his shoulders. “You know what? Nevermind.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Marine states as her face falls.

“Hey, hey, no, don’t be like that! It’s totally fine! Nothing to be upset about!” Sonic tells her, waving his paws in front of him. He even goes so far as to pat the top of her head. Sonic has seen Blaze pull this same move on her Marine. That raccoon always swatted Blaze’s paw away; this one just looks at Sonic like she doesn’t know what reality is anymore. The azure hedgehog’s paw drops back onto the comforter. He is not succeeding at this, he realizes.

“Marine.” Sonic would be grateful that he’s getting saved from this awkward interaction (especially before he completely fucks up Marine’s understanding of the world), but he knows that voice. He doesn’t need to look at the threshold to know that Lancelot is standing there in his full armor, Arondight back at his side. He only said a single word—and someone else’s name, at that—but Sonic’s blood runs cold. His heart stutters gracelessly. He closes his eyes, a poor attempt at finding the perfect conditions to recalibrate his body and mind.

“But Sir Lancelot…” Marine starts, trailing off. Sonic opens his eyes. He meets Marine’s eyes. She’s looking at him with concern, her previous confusion gone completely. At her warmth, Sonic smiles kindly. Her eyes widen, yet she understands what he’s trying to say. Marine doesn’t depart without a sigh, but she does ultimately leave the room without further argument. At least, none to Sonic. She does force Lancelot to kneel to whisper something to him. Although Sonic cannot hear her, he gets the impression that she threatened Lancelot on Sonic’s behalf based on both her and Lancelot’s expressions. Sonic’s smile grows, and he hides his laughter behind his palm.

Once Marine is gone, Lancelot clears his throat. He sets his paw on the doorknob. He is about to push into place in the threshold. He doesn’t finish the act, however, leaving a crack. Before he can do what he set out to do, Lancelot turns his gaze to Sonic. The cerulean hedgehog can see Lancelot’s shimmering, carmine eyes through the shadows of his helmet. That shade, that expression, that piercing quality—all of it is familiar in more ways than Sonic can stand. He looks away from Lancelot, waving his paw in the knight’s direction. “Close the door. We have a lot to talk about.”

Lancelot nods, either in agreement or understanding. He closes the door. His armor clinks together as he marches from that side of the room to the space in front of Sonic. The azure hedgehog swings his legs around the side of the bed. Before Lancelot can kneel, Sonic pats the newly freed space between his side and his pillow. Lancelot tenses, frozen in place. Sonic smirks at him, continuing to pat. Lancelot hesitates, but eventually, he reluctantly and jerkily sits down in the offered space. Sonic’s smile widens, glad he was able to force Lancelot to break one of his personal rules. One day, he’ll get Lancelot to sit on a table or shelf… Well, maybe not one day…

“Your Majesty—” Lancelot cuts himself off. He takes a deep breath. He looks straight ahead, acting like he’s standing in a military line rather than sitting on the king’s bed with Sonic. It’s not like he can be blamed for his tenseness, though, considering everything. “What name would you like to be called?”

“My name is Sonic the Hedgehog. You can call me that,” Sonic gives Lancelot a thumbs-up. The knight glances over at the gesture. He doesn’t return it; the Knights of the Round Table rarely do. Sonic drops his paw back onto his thigh, fiddling with the edge of the blanket still partially wrapped around him. Sonic stares down at the ground. He’s wearing white socks, thicker than anything he has in his own dimension. Lancelot’s shoes are clad in a dark material that resembles metal but ultimately isn’t since that’s poisonous to Fae. It is yet another reminder of who exactly the person beside him is.

Lancelot does not say anything. Sonic has so much he wants to say that he ultimately struggles to pick something. Eventually, however, he finds his mouth opening without his permission. Words spill out, tainted with more emotion than Sonic would ever want to sound like. “Thank you for letting me steal Arthur’s name, if only for a little while.”

“You did not steal the name. It was always yours. It still is, no matter what you wish to be called,” Lancelot promises, sounding a little breathless.

“I guess you’re right. It’s not like I’ve stopped being Arthur. Whether I’m called Arthur or Sonic, I’ve always been the same hedgehog,” Sonic compromises. There’s genuine happiness in his voice. It doesn’t disappear so much as it descends into melancholy when he continues speaking, knowing that this is an important conversation that must happen. “I can’t stay here, Lance. I have to go back to my world. I’d have to go back even if Team Dark wasn’t here to drag me back. It’s my home, you know. Everything I’ve ever done is over there. Everyone I care about. I still haven’t permanently beaten Eggman. I don’t think I’ve seen everywhere there is to see. There’s so many mysteries that I’m sure have adventures paired alongside it. Camelot has been fun. Really, it’s been a wonderful experience. But it can’t be my life. I can’t be stuck here, not if I want to continue being myself.”

“I… understand,” Lancelot says in a way that actually means that he doesn’t but he desperately wants to. He says it in a way that actually means that even if he never does understand, he isn’t going to stop Sonic. The former king wonders why it feels harder to leave knowing Lancelot thinks like this than if the knight of the lake had been trying everything in his power to make Sonic stay. Then again, this is for the best, so Sonic doesn’t allow himself to think about it too hard lest he come away with conclusions that are going to become his chains.

“You have to stay here. Camelot is going to need their protector, their Red Dragon. And the other knights trust you almost as much as they trust me. Galahad, especially, is going to need you. Mordred, too. I’m leaving that kid to you, by the way. Make sure he doesn’t do something so reckless again,” Sonic continues. He doesn’t entirely know why he’s saying this part since Lancelot hasn’t shown any signs of wanting to come with Sonic. Still, he makes sure to put everything out in the open to avoid confusion and uncertainty.

“Yes, my liege,” Lancelot nods, purposefully using that specific title. Sonic scrutinizes carefully. He doesn’t know why he’s still surprised by Lancelot’s cleverness. “Although, I fear it may not be so simple in the case of Sir Mordred. He has taken after you.”

Sonic sighs and smiles in the same action. “It’s what I get for trying to teach him that he can be whoever he wants to be. Well, at least he’s found a way to circumvent fate. I’d say I want you and the other knights to take a page from his book, but let’s not have any more deaths and revivals.”

Sonic actually wonders if the others saw him die. There are a few places that were on the edge of the lance’s barrier that would allow them to see Camlann’s hill. The majority of places made it impossible, though, and Sonic has an exact list of people he hopes with all his heart where in one of those blindspots. Lancelot is, technically, part of that list, but he isn’t who Sonic is most worried about.

“Yes, that is an undertaking worth endeavouring,” Lancelot admits with a sharp nod. Sonic bumps their shoulders together. Lancelot lets himself sway. Sonic frowns since Lancelot would only do that if he were lost in thought. Sonic leans forward enough to look into Lancelot’s eyes, confirming this fact. He frowns curiously. He’s about to start poking Lancelot and demanding to know what’s spinning around inside his mind. He doesn’t end up needing to because Lancelot pulls himself back to the present. He looks pained, and he sounds so much worse when he starts talking. “There is… something I need to tell you before you leave. I—”

“Don’t.”

Lancelot pauses. Sonic completely freezes. He didn’t even know he had said something until the word was already out. Sonic squeezes his eyes shut. A wince tugs at his features. He tilts his head away, but he doesn’t completely look away from Lancelot. Sonic takes a deep breath through his nose. He exhales through his mouth, and this, Sonic thinks, is the reason words start spilling out. “Don’t say it. You’re only going to hurt yourself.” Sonic’s eyes open, yet he still doesn’t meet Lancelot’s eyes. “And you’re going to hurt me. And then I’m going to have hurt the both of us. Because I know what you’re going to say, and I know how I’m going to respond. It’s not fair to either of us. It’s not fair to… someone else. I’m sorry for hurting you for… over a year, I guess.”

“You have never hurt me,” Lancelot confirms with thick, uncompromising conviction in his voice. It steals the breath right out of Sonic’s lungs. He feels something building inside of his chest, choking around his heart and windpipes. Lancelot looks almost the same as Sonic despite swearing that Sonic hasn’t hurt him. He doesn’t often feel guilt, but Sonic is almost drowned within it. 

Lancelot reaches for Sonic’s paw. The former king is too weak to pull away. Lancelot steps off the bed. Like he was going to do earlier, he kneels in front of Sonic. He presses the back of Sonic’s paw against the part of his helmet over his forehead. “I have never regretted a single day following you as my master. There was never a moment when I did not want to reward the trust and faith you have always put in me. Every moment with you was one I will never forget, and though it may bring me pain in the future, I will recall them all with the utmost fondness. You will always have a place in this world should you desire it. You will always have my loyalty. You have my everything, my king.”

Never one to be outdone, Sonic slides off the side of the bed. He drops onto one of his knees. He pulls his paw away from Lancelot’s hold. He moves it to hold Lancelot’s exposed cheek, pushing his head upward. Sonic’s other hand flicks up his helmet, letting their eyes meet without any obstructions. “Thank you, Lance. You were a loyal knight and a damn good friend. I knew I could always count on you because you’ve never let me down. If you ever need help, I’ll be there in a heartbeat. I can’t give you everything, but I hope more than anything that I’ve given you enough. Now, live your life, Lancelot, do whatever you want and be whoever you want to be. Don’t let anything—not even me—stop you from finding the happiness that you deserve.”

“I will,” Lancelot nods into Sonic’s touch. He presses his palm and fingers into the back of Sonic’s paw, holding him close. Everything they said, everything they weren’t able to, everything they mean seems to echo into eternity within this single moment. It hurts, but Sonic has never let a goodbye take him down. No matter what feelings do or don’t live on inside of him, he is grateful for Lancelot and he’s going to remember him as being happy because he knows Lancelot will be one day soon.

So, Sonic gives his all in preserving this moment in his mind, ready to carry with him when he returns home.

“I won’t lie; I didn’t expect to find you here.”

Shadow closes his eyes. He inhales through his nose, smelling the natural scent of apples in his nostrils. When he opens his eyes, his vision moves from the sunlight dancing through the canopy to the hedgehog approaching him. Sonic’s face is bright with a smile and a familiar twinkle of mischief in his emerald irises. He leans his shoulder against the trunk of the apple tree Shadow is standing in front of. The azure annoyance crosses one foot over his ankle, almost requesting for Shadow to knock him onto his ass. Whether it’s an actual invitation or not, Shadow remains as rooted in place as the other trees in the orchard around them.

Sonic arches a brow at Shadow. “You know, I might not be wearing the whole costume, but I’m still considered by many to be the king. This means that you’re trespassing on my property. Betcha never thought that would happen, huh?” 

Sonic giggles like he’s made a joke. Shadow is less than amused by it, but he doesn’t insult Sonic’s attempt or even change his facial expression to show his displeasure. His voice is neutral, only slightly inconvenienced, when he says, “We need to get back.”

Sonic nods his head. “We’re working on that, don’t worry. Merlina is setting up the ritual that sent me back the first time. Lady Nimue is helping her. It should be done soon. You and the rest of your team will go first. There’s still some business I need to take care of here. Y’know, the usual stuff: saying goodbye, ruining a few nobles’ days, and everything with Mordred.”

“Mordred…” Shadow murmurs. The knight was one of the first people Shadow met in this world. He almost fought Mordred, too, but Honey stopped that from occurring. Then, they were working together, and he and Omega found out that Mordred resembled a younger, scarred version of Sonic. It wasn’t too much later that Sonic learned his nature as a dragon. But more than anything, Shadow remembers looking up at that dissipating hedgehog from the bottom of the hill. He remembers the expression of pure, unwavering determination on Sonic’s face as he channeled a power so similar yet still different from the Chaos Emeralds. To save Mordred, Sonic created a surprisingly clean cut in the clouds and the ground below. While the weather erased the former, that hedgehog-made crack in the earth remains.

“Yeah… He’s like Tails to me,” Sonic tries describing. He moves his paws in front of him as if the physical motion could give further context that his words and tone do not.

“A brother?” Shadow prompts.

Sonic opens his mouth. He shuts it, glancing away from Shadow. He considers the word before he ultimately shrugs. “Something like that.”

For what it’s worth, Shadow thinks he understands what Sonic means. He has never only been a brother to Tails. Even from his outside, removed position, Shadow knows that it’s more complicated and nuanced than that. It must have been the same in this case. Sonic—never one for rigidity or titles—became an amalgamation for that white knight. Shadow, however, doesn’t want to know any more than that for several reasons, not all of which he’s comfortable admitting even to himself.

“It’ll be good to get back,” Sonic continues, dragging a conversation out of the blanketing silence. He twists from where he’s standing. His back hits the trunk. He crosses his arms over his chest, loose enough that a single nudge would let them fall back to his sides. “How long was I gone for on your side?”

“A month.” There were no shortage of messages from the people who Sonic chooses to surround himself with asking if Shadow knew where he was at. Shadow almost wanted to ask Rouge why they all thought he would know, but Shadow didn’t end up doing that. He already knew what Rouge was going to answer with. He didn’t want to hear it at the time. He doesn’t really want to right now, either, but the fact that Sonic found him now seems to be proving the same point he isn’t willing to accept.

Sonic whistles dramatically. “A whole month, huh? It was a year for me. I got to be the king. I’m sure I told you during our duel. King Arthur, Knight of the Wind. I’ve also been called the Once and Future King and the One Who Liberates. Pretty sick titles, no? The others probably don’t make sense, but the One Who Liberates is something I could totally convince the media to call me. Of course, I won’t let them take my other nicknames out of rotation. Which one is your favorite?”

“Rat,” Shadow answers.

Sonic huffs. Despite shaking his head and looking away, he can’t hide his smile from Shadow. The ebony hedgehog, on the other paw, is able to hide his own smile at the insult and the reaction it brought about.  “I’d ask if you were kidding, but I know you aren’t. You couldn’t have even said one of the boring ones like ‘Blue.’ It just had to be the one Egghead is always calling me.”

“It is an apt nickname.”

“It’s Sonic the Hedgehog.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“I will fight you again. No swords, no armor, just good ole fists and kicks,” Sonic threatens. His voice, however, is too light and airy for him to actually mean it. Well, he probably would fight with Shadow if the ebony hedgehog engaged with it, but it wouldn’t be like the duel they had in the hallway of the castle. They would go back to a familiar rhythm. Shadow wants that more than he would care to admit. He needs the familiarity in a way that’s embarrassingly desperate. Yet, he knows he wouldn’t be able to do it. He knows that he would start seeing their last fight—the one between Sonic and Shadow without the buffer of Arthur in the way—would flash in his mind. That stalwart, unquivering anger displayed so prominently that it was far too easy for Shadow to ignore the physical endurance being tested by pain and the desperation for something—to be consumed, or to rest, or to disappear altogether. It was that expression that remained in Shadow’s mind when the Metal Virus turned him into a weapon once again.

“Hey.” Shadow’s eyes narrow in his personal form of startling. Sonic has pushed off the tree trunk. He leans toward Shadow, snapping his fingers in front of Shadow’s face. The ebony hedgehog’s fingers flex at his sides, prepared to break those fingers. Fortunately for himself, Sonic leans back. He gives Shadow an assessing look. When he comes to a conclusion, he’s looking in the direction of the castle—decidedly away from Shadow. “Let me guess: you’re thinking about the Metal Virus?”

“How did you—” Shadow grits out, cutting himself off when he realizes that he’s confirming Sonic’s question.

The azure hedgehog snorts. He rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the ground. “You’re not that hard to read, y’know. And anyway, I’ve been thinking about it a lot, too, lately. Did you know that I actually remembered it? Kind of. I remembered it as a plague that swept across my original world. Some part of me remembered that it spread through my touch. As you could imagine, I had rather strong reactions to touching people. I thought I was killing them. I got over it, though.” Sonic turns toward Shadow with a smile that isn’t quite as large as his classic grin. It’s also filled with more emotion—more understanding. “I am over it. From my end, at least, it’s all water under the bridge. I forgive you for ignoring me and getting yourself turned into a zombot.”

On impulse, Shadow wants to tell Sonic that he doesn’t forgive him for not letting him deal with Robotnik (“Mr. Tinker”) while they had a chance. He doesn’t forgive Sonic for mutating the Metal Virus through all of his attempts to run it off. He doesn’t forgive Sonic for disappearing at the end of it, leaving the rest of them to deal with the fallout.

But all of that feels hollow. It almost doesn’t matter to Shadow if he actually forgives Sonic for these matters or not. And he does, for the record, think he forgives Sonic. It just isn’t the usual kind. It isn’t the same forgiveness he found when confronting his memories of Abraham or Gerald. It is something different. Unfortunately, the uniqueness in Shadow’s feelings concerning Sonic is starting to become a trend. He isn’t sure how to stop it; he isn’t sure he even wants to.

“Come here a second,” Sonic says suddenly. He pushes off the trunk. He stands straight up. He waves his paw at Shadow. When he doesn’t move, Sonic’s gesturing becomes even more violent. Eventually, Shadow sighs and grumbles under his breath. He approaches Sonic, muttering about what he’s going to do if this is a trap or something stupid. Once he’s within arm’s length of Sonic, he finds out that it’s both. Sonic swings his arms around Shadow’s neck. He pulls the ebony hedgehog so forcefully and suddenly that he stumbles into the embrace. Sonic squeezes tighter as Shadow either tries adjusting himself or pulling away. It doesn’t matter, though, since Sonic refuses to let go. “See? I can touch others without panicking. You don’t have to worry about it.”

Shadow scoffs. Despite acting like a know-it-all. Sonic has misconstrued the reason for Shadow’s silence following his declaration. Rolling his eyes, Shadow tries pulling away again. “Let go of me.”

“Not yet. There’s something else I need to talk to you about and holding you like this keeps you from punching me.” Sonic says, laughing directly into Shadow’s ears. Despite how fuzzy that sound makes him feel, Shadow still freely thinks that Sonic is severely underestimating his ability to punch the other from this position. Shadow is about to prove it, but this proximity lets Shadow feel every minute shift in Sonic’s body, breath, and demeanor. It’s unnerving to see how serious he’s gotten in an instant. It makes sense when he starts speaking. “I heard that you saw Maria… Camelot’s Maria, I mean. I just wanted to see how you’re holding up.”

Shadow inhales deeply. He remembers her. She rose up from the depths. She was confused at the sight of him. Shadow didn’t dwell on that because he thought she was a hallucination. He thought she was his guilt and anxiety over the situation made manifest. It was because of this that he spoke to her. He told her everything, just like he did on the ARK. And like all those times before, she gave him advice and helped him understand a few truths. It wasn’t until Rouge came that he realized this Maria was real. It wasn’t until later that he realized this Maria wasn’t his. 

But she was helpful again in stopping Lancelot and Mordred from fighting as dragons. They saved time because of her. Shadow never got to thank her. He doubts he ever will. He knows he shouldn’t go see her. That would only get his hopes up. That would only deepen the wound his Maria’s death made in him. 

“I’m fine,” Shadow eventually grits out. 

“That’s what we always say,” Sonic replies. In that ‘we,’ Shadow does not hear ‘people’ or ‘everyone.’ He only hears ‘you and me.’ Sonic and Shadow will always say they’re fine, and maybe they are, but they’re hugging each other now. Shadow stopped trying to get away, and Sonic was the one who started this. It could mean nothing. To Shadow, though, it means everything, at least for the length of time he allows himself to have this.

Because he doesn’t permit this kind of weakness for long. He pulls away, and Sonic doesn’t fight him on it. Shadow starts walking off. He stops before he’s out of earshot, however. “Hurry up and take care of your business here so we can all go back.”

Sonic’s lips rise into a smile Shadow has never seen before. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you guys wait for long.”

Chapter Text

There was a time when Mordred did not care about nature. He had no outstanding opinions about it. He knew that once he was unleashed upon the world, it would all be covered in snow and frost. The sky would be hidden by thick clouds that would never let up. The dark and cold would consume everything it touched without any hesitation, destroying all life in one single breath. For this reason, Mordred saw no use in growing attached to what he knew would be fleeting. It didn’t help that Morgan did not nurture any sense of respect for the natural order within him. This was likely because neither of them were part of this order, so it was, again, another reason why Mordred’s heart—which, certainly, at the time, was incapable of the care and love necessary to form a positive opinion about nature—never once accepted the rolling fields or the towering trees or the beautiful flowers or the shining sun or—well, all of it.

Even now, Mordred is uncertain how much he actually cares about all of it. What he is certain about is that standing in the tall grass to watch the sunrise far enough away from Camelot Castle that he cannot hear anyone has brought a sense of tranquility to his body. The pain from his wounds has not deserted him, but it grows fuzzier the longer the wind ripples through his quills. The warmth spreading across the land from the cascading golden light seeps directly into him, perhaps piercing through his bandages and entering his body from those open holes. Mordred has, after all, never been injured like this before, and it isn’t often that he discards his armor. He is as free to the world as it is to him, and that is where the true source of his peace comes from.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed right now?” This voice does not break the silence. The voice adds to it, honestly. This voice is so synonymous with the wind that it seamlessly exists with the burgeoning sun and warm breeze and the swaying grass. This is the same voice that compelled Mordred to slow down, to look at the realm around him for what it currently was and not what it would become if he were to ever find his way to his destiny.

Mordred looks over his shoulder. Arthur—no, Sonic stands there. Mordred knows that it is Sonic because the azure hedgehog does not wear the royal regalia. He has no cloak or crown, only gloves and shoes with a foreign design and made from an unfamiliar material. Still, he has not lost that honorable quality to him. He is not noble in the same way the lords and ladies of the court are. He is noble in the way a hero is—the way someone who never stops following their heart is. While Mordred understands that names have power, he also knows that oftentimes, the person beneath the name will always stay the same regardless of what everyone calls them. This fact is true in this case for Arthur or Sonic, this azure hedgehog is the one who has always been there for Mordred and didn’t give up on the white knight even after Clarent slashed open his chest.

Sonic joins Mordred in the tall grass, wading deeper as if this were a lake made from shallow green water. He runs his gloved fingers over the top of the plants, pushing them down slightly with every step he takes. Sonic stops beside Mordred. His body faces the sunrise, but he turns his head to show Mordred a familiar smile. It isn’t the same, though. It’s so much lighter now. Happier, in a way, and impossibly more sure of itself. Mordred never once thought Arthur was lacking in confidence, but seeing Sonic like this makes Mordred wonder how many doubts swirled inside the old king’s head at any given moment.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to lecture you. I actually get it. I can’t stand staying in bed for too long, either, even if I do need to rest. I mean, for a couple hours, sure, but an entire day? A few days? No one needs to be flat on their back for that long,” Sonic shakes his head. He speaks with a measure of importance that doesn’t feel right for the situation. Mordred assumes, then, that Sonic is joking around with him now. While humor is one of his weakest skills, Mordred has taken strides in at least identifying it in others (he’s also learned from numerous attempts that he has a tendency to go ‘too far.’ Galahad made Mordred swear an oath to stop, at least for the time being as he continued to learn).

“Were you looking for me with a purpose in mind, Your Majesty?” Mordred asks. He turns his entire body toward Sonic. It feels strange to communicate with him like this. It isn’t just because Mordred doesn’t talk to others without his armor and this is his first time since his original meeting with Morgan. It’s also because of what happened the last time they saw each other. Their fight led to them both fatally wounding the other. Sonic used Excalibur’s scabbard on Mordred rather than himself, leading Mordred to use the Holy Grail to save his king. Sonic returned the favor once more by unleashing the full might of Excalibur to rescue Mordred. They promptly fell unconscious together. When Mordred awakened, days had passed, and the king was already up and about.

Mordred doesn’t know why he hasn’t gone to see Sonic yet. He considers it a lack of courage, but he doesn’t feel particularly fearful or antsy. It is only instinct that drives his body away every time his mind declares that today will be the moment they reconcile with Sonic or receive a just punishment for their actions. Mordred is unfamiliar with the nature of a heart or soul, so he could not confirm with any amount of accuracy if either of those are to blame for his feet walking him in the opposite direction.

He can’t say anything now, either. His mind, his body, his heart, his soul—they are all silent as Sonic softly narrows his eyes at Mordred in a scrutinizing expression. “It’s not ‘Your Majesty.’ I’m not the king anymore.”

“You are my king,” Mordred argues automatically.

Sonic snorts. He glances away in an attempt to hide his next words, but Mordred hears them, anyway. “You knights and your loyalty.” Sonic looks back at Mordred, increasing the volume of his voice to show that this next part is more important. “You’re all just making this more difficult for yourself, you know? I’m going home. I won’t be here anymore. There’s no point in serving a king that isn’t there to give you orders.”

Mordred nods slowly, not in approval but rather in acceptance. The reason he agreed to help Lady Honey and the others—the reason he fought Arthur in the first place—it was all to give Sonic this opportunity to choose to return to his homeland. Mordred feels… off about the whole arrangement, but it is not enough for him to choose to disagree. To stop Sonic now would render everything Mordred has done up to this point meaningless, and even the White Dragon would never be so callous as to do that to deaths and sacrifices made because of what Mordred knows to be love.

“There’s another reason why you all should stop considering me your king,” Sonic notes. Mordred hums questioningly. Sonic’s smile diminishes, but it does not disappear. He turns toward Mordred. Sonic reaches his paws out. With no hesitation, Mordred gives his own up to let Sonic hold onto them. “For the past year, I’ve been working with everyone to make Camelot more autonomous. I want this to be a nation that can stand without a king. Not that there can’t be a ruler, but that it’ll be easier to overthrow them if they are corrupted. Unfortunately, my work isn’t finished. I made a lot of strides, but the neighboring nations are going to destroy this place, especially when the nobles won’t listen to the knights. They barely listened to me.”

“Do you wish for me to annihilate the nobles?” Mordred asks curiously. He has grown more conscious of the value of a life. This has made him more cautious and reluctant to perpetuate violence, especially when his abilities blur the line. But if Sonic wants someone dead, Mordred will carry out the orders. There’s no love lost between him and the nobles, particularly the ones tangentially involved in the corruption the Knights of the Round Table exposed.

“The youth of today sure are bloodthirsty,” Sonic laughs. He squeezes Mordred’s paws and shakes his head. “But, no, not that. I’m not asking you to kill anyone. I’m asking you to do something that’s arguably a lot harder.”

“There is no challenge I would not undertake and overcome.”

“I have no doubt about that,” Sonic admits. “I’m asking you to be king. At least for a little bit while the other knights prepare Camelot for its freedom.”

Mordred pauses. Outlandish remarks are considered ‘jokes,’ but Sonic seems a little too serious for Mordred to be comfortable with that assumption. He stares at the king, blinking slowly. Sonic seems expectant for an answer. This, again, implies that he’s been truthful. Mordred, however, doesn’t understand. He glances down at himself. Sure, he might resemble Sonic superficially, but it isn’t one-for-one. It especially isn’t that way now that a lot of his body has been stained white by the Holy Grail pulling his true form to the surface. His arms, his legs, the tips of his quills—they’re the same color as fallen snow, and this transfers into the streaks of blue inside his green irises. 

And it isn’t just his appearance; it’s what this appearance represents. He is the White Dragon. He is Camelot’s fated destroyer. He should be nowhere near the throne or the crown. He was only allowed close enough for a little while because of Sonic’s kindness. Without it, shouldn’t he be ousted from the castle? Shouldn’t he be sealed away? Surely, the Sword of Selection and the Red Dragon would not permit this outcome.

“You don’t have to accept it if you don’t want to. I trust all of the knights. I could ask one of them to be the ruler. Sir Lancelot has the power. Dame Percival knows how to wield authority. Sir Galahad is beloved by much of the land. Everyone else has their strengths, too. You’re not my only option.” Sonic releases Mordred’s paws. As the knight’s arms fall to his sides, Sonic brushes the fur along Mordred’s shoulders as if there was dust collecting there that the former king couldn’t stand to see.

“Was I your first choice? Am I the only one you have asked?” Mordred questions softly.

Sonic hums a merry tune. “Yup! I mean, I asked the other knights if this would be the right choice. They agreed with me about entrusting Camelot’s legacy to someone else. To the ones I mentioned you to, they told me they were fine with it. That doesn’t mean much when they’ll say yes to whatever I ask them, but I think they were being genuine.”

And here Mordred thought he was getting better at understanding mortals and their complicated emotions. Their belief system is an entirely different matter he needs to contend with. “I understand even less. Why do you believe I am capable of this? Why do the others trust me in this regard? I am… unfit to be Camelot’s ruler.” 

“You were born as a creature of destruction and decay. You were plucked from the depths of the Underworld by a cruel, unloving hand who raised you to be a weapon in the pursuit of her own revenge. Yet, you still chose to listen to me. You put your faith in me. You let me teach you that this world is far more than what you have witnessed before. Every step of the way, I have watched your growth. And when we fought in Camlann, I saw the accumulation of all your efforts. Instead of choosing to let Camelot fall, you sacrificed yourself. While I wish you didn’t have to get hurt, I’m grateful you saved my life. And I’m so happy that you broke your fate. You claimed freedom for yourself because you have a heart capable of great compassion and hope.” Sonic sets his paw over Mordred’s chest, pressing down hard enough that they both become conscious of the heart beating inside of his mortal-like shell. Sonic’s face splits into a wide grin. “Is it so wrong of me to believe that you could do the same for Camelot itself? Should I not trust you after everything you’ve done to prove that you are more than worthy of that trust?”

“I do not see my actions in such a grandiose manner,” Mordred murmurs, setting his paw over Sonic’s as if that would allow the azure hedgehog’s unshakeable faith to enter the white knight. It does not, but the warmth of Sonic’s body never fails to remind Mordred of the subtle pulses of life existing inside of everything. The fields beneath them, the sun hovering above the horizon, the wind dancing through—all of this is what Sonic swore to protect. It is everything Mordred wants to protect, too, if only to find out why it is so beautiful and peaceful to a raging beast that should care for nothing beneath its claws.

“They say humbleness is a virtue,” Sonic shrugs. He throws both of his paws up to complement the action. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, of course.” Sonic peeks one eye open and lets his smile increase tenfold. This time, Mordred does consider it a joke to laugh at—or at least, try to laugh and make a sound that could be generously called that (he’s still working on it). Sonic is pleased by the noise, hopefully understanding it for what it is. “But regardless, how you perceive your actions doesn’t matter so much. It doesn’t even matter how I or anyone else perceives them, either. All I need to know is if you want to take the torch from me. It’ll probably be a heavy burden, but you’re more suited for it than I am. I’m not one for metaphors. I just know that you’re better at staying than I am. I managed it for a year, but I can’t do this anymore.”

Sonic puts one paw on his hip. He reaches his other paw toward Mordred, offering it to the white knight. He’s smiling, bright and earnest. His eyes are absolutely glittering, and that’s only partially because of the sunlight. A parting with this hedgehog will come soon. But before that, a new beginning can unfold. If Sonic trusts him, Mordred finds that it isn’t so difficult to trust himself, too.

Mordred takes that paw, accepting the offer of kingship in one smooth motion.

Before he had what many people called a ‘problem,’ Kay enjoyed going to the tavern. There was a lot he was fond of about the place. The wooden structure was homely. The interior was always filled with thick, blanketing heat. The floorboards would creak from the dancers and tavern maids moving about. There was never a shortage of fascinating people who would tell stories, and it was always interesting to find out if the alcohol in their system was making them more truthful or more of a fanciful liar. Regardless, Kay found that a fair amount of beer inside his stomach and those of his drinking buddies led to them creating their own stories to share and forming a deeper bond.

Kay hasn’t felt this same joy in a long time. He soured all of his memories of the tavern, and then he was avoiding it for a year. But he’s back in it now. The painful memories bubble to the surface, but his current company keeps him from dwelling too long on a past he once never wanted to remember and now doesn’t mind it so much (though, he still isn’t happy that he was given false memories and an untrue brotherhood with the former King Arthur). This company includes his usual drinking buddies, Gawain and Lamorak, who he is overjoyed are finally back in the kingdom’s good graces and are no longer his enemies. Additionally, Sonic is with them, indulging himself with the full extent of a carefree attitude he was forced to hide when the crown sat heavily on his head.

“I’m just saying…” Lamorak drones on. He isn’t completely drunk, but his voice is slurring along the edges and each hiccup sounds more painful than the last. He leans back against his chair, vaguely gesturing his arm toward Sonic. “...gambling should be legal.”

“This is how you know he’s on his third cup. He always talks about making gambling legal after his second,” Gaawain mutters into the rim of his mug. Kay, who heard, snorts. Gawain smiles at him. Lamorak glares at the echidna, though his slow blinking takes away the effectiveness of the expression.

“One reason… why it shouldn’t be, hmm?” Lamorak throws both of his hands in the air and to the side. His expression twists together so much into questioning that Kay isn’t certain he can still see. Gawain rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t answer. His silence is supposed to mean that there are so many reasons why gambling shouldn’t be legal that they don’t have time to get into it. Lamorak obviously doesn’t take it that way. 

“Wait—” Sonic interrupts. He sets down his mug. He rubs the underside of his nose with his thumb for a moment. “Are you… are you, um, asking me to make it legal?” He has been drinking like the end of the world is approaching. In a way, it kind of is for him since he’s about to leave this world and never return. Kay glances away at the remembrance. His fingers open and close against his thighs. He wishes he were drinking himself right now, but he told himself that he wouldn’t. One of them needs to stay sober… he also doesn’t want to get drunk anymore. Not until he’s certain he can control himself and that it won’t become a problem again. 

“Mmmhmm,” Lamorak nods. He pulls himself onto the table, letting his chest bump against the edge. He leans toward Sonic beside him. “Do it before you leave.”

“I should make everything legal before I leave,” Sonic says with a gasp like he’s only just thought of this. Kay’s brows furrow together. Sonic is… a unique drunk. One of the strangest Kay has ever seen. Despite how much he’s been drinking, he’s only just now showing signs of being tipsy. Kay figures it must have something to do with how his Soul Surge is enhanced speed. Or maybe people from his world take more to get drunk. Kay isn’t sure, and he knows he won’t be getting answers from Sonic while he’s like this.

“We should not do that,” Gawain says, pointing at Lamorak and Sonic.

“Buzzkill,” Sonic mutters. Lamorak nods in agreement. Kay doesn’t know if it has anything to do with the nodding, but Lamorak falls out of his chair a second later. It’s so sudden that Kay flinches at his disappearance. Sonic is already laughing with his entire chest by the time Kay has his wits about him. Gawain is even chuckling and shaking his head. Kay huffs, dropping his forehead into his palm.

“Ugh, I’ll get him.” Kay lifts his head. Lamorak is walking across the room. Gawain hops from his own chair to the ground to follow after the hawk. They disappear into the crowd before Kay can stop either of them. He should go after them, too, but that would be leaving Sonic at the table drunk. Although he’s wearing a cloak, Kay doesn’t trust that no one is going to recognize them. Alcohol might blur a few visions, but it could also grant the liquid courage needed to fight the king just to say that it was done or to kidnap him for a reward. No one knows there’s going to be coronation soon, after all.

Kay does get up, however, when Sonic drops down onto the ground beside his chair. He grabs the back of Lamorak’s chair, swinging himself around it. He stumbles the final stretch to Kay’s side. The knight grabs Sonic’s shoulders, helping steady the azure hedgehog. Sonic misinterprets this immediately. His arms fling around the underside of Kay’s armpits. He pulls the knight against him, hugging Kay with a tightness that nearly makes Kay wheeze. He doesn’t pull away from the former king, however. Kay just pats the king’s back and listens to him repeatedly bumble through Kay’s name. At least his name isn’t that complicated.

Sonic pulls away first. He puts his paws on Kay’s shoulders. He stares right into Kay’s eyes. “Serious time.” After that, he shakes his head so quickly that all Kay sees is a blue smear with a hint of illumination around the edges. Once he’s done, Sonic does look significantly more sober. His voice, too, only slurs along the corners. Kay would be fascinated by this if he didn’t register Sonic’s words. “I came out tonight because I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?” Kay prompts.

Sonic takes a deep breath. He drops his paws from Kay’s shoulders. He draws them to himself, not quite crossing his arms but getting close to it. “I just wanted to make sure that I said goodbye to you one-on-one. After everything that happened with the last Arthur, you deserve a reassurance.”

“You do not need to do this. It is not a problem,” Kay reassures him. Sonic gives him a disbelieving, twisted look. Kay chuckles, looking away. “It was never your problem.”

“Don’t be like that. Anything that concerns you concerns me. That’s what friendship is all about,” Sonic argues.

Kay arches a brow at the azure hedgehog. “Friendship?”

Sonic nods fervently. “I said what I said. All of you are my friends. You’re my friend. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I mean, you’ve helped me so much in the past year.” Sonic reaches forward to brush his knuckles along the front of Kay’s shirt, someone knowing exactly where the bandages from Galatine reside. “You got seriously hurt because of me.”

“It wasn’t because of you,” Kay assures him, reaching up to grab Sonic’s paw to keep him from truly feeling the still-scarring wound and seeing how deep it was.

“It was because of my orders,” Sonic reminds Kay.

Kay shakes his head. “Not entirely. I went to those hills with Dame Percival because of your orders, but every choice I made there was my own. You can’t take that away from me.”

Sonic’s mouth parts and his eyes widen. In the end, he smiles. “No… no, I can’t.” Sonic sighs, lifting a paw to brush against his forehead. He moves it back, through his quills. “Well, I still wanted to say goodbye to you personally. I don’t want my departure to hurt you.”

“It’s going to hurt me,” Kay says. When Sonic shows him a pained expression, Kay chuckles under his breath. “But not like how losing the other Arthur hurt me. You were real. Everything we’ve done together, and everything you made me feel was real. There was never a memory I shared with you that was fake. And that’s all I could have wanted. I’m going to miss you, and I know that’s going to hurt. But I’m not going to destroy myself over it like I did last time. I’m going to keep living and being happy, just like you taught me and the others to do. So… don’t have any regrets on my account.”

Sonic smiles openly. “I wish you all the best.”

“And I, you,” Kay smiles back.

The bubble of their happy moment is popped when Gawain reappears. Lamorak lies on his back as Gawain gives him what Sonic would always call a ‘piggy-back ride.’ Sonic and Kay look on with confusion. Gawain huffs. “Got himself hit with a chair. Unfortunately, still alive, so I’m gonna take him back to the castle.”

As Gawain starts walking to the door, Sonic hurries after him. “Wait, wait! Tell me how he got hit with a chair! Come on, Gawain, stop holding out on me. Please…”

Sonic’s voice becomes lost in the crowd. Kay turns toward the table. He sets the right amount of coins on the wooden surface. His vision travels to the mugs left on the table. The temptation echoes inside of him, but he easily dismisses it with a smile. He walks away from the table, hoping to catch up with the others in time to hear the story.

Chapter Text

Despite running too fast for anyone to see him, Sonic still wears a dark cloak over his body to prevent himself from being recognized. The townspeople would slow him down since they love calling out to him and he’s never been one to deny a conversation. Right now, however, he has an important task to accomplish in a timely manner. It will be easier for everyone involved if he just wrapped himself up in shadows to hide his identity as best he can.

Sonic stops in front of a workshop in the city surrounding the castle. He taps his fingers against the threshold, glancing around the wooden storefront. He isn’t sure what he was looking for, but he doesn’t find it and he’s pleased with that. He steps into the workshop. Heat brushes against his cheeks. The homeliness of the interior eases a tension he hadn’t known was building inside his chest. He presses his fingers against his heart, crossing the length of the room to the counter in the back. He pulls down his hood, widening his vision so he can find the person he’s looking for.

“Your Majesty!” A voice calls out. Sonic turns his attention to the side. There is a figure standing on the other side of the counter. It is not the person Sonic came here to see. It isn’t the blacksmith, after all, but rather the seamstress from a tailor shop several buildings down.

“Lady Honey,” Sonic smiles. Even if this isn’t the blacksmith, Sonic isn’t disappointed. Lady Honey is one of his companions in this world. He crosses his arms over the top of the counter, leaning closer to her. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be working on the outfits for the coronation?”

“I’ve already finished yours and Mordred’s,” Lady Honey promises. She places both of her paws on the edge of the counter. She taps her fingers in a rhythmic pattern only for herself to understand. “The other outfits were giving me a little bit of trouble. I came here to take a break and get some inspiration. It seems that was a good decision. Where else would I have been able to cross paths with my muse?”

Sonic chuckles. “I guess the only way to make sure the others look as good as me is to use me as a reference point.”

“That’s one way to put it, Your Majesty,” Lady Honey replies with her own laughter.

Once it pitters back into silence, Sonic’s smile diminishes slightly. He awkwardly turns his attention away from Lady Honey. “You know… you don’t have to call me that anymore. I go by Sonic nowadays.” He gestures to his crownless head. “No signs of being a king.”

Lady Honey’s mouth opens. Whatever she was going to say dies on her tongue. She sighs instead. Sonic doesn’t necessarily feel bad, but there is something twisting unnaturally at her expression. Sonic reaches his paw across the countertop, planning on reminding her that he’s still the same hedgehog he’s always been despite the title. His own words are cut off by Lady Honey seizing forward to grab the paw he was moving in both of her own. “If that’s the case, please just call me ‘Honey.’ I mean, you never needed to refer to me by the title of ‘lady,’ anyway, since you gave me that status, but… still, let’s genuinely be friends in whatever time you have left in Camelot.”

“I like the sound of that,” Sonic declares, wiggling his paw around so he can attempt at squeezing her paw comfortingly. He doesn’t exactly do what he set out to do. Honey shakes her head from amusement at Sonic’s failure. He snorts, deciding that is worth the embarrassment of his misstep. “I’m leaving a little after the coronation, by the way. The people who came for me aren’t going to let me stay longer for that. I’m pretty sure they’d just knock me out and drag me back to our dimension.”

Sonic says it so lightheartedly that Honey treats it like a funny joke. Sonic decidedly doesn’t tell her that he isn’t joking. Rouge might have the decency to make it painless, but Shadow and Omega would not grant him such  mercies. If Sonic wants to remain conscious on his way back, he has to do it within a day or two of the coronation. But he doesn’t really mind. He’s only going through the coronation as formality to make sure the nobles don’t treat Mordred as lesser than he is. If he had it his way, he would have already left. Staying here is starting to hurt his heart and wear down his soul. The temptation to never go back to his dimension grows stronger, only mitigated by seeing Team Dark walking around Camelot Castle and reminding Sonic that he has to go back.

“We should all do something before you leave. I know there’s the celebration after the coronation, but you’ll probably have to deal with the nobility rather than spending your time with your friends,” Honey says. She lifts her paw to her chin, holding onto it to project an image of someone contemplating something with great intensity. Honey is doing exactly that, but her demeanor doesn’t imply that she’s thinking about a hangout session.

“I’m always up for having fun. We could go hunting for monsters of the Underworld,” Sonic notes. The monsters aren’t that different from the Badniks he has to fight in his home dimension, and he’s always had fun fighting against them. It’s going to be different without having Eggman to tease while he’s doing it, but maybe he can practice his taunting. Eggman won’t know what hit him when Sonic finally returns; he’s going on a Badnik extermination campaign to make up for lost time.

“Or… we could head to Lady Nimue’s pavilion. The surrounding waters are so clear. We can go swimming and bring food,” Honey counters with something less violent. Sonic narrows his eyes slightly. He isn’t a big fan of swimming. Water just isn’t his favorite liquid. He also doesn’t know about going to see Lady Nimue. Not because of her, necessarily, but because he doesn’t want to cross paths with Maria or Morgan le Fey for two very different reasons.

“We’ll think of something,” Sonic says. Honey’s brows furrow together, but she eventually nods at him in acceptance of his choice not to go swimming. She returns to her thoughtful expression. Sonic drops his cheek against his arms, deciding to leave the planning to someone far more capable than him. This is why Percival and Kay were the ones who planned his schedule; Sonic is awful at this.

“What’s going on out here?” A new voice adds. Sonic throws his head back up. Honey looks over her shoulder. The blacksmith steps out of the backroom where his work station is. He wipes his forehead with the edge of his glove around his elbow. He holds a rag in his other paw. As he tosses it over his shoulder, he makes eye contact with Sonic. The hedgehog’s heart squeezes, leaving him breathless. He already knew the blacksmith looked like Tails, but seeing him right now just reminds Sonic that it’s been over a year since he’s seen his brother. He’s been away from Tails before, but never for this long, so it really shocks him how much he misses his little buddy.

Sonic swallows thickly. The heartache is pushed down to the bottom of his soul, unable to contaminate his voice with its shakiness. “Hey, Smithy. Honey and I were just chatting about this and that. How are you?”

Smithy smiles. He reaches the countertop, pulling himself up onto a stool to make himself stand over it. The closer proximity doesn’t help Sonic in the slightest, but he can’t tell the owner of the shop to stand on the other side of the room (and he’s not going to use his ‘authority’ to do so because he’s trying not to be king anymore and because he’d never take someone’s freedom of choice like that). “I’m doing good, Your—” Smithy cuts himself off. Sonic stares at the kit, but he notices Honey subtly shaking her head in his peripheral vision. Smithy nods slowly. He brings his eyes back to the hedgehog. “Sonic… right?”

“Right! I’m Sonic the Hedgehog, the fastest thing in the universe.” He automatically puts himself in the position of this familiar mantra’s pose. Sonic lets his arms drop and straightens his legs. It’s strange how a year wasn’t enough time for him to forget all these familiar qualities about himself.

“An impressive title, to be sure,” Smithy chuckles.

“And one we’ve seen to be true,” Honey reminds him, brushing her shoulder against Smithy’s. 

“Speaking of that, I don’t think I ever thanked the both of you,” Sonic mutters, scratching his jawline. He looks to Smithy first. “Thank you for choosing to fight for me. I know that’s not usually your style, but your assistance was invaluable.” He then meets Honey’s warm irises. “And thank you for fighting against me. If it wasn’t for you, I probably would have stayed as Arthur without ever remembering who I truly am.”

“I don’t need any thanks. I only decided to help because you’re my friend. And you were a good king. I was happy to show my loyalty,” Smithy waves his paw, properly abashed in a way that’s similar to his counterpart from another dimension. “And in any case, I may or may not have gotten caught in the end. I wasn’t as much help as you thought I was.”

“And I hurt you, remember?” Honey asks, lowering her vision to the countertop. She folds her fingers together, squeezing tight enough that Sonic just knows she’s not in the present moment with them anymore. If he were to guess, he thinks she’s remembering that time after his inspection of a frontier village. Sonic still remembers it, too. Even with all the adventures he’s been on, that pain ranks pretty high in how harsh it was for him. It was enough that Sonic genuinely thought he was going to die. The ensuing fight afterwards only wounded him further. All the cuts and punches and kicks were nothing compared to how heavy his heart felt in his chest at the betrayal he thought he was experiencing.

The betrayal that was only a misunderstanding he could have corrected immediately if he hadn’t let his pain and anger control him. Sonic supposes this is another point in making sure to keep his emotions in order, lest he ruin his relationships in the future.

“I hurt you, too. I remember cutting your arm. I’m certain that hurt,” Sonic corrects. He looks down at the same spot Honey is staring at. “And, well, calling you an assassin and branding you as a traitor to the realm probably didn’t help the healing process.”

“I was never angry with you,” Honey promises.

“But you were still hurt,” Sonic says knowingly. Honey breathes in sharply through her nose, looking away from him. He smiles, tapping his paws against the countertop. “But all of that is best left in the past. What happened, happened. It’s time for us to move on with our lives.”

“Agreed,” Honey nods.

“You got it,” Smithy adds. He leans against the counter. “Now, I know Honey came to spend time with me, but what’s your reason for being here, Sonic?”

“The coronation is coming up, remember?” Sonic pushes aside his cloak. He wraps his fingers around the scabbard tied to his belt. He sets it down on the counter between them, keeping Caliburn hidden away to avoid listening to the sword. The two of them have had many arguments in the past few days—in the past year—and Sonic doesn’t want to deal with that right now, especially not when he’s in front of company. “I want to get Caliburn sharpened and cleaned. He needs to look his best, after all.”

“Of course! He’ll be the loveliest sword in the entire hall,” Smithy says. He takes the scabbard into both of his paws. Despite Caliburn’s weight, Smithy shows no signs of being dragged down. He might look like a small kit, but there’s a reason he’s renowned throughout the entire kingdom.

“Are you not going to use Excalibur?” Honey asks.

“And hide the outfit you’ve made for me beneath that gold armor?” Sonic responds, arching a brow at her. Honey deadpans at him. Sonic rolls his shoulder with a laugh. “No, I’m not using Excalibur. That form should only be used for emergencies. I wouldn’t want to make anyone sick from being surrounded by that much power, anyway. It’s not something everyone can handle.”

“Is that so? I was really hoping to see that form again. It was so… inspiring.”

“I think that’s the point. I channel the wishes and desires of the people of Camelot,” Sonic explains. He doesn’t think he’s ever spoken words like this aloud. Not just about Excalibur but also his super form. There’s something strange about it. “Maybe I’ll show it to you later.”

“Oh, I want to see it, too!” Smithy waves his paw into the air. “I won’t be able to make armor that looks exactly like it, but I’d love to try.”

“Fine. If you two stay back, I’ll show you before I leave… probably,” Sonic puts his hands up. He steps away from the counter. “Speaking of leaving, though, I gotta head out now. I didn’t actually tell anyone I was leaving the castle. I might not be Arthur more, but everyone still likes knowing where I’m at. Guess I’m still king until I pass the crown on.”

Sonic smirks as Honey and Smithy start reprimanding him for leaving without telling anyone. He waves goodbye to them, and then activates his speed to start running away from the workshop and heading back to Camelot Castle. 

Because of her status as a duchess, Lady Iseult’s seat is in one of the balconies overlooking the church below. From this position, she’s able to see the entire room. All of the pews are filled with the denizens of Camelot, regardless of their status. At the front of the room, the knights are standing in a precise, tight half-circle. Their armor gleams pristinely in the sunlight piercing through the stained glass windows. They hold their weapons, prepared to swear an oath to their new king and protect both his and the former king’s lives in case anyone shows resistance to the passing of the crown. The former king stands among them, wearing a rather official outfit that could have only come from Lady Honey’s shop. He holds Caliburn in his paws. 

Lady Iseult smiles faintly. Although the atmosphere is hushed and bloated with importance, Lady Iseult’s heart beats easily in her chest. There’s no fear or worry for the future in her soul. She’s simply coasting along the happiness that she knows the others feel even if they don’t let themselves show it. Arthur—Sonic, she was told—is the only other person in the room to wear a bright smile. His eyes are absolutely sparkling, and Iseult can tell that much even from this distance. His joy is infectious, which is half the reason she’s beaming right down at him and everyone else.

Another reason would have to be Tristan. He, obviously, stands with the other Knights of the Round Table. She’s seen his armor a million times already, but she could never tire of it. She especially likes looking at when he’s holding the sword and shield that she taught him how to make. It fills her with self-pride, and there’s not much in her life that allows her to see that much.

“Is this seat taken?” 

Iseult startles. She whirls around. Her eyes land on a figure even though she should have been on the balcony by herself. Before Iseult can summon protective magic, the figure lifts the visor of their helmet. Iseult’s brows furrow together. She quickly looks between the knight among his peers and the one standing behind the other chair. Iseult eventually keeps her eyes on the knight beside her. Quietly, as to not disturb the other nobles or attract any attention to herself, she hisses, “What are you doing here? How are you here?”

“Sir Agravain owed me a favor. He’s created an illusion down there. Do not be so angry, my love, I will return in time to swear my oath to our new king,” Tristan responds. He walks around the chair. He sits on the edge of it, hunching his entire body over the arm beside him. Tristan reaches out to take her hand, cupping both of his paws around it. “I wanted to spend a moment with you. Is that too difficult to believe?”

Iseult huffs, shaking her head at his antics. “As long as you return when Sir Mordred enters, I will refrain from being too upset.”

Tristan smiles openly. “You have all my gratitude.”

Iseult tilts her attention away from him, ignoring how warm her ears feel from seeing that smile. Luckily, her embarrassment is diminished by looking back at the knights. Even with the knowledge that any number of them can be illusions crafted by Agravain’s magic, at least some of them have to be genuinely down there. The rest were a conscious decision on Agravain’s part, too. This proves to everyone what they’ve already been told—that the king has forgiven the traitors to the realm. The details about this forgiveness were as obscured as the details about why they were made into traitors in the first place, but everyone has seen the crack coming from Camlann’s hills. Iseult, personally, has seen renditions of that epic fight in reflective surfaces all over the castle until she’s gotten the complete picture of what happened.

Because of that magnetic charisma of his, Iseult’s eyes naturally snap to Sonic again. He’s still smiling with bright eyes. Nothing has changed with him, but Iseult sees him in a new light as she thinks about the hardships he went through and the conflicts he suffered. His life was lost for a few precious moments, and it was only because of Mordred’s attempted sacrifice that it was returned to him. After seeing all of that, Iseult could only cry, mourning for two souls that were technically still alive. Iseult calmed herself down, but the memories linger with their accompanying pain.

“He’s strong,” Tristan murmurs. Iseult’s eyes snap toward him. Tristan is also staring at the king. Iseult’s expression crumples. No matter how close she was with Arthur, Tristan was even more so. Iseult knows that Tristan wholeheartedly believed and trusted Arthur. He would have followed his king into any darkened corner of the Underworld. This wasn’t just because Arthur was a near-perfect ruler during his short reign. It was also because Arthur helped Tristan fight against destiny—because he proved that Camelot is not bound by prophecies, not even Iseult’s own (even though all of her predictions came true about the events leading up to and after the ‘betrayal’). “I know he’s going to be able to do this.”

“What about you?” Iseult asks softly.

Tristan’s head jolts, trembling softly in something too tight to be a shake of his head. He does, however, turn to look at Iseult. “What about me?”

“Are you going to be able to do this? You are having to say goodbye to a friend you have known for so long and a king you desired to serve until your last breath,” Iseult reminds him. Because of the coronation, they haven’t had much time to talk to one another, especially about matters as important as this one. Iseult knows that this isn’t a good time, but she needs to know that Tristan is going to be fine when he goes back down to swear his oath to Mordred.

“Your concern always eases my heart,” Tristan admits. Iseult bites the inside of her cheek, refusing to be distracted by romantic words. Realizing this, Tristan releases an airy chuckle. He lifts her hand, pressing his cheek against the back of it. This allows him to break eye contact with Iseult. “I could never lie to you, nor could I utter any falsehoods about this. It will be difficult. I know I will struggle to adjust. Yet I also know that this is what my king wants. He has a home and a family he wishes to return to. There is a world he loves more than this one. My loyalty would mean nothing if I stopped him now. And it isn’t as if I do not also possess faith in Sir Mordred. He has stood against fate, same as you and I. To believe him incapable of maintaining this would be a disservice to us. Do you understand?”

Iseult raises her other hand, shifting her body to face Tristan. She cradles his cheek with just enough force to bring his eyes back to her own. He looks half-startled as they make eye contact. Iseult smiles warmly at him. In his eyes, she sees a pleasant future. Though she doesn’t know if that’s a product of her innate magic or her hope, she chooses to trust in it as much as she trusts Tristan… as much as she trusts Sonic. “I understand. Your loyalty to the king is the reason you are able to let him go. It is admirable. Please hold onto such qualities in the future. If not for your own sake, then for our dear Sir Mordred.”

Tristan is about to answer, but the trumpets start playing to signify Mordred’s entrance. Tristan huffs. Iseult smiles, nudging him away from her. Tristan lifts from the seat but keeps his body bent forward. He kisses the back of Iseult’s hand. “I will see you at the celebration.”

“I will see you, then,” Iseult nods. Tristan turns away from her. He leaves the balcony. Iseult turns her attention back to the people below. Mordred is already walking between the pews. Despite all the worries swirling around the room about if Mordred will be a proper king, Sonic’s sunny expression does everything it needs to do in order to ease every single soul, including Iseult’s own.

She can’t wait to see what future befalls Camelot now.

Galahad leaves the crowd near the center of the ballroom. He doesn’t stop walking until he steps into the darkness surrounding the perimeter of the room. There are a few individuals in this darkness, but Galahad only cares about the knight clad in black armor. To others, he might be able to hide his presence. To Galahad, he’s always a fixture point at the edges of his mind. Lancelot is, after all, his father, for better or for worse, and what kind of parent would be if Galahad couldn’t find him no matter where he was hiding?

Lancelot notices Galahad. The dark knight’s voice is toneless as he speaks, “Galahad. Are you enjoying the—”

“Did you tell him?” Galahad interrupts. The party is, honestly, fine. Galahad isn’t having an unenjoyable time. He just doesn’t want to talk about the celebration, especially not with his father and not when they have something more important to discuss. This important topic is the same person Lancelot is staring at from across the room, the one standing at the center of the crowd but more specifically with the people from that other world—with that doppelganger, too.

Lancelot exhales out his nose. “He knows. I know how he feels, too. We decided to go our separate ways.”

“That… doesn’t make sense,” Galahad admits softly, brows furrowing together. “Shouldn’t you be together now? Isn’t that how it works?”

Lancelot shakes his head. He looks back at Sonic laughing with Shadow, Rouge, and Omega. Between the slits of his helmet, Galahad can see his eyes soften. A small smile creeps onto his face. “He has his world. I have mine. Being together is impossible given this separation.”

“You aren’t needed here,” Galahad argues.

Lancelot flinches, looking at Galahad. “What are you…?”

“You don’t need to be here. You could go with him. We can talk to Merlina about sending you, too.” Galahad tries turning around, knowing that Merlina is somewhere in this crowd.

He stops when Lancelot grabs his wrist. Galahad pulls for a few seconds. When he can’t break free, he turns on his heel to stare into Lancelot’s eyes. The ebony hedgehog’s face is layered with confusion. “Where is this coming from? Why do you want me to leave so badly? Were you not hoping that my confession would make him stay?”

“I…” Galahad trails off. While he would like for Sonic to stay, he’s already accepted that Sonic won’t. He’s accepted the reasoning why, too. He’s not necessarily good with this, but he’s fine. He isn’t going to fight it. He’s just going to hold onto the precious memories. But that doesn’t answer Lancelot’s question. Why does Galahad care so much? It’s a simple answer. It’s one he’s had in his mind for a long time. He just never thought he would be admitting it to Lancelot. He considers lying, but the truth spills out of him. “I… I want you to be happy. I know I make you miserable, but he always made you happy. If you go with him, you’ll be happy. That’s why—”

Galahad’s words are cut off as he’s yanked to the side. Lancelot releases his wrist only to wrap his arms around Galahad’s shoulders. The armor is cold, but the touch is almost blistering hot to Galahad as he realizes he’s getting hugged. “That’s not true,” Lancelot sternly declares. “He did make me happy, yes, but so have you. There has never been a moment when you made me miserable.” Lancelot pulls back slightly. He raises his paws from Galahad’s shoulders to his cheeks. A genuine smile appears on his face. “I’m going to stay here. I swore to protect this nation. I’ve sworn an oath to follow our new king. And my son is here. What reason do I have to leave?”

Galahad isn’t sure what to say to that, so he shoves his way forward for another hug. Surprisingly, Lancelot hugs him back for a second time. Galahad sinks into the comfort. With half-lidded eyes, he looks across the room only to find Sonic staring at him. The azure hedgehog grins. Galahad smiles back at him, feeling more at ease about letting him go. He hopes Sonic will be happy, too. Just as happy as Galahad is right now.

Chapter Text

Bedivere reaches his arms high above his head in an attempt to stretch them. The strained muscles silently but ferociously howl out in pain. It doesn’t take long for Bedivere’s arms to simply give up on this pursuit, dropping weightlessly to his sides. They swing slightly with every step he takes, and he can pretend this is the reason for their faint trembling. The real reason, of course, is because he is returning to Camelot Castle from a mission to exterminate monsters of the Underworld from the western regions. Although their entire kingdom is changing because of the coronation of the new king, the monsters are not aware of this. They do not care about this. They continue to attack regardless of the world’s changing circumstances. The knights were instructed to cease both their celebrating and mourning for the time being to handle the threat to the townspeople. 

“Did you three crawl out of a mudhole?” A voice calls out. Bedivere’s entire body jolts with surprise. All this serves to do is send a flash of pain through him. Through a wincing expression, he notices Sonic leaning against the stone wall surrounding Camelot Castle, right beside one of the few gates into the city surrounding the castle. Other than his gloves and an odd pair of shoes, Sonic only wears a leather belt with a scabbard filled with Calibur. He no longer bothers with the regalia that once marked him as a king. He’s given up that title, but it’s only a technicality. There’s still something regal about Sonic even when he’s relaxed and wearing a teasing expression.

This contrasts greatly with the three knights approaching him. Bedivere, Percival, and Agravain might be wearing their armor, but they are all covered completely in thick, dark brown-black dirt. Blades of grass and weeds are stuck in the dried mud, acting like they might be able to make a new home here on the armor. Bedivere wants nothing more than to strip off his armor and throw a bucket of water over himself. He’s got mud in place that mud shouldn’t go, and the discomfort has a higher chance of killing him than even the monsters they just fought did.

“Such statements are not entirely fictitious,” Percival answers. She reaches to her shoulder to pull off a dead leaf. She flicks it away from herself. The wind catches the leaf, carrying it further afield before setting it gently on the dirt path leading up to the gate. “What happenstance has brought you here, Y—er, Sir Sonic?”

An argumentative expression appears and just as quickly disappears from Sonic’s face. He shrugs his shoulders, muttering under his breath. “I guess that’s better.” Sonic brings his eyes back to them. “I wanted to say goodbye. I’m leaving later today.”

Although it should be impossible, Bedivere’s heart suddenly hurts worse than his body does. He can tell that the others feel the same, even if they both try so hard not to make this truth evident. Sonic has only been their king for a little over a year, but he’s become so important to all of them. From the very moment Bedivere met Sonic (or Arthur, as he was known at the time), he knew that this hedgehog would always have his loyalty. Of course, Bedivere no longer means that in the capacity as a king and his knight. Bedivere, after all, has sworn an oath to Mordred, and Bedivere doesn’t regret that choice for an instant.

No, his loyalty to Sonic is built entirely on companionship. Through the many missions and meetings, they have become more than comrade-in-arms. They have become friends. Bedivere has always considered them as such despite it being improper for the differences in their station. Sonic, for his part, encouraged this behavior. Even now, he looks at Bedivere, Percival, and Agravain like they’re some of the closest friends he’s ever known. This goodbye hurts him as much as it hurts them, yet they all know that it is an inevitability. Sonic has to leave, and it’s better to do this after a proper farewell. If they don’t do this now, they’ll never do it, and Bedivere needs this closure. He’s certain they all need it.

Agravain steps forward first. The jackal offers his paw to Sonic. Despite the confusion in his emerald eyes, Sonic grabs onto Agravain’s paw without any hesitation. Firstly, Agravain shakes Sonic’s paw in a manner befitting merchants rather than a former king and a Knight of the Round Table. Secondly, though, Agravain doesn’t let go. Sonic doesn’t, either. He waits patiently for Agravain to finally find either his voice or the words he wants to say. “It was an honor to serve you. Good luck on your future ventures. Just know that when you return, I’ll be the strongest Knight of the Round Table.”

Percival and Bedivere share a disbelieving look. While Percival’s expression is likely because she doesn’t think Agravain will ever surpass her, Bedivere just can’t believe Agravain would blatantly say that to Sonic’s face. Bedivere himself doesn’t possess any grand delusions that he’ll one day be the strongest. He only hopes to become stronger than he currently is, shortening the gap between himself and everyone else knowing damn well he won’t ever cross it. His unique weapon gives him an advantage, but the others have a natural skill and a dedication that Bedivere simply doesn’t.

Bedivere’s worries about Agravain’s words are put to rest by Sonic’s loud, light-hearted laughter. The hedgehog throws his entire back, letting his amusement be known to the heavens above. When he finishes, he reaches forward to lift Agravain’s helmet. This allows them to make eye contact without anything getting in their way. “I believe you can do it. You better prove me right, Sir Agravain.”

The surprise on Agravain’s melts slowly. It reveals an expression of excitement and a competitive drive. There are many who consider Agravain to be a fool, but Sonic—per usual—believes in his knights with his entire being. Bedivere can’t help the small smile that creeps on his face. That, he thinks, is Sonic’s greatest strength. More than his fighting prowess or his indomitable spirit, there is something so enriching about Sonic’s steadfast faith in the people who are inevitably drawn into his orbit. His mere presence inspires them all to be better themselves. It fills them with a drive to go beyond their limits just because they want so desperately to prove to the world and themselves that Sonic’s belief wasn’t misplaced.

At least, that’s the way Bedivere sees it. And he sees it this way because he’s experienced it before. Although the illusion known as Arthur made him a Knight of the Round Table, Bedivere didn’t think he was worthy of the position until Sonic was there, encouraging him with every smile and compliment. From there, Bedivere wanted to be the best Knight of the Round Table he could be. He still thinks he has room to grow, but Bedivere will endeavor to truthfully say that he’s gotten that far when Sonic does come back to check on Agravain’s progress (and to see them all).

“Of course,” Agravain promises. He releases Sonic’s paw. Without being dismissed, he moves through the gate. The others watch him go. Sonic is still smiling. Bedivere is, too, only because Agravain seems more energized than he was when they were walking back. It’s a little silly since he was the one complaining the loudest about how his body hurt (which isn’t technically fair to say. Percival hardly ever complains, and Bedivere knows that he would have usurped that title from Agravain if he could use his voice as often as he wanted).

“I suppose I am next,” Percival murmurs. She steps toward Sonic. The hedgehog turns to look at her. Percival stares at the ground between their feet with a hardened expression. Sonic reaches a paw forward. He misses her shoulder because Percival suddenly drops onto her knee. After catching himself, Sonic looks at her with an expression bordering disappointment. Bedivere knows Percival is about to be lectured for kneeling. She must know it, too, because she shakes her head. “Allow me to do this.”

Sonic sighs. He sets his paws on his sides. “What’s this about?”

Percival inhales deeply. As she exhales, she puts herself in the proper kneeling position. She is the perfect image of a knight swearing fealty to their lord. “I was one of the first knights you met, both the first time you came to Camelot and the time you came over a year ago. It is not untrue to say I was one of the first knights to accept you as my liege—as Camelot’s king. I trusted you because I had seen you in action. I had personally come to know your strength, wisdom, and courage. These are traits that I aspire to emulate in my service as a Knight of the Round Table to my homeland. You have my gratitude for showing me what it truly means to be a knight.”

“Don’t be like that. You’re already plenty strong, wise, and courageous. You were the one that did half the paperwork on my behalf. That’s something I could never achieve on my own,” Sonic replies. There’s a lilting cadence to his voice, but it fails to mask the earnest respect Sonic has for Percival. He doesn’t just hold her in his thoughts because she was the equivalent of a good secretary. She was genuinely a perfect knight in his eyes with a precision and determination that defines her so well as a knight of the realm.

“Perhaps, but I cannot deny that many of my good qualities were made greater by following you,” Percival declares with more than formality in her voice. There’s a unique kind of joy—something brighter than even in the fire she’s able to conjure in her paws. It’s so infectious that Bedivere finds himself smiling, clutching at his breastplate like he could wrap his fingers around his rapidly beating heart to slow it down. This is impossible, so Bedivere finds himself with a strange warmth filling his entire soul at another’s happiness.

“You were already great,” Sonic promises. He reaches forward to grab onto Percival’s shoulders. Likely because she was just fighting monsters for multiple hours, it doesn’t take much effort for Sonic to hoist the Knight of the Holy Grail onto her feet. Sonic keeps his paws on her shoulders, clutching with so much force that she might be able to feel it through her armor. “You were more than my knight, Percival. You were my friend. You were right earlier; you were one of the first people to accept me. You have my gratitude for that. You have my thanks for everything you’ve done for me while I was here. Just like with Agravain, I can’t wait to see how much you grow when I come back for a visit. Never give up on yourself and your pursuits, okay?”

“O-kay,” Percival repeats, placing the emphasis on a different part of the word from Sonic. Bedivere is in the same boat as her. He does not know what ‘okay’ means. He thinks it’s an affirmative, though.

“Don’t be too harsh on Marine.”

“I will be appropriately instructive.”

Sonic pats the metal covering the part where Percival’s shoulder meets her back. This sends Percival on her way. She and Sonic wave goodbye to each other until they can no longer be seen by the other. From his position, Bedivere is able to see Percival for a little while longer. She faces forward, nothing but resolution in her stride. Bedivere wonders what it would be like to have even an ounce of her unwavering confidence. He imagines it would be so much different than his own determination.

“Bedivere.” The crimson wolf’s attention snaps away from Percival to the former king. Sonic pats the space on the wall behind him. Without any argument, Bedivere turns himself around to press his back against the stones. Sonic nudges their shoulders together. “Don’t think I forgot you.”

Bedivere would never. This must be clear on his expression because Sonic chuckles openly to himself. It isn’t as loud or jubilant as the laugh he gave Agravain, but it’s sweet in its own right. Bedivere enjoys the sound of it. He doubts there’s a laugh of Sonic’s that he wouldn’t enjoy, though.

“I wanted to thank you.” Bedivere’s brows furrow together in confusion. He goes over everything he could have done that Sonic would want to personally thank him for. The most he can come up with is hunting monsters of the Underworld, but he highly doubts that’s what this is about. Sonic, fortunately, has mercy upon Bedivere when he decides to explain the matter to him. “First, you fought for me. When I deemed the others to be traitors, you took up arms against your friends because I asked you to. That’s a debt I can never repay.”

Bedivere turns to the side, lifting off the wall but still standing right beside it. He needs to find a way to explain that what Bedivere did doesn’t deserve thanks. While he can’t truthfully say there was no struggle for him to raise his weapon against his fellow knights, Bedivere would have done it a million times over. This is because all Sonic asked of them was to capture the other knights. He didn’t want them dead even though they had, in his eyes, attempted to assassinate him (which they both kind of did and didn’t do. It’s far more complicated and delicate than Bedivere wants to mess around with). There is a kindness in that decision, one that made reaffirmed for the millionth time why Bedivere swore to accept every single one of Sonic’s commands.

These words do not leave his lips. They aren’t able to because Sonic turns to look at Bedivere, mirroring his body language with only subtle differences. “More than that, you chose to stand against Tristan when he was in that other form. You knew he was more powerful than you, yet you got in his way to protect Agravain. You spoke in order to protect Tristan from the monster he could have become. I know more than most how hard that must have been. I used to be mute, too, if you can believe it. I still am, sometimes, but that’s not what we’re talking about right now.”

Bedivere startles. Not because Sonic was once mute, too; Bedivere isn’t thinking about that right now (but he definitely is later). No, he flinches back because Sonic shouldn’t know about that. Tristan and Bedivere agreed not to tell Sonic all the details. They didn’t want him to know about Agravain’s attempted murder (which he and Bedivere have already reconciled with each other about the matter).

Sonic smiles at Bedivere’s reaction. “Agravain told me the truth. I really should have legally changed how duels work.” Sonic shrugs. “Oh, well, I’m sure my predecessor will handle that on my behalf.”

Bedivere nods slowly. As he considers that, Sonic sets his paw on one of Bedivere’s shoulders. The wolf glances at it before lifting his eyes to Sonic’s emerald irises. They have been turned into crescents by Sonic’s soft, serene smile. But there’s another emotion in that smile—in those eyes. Sonic spells it out plainly with his next words, “I’m so proud of you. More than you’ll ever know. I know you don’t have a high opinion of yourself, but you should. You’ve done so much and come so far. You’re going to reach heights that others can only dream of, only if you believe in yourself. Do you understand me?”

Bedivere understands. He doesn’t quite believe it, though, not until he forces himself to meet Sonic’s eyes unflinchingly. In an instant, he feels like he really could become the strongest knight, just because Sonic says he could. Bedivere doesn’t know if that’s actually possible, but he wants to try. He wants Sonic to still be proud of him when he comes for this visit in the future. Because of this, he makes certain to nod deliberately at the azure hedgehog.

Sonic’s grin widens even further. “One more thing, I have a favor I need to ask of you. You’re the only one I trust enough for this.” Sonic unhooks the scabbard from his belt. He holds it in both paws, staring down at the leather with a tense expression. “I need you to bring Caliburn back to Lady Nimue.”

Bedivere knows that’s his nickname, but it still feels odd for Sonic to trust him so much that he would ask this of him. Then again, Lady Nimue was the one who permitted Bedivere to hold onto Caliburn during the time when there was no King Arthur ruling over Camelot.

Sonic unsheathes Caliburn. The sword floats in the space between them. Sonic and Caliburn stare at each other for a long moment. Sonic breaks the silence first. “Well, I guess this is goodbye, old friend.”

“Yes. It seems to be,” Caliburn agrees. “It was… You should be proud of all we have done during your reign. There will never be a king quite like you, Knave the Hedgehog.”

“A little shit, even at the end,” Sonic narrows his eyes, but he’s smiling and there’s a chuckle echoing behind his words. “Have fun with wherever life takes you next.”

“Allow life to temper you into a respectable individual, yet do not let it take your kind heart and pure soul,” Caliburn replies.

Sonic leans toward Bedivere. He whispers rather loudly, “Are you hearing this, Bedivere? I think Caliburn just complimented me.”

“I can still hear you, you foul—” Sonic shoves Caliburn back into the scabbard. Bedivere’s eyes widen. He can still hear Caliburn’s muffled yelling through the leather. Sonic chuckles sheepishly. He presses Caliburn into Bedivere’s paws. The wolf hugs the sword of selection against his chest, deciding the moment he accepts that he’s going to give his life to protect this sword (and he decidedly doesn’t say that aloud because he knows how Sonic will react to it).

“You’ll bring this to Lady Nimue, right?” Sonic asks. Bedivere nods his head. Sonic immediately trusts him, and that fills Bedivere with more happiness than even seeing Percival being joyful did. “Thank you, Bedivere, and goodbye. I’ll see you again one day.”

His voice doesn’t respond to his calling, so Bedivere just grabs onto Sonic’s paw. He squeezes it, not quite shaking it like Agravain did. All the words he wants to share but isn’t able to somehow transfer through this simple gesture. At least, Sonic understands him, but the once and future king has always had a good habit about that. So, in the space of that silence, Bedivere’s heart is fully known by the azure hedgehog in front of him, and instead of being shunned like everyone else in Bedivere’s life has done, Sonic accepts it. 

Bedivere is really going to miss him, but he isn’t going to trap Sonic here. He hopes that Sonic lives the kind of life he’s always wanted.

The weather is fair, making the late afternoon warm and sunny. Sonic reaches his paw toward the sky above him. It’s no different from any other sky, yet Sonic finds his heart panging for the one in his home dimension. Sonic drops his paw. He wonders, briefly, if he’ll find himself missing this sky once he’s spent a good amount of time in that home dimension.

“It’s almost ready,” a voice calls out. Sonic’s head drops from the sky to the person standing in front of him. Merlina hugs her staff against her body in a way that looks like she’s using it to support her weight. She smiles softly at Sonic, but he can see a world of hurt inside her irises. Sonic’s expression twists to match the pain she won’t allow herself to show. Merlina’s eyes widen at the display. She turns away, hiding it all from him. Sonic leans forward, forcibly putting himself in her line of sight. She arches a brow at him. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” Sonic counters.

Merlina gestures to the space behind Sonic. He glances over his shoulder. The magic circle has been constructed in a grassy field outside of Camelot Castle. Omega, Rouge, and Shadow are already standing within it. Omega doesn’t care at all. Rouge is most interested in the jewels used to construct the magic circle. Shadow, at least, seems distantly curious about the entire thing. Magic is different from chaos energy, but there’s similarities. It’s enough to ignite his passion. It causes Sonic to smile, and he continues to wear that smile when he turns back to Merlina. She isn’t staring at him but rather the spell matrix. “I’m preparing to send you home.”

“I can see that,” Sonic cheekily responds. Merlin’s eyebrows cinch together. Sonic reaches up to pat her forearm. She finally meets his eyes. Sonic’s smile changes into a gentler one just for her—someone who has been wounded by the world yet has still done so much for him. “And the reason it isn’t ready is because… we still have to say goodbye, isn’t it?”

“Farewells give closure, or so I’ve been told,” Merlina rolls her shoulders.

“I’ve been told the same thing,” Sonic agrees. Neither he nor Merlina start, however. They remain quiet for a long time, listening to the wind blowing through and the conversation from Team Dark not so far away. Sonic breathes in deeply. He closes his eyes, just allowing himself to taste Camelot on his tongue. “I’m going to miss this place.”

“It will miss you, too,” Merlina responds. Sonic opens his eyes. Merlina startles at his stare. She gestures around with one wild arm. “I mean it! The wind, the sky, the land itself… it’s going to miss you.”

“Just as much as you and the others are going to miss me?” Sonic asks.

Merlina’s embarrassment fades away, giving way to something inexplicably earnest. “No. Not as much. Though it will try, there is nothing that will miss you more than the friends you have made in Camelot.”

Sonic always knew Merlina possessed a large heart. Her compassion is what convinced her to freeze time itself to protect the kingdom she and her grandfather loved, after all. That was cruelty in its kindest form. Her words right now, in contrast, are kindness in its cruelest form. Sonic’s heart hurts as much as it soars at the reminder that he’s connected and grown with all of these people. He’s changed their lives for the better. Maybe the Chaos Emeralds misconstrued his wish, but they did, in the end, allow him to save someone, and perhaps that’s why Sonic isn’t as upset about the whole thing as he could be.

“Thank you, Merlina,” Sonic whispers, surprised by how emotional he sounds. Merlina isn’t surprised, though. She doesn’t show a flicker of confusion when she returns Sonic’s smile. The azure hedgehog shakes his head to himself. When he tilts his head away, he gains the courage to admit, “I also have to thank you for allowing me to stay here instead of forcing me to return to my home dimension last year. Even after I told you that I thought I’d damned my whole world, you trusted me. You have no idea how your faith in me made me feel.”

“I believe I have some idea. Your faith in me has done wonders for me,” Merlina shrugs one of her shoulders. “And need I remind you that you do not need to thank me? I told you last year. After all that you’ve done for me, this was nothing to me. I would have allowed myself to become known as the worst mage in the entire kingdom if it granted you peace of mind.”

It’s almost scary how much Sonic knows she means that. He, however, does not admit this. He only smiles and nods his head. “I hope you know that I would have done the same for you.”

“I know. And it’s likely because I know that I have no regrets. I’m ready to send you back,” Merlina whispers with a firm nod. Silently, Sonic nods back. He turns on his heel to regroup with the others. Noticing his actions, he sees Team Dark turn to face him, too. He just knows they’re all ready to return to their home dimension (Omega, especially. He does not like being in a world without Badniks). 

“Wait! Wait!” 

Sonic freezes. He meets Shadow’s eyes first. The ebony hedgehog’s expression is as intense and hard as a stone wall. Hesitantly, Sonic tears his eyes away from him to look over his shoulder. He makes eye contact with Maria as the nymph runs toward them. She doesn’t even look at Shadow since her eyes are locked onto Sonic. Maria stops beside Merlina, placing the hand that isn’t holding something on the royal mage’s upper arm to help steady herself. She breathes heavily, an expression of complaint and exertion on her face. “Oh, I don’t get running at all! Swimming is so much better! Don’t you agree?”

“I prefer flying,” Merlina admits, entirely unaware of the sudden gravity of their situation. 

Maria doesn’t understand it, either, as she approaches Sonic. She squats down in front of him, balancing the object she was holding on her knee. She smiles at him. “I’m so happy I made it in time! I wanted to say goodbye! I also came with a gift! Well, it isn’t a gift from me. Sir Kay made it for you. He asked me to bring it along when I came to see you.”

Maria presents the object to him with both hands. Sonic reluctantly takes it from her. It’s a wooden box. Inside, there is a clean rag. On top of that, Sonic sees a sight that makes him laugh in surprise. It’s a chili dog. At least, it’s the closest approximation to one that Kay could get given Sonic’s lackluster description of what a chili dog was. Sonic remembers Kay mentioning that he would make Sonic one when he was at his lowest as King Arthur. 

Slowly, Sonic lifts the chili dog. He takes a bite. He immediately knows that it tastes about as close to a chili dog as it looks, but he continues eating it because the taste isn’t what’s important—it’s the fact that Kay made this for him. He had to make everything from scratch, too. And he did all because he was more than loyal to Sonic. He was Sonic’s friend. Everyone in Camelot became his friend. These are all people that have come to love and accept him in the same way as the family Sonic left behind in his home dimension. This warm, tingling feeling in Sonic’s chest is the reason he makes friends everywhere he goes—even turning his enemies when he can.

Once Sonic finishes, he smiles at Maria. “Thanks for bringing it. Make sure to tell Kay that this was the best chili dog I’ve ever had.”

“I will!” Maria chirps. Instead of taking the wooden box from him, she puts her hands over the paws he’s using to hold it. “And of course, I would bring it! Of course, I would come. I want to say goodbye to my friend, too, and I wanted to personally thank you for making Lancelot so happy. You even helped him mend his relationship with Galahad. And there’s so many more good deeds you’ve done for Camelot that I don’t have time to list. I just… I hope you know how important you were.”

“I do,” Sonic promises. By the Holy Grail above, does he know. He doesn’t say that, though. He just smiles at Maria. Seeing this, Maria takes the wooden box from him. She wraps her arms around his shoulders. Out of habit more than conscious decision-making, Sonic hugs her back. Maria squeezes in a way that says so much more than her voice ever could.

Once Sonic pulls away, he continues walking until he’s reached Team Dark’s side. Maria holds the wooden box against her chest. She stands beside Merlina. With the interruption finished, Merlina is able to start the spell that sends Sonic and the others back home.

Sonic ignores the sound of the spell. He turns his eyes back to Shadow. The ebony hedgehog stares at Maria. He can try to hide it, but Sonic knows that pain. So, in contrast to what happened with Maria, Sonic actively reaches his paw out to take Shadow’s. Carmine eyes snap to emerald. They remained locked there as the warmth of magic swirls over them. 

In the space of a breath, Sonic goes home.