Chapter Text
It had happened when Lancelot, Percival, Gawain and Galahad were trekking back towards Camelot’s borders after a long quest. Their task? To relieve a distant village of a dangerous Fae creature tearing apart homes and killing people without remorse.
The resulting battle had been brutal. Even with three Knights of the Round Table and a promising young squire, it had taken them nearly four risings and fallings of the sun to track down their target. Slaying the overconfident beast had taken all of a single daylight’s time.
As the wary knights now found themselves marching away on a beaten down trail, Lancelot’s sharp hearing caught the sound of a bowstring being drawn back. Whipping his head around towards the trees, he swiftly pushed Gawain off to the side as two arrows whistled through the air.
The projectiles embedded themselves in Lancelot’s left forearm and upper shoulder instead of Gawain’s turned back. Gritting his teeth against the shooting pain, Lancelot barked at his fellow knights.
“Ambush! Behind us!”
Gawain and Percival immediately dropped their packs and drew their swords, scanning the forest for any movement. Galahad ran to Lancelot’s side, his golden eyes wide as he took in the sight of the older knight’s bloodied arm.
“Sir Lancelot! Your arm!”
Lancelot tightened his jaw, drawing out his own sword, Arondight, from its scabbard. “You must remain focused, Galahad.”
The young squire nodded uncertainly before carefully unsheathing his widened blade. Not a few moments later, a group of five mercenaries emerged from the tree line. A short man with a scruffy beard and worn clothes silently walked forward and raised a small dagger in Lancelot’s direction.
His piercing blue eyes never once left the famous knight’s visor.
“Sir Lancelot du Lac of Camelot! Your end has come!”
Upon their leader’s biting shout, the other four men roared, readying their own individual weapons. Lancelot carefully narrowed his eyes behind his helmet’s grates. Raising Arondight with his uninjured right hand, he pointed the blade’s tip towards the one who spoke.
“We shall see.”
The man scoffed, pulling a second dagger from his belt before shifting his weight into a warrior’s stance.
“Attack!”
With Galahad pushed behind them, the Knights of the Round Table waited for their enemies to draw closer. Percival used her thin saber to deflect more arrows shot out from the tall trees. She lightly sprinted forward, easily cutting down one of the mercenaries in her path as she strode off to find the hidden archer.
Gawain engaged two more of the men, bellowing out a loud battle cry as he halted their attacks with his twin axes in hand. Galahad brought up the rear, engaging the remaining enemy with his customized spearhead sword.
Lancelot shifted Arondight’s hilt to rest close to his face, making the legendary blade curve backwards over his armored chest. The steel covered his wounded left arm as he carefully set his gaze on the man in front of him. The leader spat towards the knight, his icy glare deepening.
“You do not deserve your title, you welp! I will show all of Camelot that you are nothing but a coward!”
Lancelot ignored the goading, silently watching his opponent’s every move. The man breathed steadily, his feet beginning to inch closer in the dirt. Suddenly, the leader drew his arm back and threw one of his knives in Lancelot’s direction.
Arondight’s blade rose to swipe the small dagger aside, briefly blinding Lancelot. But the older knight came prepared. Immediately swinging up, metal clashed against metal as the leader found himself face to face with Lancelot’s visor.
The man’s face darkened at his failed attempt at taking out the knight’s head. Pushing back, the mercenary leader threw himself away to roll along the dusty ground. Grabbing the fallen dagger from nearby plated boots, he retreated back a ways, reviewing his tactics.
Lancelot impassively looked on, unmoving from his original position. For a few moments, they simply stared at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Galahad yelled from his place across from them, momentarily turning Lancelot’s attention away.
His enemy wasted no time in taking the brief advantage. Kicking off his second attack, he swung both blades out, swiftly aimed at Lancelot’s bloodied left arm. Lancelot dropped low, spinning on the heels of his boots to avoid the singing blades. One of the daggers rooted itself to a trunk behind him while the other pinged off Arondight’s thick steel.
Lancelot slowly stood, having been pushed back a few steps towards the woods. He briefly registered the sound of a lake’s calming waves somewhere behind him as he readied himself for whatever his opponent would do next.
The man stood taller, a gnarly smirk making its way across his stumbled face.
“Now, now! Do it now!”
Lancelot whipped around, bracing himself for another attack when a mysterious brown pouch shot out from the tree’s dark line. White powder exploded from the satchel as a piercing arrow burst it open right above Lancelot’s head.
Rolling to avoid the worst of it, the older knight cursed himself for not seeing such an underhanded move coming. Unfortunately, the grates in his helmet’s visor did nothing to prevent him from breathing in a small amount of the acidic grains.
Coughing sharply, Lancelot attempted to expel whatever poison burned the air entering his lungs with limited success. He could already feel his body begin to sag, his ebony armor weighing heavier on his wounded arm. His vision began to blur slightly as he forcefully held up Arondight’s blade, his right hand starting to shake.
Whatever powder had been contained in the small pouch was clearly powerful.
“Lancelot!” Percival’s sharp cry echoed across the forest as she swiftly began running over to him.
Her approach slowed drastically when more arrows erupted from behind Lancelot. Snarling, she changed course, her thin saber reflecting the bright sun’s rays as she disappeared into the foliage. Lancelot blinked past the sweat dripping into his eyes as he carefully watched the man retrieve one of his daggers from the dirt, slowly brushing it off.
“Yer not looking too well, great knight. That elixir you just breathed in? It was an old family recipe from a village you sought to destroy! Soon, your breathing will slow, your vision will blur and you won’t be able to move! You took everything from my people when you chose to spare that Fae beast terrorizing us! Well, now you will pay the consequences of your cowardly actions!” The mercenary leader spat out, pure vitriol dripping from his words.
When attempting to maintain peaceful relations between Fae and ordinary civilians, people were not always forgiving of Lancelot’s decisions. Oftentimes, Camelot’s greatest knight would come across a case where a half-Fae child was being hunted down for simply existing. All because normal people regarded Fae markings as a stain, a devilish curse that caused all manner of misfortune.
Shaking his head, Lancelot pretended to fall slightly forward, shifting himself off-balance as Arondight’s tip forced itself into the ground. His opponent quickly took the feint as a sign of the poison working its way through the knight’s veins. Clutching his remaining dagger close, the man yelled loudly as he shot his blade out in front of him, aimed for Lancelot’s exposed chestplate.
Once the mercenary leader got close enough, Lancelot dropped his grip from Arondight’s hilt. He shot his uninjured hand out to grasp onto his enemy’s wrist, twisting it to release the dagger. The man’s eyes widened with shock, his mouth falling open as Lancelot’s quick maneuver slid the dagger’s hilt into his own armored glove.
“No!” A desperate, bloodcurdling scream sounded behind Lancelot as he drove the small blade cleanly across the man’s throat.
A clean cut welled up along a stubbled neck as the mercenary leader’s cool gaze suddenly clouded over. The man was dead before he hit the forest’s floor.
Lancelot’s breathing grew harsher as he dropped the dagger, clutching his right hand to rest over his collapsing lungs. Darkness moved in to curl around the edges of his vision while his heavy plated legs shook. He faintly heard the slicing of Gawain’s mighty axes cut against another’s blades paired with Galahad’s quickened footsteps protecting the burly knight’s back.
Suddenly, a giant fist grabbed Lancelot’s head from behind. His metal helmet crushed against his dark skin as he felt himself be hoisted up into the air. Scrambling to get a steady grip on his new attacker’s arm to no avail, Lancelot felt his stomach drop when his helmet was ripped off, exposing his bare, scarred face. A rough chuckle trailed after the knight as he felt himself be unceremoniously tossed away like a ragdoll.
Cutting against a few tree’s thick trunks, Lancelot landed facedown on a sandy beach. Water lapped up his ebony plated boots as he braced his right arm against the wet grains. The older knight had managed to lift his armored chest off the sand when a stocky mercenary came into his swimming view.
The man carelessly hauled Lancelot up by his metal collar, huffing at the sight of his half-lidded scarlet and grey eyes. At this point, the knight could hardly breathe. Tiny pinpricks of light made their way through his clouded perception as he gripped at the large arm holding him up.
“So, this is meant to be Camelot’s greatest knight, Sir Lancelot du Lac? Hardly worth the challenge to me.”
A deep, rumbling laugh grated on Lancelot’s sharpened hearing. Mustering what little strength he had left, the knight swung a steel-toed boot back before promptly connecting it harshly between the man’s legs.
A seething curse passed the large mercenary’s lips as he dropped to his knees in the wet sand.
“You want to play it that way? Fine by me!”
The sound of more rusted laughter broke the air before salty lake water suddenly invaded Lancelot’s dulled senses. The man had tossed him into the calm waves to drown. Dark, metallic armor served to further pull the knight down into its inky depths as the last of Lancelot’s consciousness finally gave out.
________
“Father!” Galahad screamed, watching in horror when crimson blood started to flow from where Lancelot had been tossed into the cold water’s abyss.
The boy’s heavy armor clinked uncomfortably as he ran faster than he could think towards the lake. Driving his spearheaded blade into the stocky mercenary’s chest, Galahad ignored Percival’s cry. Pulling his helmet off, the squire dove in after Lancelot’s sinking body.
“Galahad! Wait!”
The young man pushed past the waves rocking him back. Desperately swimming down to catch Lancelot’s plated hand. Grabbing a hold of his father’s shoulder, he tightly wrapped his arms around the older knight’s waist. After securing a firm grip, Galahad pumped his legs with all his might.
However, with them both wearing heavy metallic armor doubled with Lancelot’s dead weight, the boy struggled. No matter how much he kicked his legs trying to gain momentum back up to the surface, he was still too weak. Galahad held his father steadfastly as they both began to sink.
Darkness swept over Galahad’s vision, yet he remained sharp and alert. Frantically he looked around, not noticing when another person broke through the waters and swam down towards them.
When Galahad found the source of the inky blackness, he felt a gut punch to his chest.
Beside him, Lancelot’s hair slowly drifted and curled with the waves, drawing out what seemed to be darkened paint from his locks. But Galahad couldn’t focus on the bright crimson streaks appearing in his father’s hair. His plated boots hit the sandy ground.
They were running out of time.
Pushing off the mushy dirt served only to trap Galahad further into its sinking embrace. But he refused to let go of the older knight, even if it killed him. Galahad’s eyes stung, the saltiness creeping in and burning his vision.
The crushing desperation and panic flooding Galahad’s mind suddenly took him back to when he was a boy. Back to when he’d first met Lancelot.
A fierce dragon had attacked Galahad’s village, reducing everything to ash on the ground. Lancelot had been the one to vanquish it. The great knight had left with a deep scar running through his right eye, marking the loss of its rich coloring. Paired with a small, young boy who clung tightly to his chest.
Afterwards, Lancelot had since taken Galahad under his wing after realizing the boy was a lone survivor.
The squire soon claimed Camelot’s greatest knight as his own father figure. He would never forget that memory, no matter how painful it still felt. He had since tirelessly worked hard to pay the older knight's kindness back. Against Lancelot’s begrudged wishes.
But, as he endlessly pushed against the oppressing water, trying desperately to save his chosen guardian, Galahad nearly ran out of hope.
Until a heavily armored hand fell underneath his and Lancelot’s shoulders, hoisting them both out of the soaking grains. Snapping his golden gaze up, Galahad made direct eye contact with none other than Sir Gawain.
Wordlessly, the other Knight of the Round Table pointed upwards, gripping Lancelot tightly around his torso.
Galahad’s lungs had begun to burn, aching for the smallest droplet of air. Nodding his understanding, the boy let go and swam away by himself.
Looking behind him, the squire watched as Gawain supported Lancelot on his own. Even Camelot’s strongest knight seemed to struggle against the lake’s weight and Lancelot’s famed, magic-touched armor.
Eventually, all three of them broke the water’s surface with loud, heaving gasps. Galahad coughed sharply, his chest stretching to engulf as much of the fresh air as it could. He swiftly pulled himself to shore with his entire body shaking like a leaf caught in a windstorm.
“You, there! Squire!” Percival pointed an angry plated finger in his direction. “Do not dare believe I will easily forget this!”
Swiftly marching away, she carefully reached out to help Gawain support Lancelot. Dragging him onto the beach, Percival wasted no time in stripping their leader’s upper torso of its abrasive armor. Leaving him in a cream, cotton lined undershirt, Percival rapidly pressed a few specific points on Lancelot’s chest. Hastily rolling Lancelot over onto his side afterwards.
Galahad watched with wide, shaky eyes as his father’s face contorted before bubbly water spewed from his mouth. Lancelot vomited up all the liquid caught in his lungs before faintly drawing in one breath after another.
Meanwhile, Gawain looked on with a pinched expression and an apology on his lips. Without further preamble, he ripped out the two arrows sticking from Lancelot’s left arm and upper shoulder.
Lancelot wheezed, a slight smile caught on his dark chocolate lips. Pained scarlet and smoky grey orbs opened briefly, making direct contact with Galahad staring at him across the sandy beach. The boy could’ve sworn he’d seen his father sluggishly move his mouth to form the words.
“Thank you.”
Lancelot’s eyes rolled back as he finally passed out. Percival, having expected this, caught the man’s head before it could hit the ground. Moving to cradle it in her metallic lap, she stared with tears flowing down her cheeks. The lady knight calmly brushed a hand through ebony, crimson streaked hair.
Beside her, Gawain gently pulled Lancelot’s thick, leather glove from his left hand. He quietly began the arduous task of unwrapping Lancelot’s constantly wrapped fingers. A deep violet gaze widened as the breath knocked out of the burly knight’s chest.
“This is-” Gawain’s voice cut off, strained.
Galahad glanced over to see what had caused the hesitation. His own heart dropped when they all caught sight of swirling, scarlet lines curling around Lancelot’s dark fingertips and palm. Forcefully shaking his head, Gawain silently continued staunching the blood flow as he tied the wounded arm into a sling.
“Galahad,” Percival started softly. “We shall camp here tonight. Gather the wood so I might teach you how to use your thickened skull for something useful.”
Percival’s words were stern, her eyebrows drawn tightly together as she gazed at Lancelot. Her secured lavender locks had broken loose from their band’s hold, dropping down to frame her tensed jaw. The squire grunted, pushing himself off the ground as he formally bowed in her direction before wordlessly trekking off into the forest.
Galahad’s head spun while his legs threatened to give out on him. His silver armor clunked together, iron plates falling from their fastened straps. Long, colorless hair flew into his eyes as he shoved it back, realizing he had left his helmet on the beach. If Lancelot were to see the state of his uniform, he would’ve scolded him.
With that passing thought, Galahad’s shock had worn down enough to carefully think about everything that had happened. As he carried a significant armful of dry logs and twigs back to the camp, a creeping epiphany filtered in from the back of his mind.
Sir Lancelot. Camelot’s most revered knight, leader of the Knights of the Round Table, second in command to King Arthur himself and chosen father to Galahad had Fae markings.
——-
Lancelot peeled his eyelids open with a heavy groan. He first registered the pain radiating from his wrapped left arm. The feeling eerily similar to the time Galahad accidentally swung too hard during an armorless sparring session. The young squire had grazed Lancelot’s arm with his treasured spearheaded blade.
It had taken weeks for the boy to quit apologizing.
With a quiet huff, Lancelot blinked, realizing the sight laid out in front of him was the tanned fabric of his tent. The chirping of crickets outside told him the sun had fallen, a slight chill to the air rattling his weary body. He grunted, trying to remember what all happened for him to land wounded in his bed roll.
Carefully, he used his uninjured right arm to brace himself on the ground as he slowly sat up. Looking around, Lancelot found his chest plate resting next to his armored legs. Left in his undershirt with the rest of his armor left untouched, his gaze drifted downward. An expertly tied bandage covered most of his left forearm, riding up to reach his slinged upper shoulder.
Little beads of scarlet blood could be seen poking out from the white cloth. But the knight couldn’t care less about his wound potentially reopening.
Lancelot suddenly froze in place, his mind screeching to a halt from its rapid succession. His left hand no longer had its leather glove or tight, cotton bindings to hide the unmistakable Fae markings staining his caramel skin. A piece of bright, crimson shaded hair fell over his eyes. Scrambling to grab it, he hissed when the strands pulled on his scalp.
Frantically pouring over the missing pieces of memory, Lancelot felt his face drain from the light flush gathering along his cheeks. The beginning trek back to Camelot, the ambush, taking two arrows in the arm trying to deflect Gawain’s unguarded back.
Inhaling a mysterious powder thrown at him. The mercenary’s laughter as he tossed him lifeless into the inky dark lake’s depths. The last thing he saw before going under had been his son’s panicked golden eyes.
“Insolent fool!” Lancelot growled under his breath, his voice wheezing at the effort to stay calm.
His mother, the famed Lady of the Lake, had instilled great caution into him ever since she had found him as a small child. Abandoned to the Dark Wood’s claws.
“You must remember, my dear son. Your markings must never be seen. If you are ever discovered, you will surely be hunted without mercy.”
Lancelot had taken his worried mother’s advice to heart.
Since his official knighting ceremony little over two decades ago, he had successfully deceived everyone. No one in Camelot. Not even his King, his fellow Knights of the Round Table or young Galahad had grown privy to the monstrous truth.
That Lancelot had been born half-Fae.
All those nights of crushing black current berries into a fine paste to paint over his damning crimson striped locks. His insistence of using rouge to fill in the inner corners of his eyes, simply to match the markings permanently marring his face.
His avoidance of large bodies of water. The thick, leather gloves covering the smears of blood red lines entwining his fingers and palms. Wrapping his hands and wrists tightly with dark cotton fabric to further protect his secret.
All of Lancelot’s carefully plotted efforts came crashing down on him all at once.
“Dammit!” He hissed in a rare fit of anger.
The beast constantly resting beneath his skin drew its fangs, begging to be released. Sucking in a sharp breath, the famed knight second-naturedly forced his ire down. Adopting a cooling mask, Lancelot drug his head up to look out towards the tent’s closed flaps.
He faintly heard the crackling of a fire devouring wood, followed by the singe of a whet stone sharpening someone’s blade. Whatever destiny lay between him and his fellow knights, now that they undoubtedly knew the truth, Lancelot would face with his chin held high.
Moments after his resolution, Lancelot brushed his bare fingers across his trusted sword, Arondight’s hilt. The tent flaps shuddered in front of him. Scarlet and dusted grey eyes snapped up in time to see a pale armored hand carefully sweeping the heavy fabric aside.
Percival poked her head in, clearing her throat. Her harsh topaz gaze swept Lancelot up and down. Calculating. Focusing first on the bright red strands of hair before moving to where his thumb brushed a small ruby on the sword’s side. The lady knight’s next words came out clipped.
“You had best not consider touching Arondight.”
Lancelot hummed. A traitor would not have the honor of grasping such a legendary weapon, after all.
The older knight drew his patterned fingers back and settled them cautiously in his lap. Stepping fully inside, Percival precariously balanced a small bowl in her grip. She thrust it out towards Lancelot with her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Here. To regain your strength.”
Lancelot raised a single dark eyebrow at his former second-in-command.
“And the others?”
Percival looked away, crossing her single, unburdened arm over a tightly plated chest. Soft lavender hair flowed freely around her helmetless face as she snapped back at him.
“Focus on yourself.”
Wordlessly, Lancelot reached out his own shaking hand to grasp the dish. Staring down at his reflection in the medicinal elixir, the knight winced at the sight of his Fae markings on full display. Bloody fire raced through his ebony locks while the corners of his eyes burned a sharp garnet.
Carefully, he placed the specially made stew off to the side, making sure not to waste a single drop.
“I see.”
A tense silence enveloped them both, neither knowing how to proceed. Lancelot breathed in gently, allowing his lungs their last taste of fresh air. She most likely expected him to stand trial back in Camelot, which was still two days walk from their current position. Using his right arm to brace against the bed roll, the knight pushed to his feet.
Percival glanced over, her cutting marigold eyes watching his every move. Standing with his head held high, his back straightening into a perfect statue’s posture, Lancelot towered over the smaller knight.
However, he knew Percival had taken out foes far greater in size than Camelot’s fallen star.
“Let us see to the preparations, then.” Lancelot’s voice didn’t once quiver, remaining steadfast and strong when Percival nodded in return.
As they exited the tent, Lancelot allowed himself another small mercy before his inevitable death.
Looking around at the scenery, he silently took in the hidden blooms waiting for warmer seasons. He felt the moonlight’s caress against his skin, listened to the buzzing of insects as they laid down to rest. If this was to be his fate, honorably brought down by the Knights of the Round Table, he refused to feel remorseful.
After all, with the gentle twinkling of stars above, he couldn’t help but feel at ease.
Upon seeing him, Galahad and Gawain both jumped to their feet where they sat next to the dying fire. Yet neither reached for their swords. If Lancelot did not currently walk towards his own beheading in that moment, he would’ve scolded them both.
“Father-!”
“Sir Lancelot! You are awake!”
With lightened eyes, Lancelot gazed upon his knights one last time.
Sir Gawain, a fierce man with an honor heavy conviction that many envied, with blistering strength to match. He had saved Lancelot’s life more times than he could express gratitude for. The burly knight currently watched him warily with deep amethyst eyes.
Sir Percival, calm and collected in the face of any battle, set herself apart to carve a name for future lady knights. Truly an inspiration to multitudes of other young girls in Camelot. She had taken her place by his side, carefully keeping him in her periphery.
Galahad, the son he had adopted nearly a decade and a half ago. Lancelot saw the young boy’s future stretch on endlessly with each new passing day. Liquid gold irises shone, matching the struggle between the squire’s ideals and the forced duty of killing his father.
With a faint smile painting Lancelot’s dark lips, the older knight bowed his head. He raised a clasped fist to his chest, a sign of deep respect. He missed how his former knights’ eyes widened impossibly. Lancelot chose to instead focus on falling until both his armored knees hit the rich, living ground with a rattling thud.
“If you would bear me the honor of a swift end, my soul shall forever remain in your debt.”