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Lancelot crashed down onto one knee to keep from stumbling over entirely, clutching the small blade lodged in his arm. He growled low in his throat, yanking it out harshly before snapping his gaze to his attacker, already apprehended by Gawain.
He’d believed the battle to be over, but the last would-be assassin must have had a thin dagger hidden away. Lancelot inspected it, seeing it coated in something that almost looked purple, covered now by his own blood.
He stood up and approached the intruder, holding up the blade. Voice low and threatening, he hissed out, “What was this coated with?”
One thing he’d noticed about all of the infiltrators sent by other kingdoms was how uncooperative they were, even under the threat of death. They never bowed easily, like some of the weaker ‘threats’ their kingdom had faced in the past, and this time was no different.
The only response Lancelot received was the infiltrator spitting on his helm, a vicious gleam in his eyes, like he’d won despite his clear defeat. Poison, then, or something of the sort. An inconvenience, to be sure, but it wouldn’t be the first time Lancelot survived an attempted murder such as this. If anything, the failure to avoid such a weak weapon from an equally inadequate opponent would be far harder to live with, adding another scar on his body to permanently remind him of these failures.
His fellow knights often made excuses on his behalf, blaming his failures on his partial blindness, or claiming that everyone makes mistakes. Even their King had tried convincing him that such minor mistakes weren’t worth fretting over. He ignored all of it. He was Sir Lancelot, strongest of the Knights of the Round Table, and he should be better than this.
He stashed the blade away in his own armor, in case the alchemists needed to identify what he’d been infected with, though he doubted it would go so far.
He and his fellow knights took the intruders with them, ready to toss them in the dungeon until the King has time to decide their fates.
***
Lancelot was dying. That was the only plausible explanation for what he was experiencing.
He’d been on his way to the alchemists when a sudden sickness twisted his stomach. He just barely managed to keep what little food he’d eaten earlier down through sheer force of will, only to quickly realize that nausea would not be the end of the poison’s torment.
He didn’t even make it halfway to his destination before his vision blurred, limbs turning to mush.
He collapsed forward, armor clinking harshly against the polished floors and echoing deeper into the vast walls of the palace.
The world spun, and all of a sudden, he was in an endless, storming ocean, struggling to suck in a breath every time his head broke through the water’s surface, waves threatening to overtake him entirely.
He was trapped. He was going to die here. Nobody would even find his corpse.
One powerful wave finally dragged him under, pulling him deeper under the water, pulling, pulling, pulling, until his back hit the ocean floor.
Something grabbed him by the arm, and he was helpless to resist as whatever it was yanked him from the ocean, launching him toward dry land without a hint of mercy.
He gasped, both out of oxygen and suffering intense pain when he landed on his wounded arm. Whatever pulled him out of the water leaned over him, blue as the sky above, and so much larger than Lancelot. It should have been intimidating, to be dwarfed completely by this unknown, ethereal being, yet Lancelot felt only peace as it descended, reaching for him once more.
Its touch was soft, though he couldn’t find any physical form actually grabbing him. It was as if the being was made of light itself, lifting Lancelot with only care and gentleness.
He couldn’t help but lean into the soft touch of the being, hardly aware of the footsteps carrying him from dry land into a place of endless darkness. The dark did not scare him, as it would have when he’d been a mere child, cowering under the covers of his older sister’s bed after every nightmare.
He let his eyes fall shut, still feeling the world swaying in a sickening dance he couldn’t hope to follow along with, but the being’s protective arms kept him stable.
He didn’t know where he was being taken, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He, for reasons beyond his current understanding, trusted this being with his life.
***
Lancelot awoke with a groan, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. He knew that he had to still be somewhere within the palace, but this had to be a room he’d never entered before.
“Ah, good, you’re awake.”
Lancelot stiffened at the sound of his Majesty’s voice. Glancing to his side, he spotted Arthur across the room, standing by a table covered in armor- oh.
Lancelot looked down, realizing that he’d been stripped of his armor, his injured arm wrapped in a bandage he didn’t remember putting on himself. That was followed by a second, more mortifying realization.
He was lying on a large, lavish bed, covered in fine silks that he never would have kept on his own. The soft pillow beneath his head smelled like citrus and sunlight. This room that he hadn’t recognized- these were Arthur’s bedchambers.
Gods, help me, Lancelot thought, cheeks warming.
“How are you feeling?” Arthur asked, walking to the bed and sitting at Lancelot’s side.
Lancelot felt his heart skip a beat when his King reached forward, placing a paw over his forehead. He felt like he couldn’t breathe until it pulled back.
“I-“ Lancelot tried, voice croaking around his extremely dry throat. “I am…” he struggled to find the right words. “…alive.”
Arthur gave a quiet chuckle at that. “Are you cold?”
Cold?
Lancelot shifted his limbs, feeling stiff and, for whatever reason, wet, but he was fairly warm. His fur wasn’t drenched, though it felt like it had been, steadily drying into tangled clumps that would be frustrating to tend to later. “No, I am not. But-“ he hesitated. “My liege… why is my fur wet?”
Arthur’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You stumbled out into the gardens and fell in the pond. I had to pull you out.”
Then, that odd dream he’d had was all…
Oh.
Oh.
Mortification bloomed anew in Lancelot’s cheeks. “I- I am terribly sorry, my liege. I don’t know what came over me-“
Arthur waved a dismissive hand. “Easy, now, Lance. It was not your fault. Gawain informed me of your injury, so I had the alchemists examine you. They believe that the blade you were sliced with was coated in a poison known to cause visions that some may find distressing.”
Ah, that would help to explain a few things. He couldn’t say he was surprised that their enemies had begun searching for new ways to bring Lancelot down. ‘Deadly’ poisons alone had never been effective enough, but poisoning him with something that would leave him in a state of helpless confusion would have given them the opportunity to kill him themselves, if not for the fact that they’d been too weak to withstand the power of the rest of the Knights of the Roundtable.
“I have still inconvenienced you.” Lancelot argued weakly.
Arthur’s smile turned fond, almost soft. “You believe caring for you is an inconvenience?”
Lancelot opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, knowing he had no argument.
“Try to rest today.” Arthur said, standing up. “I still have my duties to attend to, but I will check on you again before nightfall. Food will be brought to you-“
“Wait!” Lancelot blurted out, trying to sit up and immediately failing, falling back onto the bed with a wince when it put pressure on his injury. “I- I can’t stay here, I still have to-“
“Your own duties will be taken care of.” Arthur said, voice soothing. “It would not kill you to take a single day to care for yourself, Lance. The gods know you need it, with how harshly you push yourself.”
“Your Majesty, I can’t accept this.”
“I’m not asking you to accept it; I’m commanding it.”
That one single word instantly shattered any chance Lancelot had at protesting. He wouldn’t dare deny an order from his King, even if he found it unnecessary.
Lancelot hesitated. Reluctantly, he muttered, “Thank you, my liege.”
Arthur nodded. “Of course. I understand how much you prioritize the well-being of the kingdom, but you must consider your own well-being, too.”
Lancelot did not roll his eyes at the King, but it was a near thing.
As Arthur left Lancelot to rest, he found himself staring up at the high ceiling, thinking about the gentle being of light that had pulled him from an endless ocean.
And if that gentle being of light followed him back into his dreams, formless hands cupping his flushed cheeks, pulling him close until all he could feel was the being’s warmth… well, there were some things the King didn’t need to know.