#Weeping Monk

[everlastingdreams]

The Weeping Monk x Fem!Reader : Forged Of Fire Chapter 40

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Story Summary: Raised under the tiranny of your own family, and forced to steal to earn your keep, you struggle to survive. Born from a Fey mother, and a Manblood father who wanted only sons, you are forced to hide your Fey side. When you are ordered to steal from Father Carden by your half-brother, Cassian, your life spirals out of control and you find yourself at the mercy of the Weeping Monk. The life you knew changes drastically when Cassian betrays you in the cruelest of ways. A trade is made, a promise is broken, and a debt must be paid.

Chapter Title: Beneath The Ashes

Notes: Hightlighted some of the warnings for this one just in case.

Warnings: Angst. Hurt. Trauma bonding. Intrafamily violence. Depression. Self-harm. Suicidal thoughts. Violence. Torture. Gore. Pining. Trauma. Self-Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc. Lima/Stockholm syndrom-ish. Childhood trauma.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forced Marriage. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn. Found Familly-ish. Comfort. Fluff. !SMUT and SPICE!

Word count of this fic: +250K

Chapter:  40/47

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

How much time had passed? You didn’t know, but it must have been more than just a few seconds since the fall. You pushed yourself off of the ground slowly, wincing at how sore your arm felt from trying to stop yourself in the fall. Apart from one burning torch on the wall, the place was terribly dark, a void to the eyes. You grabbed that torch, using it to light your way as you climbed back up those steps to the door. The door was shut again, like a large rock was blocking it against any movement.

“Lancelot?” you called out for him multiple times and no response came.

It felt like you found yourself into a different world within those shadows. And again you felt that strange presence around you. Fear of the unknown set itself into your bones, with deep breaths to stay calm you went down the steps again. The haunting whispers began to fill your ears with each step further into the darkness. You hoped you hadn’t taken the first steps into a maze.

Your name was called out again, a voice you did not recognize. You swiftly turned, holding out the torch to see if anyone was there, but by instinct you knew that the origin of this voice was no longer of this earth. It made you draw your sword, it would be of little help if forced to fight this ancient presence but it made you feel a little better to be holding a weapon. You began to search the place for another exit, it was pathway after pathway and you tried to light the torches that you found on the wall along the way with your flint but they refused to burn no matter how much you cursed at them. The darkness made it hard to navigate the place and you carved into the stones to help try and keep track of where the staircase had been. The deeper you traveled into this underground structure, the stronger the presence became. Your vision got blurrier, you heard something nearby, a person? Quickly you followed the sound, and what you found was shocking.

A Red Paladin was striking at a cowering child with a scourge, the boy was on the ground almost curled up in a ball with only his back to be used as a target, he used his arms to cover his head and face from the damage.

“HEY!” You furiously charged forward.

Then everything changed, the stone walls were gone, and you found yourself in a place that looked so very familiar. It left you disoriented, frightened, but mostly confused. Had you gone mad? This couldn’t be real, what were the Old Gods doing? You were in a tent with the child, who could not have been more than ten years of age, and the paladin. He was still striking the terrified boy, the scourge had cut through the worn-down shirt the boy was wearing.

“You’ll bleed for that, boy!” The paladin struck at him again. “You will starve as long as you do not serve!”

Real or not, you weren’t going to ignore that. “Get away from him!”

When you lunged at the paladin with your sword, the blade went right through him, as if he was a ghost. Powerless you had to watch as he struck the boy with the scourge again, not once did the child beg for mercy or weep. There were only quiet yelps of pain and it made your stomach turn.

You begged the Hidden to make it stop. “Please… why are you showing me this? Stop this!”

The paladin stopped hitting the boy and threw to scourge at his feet. “Learn to cleanse your sins, boy. Or we will do it for you.”

With that threat, the paladin left the tent. Only then did the boy allow himself to quietly weep, away from judging eyes. You hurried to the child, trying to touch his shoulder but your hand went right through him. Perhaps you were the ghost… Oh you wished he could hear the words of comfort you spoke, the promises to help…

Finally the child lifted his head from the protection of his arms and upon his cheeks were the markings you knew so well. The boy who would grow to become their Weeping Monk had just received a violent punishment. Tears fell down your cheek at the horrible realization that you were trapped in a vision of Lancelot’s past. Through the tears in his shirt, you could see that the first of his scars had already formed. You saw him reach for the scourge and tried with all your willpower to take it from his hands to no avail.

You turned around, covering your eyes in shock at what would follow. “No, no, no… please. Please, don’t make me watch, please, I beg you…”

When you opened your eyes again, the sun was on your face and you were standing outside in between the familiar tents of the paladin camp you had spend so much time in. Was this the Hidden, or the gods they had once prayed to, that were causing this to happen? The paladins walked around, none ever truly looking at you but looking through you like you weren’t there. And you weren’t, these were days long passed. The voice of Father Carden reached your ears and you searched from where it was coming from. It led you to another tent and you cautiously stepped inside. You nearly fell again when noticing too late how close Father Carden was to the entrance of the tent, luckily you kept your footing. Then your heart sank at the sight of Lancelot, sitting on his knees at an alter, his back full of fresh bloodied wounds from the scourge. The priest spoke to him.

    ~“When she returns, she will be kept bound and in a guarded tent. I should not have put this task on you, I see how her presence has affected you, my son. You have made mistakes I had not expected of you.”~

    This had been after you had escaped? You went over to Lancelot, touching him was not possible again, your hand went through him like the touch of a ghost. “Lancelot…” He looked so broken and tired. And Father Carden had witnessed this?

    ~“I want her with me, Father.”~

    You couldn’t believe he had been brave enough to say this to Father Carden. That he would even say it at all… He was still with the paladins, expected to be devoted only to the scriptures, this could have meant severe punishment. And this… this proved he felt something even then…

He had tilted his head down, pressing his eyes shut. You could hear him utter ‘Please’, a plea that had been meant for no other ears than those of the God he once served. The priest had voiced his dismay over that confession.

    ~“You cannot let her taint your path to salvation. I thought I had driven the weakness out of you. She is not raised with the scriptures. Her Feyblood still calls to her.”~

    Again, Lancelot remained composed until Father Carden left the tent, then he began to tremble. You had dropped to your knees at his side, hand hovering near his cheek that this vision would not allow you to touch. You wished he could have heard you when you told him that you were with him now and that all would be well.

Your sight began to blur again, the vision faded out from your eyes and after blinking a few times you found yourself knelt down on the cold stones of the pathway again.

    ~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  Lancelot was frantically searching for another way to the lower level after having tried to break that door down. Only when that door shut again did he sense the power that held the door in it’s hold. He tried to use the Sword of Power on the door, cursing at the bloody thing that he’d destroy it and this whole castle if these spirits caused you harm.

He had seen the way you fell, how the door slammed shut against him when he tried to stop it from happening. To say he was furious at these spirits was an understatement. He had not stopped shaking since he heard the frightened scream flee your lungs at the fall.

There was no other entrance to be found that led down, he returned to the door and tried the only thing he had not tried before. He put his palm down against the door, recalling Merlin’s words from earlier.

It was awakened by strong emotions and could also be controlled by it. And his emotions were a storm threatening to tear everything down into it’s path now. He felt the power surge through his veins towards his fingertips, and still he recoiled at the strength of which the green flames came from his hand and violently forced the door to slam open, it rattled in it’s hinges this time.

He grabbed one of the torches on the wall and descended the steps fast, calling out your name over and over again while ignoring the whispers of his ancestors in his ears that pleaded for his attention. The second he set foot into the underground area, the torches lit aflame for his presence as if they welcomed him. He ignored the Hidden until it made him halt, something was coming, he could feel it. And just as that feeling came over him, his vision became unfocused, blurring out his surroundings. He could feel that strange presence now and how it weighed down upon him.

    ~“Dark angel…”~

    For only a moment his sight had darkened, and when it returned he was no longer where he had been seconds ago. Still, this place was familiar to him. Ravenwick… your old home… your bedroom to be exact.

    ~“No! Stop!”~

    A belt rained down upon the back of the child. He did not even care how he ended up there, all he cared about now was protecting this young girl and he charged at the man who was so cowardly to harm a child. His sword went through the man like it had struck nothing but air.

“No…” he could not stand to see this happen.

He kept trying to put an end to this cruel attack. And then he noticed, he had fought this man before. The Lord of Ravenwick, a younger version of him. Realization and horror filled his eyes, he focused on the girl crying in the corner of the room as she tried to go and hide behind her bed.

He’d recognize those eyes everywhere. How sickly you looked, dehydrated, weak, unsteady on your legs. So young, so very young, not older than nine years of age.

Aldith grabbed hold of your arm, undoubtedly bruising it.

    ~“I told you not to steal from our table!”~

    The piece of bread was on the floor, it looked like it had been stomped on. Was this punishment for taking some bread? Aldith was rough, pulling at your arm so hard he feared he’d see the bastard dislocate it. You were thrown to the floor, one of your books was thrown at your head and it hit the back of it. Aldith’s voice thundered into the room.

    ~“I will let you starve to death! I’ll cut off your hands and feed it to the hounds!”~

    ~“Please! Father, no!”~

    He turned his head when Aldith struck you again, unable to bear the sight of it anymore. Such brutality towards a frightened child, it sickened and infuriated him. At last Aldith left your bedroom, slamming the door shut and bolting it closed. You sank to your knees and crawled into the narrow space between the wall and the foot of your bed. He got closer, seeing the damage that had been done.

Bruised all over, nose bloodied, a set of eyes that bore no hope anymore. You began to crawl towards the bread that Aldith must have trampled on purpose, your hunger forcing you to still eat it. This was how you had lived before Cassian traded you away?

He thought back to how things had been for you the first days with the paladins. How often you had flinched from him… And after his coldness towards you, you had found it in your heart to forgive him…

He knelled down near the younger version of you, speaking words of comfort your ears could not hear, “I will do right by you. I swear it.”

The whispers of his ancestors rang into his ears, warning him before the change happened. His vision blurred again, darkening for only a second before he found himself into another room of the same manor in Ravenwick. He had been there before, once in the darkness of night and once when he had tried to convince Aldith to return you to Father Carden. This time he saw you walk into the room, looking just the way you did when he first met you. Aldith and Cassian looked surprised to see you there it seemed.

    ~“Father…”~

    You looked shaken and tired, what had happened?

  ~“You’re alive?!?”~

    That filth of a half-brother had sounded appalled. And if he could have gone back in time to this moment he would have began planning this imbecile’s death that very second.

    ~“Explain yourself.”~

    Aldith showed no concern over the state you had been in. It was as if it was nothing more than a nuisance. Your answer was so very quiet and full of caution.

    ~“The Weeping Monk let me go.” ~

    He grimaced at hearing his former title fall from your lips. This was just after he had met you… he couldn’t help but get closer to you, seeing how weary of life you looked. He reached out, wishing he could have been there with everything he knew now, but his hand moved through the ghost of your past. Cassian’s appalling behaviors knew no bounds.

    ~“He killed the others, tried to kill me, but let you go?!? What did you do?”~

    ~“I didn’t do anything.”~

    ~“You must have done something. Did you let him use you?”~

      Hearing the insinuation left him disgusted. The sellsword had no shame and not a single speck of compassion towards you. He followed the remainder of the conversation. You were blamed for being disobedient, for being a distraction to Cassian when he was meant to be focused on robbing the paladin camp. Aldith agreed with his son that the guilt was yours alone to carry. Aldith showed no mercy when he struck you in the stomach so hard it had send you to your knees.

Lancelot stepped back, his stomach cramped up at the sight of you having had to undergo such vile treatment, it made him feel physically sick. The Hidden had mercy upon him, his vision blurred again and after blinking a few times he found himself back in the underground pathways beneath the castle.

    ~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  After returning from the vision you were trapped in, the atmosphere felt palpably different. The odd presence no longer felt as heavy, as if it finally achieved what it had wanted. The torches were all aflame, providing enough light to see well. You kept marking the walls as you searched for another exit, and when you found a closed door you hoped it was your way back into the castle. This time the door opened by it’s own will, your hand had stopped mid-reach for the handle. You took a step into the doorway but were pulled back. Your startled scream echoed between the stone walls.

“Are you alright?” Lancelot spoke your name with such worry, repeating the question while cupping your face into his hands. “Are you harmed?”

You gripped hold on his jerkin, hoping to feel the warmth of him instead of reaching into air. “Are you really here?”

“I am here.” He was inspecting your head and if you stood balanced, searching for any sign of injury.

You hoped he believed what you were to tell him, and that he didn’t think you just hit your head too hard. “I saw your past, Lancelot, the Old Gods gave me a vision.”

He nodded, letting his gaze settle upon your eyes. “I experienced a vision as well, one of your past.”

Memories of all the embarrassing moments in your life filled your head. “What-… What did you see?”

He brushed his hand over the side of your head, a soothing gesture. “They showed me the treatment you underwent at the hands of Aldith and Cassian in Ravenwick.”

“I’m sorry.” You didn’t know why you apologized, it just didn’t sit well that he could have seen one of the many beatings you’ve undergone.

“No.” He shook his head. “You do not apologize for what is not your crime. I saw where your scars came from, I saw him use the belt on you. I saw what happened after we first met, how they blamed you…” He brought his face close to yours, speaking right into your ear, “And if they had still been breathing, I would hunt them down and put their corpses at your feet, but not before they suffered for all they have done to you.”

Your eyes widened at him, at how he had spoken with true conviction. “Lancelot…”

He refused to take it back, he would not pretend to be merciful after that vision. He spoke the vow close to your lips, “If anyone lays a hand on you again, they will loathe the day they were born. This I promise.”

It made you wonder what he had truly seen to react in such a way, you could feel the rage in him that he tried to hide from your eyes and see the way he looked at you now.

He took a breath and proceeded to put his lips to your forehead, lingering for a moment. His voice a whisper, “Do you know how far I would go to keep you safe?”

He would bathe his hands in blood, challenge the gods themselves, and trade his own life for another day with you.

Your eyes had fluttered shut. If only he knew what just his voice already did to you. “I have an inkling of it.”

He leaned back, thumbs brushing along your markings. “Now, tell me, are you hurt?”

You decided to tell him the truth, “My bottom and arm feel sore from the fall. And I’m quite certain I was unconscious for a bit.”

“Hold out your hand. See if you can make a fist.” He instructed and saw that you could do it. “No pain?”

“No.” You shook your head.

“That is good. I do not think it is broken.” He touched your arm, seeing if you could still bend it well. “Bruised possibly. What worries me is what damage the fall did to your head.”

The jest fell, “Are you going to see if my rear is fine too?”

His eyes locked on your face right away, smirking whilst giving a scolding look. “Perhaps later. But let Pym see if she can help, she is our healer now after all.” He saw you nod. “What did you see of my past?”

Your small smile fell, but he surely had seen you hesitate, hiding it was no use. “I saw how the paladins pushed you to use the scourge on yourself when you were just a boy. And I saw you speak of me to Father Carden.”

“What was said?” he quickly asked.

“You told him you wanted me with you.”

His eyes dropped to the floor, as if he was embarrassed that you had witnessed him at that point in his life. “I remember it was the day you fled from me, I was in ruins when Father came to speak to me.”

“I saw. Back then, were you already feeling more for me than just friendship?” you wondered out loud.

He was pensive. “I believe I was afraid to acknowledge that possibility. But a dream I had not long before that solidified that fact.”

You locked onto that confession right away. “You dreamed of me while you were still a monk? What happened in the dream?”

There was a tug at the corner of his lips. “You stabbed me with the dagger I gave you.”

That was disappointing, but understandable considering the circumstances. “I thought it was going to be something different.”

He risked it, “You wore a chemise.”

“Ah, there it is.”

“And you taunted me, behaving licentious.”

“You thought it proper to dream of a friend like that?”

“I had no control over it.”

Your brow arched, a cheeky smile was plastered on your face. “Poor man. Having to dream of me in a chemise.”

Almost did he roll his eyes when you kept teasing him about it and he tried hard not to smile. “The reality has proven to be better.”

You were hit with the memory of what had happened the last time you wore a chemise. There was no chance that he wasn’t trying to get you flustered. “Really?”

The door was opened to flirtation and he eagerly invited himself into it. “Certainly.”

You looked at how he let his knuckles brush down your arm. “I might wear it again tonight.”

The prospect of it caused his eyes to glister in the light of the flames. The slight softening of his features warmed your heart. Under the intensity of his eyes you forced your own down to his chest, feeling the fluttering in your chest caused a chill to run down your back.

He cupped the side of your neck and whispered against your temple, “Tonight you should rest. Or have you forgotten how close you were to breaking your neck not long ago?”

You rolled your eyes and stepped back. “I have not forgotten.”

“That is a good sign.” he smirked.

It was a clear jab towards the state your head and memory was in. You decided to let it slide. “Why did they show these visions to us?”

He hummed. “They searched our memories and saw our lowest moments.”

You were trying to make sense of the matter. “Why do you think I saw your past and you saw mine?”

He pondered on that for a moment, then blinked in realization. “They wanted us to see what they had seen in our pasts. It’s our emotions… what Merlin said… our magic is awakened by strong emotions and can also be controlled by them. Perhaps the Hidden and these other Old Gods hope to strengthen our power by it?”

It was appalling. “Rather cruel of them to show us the other suffering while being unable to do anything to stop it.”

He was no stranger to harsh tactics to bring the best out of a soldier. “But it works, do you not feel it running through your veins now?”

He took hold of your hand, urging you to tune into your senses. When you closed your eyes and shut out all distractions, you felt the power gently flow through you.

“It’s right there, is it not? Just below the surface.” He saw you open your eyes and nod.

“But did they have to nearly break my neck for that…” you grumbled, bothered by how reckless the Old Gods had been.

“Your fall may not have been their intention.” he said.

“It’d better not have been.” you grumbled.

He turned to the door you had opened. “What is through there? Another path back into the fort?”

The door behind you was still open, unlike the one who had send you flying down all those steps. “I have no idea, I haven’t gone in there, you found me just as I had wanted to step inside.”

“Remain at my side.” Lancelot moved past you and walked through the doorway. Waiting just for a moment to see if you indeed stayed close.

Once passed the doorway, you arrived into a room with a high ceiling. The room was large and beautiful, large paintings hanged up on the walls, chandeliers lighted the whole place. It was nothing compared to the pathways or the rest of the castle, the state of the room was almost pristine.

“Gods… it’s beautiful…” You stared at the stone pillars that were beautifully crafted and had a pattern of vines along them.

Lancelot was speechless for a moment, staring up at the paintings. He approached them with you. A large painting of a tree was in the center of the wall, standing out above all others.

It was a known imagery among Fey kind. “The tree of life.”

The symbol he had once seen on Brother Otto’s chest as he lay dying was entangled in the painted roots of the tree.

You were tempted to touch the beautiful painting but he caught your wrist to prevent it, clearly not fully trusting that it was safe. “Do you think it is here because the Fey clans began with ours?”

His hand slid down to take hold of your own. “Possibly.”

He looked to the painting at the left of it. Whilst you looked to the one to the right half-hidden out of your sight behind a pillar.

“Look.” You gave his hand a little tug.

He followed your gaze and decided to inspect the paintings on the right. Most of them depicted people, all with the marks of the Ash Folk. But you made him halt at the painting that had been hard to see from where you stood earlier. The woman in the painting had markings, light like yours were, and eyes that same striking color of your lover’s. Surely, he saw it too?

“Are they-”

“Yes.” He was quiet for a while, just looking at the painting with a haunted look in his eyes.

He knew. He knew it was them. His father and mother. He knew… he remembered now.

The moment had to be bittersweet, for him to see his parents for the first time in many years but also only in the form of a painting, sorrow and joy had never been so close together.

His mother, Elaine, had gorgeous golden hair that was in an intricate braided hairstyle. His father, Ban, had deep chestnut hair that almost sat on his shoulders but curled just above them.

“This must have been before Hector and I were born.” He was saddened by the lack of a painting that depicted his infant brother.

You embraced his arm, hoping to offer some silent comfort.

He quietly began to speak, “Merlin told me that my father felt so joyful when I was born that he went around and showed me to everyone. Apparently Ban put me in Merlin’s hands when I was a babe, presenting me to him with immense pride. My mother scolded him for putting me in Merlin’s hands without even asking the magician first.” A careful smile curved his lips. “According to Merlin my mother was always walking the line between gentleness and fury, and my father knew exactly how to move her from one side to another.”

Your head rested against his arm. “They must have been quite a pair.”

He leaned into you more. “She was quiet. He was loud. They were trying to escape these lands, news had reached them that Father Carden was seeking a particular kind of Fey, our kind…” He stepped away, pacing around the room a bit. “This was once their home. Until they left to avoid having to raise their children in the midst of war. If Merlin was speaking the truth, then Ban put this curse on the castle to protect it from the enemy. An attempt to save what could have been the last reminder of our clan.”

This room held the history of the Ash Folk. Bookcases filled one wall of the room, shelves filled of knowledge that may have been believed to be lost to the world. Two large wooden chests stood at each side of what looked like a large table with a diorama version of the castle and it’s surroundings atop of it. It was a beautiful way to have build a map, detailed and quicker to read than a normal map. It caught his eyes and he was at that table within seconds, seemingly loving how a replica of the area was build on it.

He picked up a small wooden horse carved from wood. “Red Spear’s crew will be bringing our horses over.”

You watched as he continued to pick up and look at these sculpted figurines with silent awe in his eyes. It was quite endearing to see him so interested, like a child being given something they had dreamed of.

“This is very useful.” He looked at how the small trees were replicated with small twigs and straw for branches. “This shows us what they may have found important in the area.”

You leaned with your back against the table, smiling as he studied the diorama. “You are adorable.”

He was taken aback by the sweet tone in your voice, for a second he appeared timid. “I’ve seen maps like this before, but nothing as incredible as this.”

“I can tell. Should I be worried you will spend your days playing with it?” you chuckled.

A cheeky smirk formed on his lips. “As incredible as this map is, I prefer to play with something else.”

Your mouth fell agape, and you made light of the comment. “Unfortunately for you I am not on a table for you to play with.”

He dared it. “That can be arranged, can it not?”

“Dear gods!” You swatted at his arm playfully. “There is a painting of your parents right there!”

He found your reaction terribly amusing. “I believe they would be glad their son has brought home such a fine and fair woman.” His smile faltered all of a sudden. “This was home once…”

The pain in his voice was audible to you. “And it could be home for you again.”

“For us.” He bumped the toe of his boot against one of the chests on the floor. “Let us see what is in here.”

With the help of one of his daggers he pried the lock of the chest open, perhaps even hoping to find more figurines for the display. But neither you or him had expected to find what was inside of that chest.

Gold. The chest was filled nearly to the brim with coins that shined under the light of the chandeliers, not a silver one in sight amongst them.

“Good gods…” you gasped at the sight of it.

He stared down at it in disbelief. “Well, I believe this means we will be able to purchase what we need for the Fey to be comfortable here.”

Upon seeing all this gold, that was his first reaction? He truly did have a good heart.

Percival’s voice rang from behind you, “Is that gold?!?” The boy’s hands were in that chest the blink of an eye later, flabbergasted by how it truly were coins all the way to the bottom of it.

Lancelot had waited for a few seconds before making the boy move his hands out of the chest, alarmed by the lone presence of the boy. “Why are you not with the others?”

“Because I was looking for you.” Percival said oh so matter-of-factually.

Lancelot did not like the answer. “Did the Green Knight not tell you to stay at his side?”

Percival knew he was in trouble. “Maybe.”

He narrowed his eyes at the child who tried to outwit him. “And why have you not listened?”

The boy looked so caught in his mischief, shrugging his shoulders. “I wanted to be with you.”

The scolding look vanished from Lancelot’s face no matter how hard he tried to keep it. You bit your tongue, seeing the Ash Man fail to be stern when the boy was wrapping him around his fingers effortlessly.

Percival pointed at the gold and visibly resisted the urge to take a step closer to it again. “Can I have some?”

He could not blame the boy for the question, the Fey suffered from poverty and famish and Percival had not been spared from it. “We need to tell the others of this first, Percival, to decide what must be done with it.”

“We can purchase food with it!”

“Yes.”

The boy daydreamed before your very eyes. “And so many sweetrolls…”

“Easy there.” you said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll hear what the Green Knight thinks first.”

Percival hurried to the exit of the room, too impatient to wait for the decision to be made. “Come on then, hurry up!”

You arched a brow, whispering to Lancelot, “You do know he slipped some coins in his sleeve?”

Lancelot held back a chuckle. “I know.”

And he’d pretend not to know, for there was not enough coin in the world to repay the boy for offering the spark of hope that had saved his life that night.

    ~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  A few hours later all had gathered in the room around the table. The other chest had been opened as well and contained the same contents that were in the other chest, but some jewels and gemstones were included on top of it. Merlin looked happy to stand among the history of the Ash Folk, having stared at the painting of Lancelot’s parents for a while before joining the others standing around the table.

Arthur made the first suggestion after they were shown what was found. “We just divide it again. Like we did with the coin we found in Ravenwick.”

Gawain seemed to think about agreeing to that option, but he awaited other opinions.

“No.” Red Spear stood in front of her crew, none of them looked very interested in the coin anymore. “This coin can keep hundreds fed and clothed. Dividing it between ourselves makes us as selfish as the Red Paladins. We are not beasts!”

Arthur got really quiet, really fast. He clearly valued her opinion on the matter.

“Ay.” The crew agreed with their captain. They may have plundered and stolen, but they were not heartless monsters who would leave people starving like the paladins did.

“She is right.” Gawain concurred. “This gold puts us at an advantage. We can purchase flower to make bread, armour to protect ourselves, wood and stone to make this castle a fort any enemy will fear to attack.”

“This is for the Fey.” you agreed. “To rebuild what was taken from us all.”

Percival chimed in. “And for sweetrolls.”

“Oh, yes!” Pym agreed with Percival on that.

The whole room looked at the big grin on Percival’s face. Then began the discussion on how to keep the coin safe from being stolen by those with ill-intent, that was when Merlin decided to speak up.

“The Hidden will not let those they cannot trust into this room. You said you could not open the door until they allowed it?” Merlin shook his head a little, a secret smile on his face. “Rest assured even the Old Gods, who’s presence lingers within these walls, will not be kind to those who tread into this place with the intent to rob their heir of his inheritance.”

Lancelot was leaning over the table, but looked at Merlin. “You suggest just leaving the gold here?”

Merlin gave a slow nod. “Yes. I suggest we put our faith in your ancestors to protect what has been safe for all those years under the curse.”

Lancelot looked to Gawain for his opinion on it. “Green Knight?”

Gawain stood, arms crossed over his chest, thinking about it for a moment. “It sounds like a plan. But I still vote for the door leading down here to be guarded.”

Red Spear’s offer came, “My crew will handle that task.”

This time it was Gawain who looked at Lancelot for approval, something the Ash Man was yet to get used to. Lancelot gave a nod.

Arthur pointed at something on the map, asking Red Spear, “Has your crew seen this area on the map, would that be a village?”

“A small one.” she answered.

Arthur hummed. “If we are fortunate, there will be merchants willing to sell their wares to us. We could establish a symbiotic relationship with the village. We help them, they help us. And we are in great need of linen and other basic necessities if we at least wish to offer the Fey a proper chance to sleep here. Matters that those merchants can provide us with.”

Gawain was a bit apprehensive about a small allyship with the village. “We have linen. They just have to be washed clean of the dust.”

Lancelot sided with Arthur, for once. “Arthur is right, Gawain, we will not have enough. A basic level of comfort is needed if we hope to keep our people alive here. The weather is growing colder, we cannot risk an illness to be born from our negligence to provide the Fey with warm beds and clothes.”

Pym stammered a little before she got her voice loud enough for all to hear. “And we need more materials to treat the sick and wounded.”

“Indeed.” Lancelot was in agreement. “And speaking of wounded… Pym, could you be so kind as to see if my wife has not broken any bones from her fall?”

“Sure. I can try.” She saw half of the room send her a questioning look. “I mean… of course I can.”

Gawain looked at you, wondering if you were brave enough to find out whether Pym was right or not. And you were going to find out rather quickly, because she took hold of your hand and walked you out of there to begin her healer duties.

    ~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  While the others had gone to work on preparing the castle for the arrival of the Fey, you were send to Pym to check on your health. She was rough by accident and kept apologizing for it.

“Sorry.” She said when taking hold on your sore arm too firm.

“It’s fine.” You winced as it happened to your other arm too.

Pym saw it. “Sorry.”

You found it rather comical to see her try her best to act like a healer.

“I wonder what we’ll eat for supper. I’m starving for something warm.” She daydreamed about it out loud, “Roasted potatoes with a tomato filled with cheese…”

“Or soup?” You suggested a more likely meal.

She grimaced at the mere idea of it. “If I eat soup, or broth, one more time it’s going to start dripping out of my ears.”

That put a vivid image of it in your head, making you grimace too. She apologized again.

Pym went to stand in front of you. “Alright. Follow my finger.”

Your eyes followed how she moved her finger from left to right, up and down, as she tested your ability to focus on it.

“Not feeling sick?” she asked.

“No. Just a little tired. And the start of a headache I think.” you admitted.

“Dizzy?”

“No.”

Pym was relieved that you seemed well and that she wouldn’t have to figure out a way to heal you. “Good.” Muttering under her breath, “Thank the gods…”

You had stood up from the chair you had been sitting on and felt your vision blacken just for a moment. Quickly you sat down again, feeling suddenly nauseous.

“Are you alright?” Pym had seen you act strange from the corner of her eyes.

“Yes.” You assumed it happened from getting up too fast. “Just felt strange for a moment.”

Again you stood, and took a few steps. A cold shiver ran from your back up to your neck, and once it reached your head your vision darkened very quickly, like shadows closing in it trapped your consciousness. Pym squeaked in shock as she saw you fall to the floor like a limp sack of potatoes.

Taglist:

@ourlazydetectivekitten ​​  @the-great-adventures-of-me   @linkpk88   @fxrchxldws @elenaoftheturks ​​  @slytherlight   @beananacake ​​     @crystallizedtime ​​ @moonlightaura03 @angrygardendeer @have-aheart   @5am-cigarette   @arcanenature @thewinterskywalker @notyourwildestdream  

 @coloursforyourportrait   @koressecretidentity   @nike90   @n1ghtlux ​​  @rachlovesactors ​​  @luckyzipperscissorsbat   @morena-doing-stuff   @the-fangirl-diaries ​​  @gipsydanger17   @heavenly1927 ​​ @phantasmalbeiing @labyrinthonmymind @asarcastic-thiamstan @rainyv-skies     @stclairesplace   @​​katjusja @isla-bell-blog   @beebeerockknot   @sahvlren @lancedoncrimsonwings @weird123abc @elizabeth-holland24 @kissingandromeda @timeshiptraveler

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist of this story. Using this old list from the previous fic.

[the-fangirl-diaries]

His looks? Stunning? His voice? Hot. His moral compass? Questionable. Don't bother telling me who he is, I probably know who you're thinking about and honestly? Same.

[caribbean1989]

Daniel Sharman as The Weeping Monk in Cursed (2020)

[letthewhumpbegin]

Cursed, s1e10

[yoihoshi-maki]

Okay I need some help, I am trying to find websites to watch some of my shows like Medici and teen wolf and stuff like that but I can’t find any can you guys please help

[darklinaforever]

Well... It's 2024 and still no news about the book sequel...

[beginning-writer]

Random scenario cause yes

First, this is not my head-canon but Tavo's. I kind of had this- possibly incomplete - scenario for a good few days after I saw the head-canons' post, so I did this small thing.

Gawain was watching Lancelot train Squirrel in the morning as he regularly did, but something was different this morning. Another child was there, learning from Lancelot too, but he wasn't talking much yet, or maybe it was just Squirrel who wouldn't shut up.

As Lancelot distanced himself from the boys and gave them a break to drink water, he approached the knight and he finally saw the chance to ask something stuck in his mind.

“Who's the new kid? I don't think I've ever seen him around. Is he a new rescue?” he asks. Lancelot looked at him with furrowed eyebrows as he took a sip of water, which left Gawain confused. It was a valid question since it was not possible to remember every face in the camp, especially the newcomers. "What?"

The ashman continues to look at him with furrowed eyebrows, analyzing the knight's face as if looking for a joke, but finds nothing but confusion. “You… could say that.” He responds, still staring at the other man's face.

Gawain is even more confused by this and furrows his eyebrows as well. "How’s that?"

“Gawain… That child is my son, Galahad.”

Gawain's eyes widened upon hearing Lancelot's confession. He tilts his head to the side to see the child better. His eyes traveling between the so-called son of Lancelot and Lancelot, comparing the two. And they had basically nothing in common.

“That boy, small and pale, with red hair and no marks on his face, is your son?" The skyman asks in disbelief, still exchanging his gaze between the former monk and the child in the distance. 

Lancelot licks his lips and sighs at hearing the questioning. "Yes. Galahad, small and less pale than me, with fire hair and no tear marks yet, is my son.”

“Are you sure you’re the father?” Gawain says immediately after Lancelot finishes speaking, eyes fixed on Galahad who was now finally speaking after Squirrel paused his talk for a moment.

The former monk gives the knight a hard look as soon as the question leaves his lips. Frankly, it wasn't the first time someone questioned his paternity in relation to Galahad, but it was still irritating every time he had this conversation.

Hearing the question coming from his best friend made his patience disappear in a blink of an eye. His next words came out harshly. “Yes, Gawain of Orkley, I am sure that I am the father. Because I was ab-” He stops mid-sentence, momentarily composing himself to change the words. “Because his mother slept only with me with the aim of getting pregnant. And it succeed.”

Gawain knew he had done something wrong when he saw Lancelot's marks suddenly turn darker, like wine. But hearing his full name and a rephrase mid-sentence was something else. He doesn't touch on the subject, though. He knows better than that and he knows that his best friend will talk to him if he wants and is ready. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to anger you by questioning Galahad’s paternity.”

“It’s fine, but do not do something like that again.” The ashman responds by calming his nerves again and drinking another sip of water.

“It’s just that you two don’t look-” He stops his sentence with his mouth open. Behind Lancelot, Galahad and Squirrel were playing, and Galahad raised his leg to the maximum doing a perfect split. Squirrel looked impressed, Gawain was scared and certainly eating his own words. “Forget it, I can see the resemblance now.”

The former monk finds it strange, but doesn't question it either. He says goodbye to the knight momentarily and returns to training the children.

Gawain had so many questions… But unfortunately that would have to wait. So he just leans against a tree and goes back to watch Lancelot train his two sons.

Gods, having to refer to Lancelot and Gawain as best friends killed me, on the other hand I put squirrel as his son too at the end as a compensation.

Again I should be resting because I'm sick, but here I am again. @lancedoncrimsonwings maybe I'll steal your head-canons more often, but you can't judge me, they're too good.

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Horizons to Battlegrounds Masterlist

Read it on Ao3 Here!

Summary; Out on the road a gravely injured Weeping Monk reflects on the events of the past day after betraying the church, defeating the Trinity Guard, and fleeing with a young Fey boy and unconscious Green Knight...

TWs; Major character injury, pain, religious guilt, battle, internal injury, broken bones

Wordcount; 3,902

POV; Lancelot - The Weeping Monk

A gust of wind brought with it the promise of change.

Rising up across open moorlands the breeze carried scents of a season quickly turning, a cold Autumn drawing in as Summer began to rescind her fierce control of the land. She had not yet bowed to the golden leaves and crisp mornings that warned the land of Winter on its way, and so the air was mild and pleasant, quiet and calm. This peace was gradually interrupted by the slow and rhythmic clattering of hooves as two weary horses emerged from the swell of a hill to the west. They wandered steadily along the lonely gravel path that split the vast moors in two.

The leading horse was a large, muscular Stallion; He was black of coat and tall for his Courser breed- a good 15 hands- lightly armoured, with dark leather blinders intricately decorated and a matching worn saddle and blanket. On his back rode a disheveled, heavily bloodied rider, dressed all in black with a young boy at his lap. Both were quiet, as if afraid to further disrupt the tranquility of this late morning than their mere presence here did already.

The pair looked for all the world like they had been pulled through one of the heathland's colourful hedges of gorse and bramble five times backwards.

The young boy was bleary-eyed with a scrape and a bruise and a lightly blooded nose, his lip was split and puffy, and one of his eyes was bruising. The Rider, on the other hand... had they indeed been dragged through the hedges then his had definitely fought back, and with a great many thorns too by the looks of it.

Dried blood stained his face, bruising painted purple what visible skin wasn't just a little too pale to be considered healthy. His left arm was clamped to his side in some futile effort to stem bleeding, a widening stain of crimson steadily darkening the fabric of his battered black suede surcoat. His body seemed curled around this injury though it was far from the only one he had, and he used an evidently practiced effort to keep his oddly crimson-Ash-marked face stoic. The emotionless mask slipped all the same with a pained grimace at every other jolt of the Stallion's hooves.

From a lead rope tied over the Stallion's neck was secured the second horse. She was relatively young, though full grown, and like the Stallion, a Courser. A diminutive thing in comparison to him, though an arguably more reasonable example of her breed, she stood at around 13 hands with a lithe build. Her Chestnut coat shone with a healthy luster, that is, what parts of her that weren't stained dark with mud from the path and far too much blood that was not her own. She snorted irritably, tossing her long copper-brown mane at the joining rope that clipped to her simple bitless halter.

A plain saddle matched the worn brown leather of the straps, sat upon a red blanket that may or may not have been another colour before it was bled on profusely. Unlike the black Stallion she had no saddlebags, instead, she carried a far more precious cargo; for draped across her back was a Fey man. He was unconscious, beaten and broken, covered in another blanket which too was stained with blood, and he had been hog-tied to the saddle with rope. The Stallion's Rider cast a careful look over the limp body dangling over the saddle for at least the 50th time this hour alone. He silently noted the faint but sure rise and fall of The Green Knight's chest, allowing a rush of relief to tug at the edges of his mouth.

Still alive, then. Good. The Weeping Monk thought to himself, though his mind was hazy and sluggish from the pain of his many injuries. Again, he scanned a careful eye back over the path ahead as he had done repeatedly now, anxious to ensure there was no danger, feeling exposed here out on the path but without knowledge enough of these moors to risk straying from the road. What offered them steady travel also brought the risk of being caught, he knew. Yet after another several minutes of suspiciously glaring hedges into submission there was nothing of note but the rolling moorlands stretching wide across the horizon, and the only scents he could catch on the breeze were cool air and the unmistakable tang of his own blood.

The latter he probably shouldn’t have drawn attention to. Now that he had it seemed overwhelming, this thick coppery stench that began to combine with sweat and horse and God only knew what else to send his empty stomach roiling in complaint.

He coughed involuntarily, nearly retching at the smell. Immediately he regretted the movement as a sharp, stabbing sensation grated through his side with enough strength to blacken his vision momentarily and force him to hold his breath lest he scream. Bloody knuckles whitened around his horse's reins, gripping the leather like a drowning man clinging to driftwood floating at sea, and The Weeping Monk was all but overcome with the powerful resurgence of this all-encompassing, mind-numbing pain...

God help me…

It became inordinately difficult to even think as this blanket of fog descended on him. His body burned and ached, and though it had done so for hours this sharp pain caught him so off guard that it was all he could do not to voice the agony surging through him aloud, not a single wretched part of him spared its suffocating grasp. He couldn't mask the silent, pained snarl that twisted his expression as his Stallion once more jarred him on the uneven ground just as he began to regain his composure.

Silently, he took a shaky breath to calm himself.

Breathe. You're fine.

He almost wanted to laugh at the thought; Fine was surely a generous statement. Without having even checked yet, he guessed that he had at the very least several broken bones, a myriad of lacerations, more bruises than he could count, and there were several other places that just. Fucking. Ached. It made every stride a hellish torment regardless of if his trusty horse was surefooted or not.

You have endured worse than this before.

Indeed, The Weeping Monk knew well that he could tolerate this sort of treatment from far too much past experience in enduring terrible suffering. This particular example still tiptoed further and further over his resilience with an increasing severity as the hours slipped by.

And in truth, they had been riding for hours. The Monk had admittedly been barely conscious for much of the night during the ride, having been dragged awake by the Fey boy in front of him only when he nearly fell from his horse, which had been at least seven times too many, and those were only the instances that he could remember. (If you'd asked the boy he would have informed you that it was more like fifteen. At least.)

They'd stopped once just before dawn, otherwise having ridden constantly throughout the night and morning since fleeing The King's encampment until now. It had been only a momentary pause when they had stopped, he reflected, and a brief and unfulfilling respite at that.

The Weeping Monk probably would not have chosen to stop, himself, a stubborn determination that continued lending him the strength to carry on far beyond what he should have. Nay, it was the boy who had been the one to demand a rest so he could relieve himself, with a rather barbed threat to do so where he sat if The Weeping Monk refused. The Monk had reluctantly agreed, having very little desire to deal with either that particularly unappealing scenario, or the joys of a complaining child in general, for that matter…

When The Weeping Monk had gone to relieve himself in turn, his waters had been stained dark with blood and he had nearly collapsed from the stabbings of utterly crippling pain and nausea that had twisted brutally like a knife in his abdomen. He'd spent a good few minutes on his hands and knees, brow slicked with sweat, trying in near pathetic desperation not to vomit. It had taken him an inordinate amount of effort for him to regain his composure, energy he knew he really couldn't afford to spare, but he had in the end managed to succeed in not emptying his stomach of what little would even be left in it. He was quite acutely aware the action alone would have made him scream. Thankfully enough the Boy had given him privacy and had been busy sorting the horses a little ways out so hadn't noticed, and, if he had then seen the Monk's discomfort when he returned then he hadn't voiced it aloud. In fact, he hadn't said anything at all. The Monk had been equally silent in his gratefulness of it.

As he'd proceeded to check on the Knight, the Boy had watched him like a hawk with an aggressively suspicious look pinching his small features, but again made no comment.

They had been quick to return to the road afterwards.

The thought that the Boy was probably only so quiet from sheer exhaustion had stuck in his mind winding round and round like a nagging worm in his skull after this morning's stop, and so, despite his own fatigue and a fierce need to rest the Monk had encouraged the shattered Boy to do just that, taking over the reins in full without complaint. It had taken more willpower and focus than he liked to ignore every agony that flared within his body, keeping himself as awake and alert as he possibly could.

The Boy, meanwhile, had accepted with an almost dazed nod of his head. He had fallen asleep quickly, still without a word, and once asleep he'd snuggled into the Weeping Monk's side and clung to his surcoat like a limpet to a hull. It was both endearing and excruciating to him as the child unconsciously aggravated still bleeding wounds and broken bones, yet the Monk hadn't known how to react but to wordlessly allow it to happen.

Even now, reflecting on the memory as he was, his heart thrummed with a warm and soothing sensation The Weeping Monk just couldn't place.

The Monk had felt oddly compelled to wrap the Boy in his grey woolen cloak to keep him warm and when he'd still felt the child shiver in the cold dawn, he'd cradled him protectively in his right arm.

Never before had the feared Weeping Monk known a touch like this. It was one of comfort and trust and closeness, and so if he breathed through it and focused on the warmth of the child nestled against him, then the pain was just about bearable... Just. As time went on, though, breathing had become difficult. The pain had in fact been so severe, that with every breath he had taken, he'd begun to wheeze painfully.

When the Boy had woken he had anxiously muttered a few choice swear words and moved away as much as the limited saddle space would allow. He hadn't seemed to notice the blood that had stained into his clothing from leaning against the Monk's injured side, and the Monk, for his part, was momentarily relieved he could breathe a little easier. Strangely enough came the near immediate realisation that his touch-starved body seemed to mourn the loss of contact...

The Weeping Monk shook his head, trying to distract himself from this idea. No longer lost in his thoughts, the pain stabbing through him offered itself immediately for the role and it took great effort to keep it at bay. He could feel how his body shook with fatigue as this torment took its toll.

As if echoing the sentiment, the Boy yawned loudly in front of him. It had been an hour or so since the Boy had awoken--

--The Boy? Quite suddenly came the realisation that he had no idea what the child was even called. Or the Green Knight, for that matter. He knew he'd heard at least one of their actual names spoken before, in fact he was certain he should know the Knight's for sure, but what... what were they...?

A snippet of remembrance, yes, the young Fey warriors he'd used the Boy to bait back in the Iron Wood had called him something...

Josse? No... that was the one he'd killed. It began with an S... Seth? No... Serrel? Sorrel? For the life of him he couldn't remember what either one of these irritatingly elusive names actually was.

Why is it so fucking difficult to think?

"What was your name, Boy?" The Monk asked, daring to break the silence to speak his question. His low voice was hoarse and cracked, immediately betraying his poor condition aloud.

"Squirrel." Came the quick response. The Boy's voice was sullen but level and clear. He had thankfully escaped the sort of damage that had the Knight unconscious and himself suffering. The Monk paused at the answer, smiling lightly. He'd been close with Sorrel then, but just like his own monikers- The Weeping Monk, The One Who Cries, The Grey Warrior, Ashman - he recognised the false name.

"A Squirrel is an animal..." The Monk stated, pausing to take a breath, already, the speaking alone was draining him and he had to gather strength to continue "...What is the name you were given?"

"I don't like that name," Squirrel said, looking away almost petulantly. The Weeping Monk pondered this for a second. His brain was sluggish and slow, pain again dominating the majority of his thoughts, and Lord, it was difficult to even focus on what the Boy had said.

"Well... It's still your name..." He felt himself respond, leaving his words hanging in the air like an unspoken question though he didn't directly ask again. The agony lancing through him was swiftly sapping him of what little he had left.

"Fine..." Squirrel huffed, pulling a face. Even from behind the Monk noticed it. "...It's Percival."

"Percival..." The Monk echoed in a breath, allowing himself another smile. He may not like it, but it is a good name, he thought to himself. A good name, for a courageous young Fey.

"Do you… have a real name?" Squirrel asked, and The Weeping Monk took an anticipatory breath. He ignored the sharp stab of pain, the sensation in his injured side like he was actively being attacked again. He probably should have anticipated that question. Or perhaps he'd asked the Boy's name on purpose, subconsciously wanting the Boy to ask after his, he wasn't fully sure...

Unbidden, memories of his childhood- before the slaughter- came to him. He could not truly remember the face of his mother anymore, nor could he remember her voice, but he could remember his name and knew well enough that it was she who had given it to him. It was a name he sometimes whispered aloud when he was alone at night, a name that didn't feel like his own and hadn't for years, yet he still held onto like a secret, prized possession. A name he knew he must reclaim, for no matter what happened next, The Weeping Monk could surely not endure.

"Lancelot..." He finally said, inhaling again to gather his waning strength in the face of this quiet admission. "...A long time ago, my name was Lancelot."

A disconcerting feeling enveloped him when he spoke the name aloud, the oddest sense of... relief, perhaps? that mingled with a prickling unease. Yet at the same time, nothing had changed, nothing at all. All he truly knew was that it somehow felt...

Yes. It felt right to return to this name now.

The Boy, Squirrel, regarded him for a moment. He gave the slightest nod to acknowledge The Weeping Monk's "new" name, before he turned away without another word and studied the Knight and the horizon before them. Whatever Lancelot had been expecting in terms of a reaction he wasn't entirely sure that was it. Better than a worse reaction, he supposed, raising his eyebrows in his own silent acknowledgement.

And so they were quiet once more, both lost in the private solaces of their own minds. In truth Lancelot was too bone-weary to strike up any further conversation right now- not that he was particularly prone to that anyway.

It still took him far longer than he thought it should have to recognise that Squirrel was still being uncharacteristically quiet. It was quite unlike the last journey the pair had taken together in which Lancelot was fairly certain the child hadn't stopped talking for even five solid minutes. He remembered that he'd used Squirrel's utter inability to fucking Shut Up to his advantage by patrolling the boy through the forest, Squirrel playing his unwitting part as bait extraordinarily well. The barest hint of a smile edged the pained grimace upon his face as he recalled the boy spending an inordinate amount of the time talking on insulting him. Pretty damned inventively too, the Monk had to admit...

Ex-Monk now, he supposed. His tonsure seemed to prickle in response, and God, not for the first time he had an almost overwhelming desire to carve it from his head. Not that he physically could, he knew well enough that it was too deeply branded.

Pity...

Before his mind could wander down the specific circumstances of his unconsentual branding or the all too appealing idea of harming himself, he focused on the scents on the wind, on the scenery around them, on the pain of his injuries and keeping them navigated the right way. His Stallion, Goliath, would lead them well without his interference, but Goliath didn't quite have his ability to scent enemies or allies.

Not that you know which is which anymore... Lancelot shook his head against the thought. He didn't particularly want to face the reality of that situation either just yet.

Finding his pain still too overpowering when he focused on it, he distanced his body from his mind as best he could and forced himself to reflect on the events of the past day that had led them here instead.

Percival, Squirrel, whatever he wished to be called, had been uncharacteristically quiet back then, too, as The Weeping Monk had marched them both through Father's Carden's encampment. As they'd approached the horses the child had broken the uneasy silence to protest.

"No! Where are you taking me!"

Squirrel had begun struggling, standing so firm his small feet carved furrows into the ground against the Monk's firm grip; the latter had restored to dragging them both towards their freedom like cuffing a young animal.

"No! We have to go back! The Green Knight! We must save him!"

The Weeping Monk had found himself halting at the mention of the Green Knight. His mind flooded with the memory of those kind, empathetic eyes, of that fucking look the Knight had given him, a look that had been haunting him like a tenacious ghost since their… enlightening conversation in the torture tent…

"Where did they take him," The Monk remembered replying.

No, what are you doing? Flee, now, or they'll catch you!

He remembered too the voices in his mind, yet The Monk had ignored his internal warring then, just as he ignored it now.

"To Nimue! We have to-"

"...Nimue?"

"The Fey Queen!"

"The Wolf Blood Witch..."

He'd spoken it as barely a whisper, yet still Squirrel had pulled an indignant face at his use of her moniker.

For some Godforsaken reason that he could not explain, he'd found himself saying yes...

He'd tracked the Green Knight's bloodied scent all the way from the Red Paladin encampment to a lone tent in King Uther's, sneaking past the majority of soldiers, finding the way suspiciously clear and a rising tension that crackled through the air like thunder…

When he entered the tent he'd immediately been struck with a second familiar scent, that of the Fey girl who had evaded him for so long... The Wolf Blood Witch. This scent was young and mingled with Brothers he recognised, she'd clearly only left within the last few minutes, dragged out against her will by Red Paladins from the look of the scuff-marks on the floor. But his attention was pulled quickly from the innate desire to follow those tracks by the shape of a body, encased with living, writhing vines.

Blessed Mother Mary... What sorcery was this?

"Green Knight...?" The child had asked, small voice trembling with fear.

The Weeping Monk had knelt at the side of this strange cocoon. This was the Witch's doing, of that he had no doubt, but beneath the stench of magic he could indeed smell The Green Knight. The Monk had pulled a hand through the vines, a warm, soothing sensation dancing across his skin as he had, and unbidden against his will his skin had reacted, swirling with the colours of these vines whilst he revealed the man lying beneath. Squirrel hadn't noticed, too intent on pawing over the Knight, who's broad chest lay still. Too still.

Leaning back on his haunches, The Weeping Monk hid his hands in his lap and waited silently without much hope for the man to breathe. He would allow the boy a short moment to grieve before fleeing this place.

"Wake up, Sir! Please, please wake up..."

And just as The Monk moved to step forwards and drag the boy from his fallen leader, The Green Knight’s emerald eyes had flown open as he gasped a breath...

A pain as sharp as a stab from a blade cut through these ruminations, throwing his shattered body, mind, soul down down down into the darkest depths of these recent memories.

...Blows rained down upon The Weeping Monk, adrenaline seeping from him as crimson splattered across the floor and he was driven to his knees. Golden death-masks leered in his face, a strike to the side of his head sent the whole world spinning and he lurched from it, gasping, before a second strike to his jaw snapped his head back painfully. He felt rather than saw his own blood spray forth, warm and wet where it oozed down his face and neck as he sunk limply to the floor, this broken toy that coughed and wheezed from the agony in his side and back, spitting out the hot blood that collected in his mouth before he choked...

...The rest of the battle faded into a haze of pain, the moment that he waited to die... The moment he forced his broken body upright, to save the Boy who had shown him why he must carry on... The moment he raised his sword to a cowed Abbot Wicklow- a deadly promise that he intended to keep...

The moorlands before him loomed into his darkening vision. Horizons turned into battlegrounds, the terrible clash of war painted the skies and fields around them in rivers of crimson, the stench of blood flooded Lancelot's senses. He watched Goliath's hooves splash into these waves steadily rising, felt them lapping at his feet, thighs, chest, he breathed it into his lungs, drowning now, choking, helpless to do a thing but watch this vision fading to an engulfing sea of red...

Taglist; @holy3cake @violetastrid @gwalch-mei @beginning-writer

Just ask to be added or removed from the taglist!

Chapter 1 done! Thanks for reading, let me know if you enjoyed this :) Chapter 2 coming soon, I won't be updating incredibly regularly but I am on the final edits for Chapter's 1-4. Edit; Chapter 4 deleted itself and my life went mental but I promise these are in progress!

I will link to Chapter 2 here when it is posted, but for now, here's a [sneak peek]!

[kensthjerte]

you're no good for me baby, you're no good for me you're no good for me but baby, I want you, I want

[titticrazy]

very sweet ending!! wonderful Lancelot 🥰🥰🥰🥰

[talesofthehollow]

So it's been some time since we had an update, but I thought it would be nice to take a moment to thank @allgirlsareprincesses for A Song of Ash & Sky. Looking back at my moodboards, I'm forever grateful to your words that inspired them.

Merry Xmas & Happy Holidays, everyone! ❤❤❤

[everlastingdreams]

Forged Of Fire Masterlist

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31

Chapter 32 Chapter 33

~~~~!!!More Chapters will be added as the story progresses!!!~~~~

Story Summary: Raised under the tiranny of your own family, and forced to steal to earn your keep, you struggle to survive. Born from a Fey mother, and a Manblood father who wanted only sons, you are forced to hide your Fey side. When you are ordered to steal from Father Carden by your half-brother, Cassian, your life spirals out of control and you find yourself at the mercy of the Weeping Monk. The life you knew changes drastically when Cassian betrays you in the cruelest of ways. A trade is made, a promise is broken, and a debt must be paid.

Warnings: Angst. Hurt. Trauma bonding. Intrafamily violence. Depression. Self-harm. Suicidal thoughts. Violence. Torture. Gore. Pining. Trauma. Self-Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc. Lima/Stockholm syndrom-ish. Childhood trauma.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forced Marriage. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn Found Familly-ish. Comfort. Fluff. !SMUT and SPICE!

Word count of this fic: +250K

Chapters: 47

[motivi6]

[mrs-jamesbbarnes]

Never gonna get over how hot Daniel Sharman is in Cursed as the Weeping Monk.

[darklinaforever]

The potential of these two. A light and dark ship that would probably have ended well if the series had continued. (Especially since they looked a lot like Reylo) Does anyone have any fanfiction of these two to recommend ?

[beginning-writer]

I did dance headcanon and i am absolutely happy about it.

Yes you didn't read wrong. I was peacefully doing a ballerina drawn during one of my classes, and i remember that ballet dance was patented by the french. More specifically Louis XIV. And it's okay that ballet actually originated in Italy, but I'll politely leave that in the corner. With all due respect.

there is the unfinished drawning if you're interested:

Now, who else is french? Exacly. Lancelot du Lac. But i didn't wanted to do a cultural dance for Lancelot and the Ashfolk and leave Gawain, Squirrel, Pym, Nimue and the Skyfolk aside. They're a big, dysfunctional, but happy, family. So i decided to make a cultural dance for both of them and i'm going to explain why in this post. Which probably will be quite long.

The ashfolk and Ballet.

As i have said before, i know that ballet is not originally french, but italic. If you didn't know about this before, yes, ballet origins are italic. The dance came to France when Catherine de Medici married whit the King Henry II of France. but it was only patented by Louis XIV, the Sun King, years later, and it became popular among high society.

And i do know france have a lot more of cultural dances like: Cancan, quadrilha, gavotte, minuet and more. But reading each of them to try to fit it and not be stuck in the stereotype, i realized that, no, none of them actually mached whit Lancelot personality. And not just Lancelot. His family was incribably cristhian in the legends, and strict too, so the other dances didn't fit what i was looking for. So that's why i chosed ballet as the ashfolk cultural dance.

Lancelot/The Ashfolk and Ballet.

Now, when i talk about Lancelot in the weeping monk adaptation, the first thinga that came to my mind are his past abuse and his melancholy. Obviously how absolutely pretty he is too, but that's not the point. And whit the past abuse and scenes like: When Carden slaps him in the face because he asked for mercy for Squirrel; We see how he is constantly expected and forced to be rigid and up to standard one hundred percent of the time. Which, depending on which perid we see, matches whit how ballerinas were treated.

Most people from outside see the ballet houses - As we call from where i'm from - by the pictures and shows, but also by those overexaggerated pictures from internet where we see the ballerinas's foot and bodys badly hurted by the sneakers and the injuries caused. And a lot of people believe that ballet is like dance moms, I don't know if that's the correct name of the show, but that actually doesn't happen. I'm not saying it never happens, but it's not how you see or think. It's not just delicacy and elegance, but it's also not just demands and frequent pressure. As a former child dancer, I know that there is a lot of pressure on dancers, even children, and depending on which house you're from, you can end up having an abusive house where you are excessively demanded and overstandard.

Having explained that. Ballet is an elegant and graceful dance, but it takes time, strength and a lot of dedication. And of course, with many expectations about perfection and rigid routines and trains. Which matches Lancelot's personality perfectly. "Perfect" steps with elegance and lots of training and effort. The difference is that if Lancelot had had a ballet house, he would have ended up in an abusive one with obvious problems but which no one dares to comment on.

Lancelot doesn't talk much in the show or in the legends, and the ballet is not a play with words, but rather one where a story is told through music and movement, which is perfect for our darling who barely speaks.

Ballerinas at first don't wear pointe shoes, their feet were flat on the floor like in any other dance, but over time it was added to make the ballerinas look bigger and elegant, and Lancelot also fits into this, along with most French people.

Ballerinas' bodies are thin and yet very strong, and by the looks of Lancelot's as well. You can't look at my face and say that that man eats three meals a day healthily, that's a lie that not even the devil can forgive.

Ballet is known mainly for its elegant jumps, endless pirouettes and, as my little sister calls it and I think it's incredibly cute, "kicks in the air" - which would be the splits and opening the legs in pirouettes. Lancelot has a similar fighting style, with lots of kicks, somersaults and spins. What I particularly like to think of as an adaptation of his cultural dance to a fight. so he has at least something from home nearby every day, even if not in the best way.

Ballet pieces were formerly known for paying homage to Greek myths, love, nature and life. Which refers to the fey nature and how Lancelot became known for his love for Guinevere in the legends.

Everything mentioned is a way of explaining why Lancelot suits ballet better than the other dances I studied, even if I tried to avoid stating the obvious.

The ashfolk and ballet culture

Now listen to me carefully. Yes, bale is a very delicate dance that needs rehearsals and that wouldn't make sense in something like: Simple dance at a cultural celebration because the music was nice. But this can get solved.

For this type of occasion, I like to think that the relaxed ballet dance on lighter cultural occasions where they simply want to dance, could be in the style of Marianela Nuñez's dance in Don Quixote in 2013 in the first act, just more relaxed and with more improvised movements.

Their clothes would also be less elegant and more focused on comfort due to heightened senses. And of course, because they have a type of connection with fire, the clothes would be vibrant and with more handmade details attached to the clothes.

But when it was for the plays and presentatios they would use what we usually see in the ballet shows, but more adapted to their time and conditions.

Lancelot and ballet presentations i see him doing

Lancelot in the weeping monk have this melancholy attached to him. When you talk about the weeping monk the fist thing you'll say about him is: "He's depressed." And there is just so much presentations knowed for their melancholy and saddnes and death as their signature mark too! The most famous is Swan Lake, but i can also see him doing ballet plays like: Giselle, Sylvia and The Corsair, etc.

He would totaly do the black swan and you won't convince me the contrary; The act two of Giselle is totally him; I won't mention Corsair and Sylvia cause i cannot put into words what i'm feeling about both plays righ now, i'm still in the overcoming phase, but if you waavth it you'll get what i'm saying.

Scene time!

Squirrel was eagerly telling Lancelot about the cholheita ritual they would do next spring, telling him every detail about their dance and how Nimue, Pym and Gawain were excited about it and how incredible they would look prancing the gods in their traditional clothes.

The little one spoke like a rattlesnake without stopping to breathe, and Lancelot, as always, listened to everything without any problems with the one-sided conversation. At one point in the conversation, Squirrel changes the topic to how he would love to see other spring celebrations and other people's dances. And then came the inevitable question:

"Hey, what's your cultural dance? Do you dance?" Squirrel asks looking at him with those big curious eyes.

Lancelot wanted nothing more than to rigidly deny and end what he knew was coming in the bud, but the boy spoke so eagerly and with so much enthusiasm about the subject that he didn't have the heart to lie to him at that moment. He sighs and accepting his fate for the next few hours, responds. "Yes. In my village we danced ballet. I danced my share of times while I could."

"Ballet? like that delicate and elegant dance that makes you stretch to the maximum, full of jumps and things like that?" He asks with those eager eyes and fingers clenching in anticipation.

"Yes, that same one. I was a ballerina."

"That's so cool! You not only dance, you dance ballet!" Squirrel speaks excitedly, almost jumping from where he was sitting. Excitement was written everywhere on his body. "Oh oh, can you do that thing where you stretch your leg up there?! eh.. I forgot the name, but you know what it is."

Lancelot smiles at the boy's imminent excitement, almost enough to smell it. This was going to be a long evening.

Additions.

I thought about talking about the cultural dance I chose for the skyfolk too, but this post is already too far away so I'll leave it for another post. The dance is not very well known, but you will agree with me when you read the next post.

If you've read this far, congratulations, you're a champion. Thank you for your time and patience.

@lancedoncrimsonwings