#Weeping Monk

[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.

[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

Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49

~~~~!!!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 + Two extras.

[beginning-writer]

Daniel Sharman is a Doberman and you can't convince me otherwise.

I

See

No

Diference

[caribbean1989]

Daniel Sharman as The Weeping Monk in Cursed (2020)

[letthewhumpbegin]

Cursed, s1e10

[darklinaforever]

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

[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

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Horizons to Battlegrounds Masterlist

Read it on Ao3 Here!

Next Chapter

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!

Chapter 2 has been posted now, find it [here]

[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]

The Weeping Monk x Fem!Reader : Forged Of Fire Extra Chapter 48

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

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 Summary: A red moon is set to rise above the lands, the veil separating the world of the Old Gods from your own grows palpably thin. The last of the Ash Folk are yet to learn what power a red moon offers and holds over them.

Chapter Title: Red Moon Rising.

Notes: This is the first of the two extra chapters. Sorry it took so long. Be warned, it's smutty. And the second will be too. Also, this chapter is long, around 21k words.

Special warnings for this chapter: !!!!Smut/spice. Foreplay. Unprotected PIV intercourse. Consensual. Nippleplay. M/masturbation. (?) Edging. Oral F/M recieving.!!!

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

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

The morning sun hid behind the clouds, ashamed of the blood that was being spilled beneath it. Abbot Wicklow looked upon his reign of fire, seeing his loyal soldiers raze the large Fey camp that had been found. The Fey had believed this to be their sanctuary, but the Trinity Guard had brought the holy fire to them. Crosses were being erected by the paladins, the symbol of the terror that brought the Fey to their extinction.

“Leave no one alive,” the Abbot told the Trinity Guard. “Cleanse the land of this filth.”

The Trinity Guard was ruthless, dragging the Fey out of their huts to make them face the judgment of their god. The sky was quickly darkening from the ashes. The holy fire began to raze the camp. Abbot Wicklow was pleased with this progress, surrounded by four of his strongest guards he watched the destruction. The fire seemed to spread closer to where he stood and he moved further away, only to notice the fire following his path. Wicklow frowned, his eyes drawn to the burning camp. An invisible force, that felt like a heavy wind, passed through the area with high speed. The wind passed through the flames, transforming them instantly into the ancient fires of the Fey.

The Abbot watched it happen, knowing who was to blame. Once he came in command of the paladins the elders had shared their knowledge with him that Father Carden had once forbade them from speaking.

“It is him. He is here.” Wicklow told his Trinity Guards.

But none of them truly knew what sort of power the Fey Fire held, nor that the flames could be controlled by their creator. The Abbot learned this truth when he saw the flames turn against his Trinity Guards.

A child ran around, a frail young girl with hair as black as a raven, evading the grasp of the Trinity Guards in search for her parents, she came to a halt when colliding with your leg. You took hold of her arm, one look up at your face and the child knew you did not belong with the masked murderers. Your markings burned their fiery crimson, much like Lancelot’s who walked a little further away with the others.

Lancelot looked at the people behind him, the Feys and Manbloods he had trained in the skill of battle. He gave them the command, “Advance.”

The group that ran into battle to fight for the attacked camp consisted of forty people, all dressed with armor and weapons that the forge of the Ash Folk had provided them with.

Gawain stood at Lancelot’s side, silently impressed with the control the Ash Man had learned to have over the fire, but the knight soon joined the others in battle. Even Pym proved herself to have grown to be quite a fighter, a strange blend of the techniques she had learned from Red Spear’s crew and Lancelot’s lessons.

The Trinity Guard fought against the group and tried to evade the green flames that were starving for vengeance. You steered the girl along, trying to help her reunite with her parents. Suddenly she rushed forward and knelt beside a fallen couple.

“Momma! Poppa!” she cried in despair.

A Trinity Guard noticed her and got closer, quickly you blocked his path and attacked him. He was fast, but not as fast as the one who had taught you how to wield a sword. He swung with the flail and moved to your right, you evaded the attack and lashed out with your sword, cutting through the side of his head. His mask fell off and under it was not a monster but a man who finally knew what fear felt like. He attacked again, catching your sword in the chain of his flail, pulling it to the ground to disarm you. You sensed his intent and by the time he had pulled it down, you had drawn your dagger and send it up into his throat. He began to choke on his blood, you freed your sword and struck him in the neck. He sank to his knees and you pulled your sword and dagger free, kicking against his chest to keel him over.

“Momma!” The girl, not even long past the age of five, was crying her heart out,

Lancelot had seen you fight the Trinity Guard and approached the scene, he picked up the girl in his arms, taking her away from the sight of her dead parents. He handed her over to one of the Tusk Folk that he had trained. “Take her to Goliath, he will know what to do.”

You saw the Abbot try to escape the battle with two of his guards and went after the coward that let his men succumb by the flames alone. They were trying to reach their horses but were stopped by the green flames before they could reach them. It had taken weeks of practise for you to be able to conjure up the flames at your will, but unlike Lancelot’s your magic was often unpredictable still. To have the flames form a circle around them, rising high above their heads, took effort. You closed yourself into the circle as well, wanting to have your eyes on the danger or risked losing track of it.

“Abbot Wicklow,” you addressed him loudly.

Swiftly he turned, shocked to see you there. The two Trinity Guards drew their swords.

You stalked closer. “Remember me?”

He looked to one of his guards and gave a nod, you knew that signal but all too well. His guards attacked, quickly you parried and warded of the attacks. Lancelot had taught you how to be quick if faced with an enemy that was build stronger than you and that came to your advantage now. One lashed out at you, you ducked down and sank your dagger between his ribs when coming back up again. There was barely time to pull your dagger free again before the other had grabbed you from behind. You turned the sword in your hands and thrusted it backwards just next to your waist, hoping to strike. When you heard the one behind you groan, you knew it had found it’s mark. Pulling the sword free, blood stained it’s blade. Again you moved the blade backwards as his grip on you faltered, this time sinking it into the front of his throat. When pulling the sword free, the mystical marks on it glowed the same green as the flames around you.

The Abbot looked at the sword and at his fallen guards. “You have the Sword of Power.”

“This thing?” You held the sword up for him to see. “Oh, no, Abbot. This is not the ancient sword you seek. This is one my husband gave me.”

Wicklow truly did not understand where another magic sword came from, but you knew the truth. The forge of the Ash Folk was brought back to life, it could not forge weapons of the same strength as the Sword of Power, but it forged weapons of excellent quality and a speck of magic that allowed all Fey to have some help from the Hidden against the enemy.

“How?” The Abbot demanded to know.

You arched a brow, ignoring his question. “Go ahead, send me your guards. I do enjoy to test how light and quick my sword is now.”

He tried his manipulative tactics, “Perhaps you may allow me to speak to your husband. I assume you speak of the Weeping Monk? Rumors are spreading through the land that he is foolish enough to turn against the Church.”

You felt a shift in the flames you had created, Lancelot stepped into the circle, the Abbot gawked at how the flames bend around the Ash Man and never even burned him.

Lancelot stopped at your side, “Your assumption is corrected, Abbot.”

He wished to rain fire upon them, bringing them the flames long before they would meet them in death.

Wicklow saw the desired sword in the hands of the Ash Man. “So the rumors are true. The Sword of Kings is in the hands of a Fey.”

He had heard the degrading tone. “It is where it chose to be.”

Wicklow did not like to see the sword in his hands at all, the rotten knave used his manipulative nature to get under Lancelot’s skin. “All those years you served, all for nothing. One glance at sin and you succumbed to it.”

You saw the Abbot look your way to make it clear what he meant, or rather who, when he spoke of the sin.

Seeing the Abbot look at him with disgust was one thing, but seeing such a look aimed at you was testing his patience terribly.

The Abbot saw Lancelot’s hand tighten around the sword. “I am certain we can come to an agreement.”

He grew wary. “What sort of agreement?”

Wicklow gestured to the sword and to you. “The sword for your life. We shall spare her as well.”

“You are in no position to make demands or attempt to bargain, Abbot.” Lancelot arched a brow. “Your fate was decided when you threatened the boy I freed from the paladin camp.”

The Abbot finally seemed to realize that Lancelot had never intended to take him as a prisoner to bargain with the Church, his confidence began to falter.

“Do you remember that night, Abbot?” Lancelot’s eyes darkened, his voice reached a dangerous low. “Do you remember the blood of your Trinity Guards seeping into the soil after you challenged me?”

The Abbot indeed remembered how the rain had mixed with the blood of his holy soldiers, how he was forced to flee from the bloodbath the Weeping Monk had caused for a Fey child. And it seemed that the former monk had not forgotten what part he had played that night.

“What was it you called him?” Lancelot spoke lowly.

‘Fey orphan’ is what Wicklow had called Percival back then, he had never forgotten the disgust in his voice and how it was meant to hurt the boy, mocking a child with the death of his parents.

Wicklow sensed the rage still boiling over the night long past. “Giving us the sword will earn you mercy. Without mercy the holy fire will come for all you love, Weeping Monk.”

Lancelot’s jaw twitched, the threat infuriated him but he managed to remain calm. “No, Abbot, I will bring you the fire. The flames will rain down upon your heads. I will burn away your legacy from these lands, it’s ashes will be nothing more than a reminder of a darkness erased.”

It was clear to the Abbot now that the former monk intended to erase all those who had crossed the Fey. “If you take my life, another will take my place.”

Lancelot was not bothered by that knowledge. “Yes, I am aware. And they will burn just the same.” He showed the Abbot the Sword of Power. “The sword threw itself at my feet, not once but twice. And I swore when I picked it up I would use it to protect the Fey. You reign of terror ends here, Abbot.”

Lancelot held his hand out for you to take. “Come, my love.”

You placed your hand in his and let him walk you out of the circle of Fey Fire. One last look back at the Abbot showed him looking around in terror at the flames surrounding him. The circle closed, trapping him into the flames much like he had spend his years doing to the Fey. Lancelot watched the flames for a moment as they consumed the man responsible for so much suffering.

Today he could hear the Hidden clearer, louder. He could feel the power within him surge to the surface. His sense of smell felt heightened even more than it already was, the magic flowed effortlessly as if it could read his thoughts and abide by them.

The Green Knight was approaching the two of you, he must have known who was perishing in the circle of Fey Fire.

Gawain sought out Lancelot’s opinion, “What do we do with survivors?”

Lancelot kept his eyes on the green flames engulfing the place. “There will be none.”

Gawain gave a silent nod and walked back towards what was left of the camp. One might believe it to be a cruel decision, but what you had learned so far was that Lancelot made choices that were necessary and he carried them all on his soul in silence.

You touched his hand. “Lancelot-”

It was obvious he feared the response you’d have. “I know how to win a war with battle. Diplomacy works only if both sides are open to it. Until they set aside their pride, we cannot reach peace.” He took a breath, voice quieter, “I do not enjoy this.”

You saw him tilt his head down. “I know. We all know you are trying to make the right decisions.”

The markings beneath his eyes were still burning that beautiful fiery crimson in them. This was the closest he had looked to a deity. He glanced back at you and noticed the look in your eyes before you timidly cast them away. Even now your heart still quickened it’s pace when he leaned in and gave a polite kiss to your temple.

The battle was won, but not without casualties on both sides. Some of the camp had perished and nothing would be left of the Trinity Guards who had accompanied the Abbot here. It had been a mistake of the Abbot to come near the area where your new home was and he and his soldiers had paid for it with their lives.

As the flames extinguished themselves by the wish of their makers, you went to help the wounded. Wagons stood hidden not far away and were brought closer to transport everyone back to the fort. Every time Fey were saved, they were apprehensive towards Lancelot, understandably so. Fortunately that passed when they saw their brethren treat him as one of their own, often seeking him out for advice. With the survivors, the journey back home began.

          Many had questions on the way back to the castle, Gawain was able to answer most of them to set the minds of the Fey at ease. The ride back was calm and uneventful, a big difference with what had happened earlier. There was always a healthy dose of nervousness in you whenever newcomers arrived at the castle, and this day was no different. You helped them get down from the wagons, separating the wounded from the healthy for treatment. Thankfully an infirmary was now in use in the castle and you and Pym were no longer the only ones with knowledge of healing. Slowly a functional community was forming, some had a talent for cooking, others had a talent for healing and so on.

Lancelot was making certain that all those who had journeyed with him to the camp were accounted for. He was not just the one to train them, you knew he felt responsible for their survival as well, he cared. The deaths on the Fey side after the battle limited itself to those from the Fey camp this time.

Percival ran up to you. “How’d it go? Did you gut some paladins?”

“Mostly Trinity Guards.” you bragged a little.

The boy’s eyes widened. “Really?!?”

“And I used Fey Fire.” You held a hand up. “It got this high.” With a swift motion of your hand, sparks of Fey Fire came to life in the palm of your hand just in front of his nose.

Percival chuckled at the sight, the green flames reflecting in his eyes. He tried to touch the sparks but your hand closed. “Do it again!”

You tsk-ed him playfully, “Ask politely, Percival.”

The boy sighed a little, chewed on the words Lancelot had been teaching him ever since they met and decided to go with, “Please?”

You knelt down, indulging the boy’s request. He had been angry earlier when hearing that he wasn’t allowed to engage in battle. Small sparks danced in your palms, it was one of the things you found most easiest to control especially when seeing how much Percival and other people loved to see it.

“Have you finished practicing your writing today?” you asked.

It had been a rule Lancelot had set into place, there would be no practicing the sword if Percival did not put in the same effort to learn other needed skills such as reading and writing. So far the boy had lived by the rule, but not without an occasional disagreement towards it.

Percival gave a nod. “Can you ask Lancelot to make me write something else? The books he wants me to write from are boring.”

You were glad Lancelot was not standing near enough to hear. “Have you told him this yourself?”

“No.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think he really knows what young people like to read.”

It had sounded as if he was sharing a secret and you tried to keep your composure and not laugh. “He is not old either, Percival.”

“He behaves like it,” the boy blurted out.

You chuckled a little and rose to your feet, grabbing him and holding him against you playfully. You ruffled a hand through his hair whilst he tried to escape from your grasp. “Stop calling everyone old, you rascal!”

Percival cheekily replied, “Stop behaving like it.”

Oh, the many times the boy had ‘accidentally’ insulted others and you had to go and make him apologize with a burning face of shame. Old, stupid, reeking… you had heard it all come from the child’s mouth.

Lancelot stared at the display from a distance for quite some time, watching you engage in a playful battle with the boy. The flask of water in his hand was forgotten.

Gawain noticed it. “Are you aware of how much you have been staring at her today? We are not even noon yet.”

He nearly rolled his eyes at the statement. “She is my wife, Gawain.”

The knight did not hold his tongue, “Lancelot, by the gods believe me, everyone is aware.”

The Ash Man snapped his eyes away.

Restless. His blood was rushing through his veins since the sun had come up. Was he growing ill? The knight had a point, this was the third time since waking that he must have been staring your way. The sight of you distracted him so.

He downed the flask of water completely, closing it up again to carry along to fill.

“Are you alright, brother?” Gawain had a slight frown at the sight.

A sharp nod. “Yes.”

Gawain was not sure if that was the truth. “Are you sure? Because if you are not, I can ask one of the others to come along to the village with Kaze and I.”

He reassured him, “I am certain, Gawain.”

You approached the talking men with Percival, telling them of your intentions. “I will go and help the newcomers settle in.”

Lancelot let it roll off of his tongue, “Our most gracious host.”

Gawain and Percival send him a look at the blatant flirtatious tone, you hadn’t expected the tone either.

Gawain gave him a nudge with his arm. “We should head to the village, Ash Man. Percival and her will handle the matters here, they are more than capable.”

The compliment was nice to hear and a little unexpected. “Thank you, Green Knight.”

Lancelot send you a look, probably feeling a pang of envy at the smile Gawain received from you at the compliment, he saw you look back at him a bit teasingly in return with a feigned little pout that was meant to toy with his mind. A light smack to his shoulder blade from Gawain woke the Ash Man from his thoughts. The knight was growing impatient, Lancelot tilted his head down a little for you before following Gawain back to the horses.

  ~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  You were trying to ensure that all the newcomers felt welcome, they were apprehensive but luckily Gareth and Arthur proved to be quite good at making sure the people were comfortable. It helped that Gareth was Gawain’s brother, all Fey knew who the Green Knight was and some even knew Gareth from his first time as a knight before he was once a sellsword. Apparently Gareth was known as a knight who would show up at the most unexpected times and places. And Gawain… well if rumors were true the Green Knight often hid his flirtatious nature under his stern demeanor, something you didn’t really expect, but Gareth could only confirm that it was true.

“Really?” You turned to Gareth after having brought the newcomers to the dinning hall, where Arthur and Red would handle the rest, and stepping out. “Our Green Knight is a flirt?”

Gareth walked by your side. “One of the most amusing memories I have of my brother is him seducing a noble woman in front of her husband by accident. Ah, yes. He had a bruised eye for quite some time. Now, I am no saint, but Gawain is perhaps further from it than I am. Don’t let his proper attitude fool you, dear. My brother knows how to charm people.”

You loved to hear the stories of others. “Anything else you wish to share?”

He hummed. “I have a question for you actually.”

It was a little less comfortable to be the one questioned. “What question?”

Gareth stopped and turned to face you. “I am quite curious about that sense of smell of yours. Do you ignore it until you truly focus on using it?”

Good question. “Yes. I really had to learn to focus on the scents around me to be able to pick up on Fey scents.”

“What do I smell like to you?” Gareth asked suddenly, taking a smooth step closer. “And be honest.”

You saw him fold his hands behind his back, as if to ensure no one could accuse him of acting improper. “Well-”

Lancelot’s voice came from behind him. “Like a rotting corpse in a moment if you do not step back.”

Even Gareth knew that the Ash Man was not being serious, still there was a hint of a warning to be found in that tone. “Gods, Lancelot. Let her have a sniff. I washed this morning.”

“Poorly.” Lancelot fired.

Gareth send him quite a look. “That is rude.”

Ah, yes, Percival was not the only one you found yourself apologizing for sometimes. “He is lying, Gareth. You do not smell ‘poorly’.”

Lancelot nearly rolled his eyes and stepped to your side, placing a hand on your back.

“Thank you, dear.” Gareth enjoyed to see the Ash

Man look at him with a hint of contempt. “You are fortunate with such a gracious wife. I have no doubt she saved you from the consequences of your words and actions a couple of times already.”

Lancelot was rubbing your back to distract himself from Gareth. “I am indeed a fortunate man to have her.”

Gareth felt the unwelcome atmosphere radiate from him but simply ignored it. “How were things in the village? Found us what we need?”

He gave a nod. “We found what we needed. And more villagers are beginning to sell wares now that they know it earns them a living.”

“Excellent.” Gareth clapped his hands together. “This is what we had hoped for, we’ll grow our own kingdom at this rate.”

Lancelot was more apprehensive. “Let us not be too hasty on the matter-”

“Nonsense.” Gareth patted him on the shoulder, ignoring how Lancelot looked at him as if he was covered in mud. “It’s not a sin to be optimistic.”

Lancelot scoffed and rolled his eyes at the blatant jest towards his past. He turned to speak to you, “Come. I have brought some matters from the village that I’d like for you to see.”

“Oh?” Gareth eyed him curiously.

You swatted at Gareth’s arm before he could think of inviting himself along, Lancelot was quick to steer you away from him.

He was quite enthusiastic and took you by the hand, leading you out of the castle. He brought you right to the stables where Goliath was, taking something out of the sack that was draped over the saddle. He quickly turned to hand it to you.

“Feel this.” He held what looked like a shawl out for you to touch.

You touched the fabric, “Is that silk?”

Never had you touched silk before, the fabric was known for how costly it was and was often worn only by nobles. It was smooth, delicate and soft. Beautifully embroidered with flowers.

“It is.” he confirmed it, looking at your expression intrigued.

You pulled your hand back, fearing to damage the lovely piece. “Why did you-”

He went and brought the shawl over your head, shaping it around until it sat like the hood of your cloak would. You barely dared to touch it, Aldith had always said that silk was often worth more than gold and now it was wrapped around your head.

Lancelot curled a finger under your chin, seeing you look back at him with wide eyes. “For the colder spring days where a cloak is just too warm to wear yet.”

“I…” you had to take a breath to bring the words out. “You bought this for me?”

He found the reaction rather amusing. “Of course.”

You pointed at yourself, barely daring to touch the shawl that was already around your head. “But it is silk.”

“Yes. I thought it would fit well with this…” he got something else out of the sack, putting it into your hands as well to feel.

Silk. Beautiful, beautiful silk. Flowers were embroidered on it as well, the details were intricate. You were so used to having to take great care of your clothes in the past, knowing that getting new ones was near impossible living with Cassian and Aldith. Even after all this time, purchasing clothes for yourself was a rarity because you simply weren’t used to it, the few times that you went to the village for clothes was out of necessity and you never truly dared to spend much or pick anything special. The only time you let yourself wear something special was on your wedding day, and that gown and cloak had been stored away safely ever since for safekeeping.

Your arms were shaking. “I don’t understand.”

He was trying to read your reactions. “It is a light gown for when it gets warm. I do not know if you enjoy gowns, but it looked so lovely and I thought I should purchase it and bring it to you.”

You were staring down at the gown.

He grew worried. “What-”

A sob escaped you, you put the gown quickly into his hands so you could hide your face in your own. He reacted fast, putting the gown on the sack and taking you into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized between sobs for the reaction.

He did not let you escape his embrace and held you against his chest. “What is wrong?”

You failed to properly explain through the emotion. “You got me a gown and a shawl,” a shaky breath, “-and it’s silk.”

“And why is that bad?” He tried to understand.

It took a while before you were able to quietly answer, voice shaking, “It’s too much for me.”

He thought back to the vision. To the little girl you once were, beaten, starved and neglected. How had he not noticed before now that you thought yourself unworthy of finer things than worn down clothes?

He hushed you, brushing a hand over your head and kissing your temple. “Nothing is too much for you.”

He would put the world and the heavens at your feet, along with any deity who would try to prevent it from happening. To him there was only one that he pledged his soul to.

You took a moment to compose yourself and apologized for the reaction, “Forgive me, I feel overwhelmed.”

He tried not to grin. “Then perhaps I should give you the rest later.”

Of course that piqued your interest. “There’s more?”

With a hum he confirmed. You stepped back from him, wiping the tears away. It was the reaction he was hoping for.

He focused on your face. “But first, share your thoughts with me on the matter of the gown.”

“It looks beautiful,” you told him. “Do you want me to see if it fits me?”

His answer was a breathy, “Here?”

Your eyes snapped to his, seeing the Ash Man get lost in a daydream for a few seconds. You let out a giggle. “I meant in our room. You want me to bare myself in the stables?”

His answer did not come, but his eyes answered what his mouth did not. Slowly he turned to the sack again, ignoring the topic entirely. “I have more for you.”

You noticed how restless he appeared, he seemed more energetic and easily distracted. Before you could even question why that was he had placed a book in your hands.

“A book?” Another gift?

“Yes.” He went and took another out of the sack and placed it atop the one in your hands. “For when you wish to have some distraction and rest.”

There you stood, gown in hand with books atop of it. You had no chance to thank him before he put what looked like a new scarf on top of the stack as well.

It all felt overwhelming. “Lancelot.”

A dashing smile curved his lips. “Yes, Sweetheart.”

That tone… that incredible charm that had you stammering like an infatuated fool. “I… what-… you’re spoiling me-”

He took a step closer, smiling at the way your hands were filled with his gifts. He curled a finger under your chin again. “If matters had been different, if I had truly claimed my father’s title I inherited, you would be queen and I would spoil you rotten with all I could give you of these lands.” His lips brushed your forehead. “One day, if the Fey ever fully accept my return and when the war is over, I may step into my father’s footsteps after all and crown you the queen that you are.”

It did not stay one kiss, he slowly pecked your forehead again, then your temple, showering you with affection while you tried not to drop anything.

You turned your head away when his enthusiasm did not stop and he still managed to peck your cheek. “Why are you… you seem different today.”

He saw no problem. “I just want to see you happy.”

You took note of how much his gaze traveled over your face with intrigue, as if it were your first days in love again, “I am happy even without these gifts.”

His eyes softened, he stroked a hand over your hair. “Every smile I can bring you is worth more to me than any other treasure.”

His compliments and gifts were overwhelming your emotions. It felt like a ‘thank you’ was not enough and he seemed to be vying for your affection so strongly today. Did he perhaps fear you did not love him as much as you did? You thought back to the last few days to figure out if you had done something to make him worry but couldn’t recall anything that stood out. You put the items down on a bale of straw to empty your hands. Seeing him frown slightly.

“I think I’ll see if the gown fits, it’s really beautiful.” you hinted with a coy smile.

“I hope it does-” he fell silent at the sight of you taking off your bodice.

He was rooted to the spot, watching in complete silence as you bared yourself and put on the gown.

That beautiful silk was nearly as soft as you were and had been costly. And yet once you put it on and covered what you had just shown him from his sight again, he had to fold his hands together behind his back or risked being tempted to tear it off of you.

You smiled playfully, turning around to let him see how the gown moved around you. “What do you think?”

It took him a few moments too long to truly be able to focus on the gown.

“I uhm…” he swallowed hard, blinking slowly.

The reaction was more than you had anticipated. “You have seen me bare before, Lancelot.”

He had that boyish smile, seeming almost timid. “And you believe that makes you less breathtaking to behold?”

You smoothed out the dress, flustered by the charm he was mercilessly aiming upon you. Your heart began to race when he came closer and made you turn to face him. Your eyes dropped to the neckline of the gown. “Uhm… I can see why you chose it for warmer days.”

“That choice may have been selfish on my part.” he admitted, letting his gaze rest on the neckline of the gown. “The scarf will help cover you if you feel the need for it.”

Your breath hitched when he hooked a finger under the neck of the gown and pulled it down your shoulder. “Lancelot-”

He leaned in and kissed your bare shoulder. “I shall have you made an armor to wear with it.”

Ah, there it was. It was no secret he loved to see you prepared for battle. “Why?”

“It would look very alluring on you.” His mouth traced your shoulder to your neck, his nose touching the bottom of your chin signaled for you to tilt your head back and you did. “It will protect this…” He brushed a hand over your abdomen, then slowly up and over your bosom, “And this…”

Your breathing quickened. “Will it protect me against you?”

“Would you wish for that?” his voice reached a lower octave, he leaned in and brushed his mouth over your cleavage that the gown was starting to expose to him.

Your fingers laced in his hair at the hot contact of his breath against you. “Never.”

He brought you closer to him, dragging his bottom lip over your cleavage and up to your throat. It tickled. He knelt down all of a sudden, you squeaked when he moved the skirt of the dress up along your leg and proceeded to kiss your upper leg.

“Lancelot,” you scolded. “We are in the stables.”

“You are still dressed.” he breathed hotly against your thigh. “Fear not, my love. I will be respectful.” He was brave to hint, “There is another sort of gift I would give if you wish for it.”

You tried to pry his fingers from around your thigh, feeling even more ticklish from how nervous he was getting you. “I can guess what sort of gift that might be and-”

He brushed his mouth to your inner thigh, feeling you shiver in his hold. “It would be gladly given.”

Your duties of the day were not done, you couldn’t allow yourself to be distracted. The newcomers still needed their host and they would be finishing that meal soon. “Lancelot-”

He hummed, getting closer to where he would bestow his ‘gift’. You laced your fingers in his locks and gave them a tug so he’d lose the focus he had. He tilted his head, glancing up at you. The hold on his hair did nothing to deter him, quite the contrary, his eyes darkened when seeing you seize control.

You shook your head a bit. “Flattering. But, no. I need to be there when the newcomers finish their meal, someone needs to ensure that everyone has a room to sleep in.”

He dropped the skirt of your dress down again but took a moment longer to rise to his feet.

That tug at his hair… that tug at his hair… it caused his heart to increase it’s pace rapidly. Oh, he adored the confidence you had learned to display.

With his most charming smile he moved the neck of the gown back where it should be, making you look presentable again. Then he placed the gifts in your hands again to carry. You could hear Gawain and Kaze speak as they approached the stables.

Lancelot pecked your cheek, a polite kiss that lingered to your heating skin. “I understand. Our duties are calling.”

Gawain and Kaze stepped into the stables, kaze went to get her horse right away while Gawain came to speak to Lancelot first.

The knight opened his mouth to speak to him but his attention was drawn to you. “My, you look stunning, y/n.”

You spun around a little to show off the gown. “Lancelot brought me this gown. And all this…” you let your eyes drop to the gifts in your arms, “One could say I am being spoiled.”

Gawain gave you and the gown an approving look, even putting his hands on your shoulders and making you turn to show him again. “Ash Man, well done. I did not know you had such fine taste.”

Lancelot cleared his throat, a slight tension in his jaw. “It is her wearing it that makes the gown stand out.”

Gawain gave him quite a look and adjusted the shawl on your head. “Indeed.”

The attention from both was a little overwhelming. “Careful, Gawain. You do not wish to end up with a bruised eye for quite some time again.”

Recognition flashed in the knight’s eyes, he dropped his hands away from you instantly. “What did my brother tell you?”

You grinned. “Only that you tried to seduce a married noblewoman once.”

Lancelot’s eyes slid to Gawain, having a hard time believing that the proper knight would do such a thing. “Green Knight?”

Gawain rolled his eyes. “I may have done that.” He saw Lancelot’s eyes change. “Don’t start. You have nothing to fear. I would never-”

You hummed, enjoying to see the usually composed knight struggle to stay collected.

Gawain sighed loudly. “Gods, the two of you are as bad as my brother.”

Lancelot took a little insult at being compared to Gareth. “It is you who is most similar. You and your brother cannot seem to respect the marital bond of others.”

Gawain pointed a finger up under Lancelot’s nose. “I did not know she was wed!”

You nearly laughed when seeing Gawain get nervous, “That is true. Gareth said you didn’t realize that you were seducing her in front of her husband.”

Lancelot tried not to grin. “What sort of knight-”

“Oh, shut it.” Gawain groaned. “Mount Goliath if you still intend to come along with Kaze and I. There is still work to be done today.”

Gawain walked to Gringolet before more teasing could be send his way.

You smacked Lancelot’s arm playfully. “Go.”

“I will find you later.” He gave an inclination of the head.

He did not let the knight wait for him any longer and mounted Goliath, soon the three of them rode off together again to handle their duties.

  ~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  It was past midday when Lancelot returned to the castle. He was glad to be out of the saddle for the day and he spend some time with Percival in the courtyard. The boy had proven to have a talent for archery, but even those talented could use some more guidance. So he tried to teach the boy what he knew of archery. Less and less Percival missed his mark with each passing training, and what was most surprising was that the boy grew more patient, he had not broken a single arrow in rage after the first week.

As the boy aimed another arrow at the straw-made target across the courtyard, Lancelot sensed another Sky Folk scent coming from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the girl who he had picked up in his arms during battle that early morning. She stood against one of the stone pillars, hiding behind it a little.

Percival had noticed that Lancelot’s attention had wandered away and whispered to him, “Who is she?”

He kept his voice hushed so she would not overhear, “She is one of the newcomers from today. Her parents were murdered in the Fey camp.”

Percival looked towards the girl, feeling sympathy towards her. “But… who is looking after her then?”

He had no answer to that question. He hated not having an answer for it, it meant he had failed to ensure that the child was in safe hands.

“I will go talk to her.” he quietly informed the boy.

Lancelot went to her and knelt down to her height. “Would you like to join us?”

The girl was perhaps too young to handle a bow, but letting her feel welcome was important. She was quiet as a mouse, standing very still. He handed her the arrow. He grew concerned over her state of mind when she barely gave any response, not a word or reaction. Percival came and touched her arm, she recoiled and he stepped away again whilst sending Lancelot a concerned look.

“What is your name?” Lancelot quietly asked her, she gave no response. “Have you eaten today?”

Again, she kept quiet. Her eyes never lifting from the grass.

This child, this broken soul, her silence was cutting in to him. He saw Percival look back at him with concern, wondering why the girl would not speak. The last thing he heard of the girl was her crying out for her parents.

He gave it another try. “Do you know anyone here?”

Finally a response came, she shook her head very briefly.

He thought for a moment, then spoke to Percival. “She should have a good room to sleep in, should she not?”

The boy nodded. “A warm one. I think she’s cold.”

The girl was indeed shivering, the clothes she wore were not suited for the weather at all. Lancelot showed no hesitation when he picked her up in his arms, fearing that if he did she would respond badly. She reacted by putting her arms around his neck as if by reflex, proving that she was no stranger to being picked up in someone’s arms.

“Percival, will you carry the bow and arrows back inside?” he asked the boy and saw him nod. “Come then.”

Percival followed close behind as Lancelot walked with the girl to the room he had not been in in weeks. The crib still stood abandoned, the sun’s light landed on it.

“Who’s crib is that? Percival wondered out loud.

“It was for my brother ‘Hector’.” He had mentioned his younger brother only a few times to the boy, the memory still a painful one.

You had changed into your regular clothes again, wanting to spare the gown he had given you for warmer days, the scarf was welcome to keep your neck warm. Upon walking down the hallway you saw them walk into the room and went to see what was going on. A girl stood not far from a corner of the room, Lancelot was moving the crib to another corner and draping a sheet over it.

It caused you worry. “What’s happening?”

Lancelot tilted his head towards the girl. “She needs a room.”

Upon looking again, you recognized the girl and went over to her. “Hello, what’s your name?”

She stepped away from you and you saw Lancelot beckon you over. You went over to him.

“She has not said a word to us either,” he quietly informed. “Will you help me ready this room to be hers?”

“Of course. Are you sure?” This room had been left untouched by his wish and now this?

He gave a nod. “Do you think you will be able to help me carry a bed in here?”

“I’ll help too!” Percival piped up.

He gave the boy another task instead, “Look after her for a moment while we do, Percival.”

You walked the a room nearby with Lancelot to take one of the smaller beds for the room. Your voice was hushed while taking hold of the bed to carry. “What made you decide to let her have the room?”

Lancelot bend to lift the bed. “She is so little…”

You smiled at him. “What’s her name?”

He lifted it and helped you carry the bed. “I do not know. She will not speak.”

The last thing you had heard from the girl were her cries for her parents. “She may feel under too much distress to speak for now.”

He used his foot to keep the door open whilst you both carried the bed out. “Will you help me help her?”

It was without question, “Of course.”

Together you carried the bed, and dragged it some of the way, to the room where Percival was trying to entertain the girl. She had not moved from where she had stood, her eyes followed every move made. Lancelot shared a look with you before he went towards the girl. He picked her up and sat her down on the bed. She looked up at him with wide eyes, wondering why on earth he would go through the effort for her.

Seeing him pick up and carry the child made him even more attractive to your eyes. Aldith had never shown this amount of concern to you when you were small, and seeing Lancelot like this healed a part of you inside. The children of the castle loved him, often coming to him for questions or approval that Gawain would say ‘no’ to. The little ones could sense that the Ash Man did not have it in him to be truly stern towards them. He loved to teach them useful things, loved to watch them play and have the future and life he did not have at their age. The first time a child had ran up to him and clung at his cloak or clothes had startled him, but now it was so common that he had learned to expect it. You tried to focus on what was happening before your thoughts would wander too far.

Lancelot knelt down in front of her. “Do you want to tell me your name?”

She looked at everyone in the room before fixing her eyes on the ones of the Ash Man. She seemed to be thinking, tilting her head down and chewing her lip. Lancelot glanced at you and Percival, running out of ideas.

He resisted the urge to reach for one of those small hands in her lap. “My name is ‘Lancelot’.” He gestured to you and Percival, “This is Percival. And this is my wife, y/n. This will be your room. Is that alright?”

She looked around the room again, “I’m Clea.”

Lancelot blinked twice rapidly, drawing in a sharp breath at hearing her finally speak. “A lovely name. You will be safe here, Clea. I promise.”

She timidly looked around her, fidgeting with her sleeve that was torn from wear and war.

You shared a look with Lancelot. “I’m going to fetch some warmer clothing for her.”

He gave an approving nod, having seen the child shiver outside.

You were not gone long, the room that held the inventory of spare clothes was right down the hall, you put some clothes next to her on the bed that she could choose from. Clea didn’t know how to react.

“It’s alright, little one.” you told her. “They are for you. You can wear them, they will be warmer.”

She took the small shirt and put it on her lap, glancing at you a few times.

You understood what she would not ask out loud. “Lancelot, Percival. Let’s give her a moment to change her clothes.”

Percival went up to her briefly. “You don’t have to be scared. We are knights, we’ll keep you safe.”

Lancelot looked at the boy with pride, Percival’s empathy towards others was always a grand contrast with how he’d often speak. “Come, Percival.”

The three of you walked out of the room and closed the door so Clea would have some privacy.

Lancelot halted Percival by the shoulder. “Could you go and find us the Green Knight?”

Percival was but all too eager to go and search for the knight, he darted away, proving how fast he truly was.

Lancelot stopped at your side. “I will speak to the Green Knight about her. We must urgently find someone who will raise her as their own. She must be watched over, she is too young to just wander around this place on her own.”

“What do we do until then?” you worried.

He had the solution ready. “I’ll have some of the crew ensure that she is supervised. We shall have her spend time with the other children.”

A wise idea indeed. She was not the only orphaned child there, but she was the youngest. Some of the Fey and some of Red’s crew had already taken it upon themselves to watch over the children. It was a group effort of all to make certain that the little ones were safe.

“Good plan. And well done on getting her to share her name. See, you are good at getting information out of people without using a sword.” you teased. “All you have to do is charm them.”

He nearly rolled his eyes at the jest. A moment passed and then his hand was on your rear, causing your face to heat and your heart to race when he gave it a soft squeeze. Your hand flew to his.

“Lancelot,” you hissed.

His gaze went over you swiftly. “Dear wife.”

Someone in the hall cleared their throat, the hand was away from your rear immediately.

There stood Red Spear, seeing your wide-eyed expression before speaking to the one responsible. “Respect your woman.”

Lancelot’s wit was surprisingly quick. “I respect all parts of her.”

There was a hint of a smile on her face. You gave a light tap to his arm, feeling less embarrassed

“Do you have a moment?” Arthur asked him.

“I am waiting for Gawain.” he told him.

You offered a solution, “I’ll talk to Gawain, you can go.”

His eyes drifted to the door next to you. “Will you-”

The question needed not be spoken. “I will make sure she is alright.”

Lancelot gave a polite nod and went to follow Arthur and Red Spear to his next task of the day.

    ~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

    After speaking to the Green Knight for a while about Clea, he took the task upon himself to ensure that the girl would not be alone. She would find friends among the other children and be under watchful eyes. The poor child, so young and she had already been through so much. It was fortunate that Lancelot had noticed her when he did. She had clung to him, seeing him as the only safe thing still left in the world. And there were so many like her still out there in the land, alone and frightened… This was why you got up every morning and continued to make this place into the home that had been stolen from the Fey.

It all still ran through your mind when Pym walked up to you and stuffed a dress into your hands like it was any old used rag. You blinked at her in confusion, being so abruptly pulled out of your thoughts.

Pym pointed at the dress in your hands. “For spilling that ale over the dress you wore a while ago.”

You were still processing it. “Pym, you didn’t have to find me another dress-”

She shrugged her shoulders. “One of the crew got it in a trade down by the inn. I think it will suit you.”

“I… thank you.” You took a closer look at the dress. It’s fabric was rather soft, the color a warm red.

“You’re welcome.” Pym clapped her hands together, waving her fingers between each other. “So uhm… I’m forgiven now?”

Did she truly think you were upset over that accident? “Pym, I was never angry at you. It was just a dress.”

Pym was relieved, she often sought you out to talk to or just spend time with, some ale would not endanger the friendship build between you. “Still…”

“Pym.” You shook your head and embraced her. “Sweet Pym. You are my friend even if you ruin all my clothes.”

“Really?” she sounded emotional for a second, then rambled, “I mean… I would never ruin all your clothes. Not even half-…”

You stepped back and rubbed her arm. “Pym. Breathe.”

“Ugh. I’m such a klutz.” she groaned.

“And we love you for it.” You grinned.

She swatted your arm playfully. “Oi! You were supposed to say ‘No, Pym. Of course you’re not a klutz’.”

You held a hand up in defeat. “I’m going to take this dress to my room and see if it fits, it’s still a moment before supper.”

“If it doesn’t I can have it changed it the village if you’d like.” she offered.

It was thoughtful, but she had already been sweet enough as it was to give you a dress. “You have been so kind to me already, I’ll handle it if it wouldn’t fit.”

Pym smiled and waved a little awkwardly when you turned and walked away towards your room.

          In your room, you tried on the dress Pym had given you. It slipped on easily, but closing the back was all but simple. Maybe you could have it altered to be easier to close on your back? It would be a shame to not be able to wear it as it was a pretty dress too.

A knock sounded at the door, you halted but picked up on his scent quite fast. “You can come in.”

Lancelot strolled into the room, shutting the door behind him and even locking it at the sight of you. “I came here to change into a lighter shirt.”

“Feeling too warm?” You blinked. Spring may be nearing, but the weather was not warm at all yet.

He gave a firm nod. “Yes.”

It was worrying. “Are you sure you do not have a fever?”

“I am certain.” He stepped in your direction. “I see you decided to change as well?”

“I’m just trying this dress on, Pym found it for me.”

He first went and took the jug of water from the nightstand and poured himself half a tankard of water which he drank right away.

The sight of your bare back only made his body grow even warmer. His blood was rushing through him, he felt so restless.

He went to the wardrobe and started undressing his torso, baring it before fishing a lighter shirt out and putting it on. Perhaps you would never get used to the sight of him bare, even now you still struggled not to stare and felt flustered.

He sensed it, locking eyes on you whilst putting his jerkin back on and closing it up. You snapped your eyes away, having seen the slight smirk on his lips.

You struggled for a while with the way the back of the dress was supposed to close, it was to be tied with the thin leather cords on the back. Surely he must have noticed, but decided to see if you would ask for help.

Finally, you asked, “Will you help me close it up?”

It was a risk to state his thoughts out loud. But he could not help it.

The bold statement fell from him, “I would rather take it off of you.”

You whipped your head around, a nervous little laugh escaped. “Pardon?”

He was not taking it back. “You told me once, not long after we met, that you prefer an honest husband.”

You were tongue-tied, cheeks warming at his blatant attempt at seduction. “You are being very forward.”

He came closer, brushing the knuckles of his fingers along your arm. “You know me well. I tend to go after what I want.”

You failed to breathe normally when he circled and stopped behind you, spreading his hand open on your bare back. “And what is it that you want?”

He did not bother hiding how he was looking, trying to figure out how to get that dress off. “You. Always you.”

He kissed the side of your head, letting the tips of his fingers tickle down your spine. You shot forward at the ticklish sensation and took a few steps away, turning your back to the wall to protect it from him. Your reaction caused his eyes to fill with mischievous intent.

A lopsided smile curved his lips, his voice went to a deeper timbre. “Would you like for me to rub your back?”

There your stood, with a dress half-open, facing him while he looked at you with a gaze that betrayed his intentions.

You feigned a pout. “You didn’t even say if you like the dress I got.”

He didn’t even blink when he dropped his gaze down to your dress, then back up to your face. “It’s lovely.”

You stayed near the wall. “I doubt you could even tell me the color without looking again.”

His eyes flickered down and up again, the cheeky smile got stronger.

You squinted your eyes at him playfully. “By the gods, Lancelot. You used to be a monk.”

He let the risky tease roll out of his mouth, “It is not my fault that they gave me a wife that moans my name the way that you do.”

A gasp slipped your lips, his bawdy comment had you quietly chuckling. You felt your markings appear and tossed a pillow from the bed towards the one who was causing it. “Stop it. I can feel that you’re affecting my marks.”

That pillow never even hit him, he moved sideways and it hit the wall instead. He grinned mischievously, stalking closer, loving to see you get that nervous smile as you tried to outmaneuver him by stepping to the side. He caught you by the elbow quickly when you tried to slip past him. You tried to escape his grasp but ended up caught by him, his arms wrapped and locked around your abdomen playfully. You tried to break free, but it proved futile.

He nearly threw you on the bed, and by the time you had processed that, he was already hovering above you and pinning your wrists down on the sheets. “We should have you practice more on escaping from someone’s grasp. That was far too easy.”

That arrogant oaf…

“Try to escape, by any means possible.” he insisted. “Show me that you can defend yourself if this happens.”

The first thing you tried was using your knees against him, to no avail. The second thing you tried was using your magic, but the fire in you knew how much you loved him and refused to be used against him.

“Try harder.” A smug smile curved his lips.

You rolled to your side, trying to break free by using your elbow and quickly moving it backwards which he evaded but not without having to let go of one of your wrists for it. By any means possible he had said, and so you hoped to shock him just enough to let you go by slapping his cheek. It was not hard, not like the blows you had accidentally given him during all your lessons from him. He tilted his head to the side, processing the tactic you had used against him that had successfully made him release your wrists.

‘By any means possible’ is what he had told you. Yet he did not expect the slap, nor how weak it had been, it was oh so clear that you did not wish to cause him harm. He couldn’t understand or believe how that slap had caused him instant arousal.

You tried to read his eyes. “I’m sorry. We were training were we not or-”

He lips stole away all you wished to say, kissing you a bit rougher than he normally would. You did not expect the response. He lowered himself, a leg between yours, teasing your tongue with his own. He grew gentler, sweeter, brushing a hand over your head before resting it on your neck. You gasped when feeling his other hand on your bare leg, wondering how he was able to move the skirt of the dress without you feeling it.

“Lancelot.” Your heart began to quicken.

He hummed contentedly, gently sucking the spot just below your jaw.

Your stomach grumbled angrily. “Do not make me miss dinner. I am starving.”

“Are you hoping to wear this dress for it?”

“Why?”

“Because I might ruin it.”

“You ruin my dress and I’ll kick you out of my bed until the next full moon.”

“The carpet is soft as well, and spacious for us.”

Again your stomach let itself be heard and it seemed to make him realize that you truly were hungry.

“I’m getting nauseous.” you admitted.

He moved your skirt down neatly again and brushed his hand over your complaining stomach. “Hmm. You should eat indeed.”

You cupped his cheek, brushing your thumb over his marks, tilting up to connected your lips to his and steal a kiss.

The more aggressive grumbling made him chuckle and break away from your lips. “Come, let us go and have supper before your stomach gets worse.”

He moved off of you and helped you up to your feet as well. “Will you be wearing this, or…?”

You thought about it for a second. “I think so, it’s getting late and I’ll just change into my chemise after supper.”

He made you turn around and began to close the cords on the back, but not without tickling your skin with his fingers and keeping you from escaping with the help of said cords.

“You’re rotten.” You jerked to the left at the ticklish sensation.

He tugged at the cords and tsk-ed you, quietly chuckling at the response. It was a miracle he closed the back of the dress in a timely manner.

He smoothed out the fabric on the back and on your shoulders, the light swat of his hand to your rear was no surprise. “There you go.”

“Thank you.” you mumbled.

Then you proceeded to make him look decent again, smoothing out his clothes. He felt quite warm, warmer than usual.

Concern flashed over your features. “Are you sure you do not have a fever. You feel warm.”

He shook his head. “I do not feel like I have a fever, just warm.”

You felt his forehead, it was not burning, the warmth was all over him equally. “Maybe a meal will do you good. But do go and rest when you feel ill, my love. I do not want you to be sick.”

The concern you showed him enamored him, he took hold of your hand and placed a kiss to you knuckles. “Do not worry, I will be alright.”

You sighed a little. “Earlier, with Clea, I loved to see how you reacted to her. You were so gentle and sweet. Your nurturing side makes you very appealing, I’m glad we’re wed or I’d fear having to fight for you against others.”

That boyish grin appeared on his face. “You would fight for me?”

“With teeth and fists.” It was the truth.

An intrigued arch to his brow. “Oh?”

Your stomach complained loudly again. “I’m starving. Let’s head to bed-” you shook your head and corrected, “I mean dinner. Let’s head to dinner.”

“Are you certain?” he teased, chuckling. “Perhaps your hunger is of a different sort.”

You were at the door in seconds and opening it. “My stomach made it’s opinion on that quite clear.”

He strolled toward the door while putting his cloak back on. Ignoring how you were trying to urge him to walk faster. “We’ll get there before everything is eaten.”

Your stomach could have murdered him for walking so slow deliberately. “Lancelot, I swear to the gods I will strangle you if I get any more hungry than I already am!” You were already waiting outside the room, he stopped in the doorway and leaned against it to rile you up further. “Fine. Stay there. I’m not going to starve just because you’re trying to get a rise out of me.”

He thought you were bluffing. You were not. After walking down half the hallway he caught up with you.

He greedily wrapped his hand around your elbow and drew you in closer to walk by his side. “I do enjoy your spirit when you are in need of a meal.”

You walked a little faster at the demand of your empty stomach. “I thought after the battle today that you would be too tired to start a battle with me.”

“I do not believe that to be possible.” he jested.

Lancelot held back his chuckling when seeing you walk quicker. The scent of cooked vegetables filled the castle and lured you blindly towards the dinning hall.

  ~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~

    At the table, you waited until Lancelot had finished speaking to Gawain who sat opposite of him. They spoke about Clea, and how she had reacted to the other children. For now the girl seemed to slowly try and find herself a place among the other children, with the help of the adults around. Still, the only time she had spoken was to Lancelot. Lancelot drank some water, thinking about the news received about the girl.

You leaned closer to whisper, touching his arm to draw his attention. “If you are the only one she will speak to-”

His eyes found yours. “She could be ours.”

Your eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

He knew this was a delicate matter to speak of, “If there is no family to raise her. Perhaps… we could?” You were staring back at him. “I know it will be difficult to watch over her beside our other duties.But you and I, with Percival… we can offer her the family we did not experience for ourselves.”

It silenced you briefly. To be a parent or a guardian over a child this young… you had no idea how. “I do not know how to raise a child that young. I doubt I could with the examples I myself was given by my father.”

The uncertainty in you did not come as a surprise to him. “I have no good examples either, at least none that I can truly recall. Only that I knew that my parents loved me, and I hope to ensure that the children who come here will be able to experience such love as well.”

A family… you feared so deeply to fail, to lose what you’d build. “I won’t be a good parental person, I don’t know what to even do.”

He saw right through the excuse you decided on. “Do you fear you will cause the same suffering that Aldith caused you?”

Your gaze fell to your emptied plate, quietly speaking, “I don’t want to make a mistake and risk ruining a child’s life. I don’t think I can even raise my voice to them when it’s necessary.”

“My love-”

You swallowed down the lump that formed in your throat. “I don’t want a child to hate me… I don’t want to fail…”

His hand found yours on the table and curled around it. “We both understand very well how important it is that a child knows they are wanted and loved.” Slowly, his head shook. “You will not fail.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles for a while, allowing you to compose yourself for a minute.

“Even now,” he said so quietly, “you still cannot see that you are the heart of our family?”

You glanced at him.

“Do you not think that I was frightened when I first became responsible for Percival? Me, with a child?” he asked. “The thought alone had once been ludicrous. But I knew all would be well when I saw how you cared for the boy in that inn, you did not even know him. You saw a child in need of help and you even helped me, after I betrayed you, because of it. You are the heart of me, never forgot that. Your gentle heart is more than worthy to have the family you wish for.”

You quickly took a sip of water to wash the emotions down before anyone would question why you’d cry. “You are good with words, Lancelot.”

He captured your hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed your knuckles. “It is the truth I speak to you.”

“We can spend time with her… see if she enjoys my company and Percival’s as well?” you suggested.

He was glad to hear it. “Good idea. It would offer her the opportunity to show us her reaction to our presence near her better.”

You loved how he absentmindedly played with your fingers. “Her opinion on this is most important.”

“And if she enjoys our company?” He gingerly searched for your opinion.

You gave his hand a little squeeze. “Then there will be a second child that will have us to love them.”

He slowly nodded, smiling at the positive answer. He kissed your hand once more and then let go.

Now that he was in a good mood, you brought up Percival’s question. “Percival was hoping to have other books to practise his reading and writing further.”

Lancelot sighed a bit. “He asked me as well. Did he mention that by other books he means books about bloody battles?”

Well. The boy had neglected to mention that part. “He did not.”

He hummed. “I prefer to have him read calmer things first, let him learn to appreciate matters other than weaponry and vengeance.”

He had a point, the last thing a young boy needed was books that would inspire him to seek vengeance. It would not be the first time he tried to follow the groups of the castle into a battle.

Sadly for Percival, he would have to wait for a bit. “I agree with you. He can wait a little longer before reading those books. He’ll try to get them from the library though.”

Oh, he knew. “I’ve put them on the highest shelves behind others more suitable for his age.”

You doubted that the boy would not find a way to reach them. “Do you think that will stop him?

He scoffed, chuckled, and took a sip of water. “No.”

“Sounds familiar.” you murmured, sending him a playful glance.

His gaze slid to you, knowing full well you were comparing Percival’s stubbornness to his own. “Does it?”

“Yes.” You flashed a grin at him.

Then you fixed your attention on Percival who sat at a table further away, he was trying to fish what looked like a carrot out of his soup. What you did not expect was to see him drop the slice of carrot in Pym’s soup instead when she wasn’t looking. You covered your mouth, trying not to laugh and end up having to explain what had caused it. By plucking a berry from the bowl near you and popping it in your mouth you hoped to pretend you saw nothing. You sucked the remaining juice of the berry from your fingers discreetly. The flames of the candelabras flickered green briefly, drawing a lot of eyes towards the Ash Man including yours.

“Lancelot?” you eyed him curiously.

“My apologies.” He was a bit embarrassed by it. He refilled his tankard with water and downed

half of it in one go.

“Is something the matter?” you whispered, putting a hand in his knee to comfort.

He took in a sharp breath and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. With another sip of water he hoped to collect his thoughts from wherever they had wandered off to.

It made you withdraw your hand and lean forward more too to whisper again, “How can I help? Do you want me to pour you more water?”

He spoke oh so quietly, “Some fruit may help.”

It had happened in the past that eating something sweet helped cool his body down, often after forgetting to eat properly or being in warm weather.

You gave a soft smile and got up from your chair to go around and see if there was still a piece of fruit left. Percival still had a pear left, the boy preferred other sweet tasting food and saw no issue in giving up the pear. After sitting down next to Lancelot again, you went ahead and cut a piece of the pear off for him and peeled it before offering it.

He was momentarily stunned by the small act of kindness, it took a few counts for him to react and accept the slice of pear. “Thank you.”

“Shall I cut and peel the rest for you?” you offered.

He stared at you, not having thought you would go through the effort. “Uhm…”

No answer was needed, you cut the rest of the pear and peeled them, ensuring he could eat them right away if he wasn’t feeling well. Merlin noticed him staring openly at you but said not a word of it, you did not notice it happening.

He drank the rest of the water, hoping to wash away the warmth spreading mercilessly in his body.

The slices of pear were put on a plate and slid under his nose. “Here you go. You’ve been on your feet all day, you could use some sweetness to fuel you again.”

Quick as a whip, he had planted a kiss to your cheek, just as quickly he took the plate to eat the pear, the tickle his stubble had cause still lingered on your skin. Even now he still could appear timid when stealing a kiss and it still awoke your desire for him. That timid look, the confidence he hid behind when others were around… it was attractive.

“Better?” You rubbed along his upper arm, trying to figure out if the fruit was helping.

He nodded, grateful for the consideration shown to him. “Yes. Forgive me, I do not know what is happening within me.”

You filled up his tankard of water again, having noticed how much he had been craving water. “Not nauseous, are you?”

After a moment of thought, he answered, “No. I feel… restless? There are moments when I truly feel too warm. But I do not feel sick.”

You watched him chew the pear, he indeed did not look sick, he looked alert. “Maybe you strained yourself too much this morning during battle. We still do not know how much of our strength it costs us to use our magic.”

He seemed to agree with the possibility. “That could explain it.”

After eating the pear, it appeared that he felt calmer, and his thirst had halted. The way he touched the tip of his thumb and index finger to his lips and discreetly licked them to rid them of the spilled juice from the pear… you were entranced. Those gracious hands of his, their beautiful form…

Gawain spoke to him, offering the distraction that Lancelot seemed to search for. You filled up your own tankard with water to drink.

When it was getting late and Percival showed signs of being tired, you excused yourself from the table to go and walk him to his room. It was becoming a habit, and you were starting to get the feeling that Percival would delay going to bed until you noticed just how tired he was and walk him to his room. There were a few minutes where the boy got chatty again, from the dinning hall to his room he was all energy again. That energy vanished as quickly as it came when his head hit his pillow. By the time you draped the blanket over his body he was so close to sleep that he mumbled something incoherent, but you liked to believe he said ‘goodnight’. With a small kiss to his forehead, that drew out a very quiet ‘yuck’ from him, you bid him goodnight and left his room so he could sleep.

Upon returning to the dinning hall, most had already retreated for the night as well. Lancelot still sat at the table, listening to Gawain speaking to one of Red Spear’s crew. You approached him, letting your presence be known by putting a hand on his shoulder.

You bend down, able to speak right beside his ear like this. “I’m heading to bed.”

He tilted his head a little. “Already?”

Your hand glided down from his shoulder and over his chest. “Yes. Do you want to join me?”

A quiet warm hum. “I have yet to be tired. I’ll join you later.”

You had hoped for another answer, but it was understandable. He had been behaving out of the ordinary almost all day, he deserved a moment to himself.

“Very well.” You pulled your hand back. “Goodnight, my love.”

He gave a nod and a smile. “Goodnight.”

With a pinch of disappointment you left the dinning hall, feeling a little confused by the signals he had been giving you all day. He had behaved so lustful, but now that you hinted at an early night together he waved the opportunity away. He could be tired, or using such strong magic had taken a toll on him, or he just was not interest now. You respected his decision and started to walk yourself to your room.

Gawain was staring at him, having seen you leave the dinning hall and overhearing what had been said. He had waited for a while, debating whether or not he should stick his nose into the matter.

The knight went nose first into the matter that was not of his concern, because his friend was clearly oblivious tonight. “How is your marriage faring?”

Lancelot frowned at the sudden question. “Well.”

The knight was sarcastic. “Impressive.”

He put his tankard down on the table, sighing, “Do you have something you wish to say, Green Knight?”

Gawain arched an arrogant brow. “You are aware that she was propositioning you just now?”

It took him a second to realize the knight was being bluntly truthful.

Oh, he still had so much to learn.

He cleared his throat and got up from the table.

“I believe I will be retiring for the night.

“I thought you were not tired?” Gawain tried not to smirk.

He turned to him. “Indeed.”

They shared a look. Gawain raised his tankard of ale to wish his friend a good night indeed.

  ~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

    One hallway away from your room, you ran into Gareth. Of course he offered to walk you to your room, and ignored your friendly refusal. Sighing, you walked beside him and listened to him speak about the matters regarding the castle and it’s people.

“I saw you walk in the castle earlier today,” he said. “Hands filled with books, clothes and… what was it? A scarf?”

“It was a scarf.” you confirmed.

Gareth was curious. “Has Lancelot been purchasing these gifts for you?”

What was that undertone you heard? “Yes.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is this common for him?”

It was making you somewhat uncomfortable, there was something he wasn’t saying out loud. “Well… no. He does give me things, but not this much all at once. I’m a little stunned by it.”

And then it came out, the reason behind his questions. “I’d consider it worrisome, dear. Some men spoil their wives so they do not become suspicious that they have another lover the wife doesn’t know about.”

You looked away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He went to the village a lot lately.” Gareth hinted.

“For matters that concern the castle.”

“And perhaps for matters that concern his own needs.”

You hated how the thought alone could make it feel as if a knife was being slowly pushed into your chest. “Stop.”

Gareth had heard the pained undertone. “I am just trying to look after you-”

“Please, stop.” You tried to swallow away the way your throat was tightening.

It was an awful mixture, to having been brought up feeling unworthy of anything and now having to hear someone hint that the gifts you had been given were meant to hide an ugly truth.

Gareth was genuinely taken off-guard by how hurt you had sounded. “I am sorry, dear. Forget what I said. I’m being a fool, just saw too much unhappy marriages I suppose.”

That didn’t help you feel better. “He’s not like that.”

Gareth still had a look of doubt and it cut into you further. Those expensive gifts… the change in Lancelot’s behavior… and just after he got back from the village again…

“Of course not.” Gareth smiled a sympathetic smile. He was pretending to believe it.

You came to a halt at your bed-chamber’s door. “Have a good night, Gareth.”

He picked up on how short that had sounded. “I am just concerned, that’s all. He’s been looking nervous today. And now he’s spoiling you…”

Of course he had to rub that in. “Goodnight, Gareth.”

“Goodnight, dear,” he could say just before you closed the door in front of his nose.

You pressed your back against the closed door, feeling sick to your stomach. He wouldn’t… but what has been causing him to act so strange… what if…

Shaking, you changed into your chemise, wiping away the tears that stemmed from the fear. You cursed the years spend in Ravenwick, for so long Aldith and Cassian had ruined your self-esteem and sometimes it still gnawed at you, especially now. He wouldn’t. He would never. You could not let fear ruin the trust you had in him.

The door opened just as you had finished putting on your chemise. The instant Lancelot’s eyes swept over you, your legs threatened to buckle under his gaze. He seemed to take in a deep breath before closing the door and approaching. A few steps away he stopped and you wondered if your expression had caused it.

His plan changed upon entering the room and sensing a difference in your mood. There was a slight pout on your lips, a missing light in your eyes. But perhaps he could change that.

He took off his weapon belts and hanged them over the foot of the bed. “Come here, little ember.”

Upon seeing him curl his finger and motioning it to lure you closer, your feet moved to him by their own volition. He caught you by the waist the moment you were close enough and pulled you close to him, his hands grazed over your hips.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed, a gentle smile dancing on his lips.

“Why?”

He tsk-ed you for questioning his instructions. “Go on.”

You yielded, closing your eyes and waited to find out why. He took hold of your hand after a brief moment, you could feel something cold being put into your palm and him closing your hand around it. “More gifts…?”

“I had forgotten to give this earlier in the stables.” he admitted. “You may look now.”

In your hand was a brooch made of silver, shaped into a rose. “A brooch?”

He pointed at your neck, where the brooch would sit if you would be wearing the shawl to keep it in place. “For the shawl, or the scarf.”

Another gift…instead of joy you felt dread. There was only one thing you wanted and it was him, him alone and no one to share him with in secret. What if it was true? What if there was another? Could you forgive him?

It spilled from your tongue, “Why?”

He noticed your hands trembling. “Because someone as lovely such as yourself, deserves to be adorned with the finest jewels.”

With a kiss to your temple, he sealed the gift exchange. Another expensive gift…

You went to put the brooch down on the nightstand and picked up the book that was there instead, after fidgeting with it for a moment you held it to your chest as if it could protect your heart from the pain it could be in.

“Lancelot?”

A dashing smile was send your way. “Yes?”

You were forward to see his reaction and hoped to see no guilt appear in his eyes. “Is there another?”

He waited for a second, trying to understand. “Another ‘what’?”

Another brooch?

And with that question you lost the confidence

you had hoped to hold, it felt harder to ask it a second time. “Do you have a lover?”

He answered without going over the question in his mind a second time. “I do.”

The book you had held fell from your hands to the floor, you quickly knelt down to pick it up and felt unable to rise to your feet again.

“Why?” you managed to bring out.

He noticed the strong shift in your mood and expression and knelt down beside you. “We are wed.”

You almost recoiled at how matter-of-factually he sounded. “What?”

The reaction startled him. “And because I love you. Should there be another reason for you to be my lover?”

You realized he had not understood what you were asking him, he considered you his lover. Relief washed into you, allowing you to breathe again, “There is no one else?”

It finally seemed to click in his mind what was being asked. “What?”

“No mistress?”

Shock washed over his face, then insult. “You believe I could betray our marriage so?”

Shame descended upon your being. “I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to be frightened.”

He remained calm, wishing to find out where this came from. “Have I given you a reason to doubt my loyalty?”

You sighed, “Gareth-”

He scoffed at the mere mention of the name. “Of course.”

They would never get along fully. “He said that some men spoil their wives so their wife does not suspect that their husband are betraying them.”

He took hold of your hand, brushing his thumb over the ring on your finger and letting his gaze drop down to it. “Never,” he quietly said, “I will never desecrate the love between us.”

It felt awful to have felt the fear, but he had been acting so overly affectionate today and you grew worried.

“Look at me,” he urged and saw you lift your gaze to his. “Tell me you believe that.”

Slowly you nodded and saw him lean down to brush his lips to the ring on your finger.

“I will have a word with Gareth,” he said.

A ‘word’ could quickly turn to bed-chamber’s, it would not be the first time they collided and made peace again afterwards.

“Lancelot.”

“Without bloodshed,” he promised.

But perhaps not without some bruising, internal injuries and broken bones. No, he’d keep Gareth alive because Gawain would never forgive him if he strangled his kin and threw Gareth in the fire pit. And unfortunately Gareth was a skilled swordsman, a needed one in this war against the Church.

You had to be honest. “I was the one who feared it was true. Gareth is not at blame for that.”

“What must I do to make you believe that I will always be faithful-”

There was no blame on him. “You already do everything, you’re not the problem. There is still fear in me that I took with me from Ravenwick.”

He was quiet, letting you speak your worries out loud.

A sigh fell from your lips. “You’re a very handsome man, Lancelot. I see people look.

There may always be a fear in me that one day I will lose you. That I one day will wake up and have to face the truth that Aldith and Cassian were right, that I’d never have someone that loves me. I… ugh.”

He gave your hand a squeeze and rose from the ground, guiding you back up as well. “I believe everyone fears losing who they love, it reminds us of how important it is to always fight for it.”

You searched his eyes. “Have I insulted you?”

A pensive hum. “You did just question me about adultery.”

With shame your head tilted down. “I am such a stupid twit.”

“No.” He lifted your chin up with his index finger. “You are my endearingly jealous wife.”

Your nose scrunched. “Fine… I won’t deny that.”

“You can’t deny that,” he corrected with half a grin.

“Don’t start,” you warned.

He cupped your cheek, tracing his thumb over it and seeing your markings appear at his wish. “You have wept?”

Your eyes widened and betrayed you. “How do you-”

He tapped the pad of his thumb on your marking. “I can sense it in a way.”

The admission fell, “I have…”

His gaze fixed on the door, he was tempted to go and find the one responsible for it. “I wonder how many of his bones I can break that will not affect his usefulness in battle.”

“Lancelot,” you sighed, “I’m going to wash this matter off before it ruins my sleep.”

He acknowledged it with a nod and went to the chest where he still stored his clothes. “Do you like the brooch?”

Of course you did. You tended to love everything he gave you just because he had thought of you whilst obtaining it. “I do. But you don’t have to spoil me so much, or soon we’ll need a bigger room to store it all.”

He took off his cloak and undressed his torso, storing his shirt and jerkin in the chest. “That can be arranged if you find it necessary?”

You grabbed a clean rag to freshen up your face and noticed a towel was missing to dry off. “I’m perfectly fine with this room.”

Before you started washing up, you stepped to the wardrobe to grab a clean linen to dry with. The consequences of the tendency to be in a haste in the mornings and tossing everything in the wardrobe had finally caught up with you. It all tumbled down and out of the wardrobe, a waterfall of fabrics splayed itself out onto the floor. Clothes, linen, sheets, everything. Lancelot winced, knowing your temper matched his own when something like this happened.

A curse or seven fled your mouth, your hand gripped that door of the wardrobe and was tempted to shove it close. But alas, this mess refused to be ignored again. You knew he would be tempted to help pick everything up, but he would not be able to resist reminding you of how it would have been easier to just use a chest instead of a wardrobe or at least not toss your items in the wardrobe haphazardly.

So you held up a hand and waved him away when seeing him take a step closer from the corner of your eye. “I’ll handle it.”

He chose to pick up one of the books that had ended up tangled in the spare sheets that were half tumbled out of the wardrobe. “What is this book about?”

A glance. “I haven’t read it yet.”

He decided he would, and took it with him when he got into bed. “Are you certain you do not wish for my help?”

There was no way he would not bring it up again when you would undoubtedly toss something haphazardly in the wardrobe again. “I’m sure. Read, I’ll take care of this.”

He chuckled at the bitter tone but knew better than to tease you now. You grumbled to yourself whilst folding. Had the Hidden punished you for questioning the loyalty of their kin? You wouldn’t put it past them.

          As you folded everything up again, he quietly read and often stole a glance. Close to an hour must have passed, he seemed to grow more and more intrigued by the book. He became a bit flushed in the face and neck, oh you knew what sort of matters were the cause of it.

You couldn’t hide your curiosity. “Have you figured out what the book is about yet?”

He snapped that book shut at the sound of your voice. You did not turn around, it was already hard enough not to giggle.

He sounded a little nervous, “A blacksmith.”

The feigned innocence in your voice gave nothing away, “Oh? And what happens to him?”

Neither of you knew about the sinful content it contained within it’s pages until now, his reaction had made it blatantly obvious to you. When you turned around, he had put the sheets of the bed over his body. And he looked rather nervous, like something was bothering him. You got an inkling that the book may have caused something to happen.

“Everything alright?” you were trying to sound oblivious.

His brow arched a little as he nodded, evading looking directly at you. “Yes.”

You abandoned the last fallen pieces on the floor and went to sit next to him on the edge of the bed, he could barely hide how truly nervous he felt.

“Not all books are free of sin like the scriptures are,” you teased.

Finally he dared to look at you and tried to read from your eyes if you perhaps had figured out what his problem was now. “I am aware.”

You loved to see how flustered he looked, and how desperately he was trying to not let it show. “What was in that book?”

His gaze moved away from you again. “I believe you know.”

Your admission followed, “I think I do.”

Almost innocently you reached out and placed a hand on the sheet were his lower abdomen was, right away he moved his hand to rest just below where yours was.

He spoke with remorse, “I did not mean to read it.”

It took a second to understand why he had said it. “Do you believe me to be upset over that?”

He tried to understand. “Is it not considered unfaithfulness?”

“No.” You shook your head, smiling. “Even if it causes you to rise.”

His cheeks began to flush again at the bawdy comment.

You pressed your lips to his cheek briefly. “The sheets do not hide you well enough, my love.” You picked up the book he had placed beside him and put it back in his hand. “Do not be frightened of it. And do let me know if you have questions, I will try to help.”

He was surprised to see you so open about it, there was no innocently in you towards the matter.

You got up from the bed and went back to the wardrobe. “Feel free to unburden yourself of your acquired carnal frustration if you wish. We know each other well enough that there should be no shame between us regarding these matters.”

He could not explain why it was so erotic for him to hear how you encouraged him to palm himself and handle his carnal needs with you present and going about your work as if it was a common occurrence. And the way you had just put the book back into his hand…

He swallowed hard. “You would not mind?…”

“No,” you assured. “On the contrary. I love to see

you enjoy yourself. Would you mind if you saw me please myself?”

The look in his eyes changed instantly. “No.”

You were folding a sheet when he spoke again.

He had moved his hand under the sheets. “Would you let me watch?”

Right away it was clear that he was hoping for some further encouragement from you. You indulged that hidden desire he harboured. “Yes. And I would be thinking of you during it.”

The movement under the sheets was unmistakable. He was starting to warm himself up slowly. The skin of his neck was starting to flush more, a tell-tale sign of his arousal.

You put the sheet back in the wardrobe and got closer to the bed again, picking the book up to search the pages that had put him in such an intriguing mood. “I’m curious, my love. Was it reading about the blacksmith having her on her knees, or her being bend over the bed that caused you to rise?”

He could tell from your eyes that you were enjoying this game, he slowly helped himself beneath the sheets. Timidness battled boldness

in him right before your eyes, it was a delicious mixture to watch.

You send him a sultry look, turning the book around in your hands and tapping the page with your fingers a little. “You have never done that with me before. Perhaps we should try that sometime.”

He finally spoke, clearly stroking himself now, “What part?”

You reached down with your free hand, placing it atop the sheets where he was working himself. “Whichever you like.”

The intensity of his eyes burned into yours. “The one that will make you moan for me the most…”

You hummed and rubbed over the sheets. “We will have to test that then.”

“Come to bed,” he said in a charming tone.

Shaking your head, you teased the sheets above his hardened length. “Why? Look how well you handle yourself alone.”

He groaned when you kept teasing him with your touch above the sheets while he slowly stroked himself. “You want me to ruin our sheets?”

Your cheeky smile made him arch a brow at you. “They can be washed.”

His eyes were starting to darken. He dared to say it, “You can also be washed.”

You tsk-ed him, rubbing a little firmer. A jolt went through him, his mouth curved into a smile, he was liking this.

You leaned down to whisper right into his ear, “Let me see you come undone by your own touch, then once you are rested I will let you bundle up my chemise and let you have me the way that blacksmith had her.”

The spark it caused in his eyes was worth it already. He stroked himself differently, increasing his pace. You climbed onto the bed, knelt beside him and moved the sheet off of him.

How you were willing to do this with him, it was enough to arouse him to no end. How sweet you looked, those dilated pupils… The slight parting of your lips as you looked at how he stroked himself, those lips…

He let out a moan, his hips began to move a little.

You bit your lip. “Look how hard you are.” Your hand came to cover the one he was using to stimulate himself, you let him keep the control.

“Are you going to spill for me?”

He emitted a deep groan at the sultry tone you had used on him and spoke your name like a prayer. You leaned in and brushed your mouth to his. What started slow, was quick to become intimate. Your tongue asked for access and he was quick to welcome it with his own. His breathing became unsteady fast, he was stroking himself harder.

“I love you,” you said and then kissed him hard, pausing to whisper into his mouth, “spill for me, my love. Please?”

He grabbed you by the side of your neck and kissed you with such passion that you felt your own core throb in response. A quiet moan slipped your lips at the feeling, and his breathing stuttered. He had to break away when his unraveling hit, too desperate for air to have it be stolen away. It hit him hard, he spilled on your hand and onto himself, hips shocking strongly. You took the initiative to help him stroke it all out, using the information he had once given you. He had told that the tip of him was incredibly sensitive when he was releasing, but a hand around him just underneath, thumb above and fingers under the length of him was just perfect. Slowly his breathing calmed and deepened. He curled a hand around your wrist to make you halt your stimulation, his other snaked to the back of your neck to draw you in for another kiss. Sensuously slow his mouth caressed your own. You had to slide your thumb to his mouth to break his lips away from yours.

You gazed into his hazy eyes. “I’m going to fetch a rag for you. Wait here a moment.”

With a nod he obliged, letting you go fetch a rag to clean himself up with. You were kind enough to pick the warm bucket of water near the hearth instead of the colder water in the washbasin. First you cleaned your hand, then sat down next to him to freshen him up, ignoring how he had reached for the rag believing he would need to do it himself.

You tsk-ed him. “You spoiled me today. Let me do this for you.”

He let you help him, fixing his attention on you instead. His fingers grazed over your neck, tickled your throat and went down to the neckline of your chemise. You send him a cheeky look, knowing he was very tempted to pull the neckline down more. You finished freshening him up and went to discard the rag whilst he closed up his trousers again. He stared a bit when you went and started to fold the remaining items that had fallen from the wardrobe. Getting up from the bed his legs were unsteady, yet he managed to reach you. Kneeling down, he began to help fold it all and ignored your protests.

“You look beautiful in the light of a candle,” he suddenly blurted out.

The compliment came out of nowhere but was very welcome. “I do?”

A slow nod. “Yes.”

“Well. You yourself do not need a candle’s light to look beautiful.” Your lips curved into a sweet smile.

His cheeks tinted, that boyish smile tugged at his lips as he send his gaze down. “Neither do you. Do not cast aside a compliment you so deserve.”

It was true you had a tendency to do it, and he often gently scolded you for it. He took the remaining folded clothes and put them back in the wardrobe, closing it’s doors when certain a second avalanche of fabric would not happen again, at least not tonight.

“Perhaps-” he began.

You recognized that careful tone. “No. I’m keeping the wardrobe. I am not putting my things in a chest.”

He could be as stubborn as you. “My love, you were almost buried under it all.”

You climbed into bed and made yourself comfortable. “I handled it.”

He shook his head. Oh these small disagreements were not uncommon, but none truly led to heavy arguments over small matters.

“This time,” he tossed oil onto the fire.

You turned to lay on your other side, facing away from him. “I’m arranging for a second wardrobe. That will solve the problem.”

He sighed. “I suppose we can move the washstand to the side to make room for it.”

“Really?” You looked back over your shoulder at him, not expecting for him to agree with you on the matter.

Oh, he was not done fueling the fire. “Yes. Or my wife will leave me a widower because she refuses to put her things away more carefully.”

Swiftly you faced away again, rolling your eyes. “Do not be so dramatic.”

He was chuckling, his footsteps neared. The bed dipped down a bit and the sheets moved. His arm came around your waist as he laid down behind you. He plucked the book from where it laid at your side, skimmed through the pages and then placed it on the bed where you could read it.

A fit of giggles overtook you. This was once a monk who had dedicated his life to the scriptures, and now he put this book full of sin down for you to read.

He loved the sound. “What amuses you?”

“Once, you gave me a book of scriptures to read to convert me. Now you give me a book like this to corrupt me.”

“I cannot corrupt one who is full of sin already.”

“Oi!”

You lightly jerked your heel backwards against

his lower leg. He made you roll on your back, fingers tickling your waist. You grasped at his hands to escape his playful torture, it was no use. He was so quick to overpower you, tickling your skin through the fabric mercilessly.

“Gods!” A fit of giggle overtook you whilst trying to shield yourself with your arms.

By kissing your neck just beneath your jaw, he caused you to shiver from the mixture of sensations. The sound of your quiet laughter filled his ears. He chuckled warmly and sucked at the skin of your jaw, teasing it. He moved downwards, hands gliding along your body, slowly he crawled under the sheets and hid himself and his sinful intentions from view.

You felt him touch and move up the skirt of your chemise. “These sheets won’t hide the sins you’re committing.”

He mumbled something under the sheets, warm breath touching your knee and trailing up, you invited his advances by moving your knees up and more apart. A squeeze to your thighs, a graze of his teeth over the inner side of them, it brought all the anticipation.

His hand snaked from under the sheets and took hold of the book, he placed it in your hand, a clear request. Curiously you skimmed the pages and stopped at a certain few, now understanding why he had been so carnally aching.

You began to read, “This blacksmith did some very sinful things. He’s entertaining a nun on this chapter, did you read this far yet?”

The first slow drag of his tongue over your core chased a gasp out of your lungs.

Your attention divided between the book and the Ash Man under the sheets trying to please you. “Do you remember that I had to disguise myself as one of those in that abbey? You made me take that habit off because I had not ‘earned’ to wear it yet. It was a sin to you.”

His tongue dragged into you, lips suckling gently on the sensitive bud. He kneaded at your rear when your hips slowly moved with his mouth.

Turning the page, there was more sinful matter written. A quiet moan shuddered through you. “He’s bending her over the altar in her abbey on the next page, Lancelot. I don’t think this book is appropriate for a monk.”

You received a light tap to your thigh for that and giggled, he was drawing more moans out. Your thighs were trembling, the written text mixed with his stimulation was a glorious combination. Your hand in his hair told him he was doing good, to keep going as he was. Your trembling legs were a clear sign.

You forgot about the book that fell from your hand and onto the sheets, your fingers grazed through his locks, your thighs threatened to entrap him. Just a little more…

The knock on the door and the disconnecting of his mouth made you quietly whine. He hushed you instantly.

“It’s Gawain.” He knew it had to be something that could not wait if the knight disrupted his night.

Unsated, you saw him crawl out of bed. Duty called and you hated having to see him go. He smiled sympathetically when you sighed.

He leaned down to kiss your cheek and to whisper, “I shall make haste. Fear not.”

You tapped your lips with a finger. “Please?”

He hummed, loving the polite request and indulging it. He pecked your lips before heading to the door, knowing full well that Gawain would grow impatient soon. You turned to lay on your side, watching him call out to Gawain and dressing himself hurriedly before stepping out of the room.

          What you believed would not be long, turned into an hour before he returned. His scent traveling through the hallway to your room woke you from a shallow slumber. It got you on your feet in seconds, you hurried to the door and opened it just as his scent was near, catching him by surprise. Lancelot had his hand outstretched to open the door and stared at you, then a smirk curved his lips.

Stepping aside, you let him walk in and locked the door behind him. “Everything alright?”

His brows rose a little. “Gawain had me see his horse, believing the stallion was behaving out of the ordinary.”

“Oh?”

He could barely keep a straight face at the memory. “Gringolet released some gas he had build up and returned to his normal behavior immediately after.”

You snorted a laugh. “Poor Gringolet.”

“My poor nose you mean.” He scoffed with a smile. “That horse tries to eat everything he sees.”

He was dressing down again, baring his torso and kicking off his boots, weapons placed atop the wooden chest. You fidgeted with your chemise, loving to see him rid himself of the fabrics. The way his hands moved, the relaxation in his shoulders now that he was at ease again in the room. As he stretched his back, you approached him from behind and wrapped your arms around him, your hand grazed over his chest to his left pec where your caught his nipple between the space of your index and middle finger. The shirt he still had in his hands to fold was dropped atop his weapons-belt. He leaned back against you a little, welcoming the touch.

It was still quite new for him, the discovery that he loved to be touched this way. It tickled, but also aroused him truly to feel you play with him like this.

You were gentle, circling your thumb around it, catching it in the gaps between your fingers to tease it. Your free hand brushed over his abdomen, fingertips teasingly slipping into the waistband of his trousers but never going too far down. He bit his inner cheek, smiling at the shiver it send through him. You kissed a scar on his shoulder blade, he weaved his fingers through yours that kept teasing the waistband of his trousers. With a small tug at his hand, you signaled for him to turn around. It was easier to give his chest your full attention now. Not long ago you had discovered just how sensitive the buds on his pecs truly were, one innocent loving touch to his chest on it had once caused him to rise just before he had to leave in the morning with Arthur. Since then, he was quick to capture your hand in the mornings when it tried to touch his chest that way. But now, in the darkness of night, you could experiment and find out just what he liked.

Your breathed out against the nipple of his left pec, then teased it with a flick of your tongue. Oh, he enjoyed that, a quiet grunt escaped him, he cupped your neck, encouraging you to continue. Your lips closed around it, tip of your tongue touching it briefly. Then your mouth trailed to the one on the right to treat it equally. Your technique was half-stolen by the one he had often used on you. His fingers snaked to the back of your head, massaging your scalp. Hearing the very quiet sounds falling from him made you make appreciative ones in return. He could heat you so easily, just the sound of his voice alone could bring you to the point where you’d clench your legs together.

He took hold of your chin and his lips descended upon your own, ending their delicate teasing to his chest. Slowly his mouth caressed yours, closing around your bottom lip to gently suck on it, he breathed out hotly against your lips when you teased his nipple between your fingers again. Your lips brushed to his neck, moving over his skin with hunger, traveling down to his collarbone where your teeth lightly touched it. His hands wandered over your body, feeling the curves hidden under the chemise. With a squeeze to your rear he brought you closer against him, arousal shot through your body at his confident approach. Your hand traveled to his rear, giving it a playful smack as you grinned at him. Lust had drowned out most of the blue in his eyes, they were the sky of night, dark and promising, a beauty to behold.

“My beautiful Lancelot…” You cupped his neck, locking your lips to the side of it.

His hand curled against the back of your hair, his throat bopped, your name fell softly from his lips.

You hummed, “Hm?”

His body trembled more, skin glowing and warm, like a star in the heavens that had found itself into your arms. After one more kiss to his cheek, you stopped and got down to your knees.

Sweetly you gazed up at him through your lashes. “May I?”

To clarify what it meant, you hooked a finger under the waistband of his trousers and tugged very lightly at it.

His gaze lingered on you. “Always. If you wish?”

You nodded quickly, grinning up at him with mischief filled eyes. Slowly you began to loosen the cords that held his trousers neatly at his hips. “I love to hear you moan when I do this.”

A slight tilt to his brow, that charming smile. He caressed your head and helped you with the cords a little. “I love when you do this…”

Oh, that was clear. You wasted little time to free him and began with stroking lightly. “I missed you. You were gone so long.”

He couldn’t resist jesting about it, “Are you saying that to me, or my-”

Your wit was sharp. “Both, I suppose.”

“I did leave you aching.” He gently brushed a hand over your head, caressing your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Can you forgive me?”

A smirk tugged at your lips. “Maybe.”

Your mouth enclosed around him, bringing him to his full strength again. After a moment he cursed quietly and almost thrusted but was able to contain it. His fingers massaged your scalp, his breaths came faster.

“Don’t spill,” you tried to sound commanding.

The affect it had on him was the one you had anticipated, he often grew more aroused if you took control but it was still a search for doing it the right way. You still feared accidentally pushing him to do something he was uncomfortable with. So you focused on the small reactions, not just those of his body.

“I won’t,” he breathed out.

You decided to play the part a little longer and see where it would end. “Good. Do you enjoy feeling yourself in my mouth?”

He picked up on the change in your voice, his abdomen tightened in pleasure. “Yes.”

“Remember, don’t spill.” Your tongue dragged along him.

His head fell back, eyes rolling back into his skull from the despair you caused him.

You praised him for submitting, “Such a good husband, letting your wife play with you.”

His whispered your name, his hips growing restless. You freed him from your mouth and began to stroke him in a quick pace. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself and choked on a breath. When he tilted his head back again, you halted all your movements. His hips bucked instinctively, seeking the stimulation that you proceeded to deny him of. His gaze fell back on you, your hand still wrapped around him, your eyes on his length. A clear, sticky liquid was squeezing out of him, you moved your thumb over it. It was far from the first time you had seen it, his arousal was high.

“I did not spill,” he quietly uttered.

“I know.” Your thumb rolled over the tip of him, coating him with his pre-release. “But you want to, don’t you?”

His eyes squinted a little, “Yes.”

“I’ll let you know when you may,” you told him oh so casually.

The protest died in his throat when you licked the liquid and then captured him in your mouth again. Your tongue swirled around his tip, your hand tended to his base. Gently playing with the base of him caused him to moan louder.

He tried to think of other matters, mundane matters that were less stimulating than the mouth around him. It felt so good he wanted to enjoy it as long as he could. He could do this, he knew he could hold back his desire to spill. It helped greatly that he had spilled not long ago.

Sweetly, your mouth kept him warm. You were not even actively pleasuring him much anymore, you just wanted him to feel good and let him enjoy it. Your hand played with him, stroking him and teasing his thighs. He appreciated the act greatly and was brushing a hand over your head and neck lovingly. He shifted his hips, a quiet sign that his body did crave for more.

You locked eyes with him, giving him a warning that he would not understand until a few seconds later, “Don’t spill.”

Your mouth locked around him firmly, you took him faster than you even thought you could.

“Gods-” he grunted hard, not prepared for the fast stimulation or the way he throbbed in pleasure in response to it.

He was almost panting, breath hitching, “You’re going…to…make me spill-”

You lifted your head, freeing him from your mouth. His head fell back again, his hips restlessly moving a little. Seeing him this

desperate was new, his hand went down but he stopped himself before it wrapped around him.

A smirk tugged at your lips. “You look so good when you grow desperate with need.”

His whole body shook when you gave him a teasing lick and giggled at seeing his response.

He knew for certain that you would deny him his release again if you continued like this. A tempting game, if only his body was not so in need of completion.

He cupped your cheek, eyes softening at the sight of yours. “I can sense your arousal, soon it will be coating your thighs. Let me help.”

You shook your head, grinning wickedly as you got up to your feet. His glistening length hanged out of his trousers. You did not expect him to move you backwards against the low dresser and make you sit down on it. He pushed your legs apart with his own, stepping between them.

His mouth crashed to yours, your fingers tangled desperately into his hair. Passion burned in your blood, seeking it’s target in him. He grabbed the fabric of your chemise at the chest and tore it open. The large tear bared your chest to him.

“Lancelot-” you gasped.

“I will earn your forgiveness.” His mouth divided it’s attention between your breasts.

He hiked your chemise up, bringing a hand straight to your heat, sinking two digits inside. Your body moved to meet their pace and shivered when he withdrew them again. He made you look at him by taking hold of your chin, your arousal still on his fingers, as he brought himself inside. You gasped at his boldness, at the confidence in his expression and the darkening of his eyes as he looked down to watch the connection he created between you. He began to roll into you, his demanding hold on you made your body weak, your legs went around him and locked him in.

“Very good,” he purred the praise when seeing you trap him between your thighs. “You will have to plea for me this time, or I will not let you come undone. Do you understand?”

That sparked your stubbornness. “Go to hell, Monk.”

He went deeper, moving just how he knew you liked it. “I will bring you the heavens in your loins long before I shall meet hell, Sweetheart.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, trying not to whimper. The sounds he made, his pace, the angle… he would have his wish soon.

He licked your shoulder before closing his mouth around the spot, then did the same to your neck. Your eyes rolled back from the avalanche of stimulation he brought. His former release gave him the advantage over you now, his stamina was higher. Your body began to quake. A moan filled whimper fled your lips and made him go harder. Your thighs trembled around him.

“Shall I stop?” The satisfied smirk was clear on his face.

You shook your head, desperate to reach what he was guiding you to.

“Then be polite…” he hinted, taking hold of your chin, “or I’ll have to stop.”

You knew what he wanted. Your stubbornness was washed away by the need for him.

He purred into your ear, “Be sweet for me, my Sweetheart, I know you can.”

“Please, Lancelot,” you whispered desperately inches away from his mouth. “Please, please, please, don’t stop. I need you.”

A low moan escaped him at the plea, he crashed his mouth to yours and rolled into you harder and faster, desperate for his own release as much as yours. He held your hips in place, caring little about the creaking wood of the dresser.

Your fingers tugged at his hair, then dug into his shoulder. “Please, please, Lancelot…”

He grunted deeply, keeping the rhythm of his hips now that he knew you were close. “My love…”

Your legs clenched around him more mere seconds before your body clenched around him. Your unraveling hit strongly, he thrusted into the fluttering of you until his own hit. Feeling him spill made you come undone harder, your moans could barely be silenced into his shoulder.

“That’s it, Sweetheart. You’re so very good…” He moaned loudly, spilling richly, feeling your body squeeze around him in ecstasy.

He thrusted slowly into the mess he had made of you. Quiet moans fled your lips as he let you ride out your release with him. You breathed deeply to recover. His hands went to your waist, caressing it gently as his breathing calmed. Your lower legs were still trembling as well as your arms. He began to kiss your shoulder and gently touched your bare breast to enjoy the intimacy longer.

He would harden again if he did not withdraw, he could feel it in him. All day he had been restless, but this was the only matter that had helped so far. It emptied his thoughts and sated his need, but the greatest reward and cure was seeing you spent and happy.

The washbasin was but an arm’s reach away. He slowly withdrew, and grabbed the wet rag from beside the washbasin. You jolted a little at the cold touch of the wet rag, he kissed your temple to apologize for it. He was thorough, patient as he washed away the evidence of your intimate encounter, cleaning you first before himself. He tied his trousers and threw an apologetic glance at the ruined chemise that you were trying to close at the chest to cover yourself with. He helped you off of the dresser, and guided you by the hand to the wardrobe where he plucked

another chemise out from under a stack of clothes.

“I am sorry.” He saw you try to hold the fabric at your chest closed, the timidness present in your eyes.

“It feels ridiculous to feel shy after… we’ve seen each other bare and still-” You looked at the floor.

He shook his head. “There is no shame in wishing for modesty, you do not need to justify that wish.” He held out the chemise for you to take. “Shall I help? Or do you want a moment to yourself?”

It was comforting how understanding he was to your bouts of self-consciousness. You felt utterly safe with him and respected.

“You’re sweet,” you told him, feeling your heart fall in love with him deeper than it already was.

His cheeks flushed a little at the quiet sweet statement. Again he presented the fresh chemise to distract you from the pink hue growing on his cheeks.

“You ruined this one. Perhaps you should rectify the problem you caused,” you hinted.

He understood the hint, but worried over the self-conscious state you had fallen into. “Are you certain?”

A quick nod. “Yes.”

With the ruined state of the chemise it was easier to bring it down over your shoulders and arms, he let it drop down from your body and helped you step out of the puddle of fabric it created at your feet. He made you stretch your arms to slide the fresh chemise onto your body and smoothed out the fabric until it sat neatly.

“There,” he said, pleased with the result.

It had been done quickly and with respect to your bare state. “Thank you.”

He plucked the ruined chemise up from the floor. “We can visit the market together and purchase a new one?”

You watched him put the ruined chemise on top of the wooden chest. “I would like that.”

With a nod, the plan was made. He strolled over to the bed and moved the sheets, patting the mattress with his hand, beckoning for you. You slipped into bed, he followed suit and took place next to you, bringing the sheets over your body.

“You were incredible today,” he praised, leaning in for a kiss.

You misunderstood him. “Just today?”

He was quick to clarify, “How you fought this morning. My perfect pupil.”

You smiled against his lips, “I have you to thank for that.”

With a few pecks to your lips, he caused you to giggle. “Your footwork still needs improving.”

Your giggling stopped. “You just had to point it out, didn’t you?”

He tossed oil right onto that fire he was inciting. “With practise you might be half as good with the sword one day as I am.”

You raised a brow at him. “You arrogant braggart.”

His thumb touched your cheek, your markings came out of hiding and he brushed his lips to them. “You cannot deny how my skill impresses you. Your body always tells me.”

Alright, fine. It wasn’t like you could truly control how attractive you found him when he moved with such grace and skill. “Do you think that I’ll be close to your skill one day?”

His eyes met yours upon hearing the quiet and

uncertain sounding question. “I have no doubt that you will. You will be one of the finest swordsme-… swordswomen after I am done with you.”

You cupped his neck. “I hope you’ll never be done with me, I do enjoy our sparring moments. I cherish them dearly.”

He flashed a grin. “Even those where your rear ended up on the ground?”

You rolled your eyes at him, turning over to sleep on your side and facing away from him. “I’m going to sleep before you ruin my mood.”

His fingertips tickled over your arm, his body scooted closer and he trapped you against him with the sheets. “I shall be more careful during our lessons, no harm should come to such a glorious rear.”

“That hand better stay on my waist,” you warned.

He chuckled and gave said waist a squeeze, his lips brushed to your cheek. “I will worship every part of you until my last breath, and if there is a way to continue beyond it then I will find it.”

You moved back a little, nesting yourself against him. “Are you saying I could feel a ghostly tap to my rear some day?”

A content hum fled his chest. “It is a possibility.”

Your head tilted to look at him over your shoulder, his eyes were soft and a small smile graced his lips. He read your silent request and let your lips receive a brief soft caress of his own.

His nose brushed against yours. “Sleep well, my love.”

“Charming.” You got comfortable in his arms to sleep. “Goodnight, Lancelot.”

With a kiss to your head, he laid down to sleep. Finally, he seemed calm and no longer restless. The night felt warmer, odd considering how the weather was only just nearing that of spring and a breeze was traveling through the castle. Still, you managed to fall asleep, too stubborn to leave his side and seek some fresher spot on the bed. He was a temptation you could not be parted with.

Taglist:

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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.

[beginning-writer]

Yeah, the first thing i do when i open a custom character game it's do my favorite characters/new obsession, what so?

@lancedoncrimsonwings @dinogod

Also, I'm bored, so use this post to tag someone to share something about their favourite characters.

[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]

Weeping Monk helping me carry things at the grocery store. The perfect problem and the fact the he would just stay silent and carry them for me is perfect.

Now you excuse me i need to draw this.

You are faced with some random problem and the only person who can help you is the main character from the last piece of media you consumed (you can also do favorite character if there are multiple main characters). You can stay in this universe or be in the universe of the character, whichever you prefer, but the problem remains the same and the only person who can directly help you is the main character. That character can call on the help of those they know in their media, but when it comes down to it, they are the only person really helping you. How do you react to this situation?

Spin to find out your problem:

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

More work on my Weeping Monk cosplay... heck yes!

One of my snakes is very interested in what I am doing bless her lil cotton socks