#how is lancelot more forgivable than gawain??

[the-archivist-jmj]

does anyone else think about the insane mischaracterization of Gawain in the Quest of the Holy Grail? No? Just me?

[thatmaxcontent]

Wanna hear about my Wilted Flower/Dried Flower Lansoni AU? No? YOU FOOL, YOU READ THE FIRST LINE, NOW YOU MUST CONTINUE, MUEHEHE!!!

[Also forgive any spelling mistakes I am writing this 100% by memory so like the names might be painfully incorrect]

[ ~ ☆ ~ ]

So after Sonic restored peace and became King Merlina tried to send him back, but for some reason the universe didn't let him leave. The world itself refused to let him go. He, of course, thought nothing much of it- things always went his way in the end, right? They would find a way! Until then he'd take the role of the King, even if that sheltered superiority wasn't his style...

In fact, as good a King as he was, he often tried escaping duties in the beginning. He often fled and flew free without a guard by his side, he never announced his departure. That's the way he always lived, unbothered and free! What, he was supposed to be in a bed every evening suddenly? Sit still on a throne and do nothing but pass his word, entertain the court, blandly every single day? As if!

That is, until one night. He figured out his earlier absence had resulted in the death of a family starving- he wasn't there to pass his words or actions of help. He wasn't there to hear the people, to rule the people... his people.

He ran away in the night. Denial, no one would look for him. They would find someone suitable for the role, someone who could live that lifestyle. Because Sonic the Hedgehog could not. So he was absent for a week. Almost two. And he thought, by Chaos he thought.

Everyone in the castle was in full panic. The people weren't told of the King's absence, decisions- no matter how crucial- were placed on the waiting list. In those days there was ruin, there was so, so much dread. Percival, Gawain and Lancelot did not rest, not a blink more than necessary, and finally, finally, they found him.

They found Sonic, looking rougher than ever, distressed, but dear Chaos he was so beautiful.

"My Liege!" Lancelot called out, followed by no less relieved, hurried voices of the other Knights of The Roundtable. Sonic heard them, though he could barely stand. Sonic, who slept his whole life outside, was sleep-deprived in nature. That carefree expression he tried to pull conveyed only exhaustion.

"My Liege, you must tell us what happened!" Percival ushered. "Who has hurt you in such a way?!" Gawain demanded answer. "My Liege, who is responsible for this act of treason? What creature stole you, harmed you so?"

He opened his mouth, but he only rubbed the back of his neck. He lowered his head, visibly uncomfortable. Hint taken, the Knights backed down the questions.

"We shall catch the culprit soon, however we simply must get you back to the castle. Please, allow us to escort you,"

"Indeed, the Kingdom needs you desperately. A lot has happened in your absence, the people yearn for you my Liege,"

"Once we return we shall get to solving this horrid crime right away!"

Sonic was supported in his step by Lancelot, he sat behind him on his horse as they departed towards the castle.

He could only sigh. It was true. The people needed a King, they needed their King. Sonic, Arthur... the people needed him, his people needed him.

But it was so foreign.

That next night he managed sleep on the bed, guarded by Lancelot and Percival the whole time. So it would be for a long time after this incident, though Sonic's carefree nature still prevailed in many aspects for the first time ever he sat on that throne and stayed there. He took on his neglected duties, worked at them until exhaustion, and finally after some days everything was caught up.

Day by day the King's reputation kept bumbling brightly. A man first known as fast-paced yet strong-willed, then fair in all aspects, then empathetic, then compassionate, then kind. Day by day his glow grew so strong, his face softened, his look regal, untouchable, overworldly.

It had been a year since he became King. Specks of war began baring their heads. No longer able to negotiate, a near-nation decided to speak by blade.

The Knights, their troops, the Kingdom were in a hurry, a layer of pressure killing them slowly.

But suddenly... suddenly peace was negotiated after all, with seemingly no war. But no, the troops had been readied, everyone was prepared... there were only few people who knew what had happened. The King, The Knights of The Roundtable and the survivors.

All by his lonesome the King showed up on the battlefield, gaining endless scratches, wounds, yet he stood in the middle of a massacre. Not by want, by will. By virtue. By obligation. Shocked, but not afraid. The Knights saw Sonic, the smug impulsive man, on the battlefield. But once the white flag was raised Sonic was dead once more, and Arthur was born again.

Negotiations of peace suddenly got a lot easier for the King. He made connections, built trust, always extended a helping hand, and if ever met by betrayal the fate of disgrace was written in blood.

He didn't want this. None of him wanted this. But he had to do it. No matter what he wanted he had to, because he had duties, he had obligations, he had people depending on him, the whole world watching him, and for the first time ever Sonic the Hedgehog was nowhere to be seen. Arthur was sensitive, emotional, strong in battle, stronger in virtue, always equal, always there, with his calming aura and serene face, slow movements and listening ears. Hands that made hope out of thin air, Arthur was the dream. Everyone loved him, he was the greatest King to ever exist, to ever cross the world. He was so beautiful. He was so radiant. Everyone loved him.

Everyone except Sonic.

Sonic made it hard for him to accept it, be at peace with it. Because he yearned for freedom, for impulsivity, for speed, for carelessness. He yearned for his home, his life. He yearned for Sonic the Hedgehog.

Three years into his rule, of course his three most loyal Knights had noticed. They knew since the beginning, but they could see it day by day. Their King, their Arthur. He was so distressed, they wanted to help. But he was so, so incredibly breathtaking. A sight so gorgeous fictional faes would gasp and swoon just at the thought of him. He was perfect. But he was miserable.

The Knights entrusted Lancelot to the task of keeping sight on the King since the beginning, overtime he became his main safe-space. Lancelot saw him in ways even the other two had not. It became known that the King needed constant breaks, even during trivial matters, throughout the day. He was easily exhausted, sentimental, even melancholy. A husk on the inside, as good as God on the outside. A dried flower, forever beautiful, frozen in its suffering. A wilted flower, no longer who he used to be.

Arthur was a soft man, who accepted the castle, accepted the duty, accepted the people, accepted his life. But he was still Sonic.

So one night, one fateful night, Sonic broke down in front of his most trusted Knight once again.

"I just... I can't, I don't..." He struggled breathing. Tears in his eyes, body shaking, already seated on his bed. Many a time he had broken to rambles, to tears, to non-verbal states of not being able to even voice his aching heart, something he never, never, never wished to do, yet did so frequently. He tried to calm, as always. Sir Lancelot knelt in front of him, as always.

"... He isn't me, Lancelot," He had said it so many times. "I want to be me, I want to be out there, I want to live," He gripped the sheets. "But I just can't do that here, can I? They would suffer, they would die..." He drooped his head. "Chaos... I feel like I'm dying,"

"My Liege," Lancelot dared not to look. "To see you suffer so is a fate worse than torture, to know our efforts have done opposite to intent... I am truthfully, deeply sorry for this burden you bear,"

He could hear him sigh. Dry his tears and sniffle. "Know if there is a single thing we may do to enhance your comfort it shall be done," He could see him, the way he extended one of his hands. The Knight lifted metal, exposing his face to candlelight. Gentle, careful hands, like those handling a baby bird, cradled his. He brought that soft fur to his lips, a modest, dedicated kiss planted on.

"... Thank you, Sir Lancelot," As he was about to let his hand go peach fur gripped smooth metal tighter. "But you can't bring me home. No one can," His tone so defeated, he was disappointed in what he'd become. But Lancelot, he kept holding his hand as per request. He didn't understand, but he knew the jist. He knew what he meant, and he wished only for him to feel a spasm of happiness among them.

"This is your home, my Liege," He rubbed the back of his hand intimately. He felt disgusting, he was such a brute, how he was enjoying it so, how he took pleasure in knowing he was the only who knew the King so well. Even among the three. He planted another kiss. "You have made it a haven for many. We shall do our all to make it one for you,"

Arthur looked down at him... but Sonic was the one who laid the order. Arthur was the one who spoke to him, but Sonic was the one who made the decision. And before he knew it he requested his Knight's lips up his arm, to his neck, to his lips. Lancelot, he felt like the Devil, he had dreamed and scolded himself. Yet it had come true, and as the most loyal Knight who was he to refuse?

No one else ever got to know. Not that they tried to hide. But Arthur, he was a loyal man. And Sonic, he happened to find something of a haven in him.

So nearly four years into his successful rule Arthur looked himself in the mirror.

"You know... I think I'm finally starting to feel at home here," His constant soft smile, drooped friendly eyes followed his own movement.

"That is most pleasing to hear, my Liege. May I inquire on your thoughts further?" Lancelot stood tall, faithful, observant some distance away.

"There's not much more to it, really. I just woke up one day and went "Huh. This doesn't feel completely alien anymore", so yeah. Maybe I finally accepted I can't go back, though..." His shrug turned to a closed stance.

"I admit, even if it was awkward at first, having acommodations and you three Knights as stable companions has been..." He closed his eyes. "... Comforting, I'd say,"

Lancelot stared.

He was so, so beautiful when he said it all.

He was so, so beautiful.

He was so, so radiant.

He was the sun.

But he was still unhappy.

Though he vowed to change it... it was much more than a simple vow by now. It was a mission. It was his salvation, he needed to make him happy. Even if for a little while.

He was the light, even if inside it was dark.

Royal, reliable, loving, lovable, the perfect King.

Everyone loved him, even those who knew.

Everyone loved him, like a dried flower.

Though he could never love Arthur...

Could he?

[ ~ ☆ ~ ]

SO YEAH THAT'S JUST TO GIVE Y'ALL SOME LITTLE TASTY TASTIES THIS AU HAS RUINED ME IN THE TWO AND A HALF DAYS I'VE HAD IT I LOVE IT SO DEARLY AND DEPRESSED ARTHUR SONIC IS DEFINITELY ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS EVER AAAAAAAAA

[spro-o]

Whats your headcanons for percival group(including Anne,Nasiens,Donny,Lancelot)It could be anything.

Have a good:)

allow me to share!! (thank you for asking :3c)

some drawings to accompany them 🔽 also do keep in mind that there are wip, since I only caught up with the series not long ago

Percy:

he/him (but doesn't really care about how he's referred to, so they/them works too)

pansexual

autistic

stims a lot – this is helped by the fact that he doesn’t grasp the whole social queues thing, and is generally very out there

no filter (this is deadass just canon)

has dimples

Nasiens:

he/they/she, non-binary + intersex

megafaggot (for percival)

autistic (hyper fixation on medicine, duh)

Tioreh is their “THEY ASKED FOR NO PICKLES” bsf

cat person

slightly pointed ears (not pointy enough to not be possible on a human, but definitely sus)

Gawain:

she/her, cis woman

LESBIAN!! VERY!!

also gym rat (derogatory)

different haircut (as pictured) (im sorry i dont fuck with her fuck-ass bob) and darker skinned (cant have a sunshine user getting sunburned, cmon now)

[gawain bbgirl im so sorry i dont have any more hc's for you yet]

Tristan:

he/him

bisexual

in a qpr with Lance

most easily flustered

the most mama's boy you can get (in a sweet, not crazy way)

Lancelot:

he/him

bisexual

in a qpr with Tris

sillier than most anticipate when he gets to know someone

big interest in dance

gym rat (derogatory)

Anne:

she/her, cis woman

bisexual, eat hot chip, and crush-into-the-ground-if-you-lie

habit of thinking out loud/talking to herself

[same thing as gawain, forgive meeee]

Donny:

he/him, cis man

heteroflexible (wouldn’t complain if he somehow just had to kiss Lancelot)

looks up to Lance like crazy

actually a very patient person

[iinmortales]

Common Legend Deviations!

I had a 24 hour shift at work and I was, naturally, thinking about the Arthurians, mainly common legend themes/tropes that are not applicable to my versions of the Arthurians! So, here those are!

Arthur - Like, I feel like my bit for this is pretty obvious, as it is pretty much a defining point of how I write the general setting of Camelot. Arthur is hella bi and in a polyamorous relationship with both Guinevere and Lancelot. The relationship with Lancelot started BEFORE he married Guinevere.

Galahad - Galahad was raised by nuns in a convent with little to no relationship with his mother.

Gawain - Gawain is the eldest of his brothers (Agravain, Gareth, Gaheris, and Mordred) and is fiercely loyal to his family and his kingdom. He pleaded with his father when Lot fought against Arthur.

Guinevere - See Arthur. Guinevere was the one that was brought into the "affair" Arthur was having with Lancelot.

Gwenhwyfach - Gwenhwyfach is three years younger than Guinevere, and she was convinced by the conspirators that Guinevere DID NOT want to marry Arthur, which is why she went along with the False Guinevere Plot. She wanted to save her sister, not harm her.

Isolde - I HATE the love potion and I will only use it with HEAVY plotting. This is because I hate robbing their affair of agency. It just isn't as compelling to me as them genuinely falling in love to such a degree that they feel they have to be together even when it is a betrayal of Isolde's husband/Tristan's uncle.

Kay - Kay NEVER tried to claim that he was the one that pulled Excalibur. Did he try? Yes, they'd gone to London to have Kay try to pull the sword, as Arthur was still deemed too young. But when Arthur did pull the sword, Kay immediately supported him, and would have been the first to swear fealty to Arthur as king if Gawain hadn't pushed him out of the way to do it first (which Kay never forgives him for)

Lancelot - Same as Guinevere and Arthur. Lancelot and Arthur started their affair during the war at the beginning of Arthur's reign, before he married Guinevere.

Merlin - Merlin is nearly immortal, so he never really gets to the bearded old man stage unless he decides to appear that way.

Mordred - Mordred didn't go to war with Arthur because he hated Arthur or Camelot. A lot of it had to do with the lackluster response to Galahad's death (or failure to return from the grail quest at least). His grief fueled his belief that Camelot had become corrupt.

Morgan - Morgan was not Mordred's mother. She also didn't outright hate Arthur. She went through phases of working with Arthur and working against him. Morgan is the youngest of the sisters (Morgause the oldest, Elaine the middle sister) and is closest in age to Arthur.

Ragnelle - She didn't die five years after her marriage to Gawain, she outlived him as queen of Lothian and Orkney. She was also a Saxon commoner.

Viviane - Alright so this one is one of the more flexible ones, but Viviane is the overall ruler of Avalon. She does not pass on that title or relinquish her guardianship over the holy isle. She and Merlin were lovers, but that didn't stop her from stealing his magic and sealing him within a tree.

[ofdeedsglorious]

"Welcome, @toadmiretoweepover, knight of Pendragon!" Llawgad grinned, spreading his hands in greeting to the man before him.

To think the shield of, what had been his name... Acricor? Something like that. To think it would have worked so easily to lure in a warrior of the Red Dragon's court! He stood from the rickety old throne that he'd claimed when this castle had been discovered abandoned in the wilderness. A slight twitch of his hand had the door being closed and barred behind Yvain, his men slowly moving in to encircle the knight. How lucky it was that the plan had worked, otherwise the message he sent ahead would have just made him a laughing stock.

"Forgive me for not having any fine accommodations for a lord of your...status," Llawgad chuckled, scratching at his stubble, "but we do have a room readied for you. Of course, should you swear loyalty to me then we can skip any potential unpleasantness. I am a magnanimous ruler, after all!" Not that he expected the Knight of the Round to bend the knee easily.

But it was always fair to ask.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was unusual for Yvain to be late when it came to predicted journey times.

Unusual, but not entirely unheard of, really. They were Knights of the Round, and usually they could disappear for weeks or even months when questing. Or even when doing a simple errand. But the elder Yvain was usually fairly punctual when it came to his travels. Gareth hummed softly, scanning the room as though her cousin were to suddenly manifest from the shadows in the corner.

As expected, of course, nothing happened.

"Speak, then," Arthur's voice rang out over the crowded room, all present turning to face first him and then the unfortunate messenger.

"I-I was ordered to inform you, u-under pain of death you must understand, King Pendragon," a curt nod from the King, "that, ah... That one of your Knights is now a captive of th-the self-declared true heir of the rule of Powys, to the north..." The reaction brought on by this revelation was immediate, whispers breaking out across the crowd. Her fellow knights had varying levels of annoyance and anger showing on their faces. Gareth clenched her fists, a sinking feeling in her stomach as she looked once more to her Uncle on his throne while the merchant continued. "He says... He will only free the captive should you name a champion from your Knights to do battle with him."

Well, nothing to it then.

"I will go, Uncle," Gareth declared, stepping forward from the crowd despite Agravaine's hiss of her name. "Sirs Gawain and Lamorak are away, as are Sirs Percival and Yvain. And Sir Lancelot needs to rest off his last quest. I gladly take the burden to defeat an arrogant bandit on the road."

A nod given with a blessing after a brief pause, and then Gareth turned to leave. To fetch her horse and armor.

Once that was done she mounted Thistle and, with a sharp whistle, set off from the castle. Powys was to the north in the mountains so that was where her road would lead. Through the forests surrounding Arthur's autumn court to a kingdom far older than her uncle's lands.

She had a cousin to save.

[beginning-writer]

I got better. I'm gonna post a new chapter? No. I'm going to do more random scenarios with a head-canon that's not mine.

So found out i was not really sick, i was passing through emotional fever. Which is when you are not physically sick, but when you receive some horrible stimulus - like fear; sadness; anger; anxiety; etc. - excessively, and your brain gets sick. What affects your body and makes you feel symptoms such as fever, headache and etc. I stayed like that for about three days and now i'm better. What am i gonna do? More scenarios whit Tova's head-canon.

Galahad’s pov.

Galahad always knew who his father was, the horrible weeping monk, his mother made sure of making that clear to him, even if he didn't really know why. When he heard that his father was a horrible man, he thought it was because he was an ugly person. It was far from his head about the things his father did.

He didn't know about the atrocities his father committed until two springs ago, when he asked his mother and grandfather to let him spend some time at his house, and his mother went completely crazy. She started saying how bad the idea was and tried to persuade him to stay with her, when she saw that it wasn't working she threw everything she could. Mom was desperate, she seemed possessed by something, and began to scream in tears that he was a horrible man who killed and tortured his own kind and that Galahad should not go to his house, or he would suffer until he left there.

He got terrified and ran to his room to escape his overprotective mother's tears. He couldn't believe it, he thought the horrible man his father was was just because he didn't look good, not that.

Now, two springs later, he was brought into the fey resistance when he lost from his mother, and was living with his father; a boy the same age as him, but much more energetic and who wouldn't shut up, he liked him, the name his was Squirrel, but his father called him Percival when he did something wrong; And another man, older than his father, he is dark-skinned, and with a bit of fat under his big muscles. Galahad thinks he swears excessively and drinks too much, but he is very nice and admirable. His name is Gawain, he is the hero fey, the green knight. But the only green thing about him is his eyes.

It has been three lunar cycles since they all began living under the same roof, and Galahad had taken note of a few things. Squirrel has a very light hand, so I have to keep my things well; Gawain is gluttonous and shows a lot of physical affection towards my father, but they are not lovers; And my father is nothing like i believed.

His father wasn't an ugly man, in fact really pretty, and he looked much more like him than with his mother. He had few tear marks, but Galahad didn't have any either, so it didn't matter much. His hair was still auburn, so he probably wasn't even in his thirties, which meant he became a father at a very young age. His real name was Lancelot, which in their fey mother-language meant “To Protect/Serve” or “Earth’s fire.”

Lancelot did not deny that he committed horrible things against his own kind that he would never forgive himself or expect to be forgiven. Gawain kept saying that if the gods forgive him, he should forgive himself, but that doesn't mean much into Ash culture. The gods are not always right, they make mistakes, like we do.

He learned many things about his father, and things he likes to do with him. Very often people question whether his father is really his father, he doesn't know the conditions under which he was conceived, but he’s sure he is Lancelot's son. They have the same blue eyes, the same golden streaks among the red in their hair, except that his father's hair is darker due to age, the same body type, the same smile. The only things he inherited from his mother were his facial shape and skin tone. But other people didn't know that, so their dialogue most of the time went like this:

“Who’s your parents?” Someone asks

“My father’s Lancelot.” I respond, and the confusion rises in their faces

“... Like… in the weeping monk?” 

“Former weeping monk.” I promptly defend. That wasn't my father's title, so I don't see why people should insist on using it.

“Are you-”

“Yes.”

“But you two-”

“We’re gonna look more alike when I grow.”

“You have-”

“I’m gonna get my marks when my first rituals are done.”

“...”

“Stop questioning it. He is my father.”

“... okay. Sorry.”

They were always the same questions. They didn't even need to go beyond two words for me to know what they were going to say. Sometimes I even joked that no, he wasn't my father and I was just a child that he kidnapped and started taking care of, and then denied it. But it didn't matter what anyone else thought or said, Lancelot is my father. And he had a feeling he was starting to really like it.

His mother didn't have time to braid his hair every night before bed, he didn’t balme her, she was a single mom. His father on the other hand. Today he did a simple braid, the kind that didn't squeeze his head, his hair was always curly in the morning. He might not be the best dad, but he was trying. And now he has a brother! He was noisy, but still, he loved him. He loved his new family in every detail. Well, maybe not the murderous part, but that’s aside.

Ashfolk red-heads are my love now. So sorry, but i'll keep stelling this very often. @lancedoncrimsonwings

[akampana]

12. For Lancelot and Artoria?

12. “You have to come back to me. Because I cannot do this without you.”

Lancelot X Arturia

When I made this, initially it was only supposed to be up to the cut. So you can read up to there first, then decide if you need another helping of fresh angst. :)

_______

The stables of Camelot used to be a comfort. He was here frequently, fetching his King’s horse from the stableboy right before hunts, sometimes returning Llamrei when Arthur had to be pulled away right after going riding. The horses were familiar with him, so they did not stir, not even when Lancelot came in drenched in red.

The exiled knight stifled his sobs as he spat iron, rubbing the blood—Gareth’s? Gaheris’s? he didn’t know—on his hands all over his frock. It was a futile effort. No matter what he did, his palms would remain stained by the blood of Gawain’s brothers. First Agravain’s, and now theirs, who knew who it would be next?!

He’d been toeing the line between madness and sanity for hours now, knowing his name was tarnished beyond belief. Every second that passed saw him slipping, sliding, till that one moment where he finally fell over the edge. If not for the knowledge that Guin was waiting just outside the castle gates for his return, he’d have been kicking and screaming under the weight of his pain.

Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. He chanted in his head, finding Gareth’s white horse. It wouldn’t be missed. It hadn’t its master anymore. Slowly, he swung the gate open.

As if sensing his sins, the horse whinnied and bucked, thrashing against the reins. Lancelot braced its muzzle, begging for its silence to no avail. Tears fell from his eyes as he contemplated putting the animal down before it could stress the other stallions, but suddenly, the beast stilled, calmed by a smaller hand on its nose.

In an instant, Arondight was slashing through the stranger’s black and white hood. There couldn’t be any more witnesses. Not even the stableboy—god, deliver the innocent soul—could leave here alive.

Perhaps it was his anguish, or maybe his guilt, but his strike missed, only just managing to catch the string of the small person’s cloak. With great haste, Lancelot brought up his sword again as the hood fell from the boy’s face.

Onyx clashed with evergreen.

Then, Lancelot was sobbing on his knees, clinging to King Arthur—Arturia’s ankles and begging for death. His sins were plentiful. He’d done enough. He deserved not the blade he wielded, nor the life he still had. The fire and stake that were prepared for tomorrow should have been for him, not Guinevere, for it was he that ought to be thrown into hell.

“Lance,” Arturia called, sinking down to the unworthy soil. Carefully, she lifted his head so his tearful eyes met her forlorn ones. She leaned her forehead onto his, for touch was the only comfort she knew, and returned Arondight to his hands.

“You must take this with you. Your sword will not find another master here. Guin—” she flinched at the sound of her wife’s name, her eyes beginning to sting. “Guin needs your protection.”

“My liege, I implore you, end my life—”

“I refuse,” Arturia cut him off, suddenly standing and walking to the end of the stables. It was far too dark for him to see her tears, the way she bit the inside of her cheek. Deep down, Arturia knew this decision was costly. She smelt blood on him. It was not difficult to guess whose it was. If Guinevere was freed already, then she knew to prepare two graves when the sun came up. Her dearest nephew had just lost two more of his kin.

While Lancelot flung whispered questions her way, she saddled her horse and put on its reins, leading it back to her knight. Ignoring his words, she pressed the leather into his hands, bracing herself for goodbye.

“The archers at the gate will not dare shoot Dun Stallion. He is quick as the wind and fond of...fond of her.”

Ignoring his protests, she trudged past him to the exit, pulling her torn hood over her head once more. Lancelot made chase, but she’d already made the decision to let him go. At this point, could he even refuse this, when she extended her generosity even after all his sins?

He couldn’t.

Arturia looked back once, her hood concealing the last remorseful look she’d saved just for her First Knight. As he mounted her prized horse, she whispered low enough that the breeze could carry it away.

“You have to come back to me. Because...I cannot do this without you.”

Lancelot turned for a final glance, knowing not that this would be the last time he saw the person he loved the most alive and well.

“My king, I beg of you. Please. Please, Arthur.”

...

“No...No, no, no!” Lancelot pleaded, scooping up his beloved king’s broken body into his arms. Five steps away, Bedivere bit his lip, a fourth wave of tears falling from his tired eyes. The banished knight shook her once, twice, but the peaceful expression on her face didn’t change. Lancelot slipped his hand into her hair, supporting the head that lolled back, screaming her name in the hopes that she’d respond.

Salt fell from his dark lashes onto her cold cheek as Lancelot hugged her to his chest, squeezing hard enough there was no chance she wouldn’t complain. She had to. She had to say he was smothering her or...or that he didn’t deserve to touch her or that this wasn’t appropriate conduct for a knight. She had to.

“No,” he cried, feeling her blood seep through the gaps in his armor. “I came back, my liege. I returned for you, I swear it.” Curse Gawain. If he hadn’t just...if Gawain had just let him pass—If he could have held out on delivering vengeance just long enough for Lancelot to join the war...But how could he blame his friend, when he came running back in the name of Britain with Gareth’s bloodstains still fresh on his hands?

Lancelot wailed at her silence, clutching that who mattered most to him in desperation. Give her back, he prayed, hopelessly appealing to every deity he knew, even the most mischievous of fae. Someone, anyone had to respond. Was there no god that took pity on a king who sold her life in service? Was there no one at all?

The disgraced swordsman shoved Bedivere’s hand off his shoulder, hugging Arturia’s dead—no, not dead she couldn’t be— body closer. He ignored his former comrade’s words. She hadn’t gone. She was just sleeping.

“I did what you said. I returned for you, I…” he hiccupped, feeling no breath from her soft lips. His fist thudded on the bark of the tree she leaned against, the pain ripping through his knuckles paling in comparison to that which plagued his heart. Suddenly, he grabbed onto her chestplate, ripping off the armor like it was paper, and pressed his head to her heart. Surely it was still beating. Surely—

Lancelot?

The disgraced knight launched himself off the ground at the familiar voice, turning to see his king smiling down at him from behind a nearby tree.

“Arturia?” he answered, relief tainting his strained vocal chords. She beckoned him toward her, with welcoming arms, not a single speck of blood in sight.

Did I worry you, my love?

Lancelot walked toward her, reaching for his most precious person. Each step felt lighter than the last. He could vaguely hear Bedivere calling to him, but he ignored the noise. Arturia was here. Nothing else mattered more.

“No, my liege,” came his fragile answer as he kissed her cold, featherlight fingers. “I believed you would wait. I came in haste but Gawain—”

Visions of bloodshed overtook his mind like black paint thrown onto a white canvas. Suddenly, the sunny forest turned to one of flesh and bone, of bodies of friend and foe alike. Everywhere he looked were the friends he wronged. Gawain, his siblings, all those he had to cut down just to protect the king’s wife, then Guin—

There is no need to speak of him, love, for you are here at last.

Arturia’s voice pulled him back into paradise. He couldn’t even feel his wounds. When did she start wearing her hair down like that? It was lovely.

Come, Lance.

“Yes, my king,” he replied, content.

Lancelot followed her into the forest, a wide smile upon his once troubled face.

Bedivere clutched his king’s dead body to his chest, watching in horror as Lancelot disappeared into the trees.

[itonje]

that’s fascinating because I know a lot less than you do and to me it seems

anti-lancelot agenda: the Victorians

anti-kay agenda: like... a lot of the major works

omg hi anon i dont know if you know less than i do but you probably dont i know like nothing im just here LOL youre good and fair warning for my arthurian mutuals or anyone else who reads this really this is going to be my own personal interpretation and not anything you should take as solid fact or analysis LOL also preface im not going to talk ab the prose lancelot here cause i havent read it and i feel weird talking about things i havent read LOL 

anyways i dont think that medieval works where kay gets humiliated or embarassed (which uh. is a lot of them lol) are really trying to say something about how they think kay is a bad person/awful character etc etc i think mostly he’s there for like. some form of comic relief? idk. i think he is certainly a punching bag character most of the time but in an affectionate way, while he does get pummeled a lot its not because the author is trying to condemn him for his actions because they view him as a bad person who needs to be punished its typically to be a. a foil for the mc (typically gawaine) so that their deeds look even greater in comparison (and even that isnt like..a constant imo like in the perilous graveyard kay is a foil to gawaine but its to rag on gawaines inaction and faults i digress) and b. said gag character. also kay has a lot of immunity in the texts lol, no matter what he does and how much he does suffer he does...always get out of it fine no matter what happens to him (see: him getting ragged on by arthur all the time esp in the dutch stuff but he never dies or is that severely harmed or anything even though he most probably should have) even on like..a grander arthurian ‘’canon’’ scale kay is almost always one of the characters to survive the strife of camlann and the fall of camelot so like. yeah. thisll make sense when i talk about lancelot and i will talk about him right now

anyways i think while lancelot is the hero of many romances and literature and who typically gets a more in depth look at his character than kay (but i also think kay one of the few arthurian characters with deeper characterization throughout multiple texts) i think that most of the time he is condemned by the authors even if he isnt said to be explicitly wrong in the text...like lancelot DOES commit many transgressions, far more serious transgressions than kay (while i do think that you are supposed to view knight of the cart as satiricalish/comical in genre awareness you know what i mean adultery is not the same as like cursing people out and then getting the shit beat out of you for doing that) and he DOES get ragged on by the authors for this even if he isnt ragged on in the text itself. like even chretien de troyes, the creator of lancelot (sidenote: do NOT debate me on who came up with lancelot it was de troyes it was him. this does not make lancelot not a valid arthurian character hes just a guy.) did not like him and while knight of the cart textually presents lancelot as a hero the author is condemning lancelot personally and metatextually in a way the author does not condemn kay 

and unlike kay, lancelot DOES suffer for these actions in the text, hes not immune in the same way kay is. in the post vulgate cycle and things based off it which i have actually read like le morte he cannot achieve the holy grail, him and guinevere’s affair (i will put this in big air quotes cause i actually have a lot of opinions on this but i will. keep them out sigh. anyways while i do think the authors of many medieval texts were not personally fond of lancelot i, phineas, am and i find his actions reasonable but this isnt phineasland so i digress) and his actions after the discovery of said affair ie killing all those people is what leads to the fall of camelot and the destruction of arthurs court. and lancelot is doomed to a life of mourning and repentance in the monastery, which i also think is a notable difference between him and kay in medieval texts: lancelot is typically forced to repent. kay is not. 

TLDR: while kay is typically ragged on and humiliated in medieval works more often, my opinion is that lancelot is condemned metatextually by the author and audience in a way kay is not. kay has a sort of immunity for his actions that lancelot (and to be fair, most of the characters in the story) do not. 

anyways to answer your note about the victorians cause imo they’re both two different things to talk about uhhh i really don’t get the vibe that the victorians disliked lancelot (im not really that deep into victorian stuff yet forgive me haha)! in fact, from what ive read and seen so far irt to art it seems to me like they actually were fond of him lol maybe even more than poor old chretien de troyes. (see: richard hovey, ea robinson, william morris all authors that seemed to write about lancelot often and really delved into and explored his character in depth, many times him as a sort of tragique hero)

 i think if the victorians had a conspiracy against any character it would be gawaine, he is very much reduced in importance imo and i think that DOES contribute to the wider western cultural perception of him nowadays ie that he isnt really that important/an archaic/minor character that only shows up in like. one text and we all know which text that is. 

to be fair i think the wider western cultural perception of lancelot is just like. medieval lit gawaine but blonde LOL anyways i dont want this to become a post about gawaine but yeah i think that from the victorian stuff ive read about lancelot they seemed to really get into him as a character and produce a lot of content for him (see, all the artworks he and gwen gets in comparison to other arthurian characters) so unless ive just been misinterpreting everything ive read wrong idk about most of them really disliking him, or even disliking him in the same way the medieval authors did. 

TDLR: i want to stan lancelot the same way that william morris stanned lancelot i want to depose him as the no. 1 lancelot fan 

anyways thank you for sending me this ask!!!! i got to think a little out of my gawaine box cause i usually dont focus on lancelot or kay and im glad i got to flesh out my feelings on their characters more cause of this 

[spacetrashpile]

Trying To Analyze All The References/Connections To Arthurian Mythos in HNOC (that I can catch)

So I’m a fucking nerd who knows a lot about King Arthur and his knights so HNOC made me go absolutely feral because of these references, so I’m gonna try to dissect them all. (under the cut cause this got LONG)

I’m going to try and go in order here, so let’s start with The Tower and Gunfight at Dolorous Guard. 

1. Dolorous Guard is a fort that Lancelot comes across before becoming one of Arthur’s knights. While there, he frees it from a curse and an evil king and renames it Joyus Guard. He also learns of his identity as a lost French prince, and that is where he is later buried. After his affair with Guinevere is discovered by Arthur, they run off to Joyus Guard and the name changes back. 

2. Arthur’s gun is a “Clarent 10 caliber railgun” and the 10 Caliber is supposed to sound like “Excalibur”, Arthur’s legendary sword.

3. Arthur pulls the star off of Sheriff Stone, a reference to the Sword In The Stone story that marks Arthur as the true king, or in this case, sheriff (also Excalibur is a different sword most of the time)

Strength and Empty Trail

1. Annwn, where the corpses go and where the ghouls live, is the “Otherworld” in Welsh mythology. There is an old poem in which Arthur goes to Annwn, and Morgan Le Fay, a prominent character in Arthurian legend, is also thought to have been drawn from Welsh mythology. Sometimes Morgan is Arthur’s older sister, sometimes she’s Mordred’s mother, sometimes both (gross).

2. Gawain is one of the more well known of Arthur’s knights, even though he doesn’t do... a lot. He’s a relatively normal dude, but notably, he’s usually Mordred’s brother, and always a close friend of Lancelot. When Lancelot comes back for Guinevere after the scandal is uncovered, he is nearly captured, and kills Gawain’s brothers and sons to escape. Gawain is so angry about this that he drags Arthur into war with Lancelot, which allows Mordred to usurp the throne. He forgive Lancelot on his death bed and begs him to come back and defeat Mordred. Basically, the characterization of “being a bit too angry gets everyone killed” tracks.

Death and The Hanged Man Rusts

1. Mordred. Oh boy Mordred. Morgause is sometimes Mordred’s mother, and also Arthur’s half sister (gross), so that’s why that’s Mordred’s dead name. It’s always a thing that Arthur doesn’t know Mordred is his son for whatever reason, and Mordred always overthrows Arthur (though with more malicious intent than he does in HNOC).

2. Galahad! Galahad is Lancelot’s son with Elaine of Corbenic, who tricks him into thinking she’s Guinevere so he’ll sleep with her. Galahad kinda replaced Lancelot as the Grail Knight, because people didn’t really like an adulterer being the chosen one. Galahad is basically Lancelot but better so that they can have a more pure guy as the Grail Knight. 

The Hieorphant and Hellfire

1. The seat that Galahad sits in that drives him mad is a thing from his version of the Grail Quest. The seat is meant for the Grail Knight, and if you sat in it and weren’t the Grail Knight, it would kill you, as shown. Galahad is new to the Round Table when he sits in it, and when it doesn’t kill him, he becomes the designated Grail Knight. Yay!

2. Avalon, the name of the star, is also the name of Morgan Le Fay’s home, and where she takes Arthur to try and save his life after his final battle with Mordred.

3. Fort Galfridian is a reference to the two “eras” of Arthurian myth, pre-galfridian and post-galfridian. Post-galfridian defines weather or not a piece of King Arthur literature is influenced by the writer Geoffrey of Monmouth’s work.

The Lovers and Blood and Whiskey

1. There’s not really much here which is nice, but as I mentioned, Guinevere is married to Arthur from the beginning, but when Lancelot gets introduced, he also starts an affair with Guinevere that is either very good or very bad depending on the writer. The Mechanisms said fuck that shit what if they just talked it out and were poly. Good for them. They also mention Joyus Guard here.

The Fool and Skin and Bone

1. King Arthur is a very British hero. When Britain was in its VERY early days, they had two main enemies, the Anglo-Saxons and the Gaels. So that’s why the ghouls/Saxons are called that. Saxon being a name derived from their seax knives is also just where the word comes from so that’s cool.

2. Mordred being the son of Arthur but raised in an outside place also goes with his mother sometimes being Morgan Le Fay, as she was a faerie or witch in most myths, and as such an outcast from British society in general.

The Hermit and Holder of the Grail

1. The other two knights that are killed in The Hermit are Bors and Percival. Percival was the Grail Knight before Lancelot was introduced. Bors and Percival also both go on the Grail Quest with Lancelot and Galahad, and Galahad, Percival, and Bors, all get to see the Grail while Lancelot usually doesn’t. I guess dying from the turrets is how you see the Grail.

2. Joseph Robert Mathea, the captain, can also be refereed to as Joseph R Mathea. Joseph of Arimathea (pronounced the same) is the man who supposedly brought the grail to Britain. Nice. (someone else pointed this out first but I can’t for the life of me remember who someone help).

Judgement and Peacemaker

1. Camelot is refereed to as being in the “Camlann wastes”. Camlann is Arthur’s final battle against Mordred, where he is fatally wounded.

2. Mordred refers to Gawain as “brother” which, as I said, is usually a part of their backstories.

Justice and Once and Future King

1. Mordred always fatally wounds Arthur in the Battle of Camlann. Mordred dies, as does Arthur. While Arthur doesn’t die in HNOC, Mordred CERTAINLY DOES.

2. Arthur and Merlin/Drumbot Brian are the only two people who survive High Noon Over Camelot. Arthur and Merlin also both fall into the King Under the Mountain trope. This is a trope where a big important hero is buried/entombed somewhere and promises to come back in their land’s greatest hour of need. So in this case, Living is what ends out classifying them as Kings Under the Mountain.

3. Once and Future King is also the title of a book series that is based on Le Morte D’Arthur! I have never read those books though so idk if that’s where the similarities end or not

[fated-imaginings]

Got an idea on what would happen if Master punched a newly summoned Merlin in the face, knocking him on his ass in front of some of the round table of your choice ,calling him a "fucking dick mage" then storming off?

*Cracks my knuckles as I prepare to virtually deck my second-favorite trash man* You got it, Anon.

Minor minor spoilers for Babylonia, but nothing that would ruin the experience.

- Honestly, Master probably shouldn’t have been at the summoning circle. It was late, they were tired, and more than a little bit strung out from a day full of Servants squabbling and bumpy missions. And bumpy missions full of squabbling Servants. But, Saber Lancelot had mentioned feeling an odd magical energy around the summoning circle, and he was backed up by not only Gawain, Bedivere, and Gareth, but even Artoria and Arthur as well.

- This of course meant that a notable heroic spirit spirit or a powerful craft essence were most likely within reach. And so Master gave it a go, burning a fair few more summoning items than they would have liked. 

- At last however, rainbow light glints around the summoning circle, and Da Vinci excitedly reports that a powerful Caster is manifesting. And who else was it, but the troublesome Mage of Flowers?

- Master is a bit flabbergasted. They bought his explanation in Uruk for how he had manifested as a Servant, but that reasoning doesn’t line up here. What? It’s because Chaldea is isolated from humanity and the normal passage of time? You mean you could have let yourself be summoned whenever?!

- Master is seething. They’ve been through so much, as have their Servants. Merlin’s help would have saved a lot of pain and a lot of trouble on numerous occasions, but his excuses for why he waited so long all seem flimsy to the frustrated magus. When Merlin says it really isn’t a big deal and pats their shoulder, they snap.

- It takes a lot to send a heroic spirit off their feet, especially one who has mixed blood. Still, Master is not to be tested when they’re tired, stressed, and pissed off. They know full well how to throw a strong punch thanks to tutoring and encouragement from several Servants, and even Merlin with all of his clairvoyance didn’t see it coming. 

- The knights of round are shocked by both Master’s outburst, and the sight of Merlin getting knocked onto his ass. They’re even more taken off guard when Master snaps out several choice insults before whirling around, storming out of the summoning room and leaving a stunned silence in their wake. 

- Merlin rubs his jaw and jokes about what a troublesome Master he has. Artoria retorts that they’re justifiably angry, and it’s Merlin’s fault for always procrastinating with offering his aid. Though she will admit that Master took it a bit far... 

- The knights are in agreement with their king. Arthur offers Merlin a hand up and suggests that he finds a suitable way to apologize to Master. The king adds that he’ll talk with them later and see if he can’t help them calm down as well, eagerly echoed by Gareth and Gawain. 

- One thing is for certain: Merlin is going to have to put in some real leg work to get Master to forgive him for his tardiness. 

[gawaincomic]

If Gawain and his brothers killed Lamorak as usual, only for them to discover Gareth under the armour, who swapped armours with Lamorak to protect him, how do you think would Gawain react? Would this loss make him realize what his revenge and wrath cost him and abandon the feud and try to make amends? Or do you think it would cause him to just double down instead, blame Lamorak and want him dead more than ever, given how he reacted to Lancelot‘s killing of Gareth?

Thanks for the question, Nonny. I have to say, you’re perplexing me a little here XD.

What universe are we in here? Maloryverse? I mean, the notion of “Gawain and his brothers killing Lamorak as usual” is a bit... That’s positing Malory’s version as “usual”, yes? (I suppose Malory took it from the Post-Vulgate, but I’ve never read that particular text so I’m not sure.)

Well, Malory’s version of Gawain is one of the worst (that is: flawed and not particularly admirable) versions of Gawain, so I suppose the Orkneys could totally 1) be too stupid to recognise their own brother in Lamorak’s armour and 2) not cease their feud because that’s just not what they do?

I am slightly puzzled by this ask because it asks me to get into the head of Malory’s Gawain and he is So Very Far removed from the way I see the character XD. I’d be really curious to know what prompted this, and why it’s sent to me in particular... (Go ahead! I don’t bite :p.) I mean, it seems to suppose that Malory’s version of Gawain is just who the character really is? But amid all the Gawain texts in existence, Malory’s Gawain isn’t the “usual” Gawain at all.

I do not think that what *I* consider the “usual” Gawain would fail to recognise his brother, even if he were wearing someone else’s armour. There’s Gareth’s way of riding and holding his weapons, and a knight who’s any good would analyse other knights’ riding and fighting styles, I should think, so - I just don’t think he’d accidentally kill his brother?

Outside of Malory, Gawain is also often (granted: not always) a lot less impulsive, and he doesn’t charge into a fight without talking first. 

I also have trouble seeing a non-Malory Gawain killing Lamorak, if I’m honest.

If Gawain *did* accidentally kill his brother (any of them), he would never forgive himself. He’d go to pieces. He’d be angry with himself, not someone else. But again, I doubt it would happen to any Gawain outside of Malory and his followers. Not even to Walewein on a killing spree, just sayin’.

There’s another thingie that bugs me... I don’t think that Gawain’s conflict with Lancelot is comparable to anything else - and I also don’t think Gawain’s reaction was purely about the death of Gareth. 

The Orkneys versus Pellinore’s family is a true feud, that starts with the death of King Lot at the hands of King Pellinore, and later you get Lamorak sleeping with Morgause, and on the side, Malory throws in some jealousy, I guess, because he keeps repeating that Lamorak is a better knight than any of the Orkneys except Gareth. Gawain, Agravain and Gaheris are of one mind when it comes to taking revenge on Pellinore (and Lamorak).

I don’t really see a feud between Gawain and Lancelot, though. There is rivalry between their families, but it’s only Agravain and Mordred on the Orkney side, and if I remember correctly, mostly Bors on Lancelot’s. Gawain and Lancelot are friends, and Gawain does his best to dissuade Agravain and Mordred from attacking Lancelot over his relationship with Guinevere.

Gawain does not act against Lancelot until Lancelot has basically killed, not just Gareth, but Gawain’s entire male family barring Mordred and Arthur. Gareth’s death is ‘only’ the straw that breaks the camel’s back. People seem to forget, because Malory buries the names in a long list, but he mentions that on the night Lancelot kills Agravaine, he also kills Gawain’s three sons, Gingalain, Florens and Lovell. Later, Lancelot also kills Gaheris and Gareth. It’s *then* that Gawain snaps - which, frankly, I can understand. In Malory, Gawain is basically a young idiot, then a stupid adult, and finally a very tragic old prince.

This reply has got completely out of hand, but - you got me started at your own risk, Anonymous! :P I wanted to add that personally, I find Malory’s stress on Gawain’s affection for Gareth rather bizarre. Malory’s Gareth is basically - excusez le mot - and arse towards his own brothers. Malory mentions him as striking his brothers down in tournaments because he can, adoring Lancelot above anyone else and basically looking down on Gawain, Agravain and Gaheris. Gareth shows them no allegiance or loyalty whatsoever. From his very arrival at court, he wants no association with them, and it doesn’t get any better when he gets knighted. So - yeah, I don’t see any reason why Gawain should be so particularly fond of Gareth, except that Malory seems himself to be particularly fond of the youngest Orkney. (Apart from that, I’m thinking that Malory simply used multiple sources, and when it comes to Gawain, his characterisation/backstory is not always that consistent.)

So that’s both *a* reply and *no* reply, I guess XD.

[kob131]

Made another Fate fanfic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30672761

This is not a part of my usual series. It’s...really hard to even get one chapter done.

No, this one was inspired by another fanfic called Forgive Me Sister, For I have Sinned. Both premises are the same: Swapping Mordred with Gareth on who dies in Camelot/Zero. But that one goes into how the events transpired while mine goes into the aftermath of the events, how the surviving knights feel and react to the Lion King’s dismissal.

I’ve always wanted to talk about what I thought when making these so excuse me while I go on a self indulgent rant below. If you care, read the fanfic first so my rambling doesn’t affect how you view it.

I’ll admit, I think I fudged some of the characters.

Tristian is suppose to be a heartless sociopath here and I do imply that he still is. ... But who he once was still breaks through here, sorrow at his fellow knight sacrificing herself for a king that didn’t give a damn about her. In the end, he doesn’t run from this. He accepts it because he doesn’t want to forget her sacrifice.

Lancelot’s all about how he was never close to Mordred in the slightest. That the very idea of kinship he felt with the other knights was impossible with her. After all, she never opened up to anyone on the Round Table even in their past lives. Why should he feel close to her? ... Turns out they were more similar than he thought.

The Lion King is obvious: she’s just glad Mordred’s dead and gives it no more thought. She felt great killing her once...but she’s not a fool anymore.

Agravain’s faith in the king is shaken. He lived his life serving the king believing she was a just and great ruler. And logically, her actions make sense. ...But when I looked over the knight scenes in the Camelot Singularity, I saw that Agravain wasn’t really all that...cold. Not only did he try to stand up for Mordred, he freaked out when the Lion King attacked Gawain and expressed relief when it was clear he was safe (not to mention apparently he’s proud and protective of Gawain in the original myths too). While he does go onto mourn his sister’s loss and curse the king’s decision, considering the circumstances and what he’s actually like- I’d say it’s perfectly in character.

Gareth’s grieving. As it turns out, trading your life for your suicidal comrade’s isn’t gonna solve her problems. No, it makes them worse. It also turns out that yelling about the knight dying being your sister means your other siblings figure it out too. So Gareth now has to deal with the fact that the knight who saved her life in exchange for her own was her little sister, someone SHE should have been there for. ... But she never can be anymore.

And Gawain. ... I wanted to present a Gawain that, for all his declarations of loyalty, is faced with something that turns that on it’s head. He’s the one who had to kill her, since Mordred is still alive despite being charred and burned from her Noble Phantasm’s backlash. He figures out who Mordred was to him all along. ... And figures out why Mordred’s Gift was like that. That in reality, the king he swore his loyalty to looked at his sister’s adoration of her, willing to do anything for her...and used that as a means to kill her off in perhaps the cruelest way imagineable. Now he has to choose: serve a king that left his own family to die a painful death in her name, all intended. Or....honor her legacy and do what she did a long time ago.

...Feels really good to write this done.

[jimmythejiver]

For the first time in a long time I went to the movies in forever and then to Target. At Target I see some Godiva bars on discount yellow tags and I was ecstatic until I read 70% Cacao, Dark, Salted Caramel and was deflated.

Anyway that's how I felt about seeing The Green Knight. What you thought this was about chocolate?

No see since the pandemic I've been back on my perennial King Arthur kick. I've for a long time since I was a young preteen thought, someday I too will write my own King Arthur epic and it'll be gay, magical, gangster and culty too, but for now I'll make up my own stories for practice and then with every story I got attached too, it got too involved and convoluted to the point that when it came down to actually writing a novel, I threw it all away and made a space opera I only planned in two weeks and wrote in a month. Anyway...so now I've been writing this very gay, magical, gangster and culty take on Final Fantasy XV with my boyfriend and just fell in love with Somnus Lucis Caelum who nobody has any insight about him than to make him the Mordred to Ardyn's Arthur, which is a strange flex, but okay, I thought about what if I wrote a Dark Age prequel about Ardyn and Somnus, but Ardyn becomes king and Somnus his shogun and they play games of seduction and power because I'm twisted like that. Anyway...I was like I'm never going to write this and I have to keep making up characters based on FFXV characters and King Arthur tropes because there's not a lot of stories that take place during the Dark Ages, it's always some Roman Empire story, or High Middle Ages and FFXV gave no room for either society to happen after the fall of Solheim and the rise of King Somnus...so we left with Dark Ages, y'all, the King Arthur comparisons are obvious, but Ardyn is no Arthur and Somnus is no Mordred, Aera is only Guenevere if you make up an affair with Somnus, Gilgamesh is no Bedwyr/Bedivere, but uh...they both amputees and the oldest companions to their respective kings so...I guess. Anyway making an ancestor of Cor Leonis and deciding well he's Owain/Yvain, or am Ignis type as idk Sir Cai/Kay I guess, they both cook, but Cai's more like Seifer Almasy than any FF character... Anyway I'm losing people.

My plan was to just scrap the FFXV prequel, leave my Somnus ideas into Overtime (a gangster and gods story) and just plan an actual King Arthur adaptation. I'd have King Arthur the treasure hunter, leader of a warband turned founder of Camelot who fights giants, giant cats and dogheads, but also fights King Claudas of the Franks and King Aelle of the Saxons and Cerdic a Briton who puts in his lot with the Saxons, etc. It'd been a a glorified turf war, meanwhile Arthur's gotta make alliances with King Pelles, The Fisher King and his strange cult he's founded because, why yes I find the ends justifies the means prophecy of the Holy Grail Quest very culty because Christianity then does not resemble it now. Meanwhile you got the secondary plots of Mordred, Gawain, Lancelot, Percival, Tristam and other's going on because they matter and too many modern King Arthur stories sideline the knights.

So many have always sidelined Mordred as a final boss eldritch abomination in mortal flesh conceived of sin and give him no personality, or complex motives, or even just a relationship with Arthur. I also have noticed the general sidelining of Lancelot, or give him a chad villain upgrade if you must include him at all, and the villainizing of Gawain to the point that you don't even have to have Mordred, or Agravain as a catalyst shit stirrer in court, just slap Gawain's name on Liam Neeson in a top knot and you're good. Mordred can just be a child offscreen until last act...fuck that, while Morgan Le Fay can either be a villainess plotting her cabal through men, or a well-intentioned, ineffectual idiot. Fuck that.

Now Hollywood just be doing King Arthur first acts that suck ass, only for said director to get rewarded failing upwards by giving this same jerk the Aladdin remake. The tonally shitty, crammed in blockbuster mess of a cliche heroe's journey that sucks.

With that background I was excited for The Green Knight. I read an illustrative version as a kid, I read Tolkien's translation as a teenager, I read Simon Armitage's superior, but with liberties taken translation. I was prepped to go knowing that indie, or not they were going to make changes to weave the disjointed poem together. I'm excited that because this movie exists Project Guternberg's finally thrown Jessie Weston's prose rendition up on their website. I'll be reading that at some point when this blows over.

The movie adaptation makes a lot of...choices, many I wouldn't love, but would forgive had their been a payoff. There was none.

The journey was fine, the cinematography was a breath of fresh air after crappy slo mo, glossy action scenes ruined another. Guys, I don't think I want to see a Zack Snyder Excalibur, it'll marginally be better than Guy Ritchie, but that ain't saying anything. Leave Excalibur to the post-Star Wars 80s where it is impeccable for it's time. I liked Green Knight's breathable pacing, it's color palette's in the forests and mountains made up for the muddy grey of every Ridley Scott send up in the castles and villages in every other Dark Ages/Medieval story in the last I don’t know since the shitty 00′s. For all the dark tones when there was blues, greens, yellows or reds, they were vibrant in this movie to contrast the gloom of Britain. The soundtrack was good. This isn't all what makes a movie, but it enhances it so let's get to the story and what I did and didn't like.

Things I Liked: Gawain is still a novice in his career The Costume Dressing Everyone pronounces Gawain's name different. I pronounce it like Gwayne, or Guh Wayne, but here you got Gowen (like Owen), Gowan (like Rowan), or even Garlon who I'm pretty sure is the Fisher King's heir in some versions of that Arthurian story, so uh... The reference to Arthur slaying 960 men with his bare hands (Nennius for the win!) The Waste Land that is implied to be a site of a battle (an important aspect of the Arthurian landscape) The Fox companion No long grisly, drawn out hunting scenes. The Fox lives! No misogynist speeches

Things I'm Mixed: This being a dream, is the magic real? Are the giants? Is the Green Knight a figment of Gawain's imagination from a spell Morgan casted in him to hallucinate? Is Lord and Lady also figments? It's...a way to interpret the poem, but lazy and I don't see why it's got to all fantasy, or all dream...this movie makes it too vague you're stuck picking one camp than to accept it's a fantasy with dream and hallucinatory sequences.

Things I'm Meh: Morgan Le Fay as Gawain's mom. Look I fucking hate Morgause as a character and these two get merged and steal each other's aspects so much at this point the difference is who did they marry, King Urien or King Lot? Both are attributed to being Mordred's mom, Mordred is Gawain's brother...both practice magic depending on certain incarnations, both love and hate Arthur their brother and are in conflict with him. Saint Winifred. I actually liked this sequence, but I don't appreciate her as the tacked on wife in the later dream sequence as like...a contrast between the wife you should marry than the whore next door you don't respect anyway? I don't even know what lesson I'm supposed to get out of the damn dream sequence, or any of it? That Gawain should've married his girlfriend and then he'd be a just ruler? That he shouldn't be king? That he'd never have to make the same heartless, impartial choices? I don't know, he seemed like a king doing king shit because guess what? It never gets easier. Wars will be waged. The world didn't become better because he married the right woman, respected her and lived in obscurity. The world didn't become better because he made her his queen. We certainly don't know the world would be better Gawain had his head chopped off and dead XP They never reveal the Lord and the Green Knight as one and the same because of this shit.

Things I Hated: Arthur withdraws from the challenge because he's old. In poem he takes it on and Gawain takes it so he don't have to and he finds himself more disposable than the king. Gawain only takes the challenge because of arrogance. Arthur and Gawain had no prior personal relationship. I'd not have hated this so much if it wasn't compounded by it cancelling out the first two things. Gawain is portrayed as having no respect for his woman, or any woman, maybe his mother? He has to be pushed by Winifred to regain her head. Gawain is portrayed as arrogant, covetous and ready to pass the buck, or the bare minimum than have any honor or decency. It didn't matter the kid in the wasteland was shithead bandit, the way Gawain acted towards him, when he gets robbed, it almost feels like he deserved it and Gawain doesn't learn a damn lesson. I'll admit him taking the sword to cut his ropes and cutting his hands was a neat sequence, it shows him go from stupid, to almost clever and having will to survive...you know traits he had in the poem, but he stops showing these traits or growing. Basically Gawain has to be dragged kicking and screaming to help people and shows no fortitude when facing temptation, or when showing respect towards others, it's exhausting. You don't make this kind of journey story without character growth. Why are you skipping this? Also is it just me, or is this like when you take Frank Miller Batman and transport him onto a Bill Finger story? This is at best Thomas Malory Gawain (and this is charitable) transported on the earlier Pearl Poet's story. Stop it. It's not tonally correct and goes at odds with the story and the set up characterization you'd need to tell it. Speaking of which, you know how I get through the oof... of Liam Neeson Gawain in Excalibur? By pretending he Agravain instead. Here...I don't even think Gawain could pass as Mordred in spite of his covetous nature, lust and entitlement. Why? because I don't think even Mordred is this dumb to warrant this hubris. Essel being invented as a tacked on love interest just to be shit on utterly and for what? I don't think I have much commentary here as there is no Essel I'm aware of to compare, or stack up. I just notice this trope of like...usually if you include a sex worker in Hollywood she often has a heart of gold, she often has her own sense of values that goes at odds with society, but is more true and less hypocritical than a privileged lady’s. I thought that's what they would've done with the added trope of back at home sweetheart to contrast and pit her against the despicable femme fatale of Lady Bertilak and her adultery and her ladyship...and I'm glad they didn't...but you did nothing with Essel than to shit on her for existing when you made her exist, you know. Lady Bertilak being portrayed as the seductress devil incarnate. Look I know adultery is a touchy taboo, but uh her and Gawain hit it off in the poem, dammit! Her values and his values come to clash, but here it's played off as Gawain is stupid and covetous and Lady Bertilak wants to prove something because...? If my brother's theory that she's a figment of Morgan Le Fay's magic, then I'll take this as a lesson of Gawain is impulsive and covetous and his mom knows it, but he don't want to fuck his mom, but he wants her power, and Morgan wants to teach him a lesson... I guess. Hey we don't have misogynist speeches in this movie, but we'll make sure to have the movie drip with it with no point, or commentary. Pass. Lord guilting, extracting and initiating the same sex kiss and only once. Poem automatically better that Gawain don't have to keep being reminded to keep his part of the bargain and he does it willingly more than once. What he doesn't do is give up his belt...gods how did we get more homophobic as a society that the homoeroticism here is worse? Catholics of the middle ages officially had no issue doing same sex, passionate kissing until it lead to sex. The Ending: The gods damn ending. In the movie as is, Gawain waits to uphold his end of the bargain and get his head chopped off. He imagines, even though we don't get any fuzzy or distortion to indicate this is a dream, but I already knew this was coming, he runs away and comes home, is regarded a hero, he sees his lady, takes her from behind and if you saw Brokeback Mountain (I didn't, but DJ has) you know this is a sign of disrespect to women. He gets her knocked up, pays her off for the kid she wants to keep, he is crowned king, marries the ghostly saint lady he helped retrieve her head earlier from a lake in the movie (this right here is the damn tip off). There's no more dialogue by this point and everything is montaging, so you know by now it's a dream, though nothing is out of focus. He rules as a heartless king, his whore son dies from war he waged, he has a daughter, his wife dies. Gawain then takes off the belt that would've saved his life and his head falls off. This would've been the one good twist, except... In this sequence of events he never had his head cut off so uh... now we back in present day. He decides not to bitch out, Green Knight in a sexy way is like "now off with your head," movie cuts to credits with no resolve...uh what the fuck? What the fuck? This is not good. You wasted the one twist in your dream when idk, you could've...

How I'd fix it: No dream sequence at all. No Incident At Owl Creek twist. Gawain comes home a hero and survivor of this game and ordeal. He wears this belt of shame. He becomes a well-renowned knight, but he bears a shame. One day he goes to take off his belt and his head falls off because he cheated to get this belt and to survive this encounter. There. Done. Improved your high concept movie that couldn't play any of the lessons straight from the damn poem without making everyone an asshole for no reason! Ugh! But nope you had to end it on we don’t know if Gawain lives or dies...because...it's dream magic made from his momma's witchcraft...?

Last Thoughts So then post-credits scene because Marvel because Pirates Of The Caribbean existed. A white girl who looks nothing like Gawain's daughter we see who didn’t pay off, or any child I can remember through this whole movie picks up King Arthur's crown that dream Gawain inherited and puts it on her head. Who is this girl? Are we gonna have an indie equivalent of of the Marvel Movie Universe/Universal Horror Monsters thing with ancient British legends? We gonna get a Life Of Saint Patrick next that crosses over? I don't know. What is this?

[ellewritesathing]

Faith and Forgiveness    III

Summary: Faith was tricky, fickle. When you’ve been trained your whole life to do awful things, you have to have faith that your misdeeds will be worth it in the end and trust that your faith hasn’t been misplaced. The Weeping Monk wasn’t so sure that he was capable of that trust.

Masterlist   Prev. | Part 3

Word-count: 7.5k+

A/N: pov: you haven’t updated this fic in five months and you’d like to finish it before the end of the hell year 💕 hope you like it

Running away was a tricky business. It was the business of empowering the downtrodden and angering the rest. It wasn’t the business of the faithful; running away was the business of desperates and refugees, and sometimes you had to leave pieces of yourself behind if you wanted to survive.

The night was quiet and heavy as you thought about all the pieces of yourself that you’d left behind over the years - you weren’t sure if you could handle losing any others. You were sure the others were thinking something similar; despite Squirrel’s age, he’d already lost just as much you - maybe even more - and then there was the Weeping Monk. 

How much had he lost to become the person he was? The other Paladin, Brother Abbott, had drawn similarities between him and Squirrel because Squirrel was a fey orphan - did that mean that the Weeping Monk was a fey orphan? Would you be more or less sympathetic to his plight if he was fey?

Unfortunately, the night was deaf to all your questions. Hoofbeats hitting the hard dirt road and low hunting noises of nocturnal animals were the only sounds that kept you company for the first few hours. It would have been insufferable without the steady inhale and exhale of the dying Monk leaning on your back.

With a sigh of your own, you tried to straighten out your spine before tilting your head to the night sky above you. Hundreds of constellations that you never had the opportunity to learn the names of twinkled above, unobstructed by clouds but mingling with different kinds of night birds. They were stubborn little things, but they’d taken pity on you after the death of your kind. Still, you were never sure if they understood the warning call you taught them or knew when they were supposed to sing it.

Squirrel watched the bird carefully as it mimicked your warning call and soared back into the sky. It swam between the stars, high enough for it to disappear almost entirely after a moment. “So the birds just … do what you tell ‘em to?” Squirrel asked, taking his eyes off where he supposed the bird flew to look over at you. 

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. They used to listen to me about as much as you do-” you stopped talking long enough to laugh at Squirrel’s offended outburst. The Weeping Monk’s steady breathing lapsed for a moment, you hoped in an attempt to laugh and not in pain. You shrugged. “When everyone else died … it was like the birds knew I was the only one. They look out for me.”

The Weeping Monk straightened up behind you, as much as he could. His arms tugged your sides slightly as he leaned back; he might have been tilting his head up to the sky, maybe asking the stars some questions of his own, but you couldn’t turn to look at him - no matter how much you may have wanted to. He took a deep breath and exhaled, slowly, shakily, through his mouth. 

Squirrel squinted at you for a long time, looking like he wanted to ask something else. You weren’t sure if you could answer any more of his questions, but he must have decided it wasn’t worth it because he pulled on his reigns to quicken the pace of his horse. He glanced over his shoulder awkwardly and said, “Well, goodnight then.” 

“Goodnight, Squirrel,” you said with a small smile. “Don’t get us lost.” 

“How could I get us lost when we’re in the middle of bloody nowhere?”

Between Squirrel and the night birds guiding the way and you and the Weeping Monk staying vigilant against threats, the three of you stumbled through the night until the sun snuffed out the last of the stars’ light and replaced it with unrelenting indifference. The light needled your already-inflamed skin and stung your eyes. As the sun rose, it sucked all the moisture out of the grassland around you. 

Wherever you were going, it needed to be near water. The dirt road you were on seemed to go on forever, but there was an outcropping of trees in the distance that broke up the horizon and some mountains further back. You were about to tell Squirrel to change course for the mountain when the Weeping Monk started moving for the first time in hours. 

Until now, the Weeping Monk had been trying to sit up by himself, but the Trinity Guard had beaten so badly that it was nearly impossible to do so for more than a few minutes. He shifted behind you to rest his head on your shoulder closest to Squirrel. He watched him for a few seconds before asking, “What’s your name, boy?” 

“Squirrel,” he answered, looking over at the Weeping Monk. They had a history, but the two of them saved each other’s lives, and Squirrel seemed to be deciding how to handle that; he’d had the whole night to think it over but now he was making up his mind whether or not to strike.

“A squirrel is an animal,” the Weeping Monk said. You couldn’t tell if he meant for his words to feel so condescending, but at least his tone mostly sounded amused. Amusement was more than you got when you saved his life the first time. “What name were you given?”

Squirrel cast an uncertain glance out at the scrub around you and picked at the reigns in his stubby little hands. “I don’t like that name.” 

“It’s still your name,” the Weeping Monk said, his tone softer and more encouraging than amused this time. His persistence was curious for a man who once told you he didn’t have a name.

“You don’t have to tell us, Squirrel. You’ve done more than enough already.” You ducked your head to get his attention and spoke softly. When that didn’t work, you straightened and added, “Besides, the things we choose to keep mean more than the ones we’re given, anyway.”

“It’s fine.” It didn’t sound fine; the words sounded upset and a little awkward. Squirrel shifted in his saddle and forced his eyes off the dirt road and over at you. “It’s Percival.”

“Percival,” the Weeping Monk repeated slowly. Though his hold on you hadn’t faltered the entire night, he loosened his grip to straighten up as he considered the name.

Squirrel looked away for a moment to scowl at the horizon and turned back with an equally scrutinizing look for each you and the Weeping Monk. Ever since your argument about Gawain, Squirrel had been awfully restrained with you. Still, sometimes anger won out over restraint. “Do either of you have real names?” he asked. 

His use of the phrase ‘real names’ made you smile. You hadn’t chosen the nickname the fey gave you, but it had stuck and over the years people stopped asking you about your ‘real name.’ It was one of the pieces you’d thought safer to leave behind.

“I don’t know, Sunshine,” you said, angling yourself to get a better look at the Weeping Monk as you teased him. You smiled at him to hide your surprise at the state of his face. It was still bloody and beautiful, if a little swollen. “Do you have a real name?” 

Something moved in the Weeping Monk’s jaw. He dragged his eyes off yours to look over at Squirrel. “Lancelot,” was all he said. One word, but he drew it out. It sounded special when he said it, and you restrained yourself from trying it out yourself. “A long time ago,” the Weeping started as he took his eyes off Squirrel and made eye contact with you, “my name was Lancelot.” 

One word sent a tingle down your spine and the extra seven stole your breath. His name felt like a secret. It felt like he was giving you a piece of himself that he couldn’t keep carrying around. A feather-light secret. 

“And what about you?” Squirrel asked, snapping you out of your moment. 

You looked down at your branded hand on the horse’s reins and, after letting out a breath, you told them your name. You weren’t sure if you still deserved the name - you were a very different person now and you’d done things your family never would have wanted for you - but you’d never chosen another one, so this was all you had. 

“Unusual name for Moon Wings,” Lancelot said after repeating your name. His voice didn’t sound like he’d just told you a secret anymore, more like he was considering its meaning.

“I don’t think you’re one to talk, Lancelot.” Squirrel let out a laugh that he quickly stifled when the Weeping Monk glared at him, which only made you laugh in turn. Still, your name was unusual for Moon Wings. “But that’s because my father named me,” you said. “The name is human.” 

Squirrel’s eyes widened to twice the size and he watched him bite his tongue to keep from parroting any of the old ‘fey and man-blood don’t belong together’ nonsense. Again, you were struck by how much he’d grown up since you found each other in the woods. “Well,” he said after an uncomfortable moment. “You two can choose whatever names you’d like now.” 

“I suppose we could,” you said quietly, eyes catching on the crosses branded on your palms. You shook out your hand and looked up at the mountains. You were closer, but you still had a long way to go before you could rest.

When you eventually did break through the tree line, your body was ready to collapse from hunger and sun exposure, but the untreated arrow wound in your thigh could have been just as much to blame. At least, amongst the trees, the air wasn’t as dry. If there was any water nearby, you needed to find it before one of you collapsed. 

A bird dipped between the trees close to the mountains and your heart stuttered. “This way.” You nodded ahead. “There’s a place to rest up ahead.” 

“No. We need to keep going until nightfall,” Lancelot said. His tone suggested that he was used to getting the last word in matters like this, but you both knew that you wouldn’t give up without a fight. 

“We need to stop before you bleed out and the horses collapse,” you argued, casting a look over your shoulder at him. He might have still argued about his condition but you knew you had him beat by mentioning the horses. 

Squirrel threw a look at the two of you before steering his horse in the direction you’d nodded. “Besides,” he started as he tossed the Weeping Monk an impish grin, “it’s not like you’re the one in charge.”  

Lancelot let out a low sound that could only be described as a mix between a growl and a groan, and you did your best not to laugh. Squirrel was going to be the death of him, but at least he’d go out with the sound of your laughter in his ears.

Squirrel’s horse almost got lost between the trees, less bedraggled since she only had a child to carry across the country. Your horse, unfortunately, had spent the last night and a half dragging two adult-sized piles of deadweight. She lagged behind, though she eventually lumbered to the stream that Squirrel and his horse had already found and started draining. 

The fresh, damp earth and gurgling stream crashed into you with such force that it almost knocked you straight off your horse, and that was before even setting eyes on the water. You bit your cracked bottom lip so the pain could keep you centered. You let out a shaky breath and untangled your hands from Lancelot’s for the first time. Your hands moved clumsily as you dismounted, unused to the lack of Lancelot's weight, but they carried you through with minimal winces. 

Despite your desperate thirst and throbbing leg, you steeled yourself and held your arms out to help Lancelot off the horse. His eyes darted between your outstretched hands and your face, unsure if he could trust you. In his defense, he might just have been unsure if you could hold his weight, but his uncertainty was keeping you from getting something to drink, and your patience had worn thin. 

“I’d tell you to come down from there or I’d cut out your tongue-” you let out a breath and shifted your weight to keep your legs from giving out beneath you “-but the Paladins stole my knife.”

Lancelot’s uncertainty gave way to a ghost of a smile and he started pulling his leg over one side of the horse. He hissed as movement aggravated his wounds, but soon his legs were on the same side and he was bracing himself to dismount. Squirrel watched carefully from the stream as he watched Lancelot move, slower and more disjointed than his usual easy grace. With considerable effort, Lancelot pushed himself off the horse and crashed into you. 

Your mind was so addled from dehydration and hunger that it didn’t register the impact of the fall until Squirrel started laughing and a rock dug too deeply into your lower back. Groaning, you shoved Lancelot off you and forced yourself onto your side. 

Sputtered coughs and apologies drowned out the sound of Squirrel rushing over. He checked that nothing was broken and helped you to your feet, and you stumbled over to the stream while he did the same for Lancelot. 

The water was cool against your angry skin and refreshing to the touch, though it burned your lips and scraped down your throat. A few frantic scoops of water didn’t satisfy your thirst, but it landed uncomfortably in your stomach and you knew you had to stop if you didn’t want to be sick. You consoled yourself with the knowledge that at least this reprieve gave you a chance to clean yourself up.

Most of the blood came away easily under the running water, some fragments stubbornly embedded themselves in the grooves of your nails. You picked at the damaged skin, sparing a glance at Squirrel and Lancelot when they collapsed next to you before scrubbing your wrist. Lancelot stopped drinking after a few handfuls to mumble an apology for crushing your windpipe. 

The three of you sat in close silence, gulping down water as long as you could stand it. You’d need to find shelter for the night, but you’d need to eat something and treat everyone’s wounds if you were going to get any far. Sighing, you looked around for a rock to help you get to your feet. 

“I’m going to find something to eat and something to treat these wounds,” you said. 

“You’re a healer?” Squirrel asked, seemingly skeptical of either your ability to walk or to find the necessary plants to treat everyone’s wounds. Or, most likely, both.

“No.” You struggled to your feet, cursing how many muscles were needed to get off the floor and rocking back and forth a few times before the momentum was great enough to propel you to a standing position. You leaned down and ruffled Squirrel’s hair despite how much it hurt. “But I’m the closest we’ve got. You stay here with him.”

Squirrel smacked your hand away and scowled. “I don’t need a nursemaid. I’m not a child.”

“Who said he was the one in charge?”

Squirrel grinned to himself and Lancelot rolled his eyes, but neither of them followed you into the woods. It gave you some sort of comfort knowing that someone was watching over the Weeping Monk, and that the Weeping Monk was looking after Squirrel - despite both of their proclamations that they were the one in charge. You wondered how long you could leave them alone before the Weeping Monk throttled Squirrel or Squirrel drowned him. 

Figuring it was safe enough to leave them for an hour, you started walking towards a patch of purple betony that you spotted on the edge of the woods. It wasn’t the strongest but it would stave off infection until night fell and you could get the nightbirds to find you something better to make a salve. It would still be hours until then, so the purple betony would have to do if your muscles didn’t give in before you got there. 

By some miracle, your legs survived the trek to the patch of purple betony, even if they crumpled beneath you in your attempt to sit. You cast a cautionary look at your surroundings and then started pulling up the betony at the root - a task made difficult by the plant’s rough stems and entwined roots, and your aching hands. 

You pulled up as much as your hands could handle without rubbing the new brands raw and clambered back to your feet. A breeze drifted just before you entered the trees and you caught the sweet, apple scent of mayweed. The little white flowers usually blossomed earlier in the season, but you would take what you could get. 

The breeze didn’t grace you again during your mercifully short walk to the mayweed. It was easier to pluck than the betony, with fuzzier stems and fewer teeth, but your back ached from bending over to harvest them and your muscles were weak from the lack of food. There were hardly enough flowers to make tea with the petals, but they would have to do. 

If the Paladins hadn’t stolen your things, it would have been easier to carry your winnings, but they did and you were trying desperately not to drop anything as you dragged yourself back to the stream. If you miscalculated a single step or overlooked the wrong potential threat, you’d be dead in the water. 

When you eventually found your way back to the stream, you found Lancelot hunched a few feet away from where he’d collapsed earlier, trying very hard to keep his cool as he and Squirrel argued over a small fire. He’d called Squirrel an insolent child and Squirrel threatened to kick him into the stream. You hid your smile. 

Lancelot looked up from the rocks he’d used to spark the fire when he noticed you break from the treeline. He stopped turning the rocks over themselves in his hands as he watched you lumber over, then he turned his head to Squirrel and told him to help you carry the plants. 

After telling Lancelot to stop telling him what to do, Squirrel hurried over to take plants out of your hands. “What did you get?” Squirrel asked, squinting at your pathetic-looking inventory. “Where’s the food?” 

“I didn’t have a bag, so I had to prioritize. The nightbirds can find food but we need to not die of infection before then,” you said. You limped over to the stream and set the betony and mayweed down on one of the larger rocks. “Do either of you have a canteen? We can use the flowers to make tea.” 

Squirrel wrinkled up his nose and scoured through the rest of your findings on the big rock. “Tea,” he repeated in disgust. “We don’t need tea. We need food.”

“Squirrel, I promise you that I’m not going to let you starve, alright?” You took a deep breath and lowered yourself to the rocks so you could start preparing the betony for treatment. “For now-” you grimaced slightly; your thigh didn’t agree with the angle that you came down at, “I just need to get this done.” 

Squirrel hesitated. He was still angry with you about what happened with Gawain, but it seemed to lessen as time wore on. His eyes - or at least, the eye that wasn’t swelling shut - darted over to Lancelot and he straightened up. “I can get us food,” he told him. “I’ve been foraging since before I could talk.” 

“There was a time when you couldn’t talk?” Lancelot asked. He smacked his firestarters together and produced a small spark to punctuate his sentence, then he tilted his head up to study Squirrel. “How peaceful.”

“Yeah, and if I kick your teeth in then you won’t be able to talk either!” Squirrel threatened. Lancelot let out a short laugh and went back to fiddling with the firestarter as Squirrel’s rage bubbled.

“Hey, Squirrel,” you said gently, before Squirrel actually did try to kick his teeth in. “You can look for food but stay close enough to hear if we call for you. Deal?” 

Squirrel set his mouth in a hard line and straightened again in an attempt to seem older than he was. The movements broke your heart. He nodded. “Fine. You two can drink your tea in the meantime.” 

“Don’t go far!” you called out as Squirrel raced into the trees. His reply was as unintelligible as it probably would have been if he was standing next to you, but at least these parts of the woods seemed to be safe. 

Sighing, you turned back to your assortment of plants and divided them up. You threw one of the edible plants at Lancelot when you were done and told him to eat it. He did so in frustrating silence, only saying thank you before washing the plant in the stream and starting to pick off the berries one by one. 

Instead of talking to him or watching him eat, you started breaking up the parts of the betony and mayweed and grinding the bits you needed to make an ointment under a rock. The whole process would be easier with a mortar and pestle, but the Paladins had taken that from you, too. 

You weren’t exactly sure how long you sat there for until Lancelot lumbered over to you, but soon he was sitting next to and picking off the mayweed petals to stuff them into a small canister with water to boil over the fire. He didn’t have another container for your measly little ointment, but you probably wouldn’t have any leftover after treating everyone’s wounds anyway.

Looking up from one of the last betony stems, you caught a glimpse of Lancelot looking out at the stream. “Take off your shirt,” you told him, dropping your gaze to the betony again. 

“What?” he asked. His face knit together and his lips parted for a moment, genuine confusion taking over his very carefully neutral features. It almost made you laugh.

“I can’t treat your wounds through your cloak, tunic, and shirt,” you said. Your hands hovered over the betony, one closed around a rock and the other barely touching one of the flowers, and trembled slightly. He still looked confused when you looked up at him. You tilted your head and added in a softer voice, “Please, Sunshine, just let me save your life again.” 

Lancelot’s mouth opened slightly but then he recovered and straightened as much as he could. He unclasped his cloak and took a single white feather out of a pocket. His hands shook, probably due to hunger more than anything else, as he set the feather down and anchored it under a rock. You hadn’t known he’d kept it. 

You shook yourself out of your wonder when he tried to lift his shirt over his head and stifled a painful sounding moan. Moving with a quickness you didn’t know your muscles were still capable of, you took the bottom of Lancelot’s shirt in your hands and helped him get it over his shoulders. 

The shirt was completely soaked through with blood, and his back was in even worse shape than the last time you saw it. New lash marks covered his back and the bruises from the beating from the Trinity Guard were sharp and dark on his skin, almost obscuring his scars. Almost.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, wringing the shirt out before anchoring it in the stream to let the water clean it. 

Lancelot was quiet. All he did was nod and turn away so that you had a better view of his wounds and he wouldn’t have to meet your eyes. 

You tore off a piece of your shirt and soaked it in the stream to wash away all the dried blood. He recoiled from the coolness of the water and you resisted the urge to apologize. Instead, you told him that it would burn when you applied the ointment and he told you he didn’t care. 

Cleaning up his back had easily taken up half of your ointment, but there was still enough for his front and Squirrel’s eye. You would have to survive until nightfall without treatment until then. 

When his back was cleaned and slathered in betony paste, you took a breath and dragged yourself around to sit closer to the stream and clean Lancelot’s chest. It was less bruised and scarred than his back, but it was more difficult to treat because you could feel him watching everything you did. 

You weren’t sure why it bothered you so much, but your hands were clumsier this time around. Shakier. More uncertain. Even though he’d arguably given you every reason to hate him, you found yourself wanting his approval more than anything else. Approval from someone who didn’t approve of anyone felt like it should mean more.

But approval wasn’t the right word. No, you wanted something more meaningful. Admiration? Appreciation? You weren’t sure. All you knew was that you wanted something from him that you knew you weren’t going to find by staring at the scar just under his collarbone. 

You let out a long breath and looked up to his face. “You’ll still need to wash your hair.”

He nodded, looking at the cut on your cheek rather than meeting your eyes. “Understood.” His voice was as quiet as it had been that night he fed you that god awful broth in Brother Salt’s tent. 

There was nothing more to say after that but your muscles ached at the thought of moving again, so you nodded and dropped your head to look at your hands. They were still stinging from pulling up plants earlier and the angry twin crosses on your palms didn’t do much to ease your pain. 

Surprisingly, Lancelot reached out for your hands, his touch was cold but surprisingly light. Just like the night before, he opened your palm with his thumb and sucked in a breath. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. Lancelot looked up from your hands to meet your gaze for the first time all afternoon, and you got the feeling that he was apologizing for a lot more than just the fate of your hands. 

You were distinctly aware of the tiny sparks arcing through the center of your palm. “I know,” you said quietly. 

Despite the rumors, you’d never met a fey who could read people’s thoughts. You’d thought it must be a pretty awful gift, to never be alone with your thoughts, but at that moment, with Lancelot’s icy fingertips grazing your hands, you thought it might not be such an awful gift. If you could read his thoughts then you would have known why he pulled away. 

Lancelot dropped his gaze as he tried to rebuild his walls and move anywhere that wasn’t his current spot on the rocks. “Squirrel will need to treat your leg when he gets back,” he said as if he hadn’t just started a small electrical storm in the center of your hand. 

“No, it’s not that important,” you lied, adjusting yourself and trying not to wince.

“I saw the arrow hit you,” Lancelot said. “Frankly, I don’t know how you’ve managed to walk as much as you have.”

“Well, I’m very stubborn,” you told him, forcing a smile through the pain of pushing yourself to a crouching position. 

Lancelot watched as you struggled to your feet with a frustratingly lacking expression. “I can see that.” 

With a teasing smile, you started walking and said, “And yet you say that as if it’s a bad-” Your leg wobbled under the pressure of your second step and your calf spasmed after hours of overcompensating. The rocks dug into your bones as you fell back to the ground, mercifully not drawing blood. “Shit,” you breathed, trying to move over into a sitting position. Your leg refused to cooperate. 

Considering his own injuries and fatigue, you weren’t sure how he managed to turn you around, but Lancelot wrapped one hand around your calf and used the other to turn you over in a painful movement. He didn’t mean it to be, but any kind of movement was hell on your tired muscles. Lancelot moved the layers of fabric off his belt and pulled out a small knife.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You put your hands out and pulled back as much as your aching abdomen would allow. 

“Cutting your pants so I can treat your wound,” Lancelot said. He used the same rough, imperious voice that he used to tell you to untie Squirrel in Brother Salt’s tent, but he faltered when he saw the look on your face. He must have thought you were afraid that he would stab you. 

“Okay,” you said instantly, the desire to squash any of his doubts overwhelming any kind of logic that told you to just take off your pants. You’d have to move to do that, you reasoned, but at least this way all you’d have to deal with was a patch of missing fabric and not the pain of trying to move again. You dropped your hands. You could steal new clothes wherever you ended up anyway. With a small nod, you said, “Cut the fabric.”

For an unsure moment, nothing happened. Then Lancelot pulled himself closer to you and started cutting through the fabric. It was stuck to your leg with dried blood and some of your hairs were pulled out as Lancelot tore the fabric away to reveal a disgusting arrow wound.

It was deeper than you’d hoped, which meant it would take longer to heal, and still tender from all the walking. Even so, you’d walk twice the distance and thoroughly ruin what was left of your leg if meant being able to treat Lancelot and Squirrel’s wounds, your own be damned. 

You did your best to stay still and silent as Lancelot first cleaned your leg with water. Not only was the water colder than you remembered it being, but your leg was annoyingly sensitive to any touch. 

Despite your best efforts not to say anything, you were in the middle of an impressive string of curses when Squirrel showed up again with arms full of edible roots and berries he must have found further down the stream. 

“Woah,” was all Squirrel said as he walked slowly over to you. He only took his eyes off your leg to steal a glance at Lancelot. Squirrel was very careful not to say anything about all his scars. “I didn’t know you could say all those words together without someone threatening to tell your mother.”

“That’s because you can’t,” you said. You straightened up and tried to seem slightly more authoritative and less like you couldn’t walk. You held your hands up to him. “Come here.” 

Squirrel narrowed his eyes and took a step back. “Why?” 

“Your eye is practically swollen shut and I want to treat it,” you said.

“My eye is just fine. It’s that bloody mess you should worry about,” Squirrel said, waving a hand at your leg. Hard to believe this was an improvement on what it had looked like. “It looks like it’s gonna fall off.”

“It’s not going to fall off,” you said through gritted teeth. You glared at Lancelot’s barely-there amused smile. “Just sit down or I’ll force you to drink that over-boiled tea.”

“Alright, alright, no need to threaten to torture me,” Squirrel mumbled. He set the rest of his roots and berries down before hunkering down next to you. 

You held the cold washcloth to his brow for a few seconds before cleaning the rest of his face. The betony and mayweed paste looked awful against his pale skin and you couldn’t help but wish for a world where he could be treated by his mother that didn’t let him curse and be fed a meal consisting of more than just edible roots and berries. 

Though he was dreadfully impatient, Squirrel held still enough for you to treat his wounds. He still pulled away from your touch the instant he thought that you were done and returned to the food he’d gathered for you. 

As Squirrel prepared your food, you applied what was left of your paste to your thigh and Lancelot tore another piece of fabric from his cloak. It was long, not very thick. You wondered what he was going to do with it when he grabbed your leg again and bent it at the knee. He wrapped it around your wound without an explanation, but he met your eye for a second and you realized that was because he didn’t know how to explain what he was doing. 

His explanation for why he was doing all this had been simple enough, assuming it was still the same as it was last night: Lancelot was taking a leap of faith. 

Faith was tricky. So many people had faith that what they were doing was right and followed that faith right into the flames. Sometimes you had to compromise on pieces of yourself to make room for faith. Sometimes you had to give up on faith entirely if you wanted to survive. 

You weren’t sure how you felt about faith after all these years, if you still felt anything for it at all. Did it make you one of the lucky ones to have faith in Lancelot or was he going to burn you to cinders? 

No, you thought, Lancelot wasn’t a burning building that would set your lungs on fire. He was a snowstorm; he was something icy that crept up on you before you knew it. He was a lightning strike; he was something blinding that sparked in your chest. Lancelot wasn’t a forest fire, but he was a force of nature.

You set your musings aside long enough to stuff your face with berries and roots. The boiled mayweed tea was bitter but at least it washed down the earthly taste leftover from the roots, not that Squirrel would know. He washed it down with stream water between his stories about the woods. 

Not only were his ramblings a welcome change from the silence (awkward or not) between you and Lancelot, but they were endearing. Squirrel was quick-witted and sweet, with more knowledge about poisonous plants than you expected. His speech about the difference between dandelions and cat’s ears was interrupted by his memory of the cave he found while looking for roots. 

“Wait, you found a cave?” you interrupted, eyes darting up from Lancelot’s hands reaching for his clothes in the stream to look at Squirrel’s precarious balance on the rocks. “How did you find a cave if you were supposed to stay within earshot?” 

Squirrel shrugged. “I’ve got good ears.” 

It was truly a wonder how you and Squirrel survived those first days in the woods by yourself. Taking a breath, you asked, “How far is your cave?” 

“Not far,” Squirrel said. With a cautionary look at your leg, he added, “It’s a few minutes walk, but you could take the horses.” 

“We can spend the night there and leave in the morning,” you said, setting Lancelot’s canteen of disgusting tea to the side. “We should leave for it before the sun sets.” You cast a look at the others and dusted off your hands. 

“We need to keep moving,” Lancelot said. He’d wrung out his clothes by now and was in the process of laying them out on the rocks, the light catching his sloppily treated wounds. He’d need to clean himself off before you could move anywhere. 

“If we keep moving, we’re just going to exhaust ourselves,” you said and shook your head. “They’ll kill us before we can even dream of making it to the border.” 

Lancelot looked like he was going to argue with you but Squirrel misstepped on one of the rocks and slipped. He was tiny and fragile looking when Lancelot caught him, and between his swollen eye and the bags underneath, Lancelot must have realized that he needed to rest more than you needed to keep moving. 

“Fine,” Lancelot said gruffly. He set Squirrel back down and turned away. “We’ll stay the night.” 

“That’s the spirit, Sunshine.” You caught his eye as you struggled to your feet and worked up the courage to start walking. Luckily, Squirrel came to your aid without you having to ask. 

He helped you over to the shady patch of grass and somehow managed to avoid falling to the ground with you when you collapsed. You leaned against the tree, tilting your head up to look at the sky. Not a cloud in sight, just the unrelenting sunlight. 

Even with your eyes closed, it was still too bright. Moon Wings were nearly nocturnal by nature, so not only had you been sleep deprived from your stint with the Red Paladins, but your body still hadn’t adjusted to the human schedule. All that missing sleep caught up with you as you lay under the tree and you dozed off while Lancelot cleaned his wounds and Squirrel did … whatever it was that Squirrel did. When they were finished, they woke you just before sunset. 

Everything was colored golden and warm, including Squirrel and Lancelot. It filled your chest with a fuzzy feeling that was quickly replaced by dull pain as you got to your feet. Lancelot helped you onto a horse, his hair damp and loose around his face, and Squirrel led you all to his cave. 

All things considered, it wasn’t very different from the cave that you had patched Lancelot up in when he insisted he had no other name than the Weeping Monk. The only thing that stood this cave apart was the large cavern that Squirrel had found through a web of tunnels. He must have had really good ears if he could hear the stream through all these rocks. 

Squirrel set a fire under Lancelot’s careful instruction while you tried to track down some night birds through an opening in the ceiling. You weren’t sure it would work but it was a better option than trekking through the cave tunnels again. 

The tunnels made it more difficult for the birds to find you, but eventually, the night birds brought stolen food and supplies. After the other birds had left, one of them returned to bring Squirrel some extra food. You smiled at the sight of him sharing what little he had with the night bird when he thought no one else was watching.

It also didn’t go unnoticed that Lancelot snuck some of his food into Squirrel’s share whenever his attention lapsed, though you pretended not to have seen it when his eyes glanced over to you. 

You’d been stealing looks at him almost ever since you’d woken up. You told yourself it was because you needed to make sure his wounds weren’t infected, but you weren’t entirely convinced. After all, the swelling on his wounds had gone down, and you were still looking at him whenever you could. 

Despite the stolen glances, none of you said much of anything as you ate and then redressed your wounds. None of you knew how far you still had to go or where exactly it was that you were going, so you didn’t talk about that, and none of you wanted to talk about Paladins or the fey, so you didn’t talk about that either. Conversation was difficult with so few acceptable topics and so many uncertainties, but the three of you still tried. The only things you all knew for sure were left unspoken: you were going away, wherever it was and however long it took to get there, and you were going there together.

The limited conversations you could have died down once it got dark, especially since Squirrel was the one carrying most of them and he grew quieter as he got more tired. He was determined to fight off the exhaustion in front of the two of you, but he had been awake for at least two days and he couldn’t take much longer. You knew he’d refuse if you asked him to go to sleep.

After what felt like forever but was probably only an hour or so after your dinner, Squirrel gave up the fight and curled into a ball in front of the fire to protect himself from the cold. Once it was sure Squirrel was in deep enough sleep, Lancelot covered Squirrel with his cloak and told you that he’d take the first watch. He didn’t leave room for discussion. 

Unlike the rest of you, sleep didn’t follow the orders of the Weeping Monk. Your body ached and your bones felt too heavy to move, but your mind raced. What if you got caught? What if something happened to Squirrel? What if you froze to death? 

One after the other, the what-ifs haunted you. With a sigh, you looked over to the other side of the cave. Lancelot had given up on keeping watch; instead, he lay beneath an opening in the cave with his eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see. He looked so impossibly alone, staring up at the stars, searching. 

Squirrel slept soundly next to you, and you tried not to wake him as you curled yourself into a seat. You pulled the cloak up to cover his back and steeled yourself for the journey ahead. Quietly as you could, you made your way over to Lancelot and his stars. The sound of your boots hitting the rocky floor was deafening in the silence, yet he gave no indication of hearing you. 

Before, he would have bolted upright before you’d even made it halfway, movements wiry and knife outstretched. Now, he just lay there until your footsteps ceased and tilted his head to get a better look at you. He didn’t say a word. 

“You were supposed to wake me.” 

“You were supposed to sleep.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek and glanced at Squirrel by the fire, acutely aware that you were never going to sleep through another night when his safety was in your hands. The fire grew too bright to consider any longer and you tore your eyes away from the flames before they burnt. When you looked down at Lancelot again, all you saw were stars.

Waiting for your vision to clear, you said, “Sleep is hard to come by these days.”

“I know the feeling,” he said quietly. When you didn’t respond, Lancelot took a deep breath and tilted his head back to the sky. “I’ve heard of fires in the sky, in the North. They flicker across the sky, some blue or green, and light up the night.” 

This, you realized, was his way of asking you to look at the stars with him. Gingerly, you took a few steps to the side and sat down. With a deep breath as you stretched your legs out opposite him and eased your head down beside his, you said, “Tell me about them.” 

“That’s all I know,” Lancelot said, turning his head slightly to look at you. It was a strange position, lying in opposite directions with your heads next to one another almost as though one of you were upside down, but it was the best way to the stars through the small opening in the roof. His voice was softer than you’d ever heard before when he added, “But I can tell you about the stars.”

“I’d like that,” you said quietly. There wasn’t enough air for you to say anything else. 

Lancelot turned his head back to the sky, and you forced yourself to the same. He pointed to a cluster of seven stars, traced connections between them, and asked if you saw the tree. You lied and said that you did, when all you really saw were the galaxies of bruises on his knuckles and constellations of scars down to his fingertips. He told you about the tree that connects all fey, and you listened to his breath hitch before he said ‘connects us’. 

When your sliver of sky ran out of stars, you turned your head to look at him instead. “I think we should go north. To see the lights.” 

For the first time, you saw Lancelot smile. For the first time, it didn’t seem to be an echo from another life. It wasn’t sad, or tragic, or heartbreaking. It made your heart flutter, it was hopeful. “I’d like that,” he said, head still tilted up the sky, mouth still curled up at the edges. 

For the first time, hopeful. 

Tagged: @angrygardendeer​

[queer-ragnelle]

Can I just--Malory not describing anything ever was the single most frustrating part of that book. Like, the only description we ever get of anyone is to acknowledge that Lancelot and Tristan are both "big" which sure, I mean they do excel at knocking people off horses, but what does that mean? Plus, yes omg the ages thing. How old is anyone at any time? And he also loves to contradict himself and then trail off without finishing stories. I mean its interesting, but god was that rough

Bro! I know. Like I have the Vulgate now which gave me some much-needed clarity on a lot of things but also the timeline is whack like Lancelot younger than Mordred? I hate that! Rejected!

So like even with the details I will sometimes choose to ignore them but at least I have a clearer picture of dynamics like for example the grail quest. Bors is older than Percival and Galahad but by how much? Is it like a babysitter role in that he’s older by a little or is it fatherly? It’s impossible to tell because Malory not only excluded all the personal details but Galahad, who was already pretty stoic in the Vulgate, is now about as interesting as almond in Le Morte, so the dynamic between him and the other two is completely lost.

And like the dynamic between Gawain/Lancelot is super hard for me to wrap my mind around because in Malory they seem more like peers and even have a lot of homoerotic tension at the end there with the whole forgiveness letter in blood thing (Malory bro are you okay?) but then in the vulgate turns out Gawain is WAY older and that throws me off. It seems most modern adaptions or even some medieval ones (even without specifics, just implied more than Malory as it is in de Troyes where they’re kinda bros) bring them closer together so they can truly be on equal footing in maturity and skill levels rather than having age gaps that make no sense.

But even on a completely creative level divorced of the practicality, I like to picture them. We all have a mental image, because the legend is so prevalent in our culture at this point, but I still like to have some flourish to embellish the story and immerse me! Part of the fun is that Gawain is SO short in canon and still a great knight or that Mordred actually looks exactly like Arthur, tall and blonde and handsome rather than dark and broody like modern depictions, not to mention the wealth of queer-coding we get from physical descriptions alone on top of the multitude of interactions and nuances Le Morte is lacking. Having that detail makes the characters feel alive. Malory reads like a synopsis, which I suppose it is, but it confuses me too much to enjoy it.

Here is one of many, many Lancelot descriptions from the vulgate. We get a ton of detail plus a definitive age as well as a nod to the elapsed time so we are kept on track as we read and not wondering “when” the fuck we are. Also! Short Gawain! You could pick this apart so much, it’s wonderful. Wish we had some of this in other texts.

[tillman]

Can you tell me more about gawain and lancelot in the arthurian myths? I really ship then in FGO and I heard that they are bestfriends

ok this is straight up going to be an essay without the revisions so just a stream of consciousness on my thoughts of how their relationship is handled in both fate and then the legends themselves since fate pulls a lot yet changes some key aspects that really makes their relationship what it is. it kinda goes from a one sided pinning for an idiot who doesnt comprehend love to a more. theyre just bros. which kinda makes me upset anyways. under the cut. im so sorry for hwo long this is gonna be i have a lot to say about gawain and lancelot. 

ok honestly i think fgo handles their relationship pretty well from what ive seen. they genuinely are just bros too stupid to realize the other is flirting with them in their own ways which is fucking hilarious. i think the only thing that bugs me about how fate actually likes. has them interact is they remove like. the greatest bit of their friendship and i think make it just about the war between them at the end. i cant say for certain but from what i can figure out i think they reduce gawain and lancelots conflict at the end of the main story to just completely them fighting and gawain dying via lancelots wound? but i dont know for certain dont quote me on this. this both a) removes all the REAL tragedy of this situation of both of them just being really fucked up over grief and regrets stirred by arthur in the first place and b) completely ignores one of the best bit of gawain characterization in le morte, gawain forgiving his literal best friend on his death bed and pleading for his return, to come back and mourn for him, to try to save whats left of the world they both helped build and protect. in an adaptation of le morte (which fate lore mostly is) i think gawains final letter is NEEDED to complete his arc and his like. entire character since malory (and then thus fate) spends more time focused on lancelot. 

like just pulling from their dialog w each other in the My Room things, gawain talks about his regret and immaturity over... not forgiving lancelot? what . and lancelot just offers to play chess which is extremely funny. (on another note hwy does fate gawain hate bors. i ltierally can not figure this out at all why is he so mean to his best friends cousin theyre bros.... theyre bros!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

anyways now onto the legends because this isnt about fate. fuck fate i hate fate all of my homies hate fate. im gonna focus MOSTLY on le morte since that connects to fates version more and pull some quotes from other legends i have memorized but there is absolutely more, and the vulgate delves into it a bit more but i havent ... gotten that far im so sorry the prose merlin is kicking my ass. 

the thing to note is gawain (excluding guenevere) was kinda the first person to show lancelot respect when he came to court. gawain kinda took him under his wing for a bit, and they end up VERY close. they have a relationship built off of respect and understanding for each other and it ends up being one of lancelots only Real friendships throughout most legends since he has issues w communication and understanding intention that i could (and will) rant about for hours so i wont delve too into it rn. but like. theyre arthurs best knights basically. troyes will say otherwise and say eric and yvaine are better than lancelot but troyes is fucking stupid and a whore, and most sources will tell you its gawain and lancelot (most sources favor lancelot over gawain due to the french influence on some later literature, and le morte is on the lancelot side due to being pulled a lot from the post vulgate, which pulls from the vulgate, aslo called the lancelot-graal cycle. its a whole thing)

but basically for a lot of the main legends you have two Absolute Best Bros who would literally do anything for the other, one being extremely horny and the other being so hopelessly inept when it comes to communication he doesnt understand how love works. theyre a wonderful pair :-) im kidding theyre so fukcing stupid watching them interact is like watching a car crash. its fucking disastrous and you want to yell at them to just beat the shit out of each other homoerotically and understand their feelings (which they do! wow! shout out to le morte!) anyways to keep this from getting too long lets go over some fun gawain quotes about his Best Friend. Who he thinks about a lot. but like... in a no homo way. he swears.

anwyays uhhhhh to keep this short heres a fun compilation of gawain being gawain. and a pretty good overview of how how gawain talks about his Best Friend in a totally not gay way. its straight if he says no homo. 

in gawains death note, which i think is the peak of gawains character in le morte 

“Sir Launcelot; for of a more nobler man might I not be slain. Also Sir Launcelot, for all the love that ever was betwixt us, make no tarrying...”“And I require thee, most famous knight of the world, that thou wilt see my tomb.“

and then. for equality since i skimmed all of knight of the cart for this, have some good lancelot lines. for context some idiot locked him in a tower for a year and lancelot just does this the entire time

anyways: tldr lancelot and gawain are in love even if both of them are too stupid to realize it. thats basically their entire relationship. everything goes to shit after lancelot accidently kills gareth and gaheris because lancelot too thinks of them as his brothers and is so torn up about it he lets everything happen. gawain starts a war with him because he would rather die than face the music. like its insane.... they should kiss. fate kinda gets this ok, but i think they should have had them just more homoerotic at every given moment because they Are. thanks for listening to my ted talk. im sorry im like this. 

find u a bro to have a homoerotic duel with and live your best life babey