#weeping monk fanfiction

[captainbucky-yt]

"You're Not What I Was Looking For"

The WeepingMonk x OC (fem)

Chapter 67: the eve of war [x]

Chapter Summary: Ari's army reaches the White Hart fields of Avalon. Lancelot finally makes a bold confession.

Content Warning: threatening language.

Master list: [x]

Taglist: @trenko-heart @nike90 @moonlightaura03 (if you want to be added/removed let me know)

Exert:

Squirrel stood a little distance away, toeing the sandy grout between cobblestones. He raised his tiny chin and worked the courage for what he wanted to say, but the words died on his tongue. His shoulders, too heavy for a child, deflated.

“Try not to die, okay?” Squirrel grumbled.

Lancelot hadn’t expected the most heartfelt of goodbyes— that wasn’t the way that they were with one another. But a part of him had hoped…

Before he could say anything, Squirrel pursed his lips in a thin line and turned on his heels. Leaving Lancelot with the sinking feeling that he had failed the child. If he’d been more— done more for him— then he would deserve the same embrace that Squirrel had thrown Ari within.

He wasn’t the boy’s father. Clearly the boy didn’t want him to be, and that left his chest feeling so empty.

A heavy exhale pushed through his nose. As Squirrel retreated across the courtyard, Lancelot turned back to his horse, but then a little body of someone barrelled into his side.

[rainyv-skies]

Dear friend; The Weeping Monk / Reader , Isaac Lahey / Reader

Fandom: Teen Wolf/ Cursed

Story summary: reader is a universe traveler who can enter through different alternate worlds. She meets and bonds with Isaac Lahey in the Teen Wolf universe and recalls her times and dear friend in the Medieval fey world, set in the Cursed universe with The Weeping monk. She remembers her last memories together with the monk, but was it really her time with him? Isaac seems to resemble someone she knew long ago.

Notes: I stood up all night writing this, no exaggeration. If this is not decent , I apologize. This was a very spontaneous idea and I had not written and published something to the public in a longgg time. Anyways, this is sort a cross over au and reincarnation type of thing between The Weeping monk and Isaac Lahey, and a bit of a hint of soulmate au. I hope it makes at least a little sense lmao, I struggled whether the relationship between the reader and Lancelot should be platonic or romantic so I settled on putting it between the lines so the readers have different perspectives . Enjoy , hearts and feedback is very much appreciated

Word count: 5300 ish??

—————————

“He meant a lot to me ,” (Y/N) divulged, keeping her tone quiet while her hands ddled with one another. Sat side by side, Isaacs ears perked at the reveal. His head tilted towards her and his eyes studied her far expression. “He was... good company. The best company. My dear friend,” She all but solemnly disclosed and her hands had stopped fiddling, Isaac took notice. She recalled the times of her old companion with a heavy heart, having not spoken of the formal Weeping Monk in a while. It had been some time since her adventure in the world of Fey and Man, the fighting and survival still fresh in her memory. “He was dear to me. We never spoke of our relationship. We both understood that we meant a great deal to one another. He protected me, he made sure I was ok and he absolutely refused whenever I tried to do the same.” A small smile curled her lips and she huffed a chuckle as she shook her head. Isaacs eyes led astray from her, now casted down at their shoes.

He tried imagining this friend (Y/N) seemed to hold close to her heart. What was he like? Sure, from what (Y/N) told him he was protective and hated relying on (Y/N) . But what else? His heart tugged when the question was raised. “The git was always so difficult when it came to someone else looking out for him. I had to force him most of the time, but we grew very close. Very close. ” (Y/N) inhaled deeply and exhaled then pulled her knees up, propping her elbows on them. The air became sad, and Isaac could smell the sadness slowly seeping from her, but a small hint of...nostalgia. “It was a very different time then, Isaac. Very medieval, and magical. I suppose you wouldn’t feel so out of place there, huh.” Isaac looked back up at her , raising his eyebrows quizzically at the jest. (Y/N) looked over to him and met his eyes with a grin playing at her lips, a twinkle in her eyes. His own grin pulled at his lips in response. (Y/N)’s grin faltered slightly,his smile igniting a sense of familiarity in her brain, though she couldn’t place her finger on it.

He turned his head back forward and leaned his head against the wall, letting out a sigh.

“Ok, I turn into a full blown werewolf during a full moon. I get it.” he retorted and (Y/N) let out a chortle, brushing her train of thought away. She bumped his shoulder with his own and Isaac reciprocated the action. A silence hung in the atmosphere among the two and (Y/N) mind went back to thinking, discreetly taking a glance at his face while Isaac wondered about the mysterious friend of (Y/N). Isaac waited with a bated breath and he wondered if his curiosity was worth sating, but the question sitting at the tip of his tongue itched to be spoken. He didn’t want to intrude on deep history, especially one that seemed so emotionally sensitive to (Y/N). The tug in his heart didn't let up, almost like it was urging him to ask the question.

“What..” The question faltered on his lips in hesitation, (Y/N) looked away in time but glanced at him and hummed in acknowledgment. Isaac gathered his question, his mouth opening to ask once again. “You never mentioned his name. What..what was his name?” Isaac asked softly, looking over to the girl whose head was still turned forward. Initially , he thought he shouldn’t have asked in the first place because the far away look took over Y/N)’s eyes. He gulped.

“Sorry, you don’t have to answer that. I shouldn't have,” Isaac stammered and (Y/N) shook her head. “No,” (Y/N) said softly, although her eyes still held the same expression. “It's ok.” She reassured him. It was a long time since she had spoken his name, and recalled the time when she and Lancelot were riding on Goliath - his horse and another friend of (Y/N)’s - through the forest. At that time, they had not known much of each other, but a small friendship had unknowingly begun to start.

—

Green trees and lush grass filled (Y/N)’s hazy view as she slowly came to after dozing off. Her body rocked as Goliath trotted through the forest, birds chirped and the buzzing of flies surrounded her. She blinked and lifted her head, taking in her surroundings. She noticed the reins were loosely held on from a pair of hands, of which were also circled loosely around her waist.

“Good nap, girl?” The monk's deep and raspy voice quipped from behind her, startling (Y/N) slightly.

(Y/N) grumbled in annoyance and rolled her eyes, although embarrassed of dozing off. She hoped she hadn’t almost fallen off the horse during her short nap, the monk probably would have had to make sure she didn’t. Although, she secretly knew he wouldn’t have minded letting her fall off.

“Shut it. Who wakes someone up before the sun even rises.” She shot at him, shuffling in her spot. God, her ass was numb. The monk smirked, amusement filling him.

“Did you know you snore in your sleep?” The monk took everything in him not to chuckle at (Y/N)’s stiffened posture, his eyes set on the path ahead of them.

“I do not snore!” She growled and felt her ears heat up. She knew she snored in her sleep. Dear god, why had she fallen asleep?! The monk let out a small sarcastic hum with a smile on his lips.

(Y/N) let out an exasperated huff, her head falling forward slightly.

“Ok, so I snored in my sleep. What about it Monk ?” (Y/N) said sharply , rolling her eyes once again. The monk chuckled, deciding that he was amused enough from the interaction. All that was heard now was the annoying buzzing of the flies and Goliaths hoofs pounding on the ground beneath them, and the occasional bird. (Y/N) grew restless and the numbness had not disappeared from her ass. She shuffled once again, jostling the Monk's forearms in the act. The monk glanced at her but continued to let Goliath trot forward. (Y/N) huffed and shuffled again hoping to ease the painful ache that was now spreading to her thighs, the monk sighing as she did so.

“Stop moving.” The monk said and (Y/N) grunted.

“Can we take a break? My ass is numb.” She murmured the last part, trying to shift some feeling back into her bottom. The monk snorted, debating whether he should stop. The next stop wasn't going to be for another day and the sun was beginning to set, so he decided to just set up a fire and camp for the night. Goliath needed a break anyways. He pulled on the reins, bringing Goliath to a stop and setting his foot on the stirrup , swinging his leg and dismounting off of Goliath. (Y/N) let out a sigh of relief but came to a realization she’d have to get off as well. She looked down at the ground on both sides, obviously seeming unsure of how she should get off. She supposed she could just slide off of the beast of a horse, but the numbness had made her legs stiff. This was going to be a bit awkward. The monk took notice, his blue eyes gazing up at her with an eyebrow raised.

She glanced at him and back at the ground.

“Um..” She started and the monk could’ve snickered, but held off.

“Take your time, girl.” The monk smirked. (Y/N) ignored him, figuring out how she should go about it without falling on her ass in front of him. Frankly, she could’ve asked for help, but she knew the monk would see it as a satisfaction. So no. She wasn’t going to ask for help. Awkwardy, she scooted back on the seat and gripped onto the saddle, carefully bringing her leg to the same side the Monk was. She leaned on the saddle, preparing to slide off. Problem was, when she looked down there was no way she was going to jump off, not at how far the ground seemed to be. She was now leaning on the seat with her legs dangling on the side, gripping on for dear life. She grunted, her foot trying to find the stirrup in panic as her weight slowly started to pull her down. The monk had crossed his arms, watching silently in amusement as she struggled to find the stirrup.

“Do you need assistance?” He asked as she continued to struggle.

“No. I'm fine. Just..just,” (Y/N) trailed off as she had finally found the stirrup. She let out a small grunt and started to descend to the ground. The monk took a step towards her for if she were to fall, he would be able to catch her. Thankfully , she landed on the ground on both feet with a ‘hup’. She turned towards him with a triumphant smile. The monk looked at her and held his breath, trying to keep his composure intact. He nodded his head and cleared his throat, sidestepping from (Y/N) to adjust the saddle.

“We’ll set up camp. Stay for the night and start riding at dawn.” He grabbed the pack from the saddle and led Goliath towards the camping area he had spotted a little deeper into the forest. (Y/N) replied with an ‘ok’ and followed closely behind.

Shortly after, a fire was started and frogs croaked into the night. The sun had set and stars twinkled in the dark sky, (Y/N) was eating the packed bread and some rabbit meat the monk had hunted. He was quite skilled at hunting, she had to give him that. The monk leaned on a log opposite from (Y/N) across the fire, maintaining the steel sword he owned. The sword he used that claimed many fey lives. (Y/N) swallowed down her food and looked up at the weeping monk, studying the way his eyes focused on his sword, the cloth held in his hand gliding down across the steel. (Y/N) licked at her lips and cleared her throat. The monk glanced up at her but returned his gaze to his sword.

“Are you going to eat something?” (Y/N) asked, furrowing her eyebrows. The monk gave no immediate answer but continued to wipe his blade. (Y/N) waited for a reply, staring at him.

“No. You eat, and then sleep. I will keep watch.” The monk replied a moment after, putting his sword back into the sheath. (Y/N)’s frown deepened. “Keep watch? You need to sleep and eat. We’re traveling early.” (Y/N) shook her head in disagreement and set the food aside the cloth that laid in her lap. The monk looked up at her, his hood slightly concealing his face.

“Do not worry. It will be fine.” The monk replied, staring right at (Y/N). (Y/N) sighed. Of course he was going to be stubborn about it. Gathering the food in the cloth, she stood up. The monk watched her closely, his eyebrows pinching together slightly in question. His eyes continued to follow until she stood in front of him, now holding out the cloth of food. He glanced at the food and back up at her in confusion. (Y/N) raised her eyebrows and shook the food in her hand.

“Take it.” (Y/N) said, shaking her hand once again when the monk didn't react. The monk pulled a face at her and she rolled her eyes. She gave him a deadpanned look.

“I'm not offering, I’m commanding. I'm not gonna catch you if you faint on the horse from lack of sleep and food. Now, take it. Or else.” She threatened. In truth, she had no idea what she was gonna do. Shoving the food down his throat was not an option. He would probably throw her into the fire.

Much to (Y/N)’s surprise (and relief) the monk reluctantly grabbed the food from her hand and glanced at her. The whole time, he was silent, not expecting the kind action. It stirred something unfamiliar and warm in his chest at the action. He had never once in his life had someone be so kind to him, having spent most of his time massacring fey, he felt like he didn’t deserve such kindness at all.(Y/N) knew what kind of things he did, and still does for that matter. He set the food down and cleared his throat.

“Thank you.” he quietly said, setting his sights down on the ground. (Y/N) smiled in success.

“You're welcome, Monk.” She turned around and made her way back to her spot across from his. She sat down on the blanket and stared at the fire, letting the sound of crackling fire and frogs take over. She was comfortably sitting in the silence, the warmth of the fire giving her some contentment in the cold night. The monk looked at her over the fire and stared intently. The question still hung in his mind and for a while he wondered. For a good five minutes he wondered while (Y/N) sat in silence.

(Y/N) and he had been traveling together for a while, it was his responsibility that had fallen on him after Father commanded to ‘keep the odd woman under his watch’ after she had appeared seemingly from nowhere dressed in odd clothes for a woman, immensely confused and in shock. It was an odd relation, if he could call it that. But she had helped him in many ways. Stitching his wounds that he gained when protecting her and even that one incident when the lashes on his back had grown infected causing him to fall ill. (Y/N) watched over him during his fever. After the horrifying near death incident, (Y/N) had made it her mission she would take care of him when he took care of her. It felt wrong at first; her taking care of him. It often made it difficult to complete his missions, the bond was risky. Father would most certainly banish her from his life would he figure out that his most trusted warrior was becoming soft for a random woman, he was a monk. The Weeping Monk. But, he decided to keep it a secret. Deception was a sin and every day he feared for the girl. But never for himself. Though they often spited each other, she lightened the days and made them less dull, always finding a way to make him laugh every once in a while. He stuck around and made sure she was ok when she became confused again until she wasn’t. It was like clockwork, it became their nature. He cared for the girl. She meant a great deal to him. It was apparent she cared for him too. Their bond was completely natural. Maybe one day she would be his biggest regret, but he didn’t seem to think so cautiously about it anymore.

Suddenly, he spoke, causing (Y/N) to switch her gaze at him in surprise, most certainly caught of guard.

“Lancelot.” He said. And for a while (Y/N) was silent, still staring at him with a caught off guard expression. A moment later, (Y/N) responded.

“What.” (Y/N) finally said . The monk looked at the fire, avoiding the stare (Y/N) gave him, growing slightly nervous at the attention.

“Lancelot,” He repeated himself but firmly this time. He continued, adding more description to his words.

“ A long time ago, my name was Lancelot.” He said, crossing his cloak covered arms over his midsection. (Y/N)’s eyes widened slightly , stunned from the reveal. She slowly recovered from the shock and soaked in the new information.

She said his name in her head, testing it out. It was quite nice. Medieval, of course, but nice.

Huh. I like it. She thought.

“Lancelot.” She echoed, and the name felt foreign on her tongue. The newly learned name gave her a new perspective of the Monk, but it was growing on her already. The monk returned his gaze to her upon hearing his name, and it did sound strange - having not heard his own name being spoken from another person in a very long time, it would take time to adjust to hearing it once again. Now, to think of it, he didn’t mind hearing it from her. It felt like a breath of fresh air and a small weight was lifted from him. Who knew telling someone his true name would’ve given him some sort of relief in his damned life. Although, it unsettled him slightly. (Y/N)s eyes swiftly shifted over to him smirking. At this, his eyes narrowed at her, waiting for whatever would spill out of her mouth.

“Have you gone soft on me, Lancy?”

The monk let out an elongated sigh.

-

Shouts of men were heard from a far distance and the sound of multiple feet pounding on the ground pushed Lancelot further and further, stumbling in his path as he urged (Y/N) forward. They both rushed to find his horse, away from the paladin camp. His arm clutched at his side which bled and burned profusely, but the grip pulling at his sleeve kept him from passing out from pain and the concussion he had gained from the fight with the trinity guards. He barely made it out alive, had it not been for the distraction (Y/N) gave of which worked to his advantage.

“Come on, Lancelot! Keep going!” (Y/N) cried, her voice wavering as she tugged his arm. His chest fell up and down, heaving out breaths. His footing lost balance, tipping over an uneven muddy spot on the ground and fell down on one knee. His grip ripped from (Y/N) to catch himself before he fell completely on the wet ground. (Y/N) let out a small yelp and fell down on her knees, his fall taking her down with him. Bent over with his hand braced on the ground, he gasped from the pain and the utter exhaustion he felt. (Y/N) crawled over to Lancelot and grasped at his shoulders.

“Here, give me your arm.” (Y/N) grabbed the arm that held Lancelot up and put it over and around her shoulders. He grunted as he was pulled up, (Y/N) grunting in the process too from the sheer weight of him. “Christ, how much do you weigh?” She quipped through clenched teeth.

“Leave me.” Lancelot rasped, leaning on (Y/N). The voice of men grew closer, even their torches they carried seemed to be getting closer from the looks of it. Soon they would reach them and Lancelot was in no shape to ride a horse. He would most likely fall off. He would be dead weight.

“What? No! Are you crazy?! You're coming with me!” (Y/N) protested and pulled him along towards the horse. Lancelot let out a pained moan as his deep wound continued to bleed and ache terribly. He was sure he was seeing black spots from blood loss and the concussion.

“Over there!” A red robed monk shouted far from behind them. (Y/N) gasped and looked behind. They were getting closer. She turned back around, fastening their pace even more than last time.

“Hurry, Lancelot! The horse is right there!” Lancelot could hear the men coming closer and closer, their torches more visible and their stomps became louder.

“(Y/N).” he pleaded her name, although (Y/N) kept going, ignoring his plea.

Through (Y/N)s struggling and Lancelot’s wheezing, they had finally made it to Goliath who waited for their arrival. (Y/N) adjusted the saddle and with shaking hands she untied the rope from the tree. Lancelot fell to the ground on his knees a few feet away from (Y/N), beside Goliath when she had gone to untie the rope. He panted, his head hanging down. From behind them , Lancelot could hear the groan of a string being pulled back. He turned quickly at that, and his eyes widened at the archer that stood further away had begun to draw an arrow towards (Y/N) which would no doubt hit her, though she hadn’t the slightest clue. With the remaining strength he had, Lancelot swiftly stood up and ignored the sharp burn and pain in his side. It did nothing to stop him from grabbing a dagger from the pouch that Goliath carried on his saddle and hurling it towards the archer, using his whole body to throw the dagger with a yell. The dagger flew in the air and embedded itself in the stomach of the archer. He fell to the ground in shock and fell to the floor moments later.

(Y/N) gasped and had spun around to see what had happened, her eyes landing on the fallen body and Lancelot who was completely hunched over the ground, moaning in pain. (Y/N) rushed over to him and pulled him up to his knees. She fell to her knees, grabbing his face when his head lolled back while in a daze. She forced him to look at her, using her hands to hold his face upright.

“Lancelot! Hey!” She slapped his face hard enough to bring his attention to her. His eyes were half lidded and his forehead dripped blood down to his chin and over (Y/N)’s hands, but she couldn’t care about the blood. She scanned his body for new wounds that he could’ve possibly got from the encounter but found none. Good. She needed him to stay awake and alive.

“Listen to me, you need to get on the horse.” She commanded him, and she wasn't too sure if he could even comprehend what she was saying by the dazed look in his eyes. She wiped away the blood that dripped down his eyebrow.

“You hear me? Get on the horse, I’ll help you.” She spoke in a rush and tugged him up to his feet roughly, jerking him forward and onto Goliath. He yelped in pain , clutching his wounded side and found purchase on the saddle, barely holding himself up with (Y/N)’s help. There was no way he’d be able to get on the horse if he couldn’t even hold himself up.

“(Y/N)-” Lancelot weakly spoke, but (Y/N) shouted and cut him off, sending him a sharp glare.

“NO Lancelot! Get on the fucking horse!”

He stared at her, the weakening becoming apparent in his eyes. She searched his eyes with rage, but it slowly shifted to a sorrow filled expression. Her lip starting to quiver as tears pooled in her eyes and a lump formed in her throat.

“Please,” her voice cracked as she choked out. “Don’t do this.” She begged. Lancelot's heart squeezed painfully in his chest at the plea, his eyes squeezed shut and hung his head towards the ground. He shook his head.

“No, petal. I cannot go further.” He rasped.

A small sob from (Y/N)’s throat.

“I'm not leaving without you!.” (Y/N) declared, gripping his shoulder. Lancelot shook his head once again and grasped her hand that gripped his cloak , looking up at her through his lashes.

“I'm going to die, (Y/N). One way or another. But I'm not going to get you killed in the process. I'm too weak. You have to leave me, flower.” he pleaded, looking earnestly into (Y/N)s teary eyes. Her nose was red, her eyes were red and her lip couldn’t stop quivering. She whined and shook her head, tears falling down her cheeks.

“No, we can run away! We can! W-we can leave right now Lancelot, just get on the horse!” She cried out in desperation. Lancelot growled lowly in frustration, shouting out to (Y/N).

“No, (Y/N)!” He shouted. His eyes were furious as he stared (Y/N) down. She cried as she looked right back at him, her shoulders shaking from her sobs. He couldn’t leave with her, not even if he tried. He would die anyway, from his wounds or the men that are certainly making their way to them. He couldn’t get on the horse, let alone to keep himself standing up. He was too weak and too heavy for (Y/N) to carry. They would kill him first if he were to escape, knowing he was already mortally injured. He would slow down (Y/N), and then kill they would kill her. He could not let that happen.

“I am too injured, too heavy. Too weak. And even if I were to get on the horse, I would lose consciousness and slow you down. They will kill me and then you. I cannot go.” He firmly explained to her, his bloody hand gently caressing her neck and trailing up to her cheek, smearing blood along her skin. He was losing time, he noticed. His gaze softened, his throat closing too. He pulled (Y/N) into his chest who immediately drew her arms around him and hugged him tightly, crying into his gray surcoat. He stifled a groan that threatened to escape him from the impact of the tight embrace, but regardless of the pain, he wrapped an arm across her back and cradled her head. He pressed his lips firmly to the crown of her head while (Y/N) continued to cry in his chest.

“It’s ok, girl. You will be ok.” Lancelot whispered. At that , (Y/N)s cried harder and buried her face deeper into his chest and gripped onto his back. He cherished the precious moment, knowing it would be the last. After some time had passed, he pulled her apart from him and pushed (Y/N) toward Goliath. She almost protested, after having been pushed away from his embrace but He jerked his head toward Goliath, hunching over as he held his side and urging (Y/N) to mount the black horse.

“Go. Quickly. They are coming.’’ He pushed her back towards the horse, forcing her to mount Goliath who brayed and shook his head. He fastened the saddle once (Y/N) had pulled herself up the horse with his help, tugging at the straps and grabbing the reins. (Y/N) sniffled and wiped at her eyes roughly, though the tears kept coming. Lancelot had grabbed her hands with his hand, still holding onto the saddle to support himself and put the reins within her hands, closing them around the leather. He looked up at her with his cold hand covering her own, gripping them.

(Y/N) looked down to him from the horse, and her eyes locked onto his blue ones. Once again, she couldn’t help the tears falling and her lower lip curling, knowing this too, was going to be the last time she saw him. She hiccuped and Lancelot brought her hand towards his chapped lips, kissing her knuckles while he kept his eyes locked on hers.

“I am not afraid, so do not fear for me, petal. Death does not scare me. Be brave. Be strong. I will always watch over you. And if I cannot, I will find a way.” He promised to (Y/N), and she nodded her head slightly. “You are my salvation, (Y/N). ” He declared, holding a meaningful gaze with her. They held eye contact for a few seconds and (Y/N) quickly leant down to his face and pressed her lips to his cheek. She broke apart from him and stared down at him, speaking the best she could with her shaking voice.

“I care deeply for you, Lancelot. I'll miss you. Greatly.” Lancelot’s face slowly broke into a smile, a smile that reached his eyes and revealed his teeth, and the sight was cruel. Bloody, bruised and cruel, yet beautiful. “And I you, petal.” He responded softly, silence taking over as he stared deeply at (Y/N).

His eyes snapped towards the sound of men shouting and fire blowing, having now caught up to them. They approached from the trees and pointed to the pair, yelling at one another to catch them.

“Hold on!” He shouted and (Y/N) nodded her head quickly, her grip tightened on the rains and Goliath surged forward when Lancelot gave Goliath a smack to his behind, the horse letting out a squeal from the action. (Y/N) looked at Lancelot, committing his face in her memory one last time, him doing the same before Goliath took off in a bolt. (Y/N) let out a scream of fear, but held onto Goliath as he galloped away. The horse was fast, unbelievably fast. For a minute, she rode Goliath but turned back to watch Lancelot. He grew further and further away, turned towards her as watched her ride away until she forced herself to rip her eyes from the view when he turned towards the paladins, dropping to his knees. Surrendering.

And that was the last time she saw him. Her beloved friend.

—

(Y/N) breathed softly, her heart clenching at the memories. Isaac stared at her in silence, giving her a moment to herself before she spoke. He heard the soft beating of her heart and leaned closer to her body, their shoulders pressed against each other.

“Take your time, petal.” He reassured her and looked ahead. (Y/N)’s eyes snapped towards him at the name and stared at him, too stunned to say anything which caused Isaac to look back to her in alarm.

“What’s wrong? Did I say something?” He questioned with a frown on his face. (Y/N) stared into his blue eyes , slowly taking in his features. They were almost similar to Lancelot’s. Almost too similar. Excluding the moustache and the long hair that was always tied in a bun. Don’t forget the Ash folk marks. The tear marks under Lancelot’s eyes. And Isaac. The blue eyes, the youthful shape of his face, his lips, his smile. Everything. At first she thought it was just a crazy coincidence. A lot of people look alike, and quite frankly there's a shit ton of people alone in one world and in addition to many other worlds. Shit, she can even enter other worlds somehow and that was crazy enough, but the resemblance was uncanny….

(Y/N)s eyes widened as she looked back into his eyes and Isaac continued to watch her as she stared at him, his ears even turned red at the attention.

“Lancelot...” She whispered in astonishment as she gazed at Isaacs face again. He heard the beat of (Y/N)’s heart start to pound, and her scent became an overwhelming smell of emotions. Love, sadness, immense happiness.

He blinked at her.

“What.” He muttered, eyes wide as he stared at her. He hadn’t heard her speak from the pounding of his heart and (Y/N)’s combined, completely thrown off as warmth enveloped him from the name she seemed to call him. This was so strange, he thought. Lancelot? Had he heard that name before?...

(Y/N) broke from her trance, clearing her throat she shook her head. Isaac too seemed to break from the trance, now hazy as confusion filled his mind. What was happening to him?

“His name..” (Y/N) began softly, looking at him intently with prying eyes. Isaac listened, staring at her as well, waiting for her to nish as he held his breath.

“His name was Lancelot.” She finished quietly, watching his expression. Hearing the name, a sudden electricity shot through him and a ringing deafened him. He yelped in pain and covered his ears as the high pitched ringing blared in his ears. Suddenly, a rush of jumbled words echoed in his ears, like a sped up record replaying over and over again.

“... petal…Death...be brave...Always watch over you..can't...will find a way..”

Isaac yelled out in pain, grabbing at his head and curling into a ball, the jumble of words giving him a splitting headache. It hurt. It hurt so bad he wanted to tear his eyeballs out and rip out his hair. But eventually, It had started gradually slow, the echos fading away until it had completely stopped. Moments passed.

Until another loud echo of a whisper in his ears.

“You are my Salvation.”

That seemed to have Isaac collapse, like a button was pressed and the lights flickered off , black slowly creeping up in the corner of his vision. He saw a glimpse of (Y/N) kneeling over him, her frightened face fading to another image of her bloodied and despaired tear filled face. Back and forth, like flashes.

“Lancelot!” Was the last thing he heard before blacking out.

[themuselesswriter]

The Monk’s Wife - Chapter Four: A Kept Man

Characters: Lancelot Du Lac (The Weeping Monk), Original Characters, Percival (Squirrel)

Summary: Lancelot Spends his first day as a kept man in their household, but naturally, the Monk gets himself into trouble with his wife.

Word count: 1700+

Warnings: There are mentions of self-harm and the causal self-hatred in this chapter, so heads up!

A/N: New Chapter after finally drafting the whole thing 😭

Credits: technopath - polarr filter by demiesgod, photos from Pinterest

———————————Teaser———————————-

Hours had passed, Lancelot busied himself with housework in general, he wanted to prove himself to Tarja, that he could be redeemed, that he could be good, she was the one in charge now, and he was nothing but a mere follower.

He was mid-making dinner for his wife when he scented a presence in the house, he turned the seek the source of it, and a loud squeak came first then a boy tripping in front of him, Percival, who else would it be? “Percival, what brought you here?” The monk asked, the boy frowned “it’s Squirrel and I came here to check on you! I was worried when you didn’t come for breakfast and lunch today!” The boy exclaimed “I’m alright, her Grace had shown me mercy more than I deserve, but she forbade me from leaving the house, or accepting visitors, you shouldn’t be here!” He told him, panicked at the last part.

The boy looked confused, how’s this man the legendary Weeping Monk? The second-best fighter in the realm after the Green Knight, of course “so… is she going to keep you locked in here forever? She can’t do that!” The boy protested but the Monk calmly returned to the task at hand “She can do whatever she wants with me, she’s my wife and in this strange land, women are in charge” he explained, adding some carrots to the gravy “She spared my life and gave me a second chance which I’m planning on using wisely to repent” he added.

The Monk took a spoon of his creation and sipped it, satisfied with how it tasted, he turned and looked at Squirrel “You shouldn’t be here, you should go be with people of your age” squirrel frowned “but I don’t want to leave you alone” he grumbled “I’m accepting my fate, worry not but perhaps you can do me a favour?” The boy eagerly nodded “take care of Goliath for me” he said, the boy frowned, expecting something more dramatic “fine, I’ll take care of your beast”

Hours were spent where Lancelot remained alone, by the time his wife returned, she was lightheaded by ale, she gazed around the clean house and noticed a plate on the table “Monk!” She demanded, Lancelot rushed to her side “welcome back” he said softly, immediately taking the plate and filling it with the cooking of earlier “you’re not eating with me?”, “would you like me to?” She nodded, and he immediately fixed a plate for himself, sitting across from her.

Continue Reading

[skullszeyes]

Squirrel was not safe where he was, but he knew someone who is..

Words: 473

[everlastingdreams]

Weeping Monk x Reader : The Last Flames Burn Together

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Summary: You were one of the many Feys trying to seek refugee from the cleansings across the lands. When you finally find the carriages that smuggle Feys to Gramaire, safety seems closer than ever.

Notes: I would miss writing for this character way too much tbh. The summary is vague to avoid spoilers lol

Warnings: Violence, death, strong language. Spicy (?). No descriptive smut but spoken off.

Word Count: 7K

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The day after your Fey camp had been cleansed, you had began your search for them.

The carriages that led the Fey to the safety of Gramaire.

After trying to get information from locals at a village, it seemed near impossible to find out where these carriages picked up Feys who sought refugee.

It was difficult to know who to trust when in the village, you often listened in on conversations between Manbloods to hear if they spoke of the Fey or not. Very few did and not all of them spoke kindly of your people.

You followed those who did, hiding under the cover of your cloak until there was a good moment to seek a conversation.

And after two days in the village, a young couple told you that three carriages arrived in the village every few days just before the sun would rise.

The riders of these carriages where by most believed to be traders of herbs and spices, but their carriages had room for more than that.

And so you found yourself waiting outside, eyes and ears sharp to avoid detection by paladins.

Most of the villagers were still asleep, the rooster not even awake himself.

You clutched the cloak around you, shielding yourself from the morning’s frost.

The sound of hooves reached your ears, three carriages halted at a distance.

Spices and herbs were being off-loaded and handed to locals who traded their own wares for it.

With fear and hope you approached and walked passed the first carriage, the rider of the carriage in the middle was the only one not loading off wares.

Perhaps what he had with him were not wares…

He had seen you approach him and simply asked “Going anywhere, miss ?”

Your tongue was braver than how you felt “Depends. Where are you heading with your wares, sir ?”

There was a slight tug at the corner of his mouth “Gramaire. And you ?”

You gave a nod, hoping to receive a sign that he would help you get there too.

The rider shared a knowing look “Hop in.”

With a grateful nod, you went to the carriage door, it was locked from the inside and after knocking, the door opened to reveal three Feys already present inside.

A Snake clan woman, a Tusk and Sky Folk man met your face.

After seating yourself next to the Tusk man, you closed and locked the carriage door again.

All three smiled at you warmly, everyone there was hoping for the same thing, to find safety.

There was quiet chitchat between you while the carriages traveled through the forest to Gramaire.

The woman told you that in the other carriages there were even more Feys, at least fifteen were accounted for between the three carriages.

The riders would stop in one more village tonight to see if there were more Feys who needed a ride, so the carriage you were in would probably not remain as ‘empty’.

The Sky Man asked about your family, you informed him that your mother had been Sky Folk and that neither of your parents had survived the Red Paladin’s invasion years ago.

He apologized for his questioning, you waved the apology away, he had not been the first to ask.

When the carriage halted, all four of you waited for other Feys to get into the carriage.

The windows were covered and you could not see outside, or see where you were.

You would never forget that moment of calmness before it was taken away so abruptly.

Shouting was heard coming from outside, the rider was answering to someone.

Then the carriage suddenly moved forward, the horses were spurred into gallop and you and the Tusk Man nearly fell from your seats.

The carriage stopped just as abruptly again mere seconds later.

It was then that the chaos started, the sound of panicking horses and a fight breaking out told that this carriage was no longer safe.

The Sky Man looked behind the window’s cover and saw other Fey running for their lives “It’s the paladins ! They killed the rider !”

That was all that need to be said for those in your carriage to open the door and try to flee as well.

Of course you got out, but the brutality around you was causing a panic all around.

Left and right, your people were being captured and killed.

With no idea on where to run or what to do, you got low and crawled under the carriage to hide and await a better moment to escape.

Some were able to flee into the woods, others perished at the hands of the paladins.

The sound of steel cutting through skin was one you hated to hear.

Close to your left, a Moon Wing laid on the grass, gasping for air.

A slow death, until…

A sword was sunk into the Moon Wing’s chest, ending their suffering, then removed again.

A pair of boots walked by and you pressed your mouth shut, barely daring to breath.

A paladin approached “Some fled into the woods, Brother.”

The man wearing the boots commanded “Find them.”

The paladin rushed off with some of the other red bastards to hunt down those who had fled.

The boots walked past the carriage you were under and towards the other carriages. Only when they reached the furthest carriage did you see who owned them.

The Weeping Monk was commanding the paladins.

Oh no…

You had to get out of there before the bastard found you.

A quick glance around the place and you saw a horse nearby.

If they found you, you would meet a gruesome end.

If you escaped… if there was still a chance to survive…you had to take it.

You quietly crawled to the other side, got from under there and hid behind the carriage.

After risking a look or two past the carriage, you scrambled together all your courage and darted for the horse.

Before reaching it, you nearly tripped over the remains of the Sky Man you had been talking to just minutes ago.

The shouting of paladins alerted you that they had spotted you. Without looking in their direction, you mounted the horse.

When you rode off, a paladin took aim with a bow and you feared being struck by the arrow.

The Monk pushed against the bow right when the arrow was let loose “Hold!”

It could have killed Goliath. He watched the arrow scrape the horse’s hind leg.

This could not be happening, a Fey girl had just stolen his own horse!

   You did not stop and galloped through the woods as fast as the horse could go.

And fast the black steed was.

An hour had past before the horse showed signs of being tired, you continued in a walking pace for a while before finally dismounting.

Only then did you notice the blood on the horse’s hind leg. It immediately caused a feeling of guilt in you, the poor animal had been wounded.

After tying his reins to a tree, you searched around the place for the basic herbs needed to treat the wound.

Luckily you found them and put them on a large fallen leaf you had found.

Then you tore off your sleeves to make a bandage to bind the mixture of herbs to the wound.

You also found a collection of weapons on the saddle. An axe, a knife, a dagger or two. There was even rope to be found.

It was amazing how calm the horse was. Could it sense that you meant no harm ?

After an hour of treating the wound, you let the horse rest and walked beside him instead.

You walked for hours, unwilling to stop before the sun was down out of fear that the paladins might find you again.

Needless to say, by the time night fell, you were exhausted.

A single flask of water was found in the saddle bag of the horse, which you took and filled at a river you took camp next to.

The horse drank from the river for quite some time, he must have been quite thirsty after all that effort.

You petted the steed’s neck, even finding yourself talking to him “It’s going to be alright. I promise. I’m sorry your leg hurts, I’ll help you get better, I swear it.”

Often he looked back at you as if you were somewhat familiar to him.

For the first time since long, a genuine warm smile grew “How did you end up with those red drapes, hm ? Did they steal you ? I bet they did.”

As you spoke to the horse, you did not realize it’s original rider was close enough to hear.

From the shadows of the trees behind you, a figure emerged “I bought him. Unlike you.”

Turning on your heels, the darkness of night cloaked the man who spoke.

Still, the outline of his form was enough to determine who had found you now.

There was an attempt to mount the horse again, it failed miserably when he grabbed and made you fall on your back to the ground.

The lack of light made this so much more frightening, you doubted even he could see much.

A kick was aimed at his leg by you, in return he grabbed your arm and roughly pulled you from the ground.

Your forehead collided hard with his chin, punishing him for it.

Still he refused to let go, his grasp faltering only a bit, but not enough to break free.

And you refused to be killed without a fight.

A punch was the next thing you gave, he responded by slamming your back against an oak tree, pinning you to it by the throat.

At the sound of steel being drawn, your will to fight almost left you.

And then…nothing.

The Monk had halted his fight, but you could sense that the sword was near your stomach.

The light of the moon was on the oak tree and made your face visible to his eyes.

Those markings… it could not be.

A cloud moved out of the moon’s way and for the first time in your life, you saw the face of the Grey Monk.

After all this time, you finally understood why so many had questions about your family.

The memories of your father were slowly fading, but you could never forget the markings of the Ash Folk he had carried beneath his eyes.

And now you were faced with the Weeping Monk who had them too.

It could not be…

Your markings were far less noticeable and lighter of color than his own, but they were there.

He had never seen another like him, not as far as he could still remember.

He stared at you as much as you stared at him.

It had always been believed that the Ash Folk were extinct, and now here you were.

You couldn’t hide your shock “Your eyes…”

The recognition was unmistakable, you knew he was of Fey descent.

By the moonlight’s help, he discovered not just your Fey markings but also that your sleeves had been torn from your attire.

One look at Goliath explained where they were now.

There was no point in running, if he was indeed like your father a full blooded Ash Man, he would be able to track you down just by your scent.

Father would want to know of your existence.

Even he himself was curious whether a woman of the Ash Folk had the same abilities as him. Father had not been happy with his failure to capture the Wolf Blood Witch, this would certainly please him.

The Monk had his sights on your markings “What are you ?”

When you didn’t answer he brought the sword to your throat, only than did you speak “I am Sky Folk, you rotten bastard !”

There was an arrogant arch of his brow aimed at that answer “What else ?”

You spat in his face in return “Not a traitor like you !”

There was so much fight burning in you.

He did not flinch when the saliva drops hit his face “But you are a thief.”

You were pulled away from the tree, sword still resting against your throat when he led you to the horse.

His horse.

Instead of killing you, he bound your hands with the rope that had been hanging from the saddle.

When that was done, he inspected the bandaged hind leg of the horse “Did you do this ?”

The answer was sharp “Do you see anyone else here ?”

For someone bound by rope and at his mercy, you were behaving quiet brave.

The Monk send you a look, pulling you back to his side when still feeling you try to get away “Answer my question.”

A jab in his side with your elbow followed and he wrapped his hand around your throat again.

He repeated the question while also gesturing to the black steed “Did you do this ?”

Your nails dug into his wrist “Yes !”

Finally he let go off your throat and proceeded to drag you along to fetch the horse he had used to find you.

He bound the reins of the white horse to the black one. Then tied the other end of your rope to the saddle of his horse.

Wait… was he going to let you walk after him ?!? Why wasn’t he killing you ?

He must have seen the angry glare you were sending him, because he proposed an agreement “I am taking you with me. Either you come willingly, or I will pull you along while you walk. What shall it be ?”

A loud scoff was what his absurd question earned him “Willingly ?!?”

He took that as a ‘no’ and went to mount Goliath.

After walking the whole damned day already, your feet were hurting and now this monk was going to pull you along while he rode the horse.

Fantastic, this day could not get worse.

You were far too stubborn to ask and just tried to hide your pouting at the prospect of having to walk who-knows-where again.

He rode for a short distance, leaving you to follow or be dragged along by the rope, before suddenly stopping again.

You swore you’d heard him sigh, like he was the one who had a reason to be annoyed.

There was a tug at the rope and soon you found yourself being reeled in towards him.

When he looked down upon your face, the Monk received the unyielding glare reserved only for him.

He looked up ahead, eyes on the trees, it sounded like it took some effort “I will ride for the rest of the night. Unless you decide to cooperate.”

Your stubbornness persisted “Or you could just kill me and drag my corpse along. I think it would be faster, I might not be rotting by the time you arrive at your destination.”

The bluntness of that statement made him look at you again.

His mouth opened and then closed in a thin line again.

This time he did not look away from you “Father will want to see you alive.”

That power hungry red priest ? What would he want with you “Why ?”

He refused to answer your question “I am offering one more chance for you to come willingly. Choose wisely.”

A silence fell between you.

You gravely disliked having to yield to him, but you also disliked how tired your legs were “Are you going to drape me over your horse like a sack if I say yes ?”

The tug at his mouth was hidden when he looked away “If you prefer.”

That didn’t sound appealing in the slightest and you stubbornly stood your ground.

Then you felt him tug at the rope again, pulling it up and with that your bound hands as well.

The Monk took hold of one your wrists “Come on. Up.”

The moment you did get on the horse and were seated in front of him, a dagger was drawn and held close to your side.

A warning was given by him while leaning in “Try to escape, and I will hurt you.”

You dared to glare back, biting the insult at him “Bastard.”

He leaned back again, expression unreadable.

Without warning he spurred the horse into gallop and so began the journey to Father Carden.

  ooOOOooOOOoooOOOoo

  All those rotten paladins, who were still awake, were gawking in your direction when the Monk arrived with you in their camp.

He dismounted first, then surprisingly helped you get off of the horse too.

Your attention went to his hands and how they restlessly fumbled with the rope he was leading you along with.

Upon arriving at a large tent, the Monk walked in.

There you were faced with the priest who was causing so much suffering across the lands.

Father Carden had been speaking with some older paladins, his focus went to the Monk before it went to you “What is this ?”

The Monk took you by the arm and moved you forward.

All those years ago, Father must have seen enough markings of the Ash Folk clan to see the resemblance with yours.

Father Carden dismissed the paladins “Leave us.”

They hurried passed you out of the tent and the priest approached while staring at you.

There was joy on his face “Where did you find this girl, my son.”

The Monk left out some parts of it “In one of the carriages that were smuggling Fey.”

“Is she what I think she is ?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Are you sure ?”

“Yes, Father. She is of the Ash Folk.”

You were left very confused as to why this seemed to make the priest happy.

But the priest had good reason to be pleased with your existence. Years ago he had chosen only one child of the Ash Folk and regretted not choosing another.

His Weeping Monk had become his sword of light, if he had known this in the past he surely would have left more children of the Ash Folk alive to raise for serving the Church’s mission.

Father Carden saw a rare opportunity, his Weeping Monk and a girl, perhaps it was not too late to rectify the lack of Ash Folk offspring to serve the Church.

The priest went over to the Monk and placed his hands on the Monk’s shoulders “You have done well, My son.”

He had not seen Father look so pleased in weeks.

Still, he did not know what would be expected now “What must be done with her, Father.”

Father Carden was already planning everything in his mind “She will be brought to the monastery where she will be kept under watch. There they will make sure that our newest hope does not flee.”

You didn’t know what to think and questioned out loud “What do you mean with ‘hope’ ?”

The priest smiled wickedly “We have many plans for you, girl.”

It had sounded so patronizing “Girl ? I have a name !”

Hearing you snap at him wiped that stupid grimace from his face.

He looked at the Monk expectantly, who had no idea what your name was either.

He had not asked, it was not common to ask for the names of those he captured or killed, it would make matters more personal than needed be.

Father Carden did not show genuine interest “Who are you then ?”

You arched a brow, a smug smirk plastered on your face.

It was only when the Monk gave a warning nudge to your arm that you told them what your name was “It’s y/n. Now tell me why I am being held captive !”

The defiance was met with a threat by the priest “You will understand soon. You would do well to do what is asked off you, it could become very unpleasant for you otherwise.”

Red Paladins were called into the tent again and the Monk was told to hand you over to them.

Why was it giving him the feeling that something about all of this was wrong ?

What was Father not telling him ?

The command was given by the priest “Take her away. She will travel to the monastery early tomorrow.”

They weren’t gentle when they pulled you out of the tent, the last thing you saw of the Monk were those weeping eyes that carried a hint of remorse that you believed to be only in your imagination.

He turned to Father after you were removed from the tent “Why is the girl being brought to the monastery, Father ?”

Hope… that was what Father had called you.

But why ?

He knew Father had always wanted to know whether other Ash Folk still existed or not, but why was he so pleased about it ? Was the cleansing of all Fey clans not the ultimate goal ?

He had believed Father would interrogate you further at least, perhaps he would have learned more of his heritage as well.

But that did not seem to be Father’s plan for you.

Father knew his monk would have question “We have important matters to discuss, my son.”

   oooOOoOOOoOoooOOo

  You had tried to escape countless times, but Father Carden had made certain that fleeing was impossible.

The door of the room was constantly guarded outside, the window was nailed shut from the outside too. The only light in the bland room was those of candles placed around the place.

For the tenth day after being brought to their musty monastery, you sat on the floor next to the bed and played with the fire of one of the candles.

Many years ago you had done the same with green flames, Fey Fire.

After the slaughter of your clan, the Fey Fire had vanished alongside it, like one could not existed without the other. Tales spoke of one remaining green flame, but no one knew where to find it.

It would burn as long as there is hope.

If it truly was just a rumor, than hope was long lost for the Fey.

But that did not mean that they would not continue their fight until the bitter end.

If the Church wanted to control these lands, they would have to bring everything to the war they had started.

Perhaps that one flame would fade when the last of the Ash Folk did too.

You let the candle fire lick your fingertips, feeling only a tingling sensation as the flame turned into tiny ashes before it could even touch your skin.

Fire had no power over your clan, you turned the flames into ashes.

The place was boring and you still did not understand what they wanted with you.

Every morning you were brought a bucket of water to clean yourself with and during the day you received meals.

It was odd.

Why did they bother keeping you alive ? Why were you important ?

The sound of the door unlocking no longer fazed you, your attention never left the flame.

Boots hit the wooden floorboards, only taking a few steps into the room before the door was closed again.

Little by little, you lifted your eyes from the flame and met those of the Monk “Are you finally here to kill me or are they waiting for me to be bored to death ?”

Ten days had past since he last saw you, ten full days and you had remained just as angry at him.

It was impressive.

It had taken him so long to collect the courage to come here. He had tried to avoid it, but Father would no longer listen to excuses.

He stepped closer, dropping his sights to the flame that always threatened but never burned your skin “You are too valuable to kill, y/n.”

Your attention left the flame and you rose from the ground “Valuable ? To whom ?”

The Monk stated the truth “To your clan.”

A bitter laugh escaped you “The Ash Folk are gone, Monk. We’re the only ones left.”

Again he took a step closer “And that is what makes you so valuable.”

You could just sense that he was dancing around the truth “Why the hell are you here ?”

He began with confidence “Father has decided…” and lost it when finishing the sentence “…that to ensure the continuation of the Ash Folk, we shall be wed.”

Did…

Did he just…

With a large step, you backed away from him “What did you just say ?!?”

This was as shocking and difficult to him as it was to you. He did not even know you.

But Father was demanding this and refusing would cost him everything he had fought for, including the respect of Father.

He need to do what was necessary and serve the Church.

The Monk tried to step closer again but you looked seconds away from trying to flee “We are a chance to prevent your clan from going extinct.”

For a moment you just felt rooted to the floor, this was why they were keeping you here…

You were so shocked to hear it that you didn’t fully register him getting closer again.

He actually took the risk and placed a hand tentatively on your shoulder.

You recoiled from the touch and pushed him away roughly, then bolted for the door in the hope that it was unlocked.

It was not, the door did not budge.

For the first time since long, tears streamed down your face at the prospect of being forced to marry this monk.

You kept pulling at the door with all your strength, desperate to flee, screaming for those outside to let you out off there.

Suddenly two arms locked you in their hold, ending your attempts.

Of course you tried to break free of the Monk’s hold on you “Let go off me !!! LET GO !”

His grip did not loosen and it was terribly unexpected when he proceeded to hush you “Do not be afraid. I will not harm you.”

The jab you gave him in the side with your elbow made him groan in pain.

Was this the woman who was to be his wife ?

After struggling against him for more than a minute, you started to lose the energy.

He gave it another try to calm you down, voice close to your ear “You do not have to fight, not with me.”

How could he sound so calming to you ?

You were more than a little bitter “The vow of celibacy is forgotten quickly, it seems. The Church bends the rules when they do not fit their purpose. You’re just going to use me like a brood mare.”

He hated the description “That is what Father wishes. Not I.”

You were trying to piece together the truth about it all “What do you want then ?”

Again he risked to caress your shoulder “I cannot refuse to wed you. But I can promise not to share your bed, as long as you do not tell anyone, no one will know.”

You tried to convince him, calmer this time “Please, let go off me.”

This time he did, he even took a small step back to give you space.

Turning quickly, you faced him again “I don’t even know your name. All I know is that they call you the ‘Weeping Monk’. And that you are like me, my clan…”

It took a while for him to speak “A long time ago, my name was Lancelot. I was brought to Father, when I was a child. I was spared from the cleansing and in return I serve those who have granted me a chance to earn salvation.”

He had been stolen from your clan when he was a child ?

You weren’t going to make it sound like this was not a terrible thing “They stole you from our people. And now they are doing the same with me.” there was a bitter scoff “Are they going to twist my mind about the Fey too ?”

The Monk remained quiet and began to walk around the room a bit.

It was obvious that he was not very willing to speak of the matter. So you decided to ask him another question “Why does Father Carden want more Ash Folk ?”

He parroted the words Father had told him “Their abilities would help the Church’s mission.”

It came out sharp “Our children would be weapons, like you !”

It silenced him like a knife to the heart.

‘Like you’…

It was the cold hard truth.

All he prayed for was the chance to raise any children he might have with the love of a Father that he had not received himself.

This was his duty, the personal task Father had bestowed on him, there was no escaping it.

Not unless he lost everything in return.

But that did not mean that his children would be treated as he had been.

He leaned against the wall “You are the first Ash Folk I have seen since the cleansing that brought me to Father. A child of Sky and Ash…” carefully he breached the subject “If we were to indeed have children, we would no longer be the last of our kind. Is that not something you would want ?”

You gave a jab to his ego and confidence “You believe your seed is strong enough to ensure any children would be Ash Folk and not Sky Folk ?”

Right away, he averted his eyes.

Such manner of speaking was not something he was used to.

His voice was quieter “My parents were full blooded.”

Alright…if that was indeed the case then any children he produced would be born with the Ash Folk markings and abilities.

The blood of the Ash Folk ran stronger than any other clan.

With arms crossed over your chest, you spoke “If this wedding is unavoidable, so be it. But I won’t let you anywhere near my bed. Find someone else to carry your children.”

There was a shallow nod “Can I expect you to be discreet with this ? I cannot stop this union, but I can ignore to tell Father that a consummation will not take place. You will be safe and I will have nothing to answer for.”

An agreement that benefited both. You had your life and he would not be bothered by the Red Priest.

In time, if patient, a chance to flee would arise again.

Smugly you promised “You have my word. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them we are very eagerly trying to conceive.”

Again the Monk looked quite stunned by your brash way of speaking.

He cleared his throat and headed for the door “The ceremony takes place tomorrow evening. I shall be here again.”

You saw him look at you as if he expected a goodbye, instead you turned around and ignored him.

The door quietly closed and you heard it be locked again.

Tomorrow everything would change, but if you played along, things could be turned to your advantage.

   oOOoOOOoOooOOooOOo

   The hasty wedding ceremony could not be called ‘romantic’ at all. You were made to wear a dress that was too long and dragged over the floor. Gods, you missed your comfortable trousers fit for running when needed. There was the usual vows that they just forced you to repeat after them.

Then, when they required the ceremony to be sealed with a kiss, the two paladins holding you by the arms shoved you right in front of the Monk.

Your neutral expression changed and became one of anxiousness.

And when you finally looked at his face, you saw the same.

This had to be done…

The wait felt long, the Monk appeared far more anxious about this than you.

It made you feel pity for him, it was starting to become clear that he was forced into this too.

He was the Weeping Monk, but he was also Fey and one of the last two of your clan…

Perhaps there could be a way to bond with him over this whole ordeal.

He was still hesitating to seal the ceremony and you asked the paladins, politely for once, to let go off your arms.

Of course they refused, but the Monk gave it a moment of thought and then commanded them to let go.

For the first time in days you were not being restraint by paladins or a locked room.

And by The Hidden, the pity you felt for the man in front of you was what stopped you from running.

When you took another step closer to him, the paladins got ready to grab you again, which he prevented with one simple look.

You placed your hands on the Monk’s shoulders, pulling at them somewhat to steer him.

It was meant to be a quick peck to seal the ordeal, but when your lips touched his…

What was it that made him give in to it ?…

Was it when your breath warmed his lips ?

Or when you held on to his shoulders more ?

He only came back to his senses when he could feel his markings threaten to respond to the kiss that he did not expect to want.

With a hand on your elbow, he moved you backwards.

The seal was given.

Your gaze did not leave the floor again until the ceremony was completely over.

Again the paladins took hold of you and made certain you would not run.

Father Carden showed himself only to speak to the Monk, briefly telling him again what was expected of him no doubt.

The talking paladins around you made it impossible to overhear them, all you saw was that the Monk avoided looking at the priest.

Shame… there was shame.

You were walked back to the room you had spend days in already, only when almost at the room did the Monk catch up with the paladins escorting you.

At the sight of him and his signal, they handed you over to him.

With a nod from the Monk, they opened the door for you and he let you walk into the room first.

Only when the door was shut behind you again did he let go off your arm.

Creating a distance between you and him was the first thing you did.

There was a reason why he was with you in the room now.

You confronted him “He expects you to bed me. Doesn’t he ?”

It was what Father had indeed told him to do.

The Monk sounded honest “He does. I do not.”

You moved one of the candles in the room “If I tell you to leave. They’ll know nothing happened or think that you are just…quick.”

For the first time, there was a scoff that sounded like a chuckle “It would be best for both of us if we act the part. Allow me to stay for a while ?”

With a gesture around you, you told him “Make yourself at home, oh wait… this is your home, is it not ?”

Again he ignored the sarcasm.

You sat down on your bed, barely hiding the pout “I’d always thought that my wedding would be something very different.”

He shared that opinion “What would it have been like, if you could have chosen ?”

With a shrug of the shoulders, you admitted “I don’t know… I had hoped it would be romantic at least. Not this.”

Romantic ? It was a fair expectation to have.

The Monk picked a candle up from the floor, the one you had been playing with yesterday.

He stopped in front of you, then with caution, took place next to you.

You didn’t move away and he turned a bit to face you.

The candle was held out for you, the flame offered.

The Monk shared a look with you and you brought your fingertips to the flame while he held the candle still.

The small ashes, that were born from the flame touching your skin, twirled down unto his hand.

It fascinated him to see another, an Ash Woman, play with the flame.

His expression had softened, tone lighter “The Ash Folk and fire, one could never separate them.”

You pulled your hand back abruptly, this was giving you the feeling that he was trying to gain your favor “Unlike you, I don’t use it to burn the world to the ground.

He rose to his feet and placed the candle on the bedside table.

It had hit a nerve in him, the bitter response fell “I never would have chosen someone like you as a wife.”

With equal disdain, you stood up and threw the words in his face “You can’t handle a woman like me, you arrogant bastard !”

You found yourself pulled against his chest, grabbed by the throat and kissed like he intended to prove you wrong.

He never would have chosen someone like you, but now that he had a fiery wife who was not afraid to speak her mind…

It was exciting and so different than he was used to.

You felt drawn into the kiss, drawn to this arrogant bastard who continued to get on your nerves.

As a last attempt to spare yourself from the trouble it could bring, you broke free and slapped him across the face.

For a second his attention was fixed on the ground, then slowly it rose to your face again.

Even after that slap, you could detect a certain look in his eyes that you undoubtedly had in yours too.

Expectation…

Who were you trying to fool ?

You were back against him not a blink of an eye later, hands grasping at his shoulders and neck to hold him close.

Never before had you kissed someone with such demand, it was his fault you were here and you wished for something in return.

The blood of the Ash Folk ran through both of you, you had not expected someone like him to still grow and have the characteristics of them.

Arrogant, clever, stubborn and…passionate.

That heightened sense of smell was known to have lead many Ash Men to their significant other.

‘They’re hard to resist’ is what your mother had told you about meeting your father. Gods, she had been right.

When you began to try and undress him, it startled him greatly.

You boldly took his hands and gave him a clear signal that he could do the same with you.

Only when you kissed him again and pleadingly called him by his name did he start to do so.

Not much later you ended up back on the bed with him hovering above you.

Your wedding had been boring, your wedding night would not be.

  oOoOoOOOooOoOoOoOOOoOoo

  By morning you were awake and dressed in your own attire again. In the heat of the moment, this Ash Man had confessed to be inexperienced, something you had barely noticed.

You stood beside the bed, he was still vast asleep. For a moment you knelt down and placed a hand over his.

He had been tender and caring, it had been mixed with a burning passion that left you a moaning mess in his hands.

It was lovely.

If only the circumstances had been different…

You rose to your feet and took the sword from the ground that had been hastily taken off and tossed aside the night before.

After a look over your shoulder at him, you walked back over to your sleeping spouse and placed a soft kiss to his temple.

You would miss those eyes…

  ooOOooOoOooOoOoOOo

  When Lancelot woke up that morning, he woke up to the fading of your scent.

His sword was gone and the two paladins guarding the door had been killed, it was not hard to understand what had happened.

Of course he was disappointed, had last night meant nothing to you ?

He refused to believe that it had all been part of a plan of yours to be able to flee.

The way you had embraced him, kissed him and moaned his name into his mouth…

And he was alive, it would have been easy for you to kill him if you had wanted to do so.

A paladin approached him the moment he set foot outside the monastery, he barely dared to look at him “Brother…your horse is gone.”

Why did it not surprise him ?

The paladin was dismissed and looked rather relieved by it.

He could not be angry, not after last night.

Maybe he was even a little impressed by your will to fight and reclaim your freedom.

Father had heard the news and came to speak to him “The girl has fled.”

Those weeping eyes were fixed on the grass “She did so while I still slept. Forgive me, Father.”

Father did not look pleased in the slightest “Did you at least fulfill your task with her ?”

He felt his cheeks burn when understanding what was asked “Yes, Father.”

Though, he had not done it to fulfill a task.

But now there was a chance that you were with child, his child, and he might never see you again.

Father was not as disappointed, there was still hope “We’ll find the girl.”

The Monk risked asking “Let me search for her, Father.”

The priest agreed “Very well. Find her and bring her back. She belongs to the Church now.”

After he gave a respectful inclination of the head, Father walked away from him.

He had lost and gained so much in a single evening and night.

He went to bed with his wife and woke up without her, without his sword and without his horse.

An actual chuckle left him, at least you would keep him entertained.

It made him all the more eager to pursue the girl who became his wife and who had stolen not just his horse and sword but also a piece of his heart.

Taglist:

@ourlazydetectivekitten​ @the-great-adventures-of-me​ @linkpk88​  @fxrchxldws​  @elenaoftheturks​ @slytherlight​ @beananacake​    @crystallizedtime​  @moonlightaura03​  @angrygardendeer​  @have-aheart​  @5am-cigarette​ @arcanenature​  @thewinterskywalker​ @notyourwildestdream​ @coloursforyourportrait​ @koressecretidentity​ @nike90​ @n1ghtlux​ @rachlovesactors​ @luckyzipperscissorsbat​ @morena-doing-stuff​  @the-fangirl-diaries​​ @gipsydanger17​​ @heavenly1927​​  @phantasmalbeiing  @labyrinthonmymind​​  @asarcastic-thiamstan  

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist of this story.

[captainjaspenor]

Fire in My Bones

So I haven't written anything in YEARS, especially not fanfiction, but what can I say? I've been inspired. Anway, here is my first stab at fanfiction in neary ten years. This will be a multi-chapter fic. Please read and let me know if you'd like to be on the tag list.

Show: Cursed

Pairing: Weeping Monk x Reader

Warnings: Violence

Summary: I tried to write one and honestly I sucked at it, so here is a little excerpt instead.

"From the trees, shrouded in smoke, he emerges. The Weeping Monk. Around you the terrified screams of the Fey and the pained groans of the dying fade away. You forget the acrid smell and taste of the smoke and ash as it burns your throat and lungs. You forget Nimue, who is hiding behind you, clutching at your cloak, shaking like a leaf."

Chapter 1: I Saw A City Burning

You see the smoke and know it has to be coming from your village. 

Nimue. 

You dig you heels into your horse’s side and take off at a gallop. You hear the screams and the fighting before you reach the town. As you come to a halt at the top of the last hill to look down at your village, you see the small huts the Sky Folk use as homes are ablaze. The Sky Folk are running around in a panic, pursued by figures robed in red. Red paladins. You heart skips a beat in your chest. Part of you wants to flee into the countryside and leave the Sky Folk to their ruin, but you know you can’t leave Nimue and Lenore behind. You dismount give your horse, Xanthos, a reassuring pat. You hate to go on without him, but you know he is safer in the Iron Wood. And a horse would do you no good in this chaos. You unsheathe your sword and check that your dagger is in place in case you need it. You lift the small pendant hanging from the chain around your neck to your lips and kiss it before tucking it safely into your shirt. 

You take off in a swift jog toward the center of town. The smell of smoke overwhelms your senses and your eyes begin to water almost immediately. You drop into a crouch next to one of the huts that isn’t entirely engulfed in flames and survey the scene in front of you. Many of the Sky Folk are fleeing for their lives, but some brave souls have turned to face their enemies head on and are engaged in battles that are often to the death. You look around, hoping to spot Nimue or Lenore, but you don’t see anyone you recognize. You send up a small prayer that they’ve already gotten themselves out of the village, but you won’t leave until you’re sure they’re safe. Your best chance at finding them in in their hut, but that means running headlong into the fighting in front of you. You swipe at the sweat gathering at your brow and readjust your grip on your blade. 

You sprint toward the next still standing shelter a dozen yards ahead of you. A red paladin falls to the ground in front of you, with a spear sticking out of his thigh. He screams and clutches at his leg, but before he has too much time to feel the pain from the wound, you deliver a quick thrust to his chest. The man tries to let out a startled yell, but only a small cough comes out and droplets of blood splatter on his chin. You shove your foot against him to free your blade. You don’t stick around to watch as the life leaves his eyes.

You try to move quickly, but your path is often cut off by people locked in duels for their lives or panicked animals trying to escape the fire that is spreading around you. You duck as another arrow flies over your head. This one was closer than the rest. Before the archer can take aim again, you run. You’re almost to the hut you’d planned on hiding behind for cover when a red paladin on a horse spots you and changes course toward you. He brings his sword up to strike but you wait until it starts to come down before you roll to the side. His swing goes wide as he races past. He yanks on the reins and turns the horse around to come for another pass, but you’ve already snagged one of your throwing daggers from your boot. It hits him square in the eye and he falls backward off his horse, dead. You keep moving. 

Ahead Lenore and Nimue’s hut still stands, one of the few homes that have not yet been set alight. You push your way past the hides that serve as the door and enter the small dwelling. You are both delighted and dismayed to see that neither woman is here. You don’t have much time; this place could go up in smoke at any moment. You cross to the corner where Lenore keeps a chest with the family’s valuables. Inside you grab the coin purse that holds Lenore’s life savings and tucks it into your pocket for safekeeping. You then go to where your own belongings are stored. You dig beneath your flimsy mattress to pull out your own, much lighter coin purse. In the dresser you share with Nimue, you retrieve three more daggers, which you slide into your boots. You take one last look around at the small hut that had served as your home for the last thirteen years and try to commit it to memory. 

You step out of the hut but stayed hidden under the slanted roof. It wasn’t much, but even if it only obscures you a little bit, it is better than standing out in the open. At least this way, you know your back is covered. Beneath a hut not far ahead, a familiar figure is hiding in a similar fashion. Nimue!

You can’t believe it. You’d found her! After checking that no red paladins were looking your way, you run to the hut Nimue is crouched beside. “Nimue!”

“(Y/N)! Oh, thank the gods you’re here. I can’t find Mother! And one of the red paladins grabbed Pym!” Nimue pulls you in for a desperate hug. 

“I checked the hut. Your mother isn’t there. Do you think she ran?” you ask.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.” Nimue is panicking, you can tell, but now isn’t the time. 

“Think, Nimue. You know your mother better than anyone. Where would she go?”

“I guess, she… she’d go to the… I-I don’t know,” Nimue says and begins to cry.

“Okay. It’s okay. We’ll find her. And after we find Lenore, we’ll find Pym.” You reassure her. “It’ll be okay, Nimue.” Nimue doesn’t look sure, but she gives you a weak smile anyway and, honestly, you appreciate the effort. 

You check around you and see if any red paladins have spotted you. Fortunately, it seems as though no one is the wiser of two Fey girls hiding almost in plain sight. You try to mentally plot out the best place to search for Lenore without being seen…or without being seen by more red paladins than you can take on in a fair fight. You’re only just coming up with a plan when Nimue begins to violently shake your arm. 

“What?” Nimue doesn’t answer, only continues to shake your arm. “What, Nimue?” You look at her, concentration broken. You realize Nimue is terrified. You turn on your heels to look where she is staring, and your heart catches in your throat. This is what you had been afraid of before.

From the trees, shrouded in smoke, he emerges. The Weeping Monk. Around you the terrified screams of the Fey and the pained groans of the dying fade away. You forget the acrid smell and taste of the smoke and ash as it burns your throat and lungs. You forget Nimue, who is hiding behind you, clutching at your cloak, shaking like a leaf. 

He is dressed from head to toe in black and gray. Even his horse is as black as pitch. Speaking of his horse, it’s the biggest horse you have ever seen, standing at least two hands taller than your own. Reluctantly you draw your eyes away from the mass of black muscle and take in the monk for the first time. He rides slowly. Confidently. As if he doesn’t have a care in the world. As if Fey aren’t being slaughtered all around him.

He dismounts and immediately two red paladins come up to take the reins from him. It takes the both of them to lead the horse away. You watch as the monk walks up to an older man and drops to one knee. You wonder who this older man is to command such respect from someone as dangerous as the monk. The older man greets his younger compatriot by putting a hand on his shoulder. You realize they must know each other well, with the familiarity the two share. The monk rises as the two converse and you become entranced by the interaction in front of you. The spell is broken when you feel Nimue tug at your arm once more. 

“(Y/N)! (Y/N)! It’s Squirrel!” Nimue says. You tear your eyes away from the pair in front of you to look over and see the small boy in question wandering aimlessly and dragging a large sword behind him. You realize if he keeps walking this way he’ll be right in the monk’s line of sight. You glance anxiously back at the older paladin and the monk, but they continue to talk, unaware of the young boy headed straight for them.

You have to move. Fast. “Come on.” You grab Nimue’s hand and drag her behind you as you sprint for Squirrel. You pass mere feet from the monk, but the gods must be on your side today, because he doesn’t seem to notice two stray Fey women.

You reach Squirrel and Nimue tells him to follow the two of you as you lead them around an abandoned wagon into one of the last standing structures. “In here,” you tell them. 

The three of you duck beneath the safety of the roof. With your back to them, you keep your eyes on the battle going on outside. You know that you are all that stands between them and a red paladin’s blade. You overhear Nimue tell Squirrel to go hide in Old Man Rock in the Iron Wood and you can’t help but smile, despite all that is going on around you. You’d taught her that when you both were children. 

The two talk for a moment more before Squirrel darts out from behind and disappears into the trees. You make sure he isn’t followed, but no one sees the small boy and as quick as he is, he’s out of sight in no time. You’re thankful he’s out of harm’s way. One less person to worry about. 

“Squirrel says he saw Mother near the temple.” Nimue tells you.

“Then that’s the first place we’ll look.” You say and go to exit the hut. 

“No.” Nimue pulls you back down. “I want you to go with Squirrel and make sure he stays safe.

“If you think I’m leaving you behind, Nimue, then you don’t know me very well. There are dozens of red paladins out there and they’ll kill you if they catch you. They don’t care if you’re girl.” You argue. 

“I can handle a few red paladins.” Nimue argues. 

“You can handle them better with me.”

“(Y/N), I don’t need you to protect me!” Nimue snaps. “Besides, it doesn’t matter what you want. When Mother isn’t here, you take orders from me.” 

“It doesn’t work like that when your life is in danger,” you retort.

Nimue sighs. “Then I’m not ordering you. I’m asking you, as my friend. Please, keep Squirrel safe. He’s like family to me. Please,” Nimue asks. 

You clench your teeth and let out a growl of frustration, but give her a curt nod. “I will protect him with my life.”

“Thank you.”

You stand and pull Nimue over to the edge of the hut. You point out a nearly hidden path in the brush a few yards away. “The quickest way to the temple is down that path. It’s not used anymore, so you shouldn’t run to anyone.” You bend down, pull a dagger from your boot, and offer it to her. “For protection.” 

Nimue smiles and takes the dagger from your hand. “Go,” she says.

You spare one last glace at the ruined village behind you before turning and sprinting off into the woods after Squirrel.

_____

And that’s a wrap on Chapter 1! The title of the fic and the title of the chapter are lyrics from songs. Let me know if you figure out which song the chapter title is from!

In the next chapter, the Reader will meet the Monk for the first time, and let’s just say, sparks will fly. 

Thanks again for reading, and let me know what you think!

[emma-ofnormandy]

Nothing But Understanding (Weeping Monk x Reader)

Summary: Everyone needs a person to take them just as they are... and to patch them up when they turn against everything they've ever known.

Pairing: Weeping Monk x Reader

Rating: Teen

Warning: Spoilers for end of Season 1

A/N: First go at writing for this fandom. Im hoping to keep it up. Have a Gawain x Reader one shot in the works and I’ll entertain other Weeping Monk x Reader or Gawain x Reader prompt ideas! Cross posted to my AO3 if you prefer that format. Click Here

__________________________

The tune from the bard’s lute hummed beneath the scraping of stools and clattering of steins, the lyrics lost amongst the chatter of drunken laborers who had come to drown out the misery of current times. The tavern smelled of horse and man, the stench strong enough to make those of finer tastes turn their nose up at the door and retreat from the establishment in search of something more respectable.

As a child the tavern had served as a place of refuge, an escape from the streets that you would have otherwise called home and now, as an adult, it provided you with a freedom few women of the era would ever know.

You laughed along with the men that sat at the bar as a blacksmith and woodworker duked it out over a game of dice. You had worked painstakingly hard to make a reputation for yourself amongst the patrons of the tavern, locals and travelers alike had been won over through years of hard work and hospitality, your sex becoming an insignificant issue when good ale and hearty laughs were served regularly.

The bond between you and the men that drank here grew stronger through the years; you provided them with an escape after a hard day’s work and, in some cases from nagging wives, and in turn they looked out for your wellbeing. You had weathered the storms of unrest and riots, years of depression and poverty, disease and death with the help of these men and now you found yourself coming up against a new beast, one with divine backing.

Rumblings of the Red Paladin making circles near the village in search of the hunted Fey had begun to make the rounds, blood staining the woods and outer dwellings in search of sinners and you knew it would be only a matter of time before they came barging in and destroying everything you built in search of things they believed you harbored.

Movement at the main door drew your attention from the pints you were pouring, irritation bubbling in your blood when the hooded figure caught your gaze before making his way to the back corner of the room, a young boy in tow behind him.

A hush settled amongst the patrons as all eyes were on the newcomer, a few even jumping from their tables and hurrying from the tavern. Fey and humans alike feared what the hooded man represented and you wouldn’t be surprised if those leaving were sounding the alarm to those within the village walls.

Whispers began to grow amongst the crowd as some checked for the weapons they carried at their side, as if making sure they were prepared for a fight they knew was coming. The tavern had seen its fair share of scuffles, but you had no intention of allowing a holy war to break out amongst drunk men and the man in the corner, even if he was the enemy of many.

Uncomfortable with the growing tension in the room and wanting attention drawn elsewhere, you slammed an empty stein on the bar top, pulling focus from the monk to the front of the tavern.

“Next round is on the house boys!” You exclaimed into a sea of cheers, gaze sweeping over the crowd before locking with the one hidden beneath the hood.

Motioning to your help to start filling, you added an extra stein to the tray you had been prepping and made your way across the ale soaked floor. Dropping a round with the visitors that had rode in from the North, you carried the last mug to the table claimed by the newcomer.

Given the current climate, he was the last man you’d been expecting to walk through the doors. It was no secret that you served human and Fey alike, it was one of the few taverns that did, but up until today the monk has steered clear of your establishment despite that. You liked to think it was out of mutual respect and friendship, after all you never fought him on his chosen path despite your disdain for the church, but perhaps you’d been wrong all these years and his presence here meant your relationship was about to take a turn for the worst.

His dark gaze tracked you like a beast watching its prey, his features void of any discernible emotion as you pulled up beside the table. The unknown boy, however, watched you with fearful eyes, unsure if you were friend or foe and primed to run if the latter was true. The child’s presence threw you for a loop and piqued your curiosity; there seemed to be no hostility between the pair and the boy appeared to look to the monk for protection when rumblings started amongst the rest. Protecting the child certainly didn’t mesh with the current narrative that followed the Red Paladin’s most effective weapon, but when it came to this man there was always more beneath the surface than one would assume.

The air around them hung heavy with the musky smell of travel, a faint tinge of iron hit you and the blood stained clothes of the monk confirmed the travel had been less than pleasant.

Gaze sweeping over the pair, you settled a cold glare on the older man, venom lacing your words. “What’ll you have?”

His lips tipped up in a smirk despite himself. When he had realized just what tavern they had ended up outside of, he’d expected your normal dose of irritation, but this was the first time he’d been met with such temper.

“Not the warm welcome you're known to have,” he quipped, body shifting in an attempt to ease the pain in his side.

You didn’t miss the way he moved in his seat, or the way his breathing hitched now and again. The man was obviously in more discomfort than he was willing to let on, but you intended to voice your annoyance with him before offering the help you knew he came for.

“I don’t  appreciate you waltzing into the main room and stirring up trouble in my place of business,” you bit out.

He was well aware of the rules when it came to coming in here and his carelessness could ruin you. The tavern was a place for all kinds and if it got out the feared Weeping Monk was welcome with open arms, you would be done for.

Teeth clenched in irritation, the monk did his best to keep an even tone, though his anger was easy to see. “That’s how it’s going to be after all this time?”

“Thought your kind didn’t venture into places like this,” you continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

The monk growled. “And what kind is that?”

“Of the red paladin variety.”

Just their name on your lips made your blood run cold. No matter what your relationship was with the man in front of you, Father Carden and his merry band of murderers were a stain on this land and they needed to be stopped.

“I am not-“ A heavy sigh passed his lips and he dropped his head, hood hiding his features. “We have parted ways.”

You felt the anger begin to subside at his admission, concern taking its place. If what he was saying was true, if he had truly forsaken the Red Paladin, it wouldn’t be long before they were calling for his head. And the heads of anyone who harbored him.

“Who is she?” the boy interrupted, his green eyes jumping from the monk to you and back again.

Pulled from your thoughts, you focused on the small Fey child. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m Squirrel,” he declared confidently.

Charmed by his innocence, you placed the extra stein you’d brought in front of the monk and shifted so the boy had a clear view of the bar.

“Well Squirrel, if you go through that door behind the bar, I bet you’ll find something sweet to hold you over till you get a real meal,” you enticed, head motioning to the lone door when his green gaze lit up with excitement.

A smile spread across your lips as the child scurried for the back of the bar, the prospect of sweets more important than any danger that could be lurking in the strange place he’d found himself in.

Shifting once again to try and get comfortable despite his injuries, the monk waited till Squirrel had disappeared through the doors to address you. “I just got on my horse and rode. I didn’t know we were headed here-“

You raised your hand to silence him. “How bad.”

A sigh of relief passed his lips, as if a weight was lifted from his shoulders. “I’ll survive.”

The corners of your lips quirked, a sad smile gracinging your features as you gave his frame a final once over, confirming for yourself that he wasn’t going to bleed out all over your table.

“Your regular room is available. I’ll be round with some dressings after a while,” you said, doing your best to curb the worry that threatened to shake your voice. “Till then, drink a bit.”

Pushing the stein closer, you gave him one last fleeting look, then turned back towards the rest of the patrons. “It’ll take the edge off.”

A faint chuckle met your ears as you retreated behind the bar, but you refused to look back and let him see the concern in your eyes.

//

Cheers and shouts from the tavern below carried up the dark stairwell, your late night patrons attended to by your help while you saw to more pressing matters in the rooms you kept above.

After a hot meal and a second sweet for good measure, Squirrel had unapologetically claimed the bed in the room beside yours and swiftly fallen into a sound sleep. Not wanting to wake him, or traumatize him more than he’s already been, you took to mending the monk in your own quarters.

Settled on a milkmaids stool you’d plucked from the neighbors barn, you steadily worked to stitch the worst of the monks injuries with just the light of a candle to guide you. Bowls of red tinged water and scraps of cloth cluttered the floor beneath your feet, the room slowly starting to look like a healer’s hut the longer you worked.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched your patient glare at the bare ceiling, the muscles of his jaw jumping as he ground his molars in frustration. Despite the physical pain he was experiencing, you knew his demeanor had nothing to do with the stitches and everything to do with whatever moral battle he was fighting in his head.

Wanting to pull him from his own head, you spoke matter of factly while moping at the blood that seeped from the wound you were working on. “Circling through the same thoughts over and over again isn’t going to give you a different answer.”

“Did you pick up a gift since the last time we saw each other?” He muttered, sucking a breath through his teeth as you tied off the last of the stitches.

You chuckled. “No gift. Just years of ale pouring and an aptitude for knowing when someone is hurting.”

“Why not just ask what happened,” the monk questioned as he slowly sat up on the bed.

A groan passed his lips when he moved to swing his legs over the side, the effort more than he realized but the pain was subsiding and the bleeding had stopped thanks to your handy work.

Wiping the blood from your hands you watched the monk for a moment, making sure none of the stitches popped. In the back of your mind you had a sneaking suspicion that the church was responsible for the damage, after all it would take a skill greater than most had to land a blow on the munk, but you wanted to hear him confirm it.

“Who did this to you?” You finally asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “The trinity guard.”

The emotionless admission left a cold pit low in your stomach. No matter what your opinions were on the campaign against the Fey, the church had been the monk’s family most of his life and to have them turn on him in such a fashion was bound to leave a lasting impression.

Suspicion confirmed, you rose from your stool and stretched your tired back and gave him a sad smile. “Safe to assume the church isn’t pleased with your change of heart.”

“I didn’t-“

You stopped his denial before it could pass his lips. “Pretty sure the church doesn’t try to kill those who follow orders.”

A grunt of acceptance was all the monk could muster. Eyes downcast, the monk focused on the mess that scattered the floor; he knew he had taken a hit in his fight with the trinity guard, but up until now he hadn’t realized how severe it had been.

“And the boy?” You continued as you carried an armful of supplies to the makeshift table you’d set up, dropping the bloodied cloth amongst the mess that had collected there.

Brows furrowed, the monk watched you fiddle around with scraps of clean linen before taking up the stein you’d brought with you. He had been so tied up in his own problems, he’d almost forgotten the sleeping Fey child in the next room.

“What about him?” The monk asked, unsure where your question was heading.

Eyeing him over the rim of your mug, you rolled your eyes. “How’d he end up with you?”

“They were going to kill him,” he muttered.

The scene from camp flashed in his memory. Fey or not, a child is an innocent and the death of one at his hand was not something he would permit. It was all thanks to the boy that they had made it this fart; without the child’s encouragement he had been ready to take death into his heart and accept the fate that was waiting for him.

“How’d they get ahold of him in the first place?” Settling beside him on the bed you offered him the mug, taking another pull for yourself when he shook his head. “I can’t imagine he has any information worth holding him for.”

The monk rubbed at the stubble on his chin, uncomfortable with the conversation at hand. “He’d come to camp trying to rescue another.”

“Another?” You questioned.

A heavy sigh passed his lips, his unease with the answer obvious. “The Green Knight.”

The name felt heavy on his tongue, as if it was a sin just to speak it. It was because of him the monk’s future was now up in the air. The Green Knight was responsible for planting the seed of insecurity and he was the reason the monk felt as if he was lost at sea with no rescue in sight.

“And what has become of him?” You asked as innocently as possible. You didn’t take pleasure in digging for information, but information like this would prove important for certain customers.

The monk dropped his chin, his hair obscuring the side of his face and, hopefully, preventing you from seeing the storm he felt brewing within. “I don’t believe he is of this world anymore.”

Silence filled the room as you processed the information. You’d never met the knight, only heard stories of him, but it was well known he was the protector of the Fey. With him gone what would become of the dying race.

Chancing a glance, you watched the monk. Jaw set firm, you didn’t miss the way the muscles jumped as he ground his teeth, or the way he clenched his fists as the silence dragged on. The fate of the man who was supposed to be the enemy affected him more than you’d expected.

“That bothers you.” Offering up the observation as if it was nothing more than a weather forecast, you finished off the ale you’d been holding. “You won’t admit it out loud, but something has changed for you.”

“He knew,” the monk muttered, surprising himself with the admission.

Your brows furrowed, not sure what he was talking about. “Knew what?”

“That I am not like the rest.” His admission was barely audible.

The corners of your lips quirked, the Fey were no fools.

“People know their own kind,” you offered. As adamant as the monk was about denying his heritage, he couldn’t hide his history from the people he came from.

A low growl was all the monk gave you in response.

“The ways of Father Carden are no longer something you can turn a blind eye to,” you continued. You had tried when you both were young to show him what the Father was asking of him was cruel, that love didn’t come with a stipulation but your reasoning had fallen on deaf ears. Perhaps now he would see the truth.

The weight of your words hit him like a punch to the gut.

“If I turn my back on everything the Father has taught me, then what am I!” He exclaimed, the implications of your words bringing out the emotions he had tried to keep corked. The monk ran a hand through his disheveled hair, voice shaking as he pinned you with a broken look.“Without them I am nothing but a demon with no redemption in sight.”

The way he spoke made your heart ache. What it must be like to live a life thinking you are only good as long as you reject every part of who you are.

Grasping his hand in yours, you smiled at him when his tortured eyes met yours. “I would say that little boy in the next room would disagree with you.”

“I’ve killed his people,” the monk scoffed. How could anyone, man or child, look at him and see anything but a monster.

“You also saved his life.” You countered. Intertwining your fingers with his, you settled a steady gaze on his troubled one. “That, Lancelot, is the start of redemption.”

A half hearted smile graced his lips, only you would see the saving of one Fey child as the start of redemption. He gave your hand a squeeze, the weight on his shoulders a little lighter despite what lay ahead. “Been a long time since anyone has called me that.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, his smile a glimpse of the young boy you’d met all those years ago.

“Yes well,” pulling your hand from his, you gave his cheek a fond pat and rose to clean up the rest of the  mess you’d made, “I always found the other alias far too dramatic.”

Grabbing your wrist, Lancelot tugged you back to the bed, stopping just short of pulling you back down beside him. “You are a rare one,” he whispered, his hand reaching up to tuck hair that had escaped your braid behind your ear. “Not sure why you stay around.”

Touched by his words, you rested your lips against his brow for a moment before pulling back, a soft smile on your lips. “Because everyone needs someone in their life that asks nothing of them but understanding.”

[allgirlsareprincesses]

A Song of Ash and Sky - A Cursed Fanfic

Chapter 21 - Betrothal and Betrayal

Nimue shares her plan to marry Arthur in a desperate gamble to take the crown and save the Fey. But her true desires are not so easily dismissed.

“Tell me that kiss meant nothing” he whispered across her lips. “Tell me, and I will go.”

Nimue heard her breath coming in short gasps.

He leaned closer, his voice now only a growl in his throat. “Tell me.”

~~~~~~

FINALLY some smut for y’all. This is the first time I’ve ever attempted to write it, so I hope I did okay!

Thank you for sticking with me thus far as I drag these angsty babies toward their Happily Ever After!

[captainbucky-yt]

"You're Not what I Was Looking For"

-- The Weeping Monk x OC (fem)

Chapter 66: queen of all [x]

Chapter Summary: One evening gives Lancelot and Ari a chance to be free. Old secrets come to light.

Content Warning: -/-

Masterlist: [x]

Taglist: @trenko-heart @nike90 @moonlightaura03 (if you want to be added/removed let me know)

Exert:

Kaze eyed Lancelot for every step, all along the corridor as if ensuring that he did not think about coming back.

“How long has that been going on?” Kaze asked after she shut the door with more grace this time. Her voice was softer than Ari had anticipated.

She moved to Henry’s gift draping from the upright partition, trying to avoid the burning gaze of her friend. But she couldn’t. There was nowhere for her to hide from the truth. 

The answer Kaze was looking for wasn't so straightforward. Since their first kiss? Since Lancelot pulled her from the river? Since the first flutter she'd felt in her body when he was around?

“Since before we arrived at the forest.” Her fingertips ghosted over velvety fabric.

“That long?” Kaze gawked.

Ari nodded, turning towards the bed. She sat, tucking one leg up beneath her, not fully able to meet Kaze’s eyes. She wasn’t prepared to be judged for who she loved today— and Kaze was no stranger to making her talk.

Her friend strolled her way across the room, the weight of her examining gaze prickling awareness on Ari’s skin. “I knew that there was something more to your friendship.”

Fiddling with the laces of her boot on the bed, Ari pushed a tired smile, her chin tucking down toward her chest. It seems that even Kaze had not been fooled by their facades. 

[maaaddiexo]

The Witch’s Tower (The Weeping Monk)

Mainlist | Serieslist

Warnings: cursing

part 1/4 (4 for now; maybe more after second season release)

[part 2]

-

He was in pain. She could tell from a hundred feet away. Part of her curse, she supposed. He and Father Carden had come back to the grounds after weeks of hunting the Fey folk and she could feel in the air that not all was good. Something was wrong.

Unable to leave her room, Y/N watched from the tower as he settled in a corner of the garden and carved bow after bow and twice as many arrows. She didn’t know why he didn’t get his wounds tended to but that only added to the mystery around him.

Despite the hot summer sun beating down on him, the Weeping Monk kept his hood up and his sleeves covering his hands. He didn’t even take off his boots. Y/N wasn’t sure she’d ever seen his hair – or anything above his eyebrows for that matter. Like everybody else, she only saw his hands and half his face, and only ever from a distance. For nobody was allowed to know she was there. The Weeping Monk was Father Carden’s greatest known weapon, but he had an even greater one. One he kept a secret – locked away in a tower like a princess in the fairytales her mother used to tell her.

Absentmindedly, Y/N felt the tingle in her fingers and raised her hand. The tingling intensified and a small breeze blew through the room, twirling her hair and fluttering the curtains. Soon it left the room and carried outside and down to the man below.

At first, it would feel like nothing more than gust of wind. But she knew the Weeping Monk was special. That he wasn’t entirely human. And she knew that he would feel the magic in the air when nobody else would. And he did. His hand stopped mid-carve and he dropped the half-made arrow onto the grass. His shoulders tensed and Y/N watched from afar as he reached for his sword. She smiled and pointed her finger towards the ceiling and drew circles in the air. The wind picked up and carried her words down to him.

Look up.

The Monk didn’t like magic, but he wasn’t a fool either. He understood magic and knew when to fear it and when to listen to it. Slowly - angrily - he lifted his head towards the sky and, as if against his own will, his eyes were drawn to the abandoned tower of the castle. He squinted. It wasn’t abandoned at all.

Pleased with her work, Y/N stepped back from the window and walked to the other side of her room, past her easel and paints, and to the wardrobe. She didn’t have a lot of clothes but Father Carden made sure she was comfortable enough not to seek attention. She opened the double doors and pushed her clothes aside, reaching in the dark for the lip of the panel that would reveal her only hiding place. The wooden panel came out easily enough and she gathered the pieces of paper and carried them to the round table in the middle of the room. She splayed them out beside each other so that she could see them all at once. Each one was different even though they were all of the same thing.

Him. The Weeping Monk.

Most were of his hands and the part of his face you could see, but a few were of his full body though none of those were completed. He always moved or left before she could finish. He was dangerous – she knew that. But he was also extremely intriguing and her curiosity had finally won her over. She knew his reputation, but she wasn’t afraid of him.

Creak.

Startled, Y/N looked towards her door. It couldn’t be Michael with her lunch and Father Carden was in meetings all day. Tripping over the area rug, Y/N scrambled to collect all the sketches and shoved them back in the wardrobe, sealing them in place behind the loose panel. She heard the lock click and turned just as the door opened. And there he stood. The Weeping Monk.

Y/N swallowed. He was much more intimidating in person. But he couldn’t hurt her and that knowledge calmed her nerves. The Monk took a step forward but ran into an invisible wall. She pointed to the cross above her door, not that the Monk could see it from where she stood. “This is holy ground, which means anyone who comes here needs permission to enter.” The Monk only stared back at her. He never blinked, and Y/N found that unnerving. “Still, I don’t have any friends and don’t get many visitors so come on in. Oh, but leave your weapons at the door. I don’t care for violence.” She sat back on her bed as the Monk tried to step over the threshold again and was successful this time. He slid the bow and quiver full of arrows off his shoulder and undid the sword belt. “And the daggers in your trousers and boot.”

The Monk rolled his eyes but obeyed, making a show of dropping them next to his other weapons. For a moment, they eyed each other before he finally looked away and began to walk around the circular room. He ran his fingers along the intricate carvings in the shelves and along the collection of books but stopped when he came to her worktable. He only said one word. “Witchcraft.”

His voice was low and gravelly. While others may have found it intimidating, Y/N found it soothing.

“That’s what a witch does. I’m surprised you can see anything from underneath that oversized hood of yours.”

The Monk didn’t respond immediately and instead continued looking around. “Father Carden said this tower was abandoned.”

“It was at one point of time. But where better to hide someone you once thought was human than a derelict tower rumoured to collapse at any moment?”

“You’re a Fey witch?”

“I know you’ve got the scent. Tell me, do I smell like Fey?”

The Monk was quiet for a moment. “No. You smell human.”

“By all accounts I am human. Except for the small inconsistency which is that I have the ability to practice witchcraft.”

“That’s not possible.” Y/N couldn’t tell if it was astonishment or fear she heard in his voice.

“Oh, it’s possible. Just unlikely.”

“How? How is it possible? And why would Father Carden let you live? Here? In our place of worship.”

“The same reason he lets you live. Yes, that’s right. I know all about you, Weeping Monk. So don’t you dare judge me. We’re both his greatest weapons and we let him use us because it means we’ll live to see another day.”

The Monk practically growled. “How do you know?”

Creak.

Y/N blinked. Was it lunch already? “Shit.” She began to panic. Seven seconds until Michael walked through that door. “Quick! In the wardrobe.”

“What?”

Y/N tripped over the rug again as she ran for the weapons. “Not so loud or he’ll hear you.”

“Who?”

Y/N dragged the Monk to the wardrobe and opened the doors. She shoved the weapons into his chest before pushing him back into the wardrobe. “Stay here. Don’t move or make a sound. And don’t come out until I say so, okay? If Michael sees you here, then Carden won’t be able to protect you. And I doubt he’ll choose to either. You’ll burn with me if we’re caught.”

“Y/N?”

The girl closed the wardrobe doors and smoothed out her skirts. “Come in, Michael.”

There was no handle on the door. Just a lock on the outside. He kicked the door open with his foot and walked into the room, placing the tray on the table. “Did I hear you talking to someone?”

“Just myself. Working on a healing poultice.” She held up her hand where she’d cut herself on one of the Monk’s weapons. “Cut myself.”

Michael rolled his eyes as he backed out of the room and grabbed the tray that he’d used to carry up breakfast earlier that morning. “Stupid bitch.”

Unperturbed by Michael’s only insult, Y/N wiggled her fingers at him. “See you for supper, Michael!”

“Shut up, stupid bitch.”

Y/N cocked her head. “Hmm. He’s learned a new one. Good for him.” Still, she waited until she heard the sole wooden step creak before telling the Monk he could come out.

“Do you have a death wish?”

Y/N frowned as she took the weapons back from the Monk. “What?”

“You just locked a killer in your wardrobe.”

“Sorry. Next time you can hide under my bed. Are you hungry? I’ve got some wine around here somewhere.”

“Why aren’t you scared of me?”

Y/N rolled her eyes and walked to her worktable. “Gods, you’re curious. Sit down.”

Realizing he wouldn’t get any answers out of her by resisting, the Monk slumped into the wooden seat and plucked a few grapes off the plate. He was hungry. Y/N messily wrapped a cloth around her wound before gathring a bunch of items from her worktable. She dropped them on the round table the Monk sat at and began sorting through them.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you. I’ll answer your questions in a moment.” In a stone mortar, she mixed and ground herbs and honey into a paste. “Roll up your sleeve.”

Apprehensively, the Monk did. He rolled it up past his elbow to expose the cuts on his arm. Her hand was warm as she held it firm and applied the paste over the wounds. He swallowed nervously. “What are you doing?”

“I already told you. I’m helping you. The blade you were cut with was laced with poison. That’s why it hurts more than usual.”

“How can you tell?”

“I could feel your pain. That’s what happens when magic is near. You can smell the Fey folk and I can sense them and their magic. Okay, see how this paste is light green? It’ll grow darker as it draws the poison from your blood and will only dry when there’s no more poison in your system. It won’t heal the wounds though so don’t worry – nobody will be suspicious.”

“If you’re not Fey, then how do you know all this. And how can you sense the Fey and magic. I mean…you’re human.”

“That is true. But I’m also cursed. Father Carden says that it’s poison that makes the Fey. But there are some humans cursed to similar fates. My parents were human, but they weren’t good people and they killed a Fey Elder. Because of that, the Hidden took revenge on them by cursing me. I’m not marked or anything. I’m just from two different worlds where neither wants me. But back to the story. Despite killing one of their Elders, the Fey took me in with the intention to raise me as their own. But Father Carden had heard a rumour about a human baby kidnapped by the Fey. By the time he heard the lie and found me, I was five years old.”

“Old enough to remember.”

Y/N felt a tear slide down her cheek. “He slaughtered the lot of them. That whole village…nothing was left. Burned or destroyed. Everything and everyone except for me. When they died, all their knowledge went to me.

“Carden brought me here thinking I was human and introduced me as his daughter. But a year later there was an incident and he saw the truth. In order to hide his mistake and embarrassment, he lied and said that I was killed by Fey and killed a whole village nearby just for the story.”

“But he locked you up here instead.”

Y/N shrugged and wiped her tears. “He knew how useful I could be. He said he’d spared my life two times now and I would spend my whole life repaying that debt.”

“And how do you do it?”

“When I feel magic, I send him a sign to meet me. I tell him where I feel it coming from and he goes in that direction and when he gets there, he uses you to sniff them out.” Y/N looked down at the paste. “It’s dry. No more poison. And you should probably leave. Carden will be looking for you soon.”

“Let me ask you something. I can tell you don’t like being trapped up here and used like a puppet so why don’t you just leave?”

“There’s only two ways out of here. The door or the window. If I take the door and run away, he’ll torture and slaughter all the Fey because he knows it’ll get back to me. And I will not take the window because if I leave this place, it won’t be by suicide. I wouldn’t dare give him the satisfaction.”

The Monk smirked and collected his weapons. “I don’t think he realizes that you’re nobody’s weapon but your own. What’s your name?”

“He calls me his little angel, but my real name is Y/N.”

The Monk gave a half smile. “See you around, Y/N.”

“If you do come back, it’s custom you bring something to a witch’s place of residence. It’s a symbol of truce. And I…I like flowers.”

The Monk gave a brisk nod. “Flowers.” He closed the door behind him and walked down the winding staircase until he ended up outside, facing the woods. Looking around and seeing no one, he reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out the folded piece of paper. His bootprint was on it because he’d stepped on it when Y/N had shoved him into the wardrobe but the drawing was still clear. And at the bottom, the image had been signed, dated, and titled.

The One Who Cries for the Family He Kills.

He looked at the image again, feeling a pull on his heart. It was him.

[part 2]

[themuselesswriter]

If you’re wondering where I disappear, I’m writing a fanfic about cursed:’) and it’s not over until now which is crazy.

[escapethewonderland]

Me, watching Daniel Sharman as The Weeping Monk in Cursed: Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique ✨

Also me: I miss my soft boi™ Isaac so much *cries intensifies*

[frenchfriesoverguys]

my review of ‘cursed’ (spoilers)

i have a degree in film and visual culture with no use for it in the pandemic so

i’ve seen a lot of comparison to bbc merlin. it would truly be odd to compare the two shows as merlin is a light hearted fantasy action while cursed is more of a drama fantasy. they fit into two completely different genres within fantasy. in general, never judge a show based off of another. the intentions in making merlin and making cursed are obviously different. i’ve seen other people talk about the character arcs being flat and the characters being boring. again this is a drama. most of the conflict is within the characters instead of in the fighting. i will say that while i do like arthur and gawain, their characters are not truly explored. i enjoy gawain being fae as it does add to the character but he has no true arc and is more so there for a plot device. meanwhile, arthur fits into the lover dilemma of only being seen as the love interest. i admire the twist of the man being the flat, love interest character. however, with this being the first, that i’ve seen, depiction of arthur being a black man, it would have been nice to see more character development. 

pym was THE best development in my own opinion. the reason being, she is so shy, so scared, so complacent. she embodied everything women are taught they have to be. she is resigned to her own duty to be aaron the fisher’s wife. pym lovingly chastises nimue for wanting escape their destinies of their mundane village life. yet she escapes the raid of her village, hides with aaron’s nets, finds an opportunity to leave and does so. she sneaks onto a viking ship and begins stitching up the men and women there so she can survive. she survives being a red paladin prisoner, the same red paladins that raided her village. iris tried to manipulate her and she saw right through it. she ends up being incredibly powerful without ever welding any power. underrated character and need more of her.

now nimue. i really like her depiction in this series. she is shown as powerful but not overly so. she cant end the war with a summon of the hidden’s power, yet she can kick some major butt. she first comes across as the damsel and quickly proves the audience wrong. however, the talk of her from peasant to queen seemed to escalate out of nowhere. it was a little rushed and could have been paced out better. that being said, it was a welcome change. it helped show her power, a rarity for female characters. morgana was also an interesting character. her conflict and growth relied graciously on her own self. having her be attracted to women was the biggest game changer in terms of her character. she seems abrasive and cold until her love is discovered. that moment with nimue was beautiful and the definition of women supporting women. it was a moment that defined their entire relationship. a friendship, by the way, that was so powerful it became a driving conflict within morgana.

by far my favorite thing about this series is the names. people familiar with the arthurian legends know these names. each name carries weight and defines who that person is, was, or could be. waiting to reveal said names by cleverly misleading the audience is significantly more powerful. i’m looking at you morgana and lancelot.

okay lets talk about the red paladin. people are probably uncomfortable talking about religion but ‘cleansing’ sanctioned by the church is based off of real events. this stuff actually happened. so awkward but necessary conversation when bringing up the red paladin. the church is supposed to be operating with kingdoms but instead we see the church as its own power, its own army. they manipulate the kings in order to continue their raids and serve their own agenda. by definition, they represent the patriarchy. or at least they are one of the representations of the patriarchy, the kings being another. they belittle nimue by calling her ‘the fae peasant girl’ while she takes down most of their men. they exclude iris who truly seems to be the only one efficient enough to kill fae and her own sisters. their blatant abuse of said sisters. ect. in later seasons it would be nice to explore the kinder side of christianity. people use god’s name in vain to defend their own ideas of hatred, it would be nice to see a character that spread love instead. (arguably morgana does this but as she rejects god and the religion by throwing her cross away, i’m not quite sure she’s the best example)

everyone wants to talk about the weeping monk so lets get into that character. one of the best character arcs on the show. i love redemption arcs - especially well done ones. so lets be clear, this is not and cannot be the entirety of his arc. he has only just begun. i want to be surprised that he is fae kind but dude showed his magic throughout the series - still a nicely done reveal. this man has been heavily abused and manipulated. and to see that dynamic between cardon and him explained everything (gotta love daniel sharman playing an abuse survivor - dude kills it every time). especially why he doesn’t kill kids as that is a line characters just cant come back from. love him and squirrel but curious as to how he will continue to recover. i personally would love to see his mental health thoroughly explored.

stepping away from plot and characters for a minute, we need to talk about graphics. i cant tell if they got better over time or i got used to them but in the end they didnt seem so bad regardless. the transitions are based off of medieval manuscripts. this may seem like a strange comparison but monty python and the holy grail did a similar thing. that film took more of a comedic route but the idea is still the same. its interesting and different but i think they could have done a little better. they seemingly tried to mix art forms while keeping with the style of medieval art and in the end, they modernized it.

the flashes were incredibly well done. every character defining moment had a flash of green, which is incredibly detailed. the flash forwards were dramatic and jarring and i loved it. by allowing the music to shift and the actors expressions to shift before the flashes, it created a beautiful transition. elevates the series into a more cinematic piece. 

all in all, this series has great potential. the women on this show go from passive characters into decisive leaders. as for the next season, i hope to see more character development and exploration for arthur, kaze, and the red spear. all were underrated and need more screen tie. especially kaze.

[everlastingdreams]

Weeping Monk x Reader : The Forbidden Apple    Chapter 21

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

Story Summary: Father Carden begins to notice how his Weeping Monk starts to question all he was raised to believe in. In an effort to distract him, he has his Red Brothers bring him a 'gift.' The Monk is skeptical when he hears of this, Father never just gave him gifts. But when the Monk enters his tent in the evening he understood what Father had meant by 'gift'. You, a fey girl, were the gift.

Chapter Title: Scars Of The Past

Notes:  Feeling a little better. Finally finished my fight with chapter 26 I think.

Warnings: There's a list of warnings for this story: Stockholm syndrome (?), lima syndrom (?). Rape threats, sexual assault, murder and violence. Angst. Sexism. Strong Language. Trauma. Childhood trauma. Survivor's guilt. Mentions of child maltreatment. Mention of menstruation.

Other warnings: ! Smut ! Jealousy. Enemies to lovers (?). Romance. Pining. Thigh grinding.

Word count of this fic: +140K

Chapter:  21 / 27

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

The next morning you went to the infirmary to find something for the headache and to see how Arthur was doing.

Arthur seemed to be in a better mood than you despite his injury, half laughing at the state you were in “Wow, you look terrible. What did you do last night ?”

“Thanks.” You deadpanned.

After drinking a vial with some medicine you told him what happened the night before “I forgot to drink water yesterday, drank ale instead.”

Another laugh came from him “I take it that it did not work out well ?”

You stood next to the cot he was on “It didn’t. I ended up fainting. Luckily Gawain was there.”

He sat upright now “Oh, are you alright ? You didn’t fall did you ?”

Your eyes fell on the hand that he placed on your arm “Gawain caught me, I didn’t hurt myself. Speaking off last night, did the Red Spear come to see you ?”

He withdrew his hand “She has.”

You waited for more information but he looked…reluctant “I like her. She’s terrifying, but I like her.”

Arthur smiled coyly “You love danger then ?”

Quick as a whip you turned it around “Do you ?”

That smile grew nervous real quick, perhaps he did not know what he loved yet.

But he was not ready to surrender “I think you do.”

You quirked a brow “Why is that ?”

He said it like it was a fact “You like to be around terrifying people.”

You denied it “There is only Red Spear.”

Then he cheekily added “And Lancelot.”

An actual soft laugh escaped you “He is not terrifying !”

Arthur was ready to prove his point “To you. Because you know him better than anyone else here.”

Was he really fighting you on this ? “Don’t be ridiculous. I am not drawn to danger.”

He patted a hand on the cot “Well, if that is the case, come sit with this non-dangerous heavily wounded man then.”

You didn’t know why you hesitated to sit with a friend, but you did…

Arthur noticed this and sounded rather hurt “You sat with him when he was here…”

There was no judgment in his tone, he was stating only facts.

With a look of guilt you apologized to him “I’m sorry…”

Arthur was sure of the matter now “I was right, wasn’t I ? Something did happen between you and him.”

Slowly you walked over and sat at the foot on the cot “I…” what to say “He might have kissed me once. But it doesn’t matter, he explained that the vow forbade it. And it won’t happen again.”

The sheer surprise on Arthur’s face went unnoticed, you were too busy looking down at your fidgeting hands.

Lancelot had done the right thing by admitting that the kiss should not have happened, it was better considering the circumstances the two of you had been in. The thing that you could not forget was how you had not been upset that your first kiss was ‘stolen’ from you by him…

There was doubt in his voice when he parroted “It won’t happen again ?”

It felt too personal to speak further of this “I respect his choice.”

Arthur could tell that you wanted to end this topic “He saved my life, could’ve left me to die out there, but he didn’t. Complicated man that is, one moment he looks like he wants to hit me, the next he’s helping me.”

That sounded familiar “When I was with him in the paladin camp, it took a while to see the real person behind the Weeping Monk.”

Then he admitted “I trust him. Call me mad, but…I trust him.”

It caused you to smile “You’re not mad. And I’m glad to hear that you two are finally becoming friends.”

He sat upright and reached for your hand, placing his on top “I can see why he is so fond of you. You’re lovely, y/n. A great person to be around. Don’t ever let your parents make you believe that you are anything less but incredible.”

The compliments were followed by him swiftly leaning in, catching you off-guard, and kissing your cheek.

If you hadn’t turned your head to the side, he would have gone ahead and put his lips to yours.

He was quick to understand that you were rejecting him.

An awkward silence fell between you. Arthur was sweet, handsome and always there to help, but something more was missing and kissing him wouldn’t have felt right. And then there was the fact that the captain of the raiders had her sights set on him.

It was not often that using his charms did not work, but he had a vague idea why “Sorry. You did not want me to do that ?”

You felt a bit guilty, had you given the wrong impression ? “I’m sorry too, I just don’t think I feel more than friendship.”

It was not his first rejection and he handled it with grace “At least you’re honest.”

You decided to inform him of the captain’s interest in him, doubting she had been brave enough to do so herself last night “Red Spear fancies you, Arthur.”

He seemed rather surprised “Did she tell you that ?”

Well, Arthur sounded rather interested in the news “Not with many words, but it’s quite obvious. Did she say anything to you about it ?”

He recalled what the Red Spear had told him “She told me that she felt sorry and blamed herself for how I got injured, she sort of said it rather quietly. Also said that she was glad I was alive, said a good swordsman would have gone to waste otherwise.”

That was perhaps the closest thing to a confession of love that the raider’s captain would ever get “We both know that Red Spear is more for action than words.”

The Manblood would have to read between the lines quite a lot if he wished to figure the captain out “That’s true. But…” he gestured between the two of you “Are we…alright ?”

Ah, clearly he was wondering whether you took offense to him pursuing another after almost kissing you “We are.”

Arthur, the charming and flirtatious Manblood, would have quite a challenge if he would indeed pursue the Red Spear.

You got up from the cot “I need to go and find Percival, I promised to give him a drawing of a fox today. Will you be alright ?”

He gestured a little hilariously to himself “I’ll be on my feet again in no time.”

You shook your head, laughing “Alright, I guess you’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.”

He nodded and you left the infirmary to find Percival.

   And you did find the spirited boy, he was busy with demanding attention from Lancelot. Pulling out all hidden weapons he could find in the saddle from the Ash Man’s horse.

More than once, Lancelot had to disarm him. It ended with the Ash Man grabbing a dagger from him and holding the boy with an arm around his chest, leaving the child to twist and turn to try and get free. Lancelot only shifted his grasp on the boy each and every time, barely able to contain a loud laugh.

They both looked so happy and playful. The often serious Ash Man had a strong playfulness inside of him, you had experienced this in the forest once when he had indulged you with a game of hide and seek.

That was a nice moment to remember…

“Stop doing that.” A voice came from right next to you.

It made you jump a little and move a step to the side, blurting out “What do you mean ?”

Pym was looking at you with a judging only she could show, she mimicked your voice and parroted “What do you mean ?” then chuckled “Come on, do you think I’m stupid ? I know you’re not staring at nothing.”

You rolled your eyes but felt very caught “Fine, you’re right, I was staring. Can you blame me for looking ? I know that nothing else will ever happen again.”

You had told her about the kiss and how those serving the Church took a vow. It was a one time occurrence. All those touches shared, but there was still a line he would never cross. The desire he had once felt was kept under control. A romantic conjoining was not possible, he had been honest to you about this. And you would not expect him to break his vow, if this was his choice, then you respected it. You had made your peace with it.

The occasional hug and other signs of affection from him were already more than you had ever known.

It was enough, he was enough and you wouldn’t want to miss him for the world.

She then casually mentioned “Hmm. I guess you’re right. I’ve seen others stare at him too.”

It came out sharp “What others ?”

Pym snorted a laugh at the sudden bitterness you spoke with “Gods, y/n. Can you be more obvious ?”

You denied what she was clearly still hinting at “He’s my friend, I’m just worried about him. I don’t want people to bother him.”

She muttered quietly under her breath, yet perfectly loud enough for you to hear “How can they bother him when you are doing it all the time ?”

You scoffed loudly and gave her a light playful push “Are you calling me annoying ?”

Pym put an arm around your shoulder “Nah, but I think you are absolutely mad for staring at a monk.”

You removed her arm from your shoulder “I never tease you for staring at the Green Knight. And you’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

She had never looked so speechless before, her cheeks turning a soft pink color “Have not !”

With a raised brow you looked at a flustered Pym “Shall we talk about something else ?”

She was eager to take that opportunity.

  oOoooOOOoooOOoOOoo

  After handing an ecstatic Percival the drawing, you went to find Lancelot in the stables, he was busy brushing Goliath’s coat with some straw.

While knocking on the wooden walls, you greeted him “Good morning.”

Glancing over at you, he greeted you too “Good morning. How are you feeling today ?”

It would surprise you if he had not noticed the squinting of your eyes from the headache you had “Better.”

There was doubt written all over his expression and he reached into the saddlebag to take out his flask filled with water, offering it to you “Drink.”

You didn’t even protest, he would wave away any excuses you would give him.

“Thanks.” You took the flask and drank some sips.

Just as you were drinking, he reached higher with the straw to brush Goliath’s back with it.

When he lifted his arm something caught your attention.

You held his arm in your hand, moving his cloak to the side “What happened to your shirt ? I could try to sew it back-”

When he shifted, so did the fabric and revealed the wound that had stopped bleeding only hours ago. The bloodstained piece of cloth wrapped around it now visible to your eyes.

Immediately you wanted to know why he had not spoken off this “You’re wounded ?!? Gods, Lancelot ! Why didn’t you say something ??”

He moved your hands away first, then moved you a step back too “It happened at the Mill. It will heal, I have cleaned it. Do not worry.”

How many times had he been wounded before and never said a thing ?

You could tell that he would brush this off and ignore the injury so he could continue his work with the Green Knight “Come with me to the infirmary. I will see if I can help with that.”

He was used to cuts and bruises, a variety of injuries had caused a variety of scars.

Of course the Ash Man politely declined “You fainted last night, y/n. I will not give you more work.”

It seemed like you needed to be a little more persuasive, taking a step closer, your hand curled around one of his “Let me take a look at your arm, Ash Man.”

You held your intertwined hands close to your body.

That different tone in your voice made it very difficult to decline the offer again.

With a hard swallow and timid nod he accepted the help offered.

He did not say a word while following you to the infirmary, you blamed it on him not being used to accepting help from others.

After entering the infirmary with him, you patted a hand on the cot, signaling for him to sit down.

Used to offering patients help, you treated him no different “Need a hand to undress ?”

He mentally scolded himself for almost lying.

Mildly distracted, he took off his, cloak, aketon and then carefully the linen shirt.

You sat next to him to inspect the damage, the wound had indeed been cleaned well but it would not heal properly without stitches “I need to sew it shut. Otherwise it will hurt for months before it heals.”

Pain was no stranger to him, the prolonged healing process of wounds was often a punishment to himself for even getting injured in battle.

Without meaning to question your healing skills, he did feel the need to inquire “Have you ever done so before ?”

Quietly you muttered “Once or twice.”

Perhaps he should have declined the offer and just let the wound heal on his own. But you had his hand resting on your lap while you were focused on his arm and he considered the pain of having his skin sewed back together a fair trade for it.

With a grin, he decided to jest “As long as my ear is not attached to my arm after this.”

You gave him a playful push “I’ll sew your mouth shut if you’re not careful.”

He quirked a brow “Pardon ?”

He heard but wanted to see if you would dare say it again.

You repeated louder “I said, I’ll sew your mouth shut if I hear you question my skills again.”

A look over his shoulder was aimed at you accompanied with a lopsided grin “Is this how you treated all of your patients ? Threatening them ?”

Your eyes must have sparkled from the fun you were having “No. Just you.”

Still grinning, he questioned it “Just me ?” then clicked his tongue “Is this for laughing at your unfortunate encounter with a spider yesterday ?”

You prepared a needle and thread, then got to work “Quiet. Don’t distract me or that needle could end up doing more damage.”

The jest rolled out of his mouth “You are less frightening with a sword.”

It earned a glare from you “I’m going to pretend you did not just say that.”

Stitching the wound on the back of his arm wasn’t so simple, it ran horizontally over it. Still you did your best and even though you had threatened him with the needle you were very careful not to hurt him.

It also caught your attention that there were no fresh scars on his back.

After finishing closing the wound up, you lightly ran a hand across his back “They are better…”

He quietly said “I stopped.”

With a squeeze to his shoulder you showed your support, this was good news, it meant his mental state was improving.

He must have found another way to process difficult matters.

You got up for a moment and grabbed the bowl with ointment while opening the subject on Father Carden “How are you handling the news of his death ?”

It was not necessary to ask who you had meant “I handled it.”

You doubted that it was as easy as he pretended it to be “You never speak of him anymore.”

He countered it with “You do not speak of your parents either unless I ask about them.”

True, neither of you had fond memories with parental figures in your lives.

He had never thought that he would react so numb to the news that Father had died and yet he had. It was only weeks later that mourning began. Anger, hatred, sadness, guilt… he felt all of it and carried it in silence. No one here would like to hear how he mourned the death of someone who had caused such pain to so many.

But you had been with him during his darkest times, maybe you would listen “I gave my whole life to him, to what he believed in. And I will never see a day where I do not carry the guilt on my shoulders for it.”

You put some ointment on your fingertips and gently smeared it on the wound “And still you mourn him.”

You knew…

He fought back the tremble in his voice and the tears that dared to form “What does that make me ?”

Did he expect that you would call him a monster for this ? “Compassionate.”

Your stomach sank when he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, he was truly struggling with this.

Unexpectedly, he apologized “I am so sorry, y/n.”

It confused you greatly “You don’t have to apologize, Lancelot.”

He forced himself to breath, to stay in control of his emotions “Father did this to our people. To you and even to me. I should hate him-”

The guilt he felt for mourning Father Carden must have been tearing him apart inside, his own empathy causing him to feel this way.

Without thinking, you carefully wrapped your arms around his arm and leaned close to his ear “I want you to know that mourning someone who you have known all your life is normal. It proves that you have empathy, even if it is for someone like Father Carden. It’s admirable even. Someone has to pray for the wicked, for they can’t do it themselves anymore.”

There was truth in that…

His head tilted a little, just enough to feel your forehead against his temple, eyes held shut until his tears would dry “Will this stay between us ?”

You scrambled some courage together and brushed a hand over the back of his neck to sooth him “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

God… your fingers moving over his neck made him want to lean back into them more.

The content hum however was not something he wanted to emit.

At the sound of it you drew back your hand and those Ash Folk eyes locked on yours.

There was an intensity in them now that made your heart want to leap up a hill.

With your gaze dropping to your lap, you informed “I’ll bandage your arm now. I fear your shirt is ruined though…”

Blood on white linen for so long would be near impossible to remove.

That innocent, shy expression and reaction you still had to him…

The atmosphere between you had made a palpable shift again.

In the laden silence you covered his wound by tying a fresh clean piece of linen around it.

He waited patiently until you were finished “Thank you.”

A quiet response “You’re welcome.” before rising to your feet and crossing the room to the chest with spare clothing ‘found’ by the raiders “I think there might be a shirt in here that will fit you.”

You sat down on your knees to search through it and heard the sound of his boots moving over the wooden floor as he neared you.

Just when he stopped beside you, you found a shirt.

He held a hand out to you and you believed it was for the shirt so you handed it to him.

He moved it to his other hand and kept holding out his hand.

Staring up at him, you sheepishly placed your hand in his and let him help you rise to your feet.

He held on to your hand “There is something else I wish to tell you.”

You waited for him to do so when the door flung open.

Pym was helping a raider drag another raider into the room “Ugh, bollocks ! Gavin stepped on his own trap again.”

Both your attention dropped to the raider’s leg.

Why on earth had they not removed the metal device from his foot before bringing him here ??? How was this raider so calm ??

Lancelot put the shirt on, rolled his eyes while grabbing his sword and going over to the raider to open the metal device up.

It only took him a few seconds to set the raider free.

“Ha ! Thank you !” The raider gave him a grateful pat on the shoulder and then proceeded to almost fall over.

You were quick to help the idiot and got him to the cot with both Pym and Lancelot’s help.

“Wanna help with this ?” Pym asked, pointing at the gruesome sight.

With a nod you agreed to help “Of course.”

You did take a moment to say something to Lancelot “Is it alright if we talk later ? I know there was still something you wanted to talk to me about.”

With a nod and tilt of his head he acknowledged it and left the infirmary so you could focus on the injured raider.

  oooOoOOoOOOOOoOOoo

  Close to evening, there was something that had reached your ears thanks to the Green Knight.

Percival was cleaning out the stables.

Percival…

Cleaning…

It sounded so unlikely that you had to go and see it for yourself.

Upon arriving at the stables, Lancelot stood outside and kept an eye on the working boy.

It looked so unbelievable and once you got the Ash Man’s attention, you gestured at Percival “Lancelot…is he cleaning these stables ?”

He only gave a nod.

Now that he was here, you brought up your earlier conversation “Earlier, in the infirmary, what was it that you wanted to tell me ?”

This was not the time or place…

His sights darted from you, to Percival who had not yet seen that you were there too “I wanted to tell you that…” the pause almost took too long “-that I appreciate how I can confide in you regarding my past.”

It didn’t go unnoticed that he looked quite nervous all of a sudden “Oh. Alright, I see. Never be afraid to speak of what troubles you, I know how difficult it has been for you. If I can carry half or all of your burdens, I would.”

His restless hands were folded behind his back, sight falling on you from the corner of his eyes “The sentiment is mutual.”

You hummed and smiled “Tell me, why is Percival the one cleaning the stables now ?”

Instantly he straightened his back “If he can steal-…” he corrected “If he can ‘borrow’ Goliath without my permission, then he should know how to care for him.”

This had been a punishment for the boy’s ‘crime’ “He took your horse ?”

He had been upset, yet impressed with the boy’s ability to ride Goliath alone “I could not find Goliath or Percival an hour or two ago. I was not surprised when they returned together.”

Soft laughter fell from you “He wants to be just like you.”

There was a slight frown forming “I could not say by how he often speaks to me. Sometimes I believe he considers me a nuisance.”

You felt sympathy for the fragile heart of the Ash Man that the child could apparently trample over “Aw, don’t think that. If he really didn’t like you then he wouldn’t be running after you all the time.”

It slipped from his tongue “Spoken from experience ?”

You side-eyed him “What are you trying to say ?”

He wasn’t backing down from messing with you a little “We run into each other an awful lot.”

You stated the obvious “We sleep in the same building.”

He cocked his head arrogantly “Still.”

While feigning a sweet tone, you jested “What do you want me to tell you, Ash Man ? That I spend my days finding excuses to run into you.”

With a lopsided grin, he acknowledged your sarcasm “So defensive. I never insinuated that I meant you. Perhaps I was speaking of myself.”

It could have meant he was the one finding excuses to speak to you so much, but you had responded like you were the one guilty of it.

Your eyes narrowed at the trap you had stepped into “Admit it, you arrogant twit, you like spending time with me just as much as I like to spend my time with you.”

He only hummed, like it was not the certain fact that it was.

At that moment a mixture of dirty straw and other things landed a few inches from Lancelot’s boots.

Your focus snapped to the young Fey Knight who was innocently shoveling the dirty stable clean.

He looked down at his boots and then back to the boy.

At least it had not been thrown against him, there was progress being made.

After waiting for a scolding to be given to the boy, you realized none would come from Lancelot “You’re so afraid he won’t like you anymore if you scold him for it. Aren’t you ?”

He held his tongue, it wasn’t far from the truth.

You called over to the boy all of a sudden “Percival.”

The boy stopped shoveling and looked back at you “Y/n ?”

Without shame, you told the boy what Lancelot would never tell him “Lancelot fears you might hate him or grow to hate him.”

He could not believe you had just told the boy like this.

The Ash Man opened his mouth but failed to find the words.

Percival looked at the two of you like you had gone mad and dropped the shovel “What ?” the boy approached the Ash Man as if it had been a grave insult “Why would you think that ?!?”

Both of you were taken rather aback by the defensive stance of the boy.

He looked to you for help, before understanding that it would be best to handle this himself.

After a soft nudge from your elbow, he confessed to the waiting boy “You cursed at me when I told you to clean Goliath’s stable.”

There was some frustration from Percival who had always been used to little or no supervision “You wouldn’t let me ride Goliath ! You’re always bossing me around !”

He expected the reply “I only want what is best for you. I do understand that you will not always be happy with the choices I make to ensure a better future for you. I hope, in time, you will forgive me for the flaws in my attempt.”

Percival was calmer, it had sounded like the Ash Man was determined to stick around and help him through life, quietly uttering “I don’t hate you.”

Slowly Lancelot knelt down in front of Percival “I would understand if you did.”

The boy wasn’t having it “I don’t.”

He explained why he disliked how the boy had rode Goliath beyond his knowledge “You are brave, and you are still quite young and growing. I feared you would fall off Goliath and break your neck. I would never forgive myself for not having been there to help.”

Now Percival understood the reason he had been punished and tasked with cleaning the stable, he quietly risked asking “Can I ride Goliath if you’re with me ?”

Lancelot thought for a moment, then answered “Finish cleaning the stable. I will let you ride Goliath but I will hold the reins and walk beside you. Agreed ?”

There was eager nodding from Percival as he agreed to the terms.

He rose from the ground, ushering the boy to complete the task “Go on then. Off you go.”

This time Percival was more enthusiastic to clean the stable.

It was only when he rose to his feet again that he noticed he had knelt down right in the dirt the boy had tossed at his feet minutes ago.

You were quick to notice and failed to stop yourself from laughing at the sight of it.

With a deep disgruntled sigh, he tried to brush off the dirt from his trousers as much as possible.

You reached out and gave his arm a squeeze, rubbing it a little “Well done, Lancelot.”

It was endearing to see him slowly but surely open up to others, especially towards the feisty child.

There was that boyish smile again and seeing it warmed your chest.

Then he slowly and discreetly moved a hand to your own, fingers hooking around yours loosely.

You were the one who went ahead and clasped your hand around his.

A squeeze from him…

A squeeze from you…

He uttered a heartfelt “Thank you.”

How in heaven’s name could it be that the sparkle you had in your eyes now could cause his heart to jump in joy ?

After you nodded, he let go off your hand before it would draw the boy’s attention.

You didn’t even realize you were staring at him for a moment “How is your arm ?”

He clasped his hands behind his back again, it was the only way to keep them still “It burns less.”

It was a relief to hear “That means the ointment is working.”

With a tilt of the head, he silently asked you to step out off the stables with him, of course you followed.

He walked at a slow pace, remaining near the stables “Have you had any more trouble with your parents ?”

It dawned on you that neither your mother or father had hounded you today “No. It’s odd. Maybe they finally listened to Gawain ?”

He kept a neutral expression, only his brow arched slightly “Perhaps. Let us hope. Will you tell me if anything arises again ?”

With a nod and grateful smile, you responded “I will. Thank you, Lancelot.”

Right then, he had to take a step to the side as a woman walked past him.

The brunette with luscious curling locks send him a look that could not be mistaken by anyone, and a smile that could enamor the coldest of hearts.

You didn’t expect or like the strong gnawing feeling it gave to your self-confidence.

Pym had been right about him catching the attention from others…

It distracted you so badly that you hadn’t even heard him speak just now.

He halted “Y/n ?”

It took you a second to realize he must have said or asked something “Oh… I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.”

Mildly concerned, he repeated what had costed him so much courage to say just even once “I am glad you feel better after last night. You look better.”

There was something else he had muttered half under his breath and you couldn’t decipher it “Excuse me ?”

It took so much to say it louder “You look…” he wanted to scold himself for being so cowardice, then finally voiced openly “Stunning.”

Your foot hit an uneven spot of grass and you lost your balance, thankfully he caught your elbow to prevent a fall.

Had he ever even complimented your appearance before ?

He let go when you regained your balance.

You never saw it coming “Stunning ?”

After weeks in Gramaire, you looked healthier and more lively. You smiled more and radiated a social warmth that drew people to you.

Living here made it possible to have proper meals and a chance to rest. All of it benefited to a healthier life.

And yes, it strengthened the beauty that you already had. He had seen it and knew others noticed too.

That raider had been one of the many that were starting to have attention for you.

And the thought that you were catching the eyes of others…

Even now, while walking beside him, he could see them turn their heads to look again.

If he was to tell you of his affection, what better way to start then by making it known that he was not insensitive to your appearance too ?

If he had once been brave enough to tell you he desired you, this should not be much harder.

Desire, lust…it had grown into what he felt now.

With a tilt of the head, he confirmed his words “Being here has done you well. I can see how your health has improved.”

It was understandable, when first meeting him you had been starving and wore torn clothes.

Now you had better access to water, food and a warm place to sleep with an actual bed “You look healthier too. Not as tired. And some color to your cheeks.”

Not pale and so terribly haunted by what had troubled him when he was with Father Carden.

No, he looked good. Stronger, healthier and calmer. And most importantly, happier.

That color on his cheeks intensified when you returned the compliment with a cheeky smirk “Very handsome. As always.”

Beyond his control, his gaze swiftly moved over your form until it locked on your face.

As always ?

Percival ran out off the stables and found the Ash Man outside with you, shouting excitedly “I am finished !”

You gestured to the waiting Percival “I should let you go and keep your promise to the boy. He looks very happy for someone who was just shoveling through dirt for an hour.”

He gave a nod but ended up catching your arm before you could fully walk away.

You looked back at him, saw him hesitate…

His fingers glided down your arm as they released it, leaving you with some advice “Do not forget to drink enough today. Water, not ale.”

You scoffed “Thanks. I will.”

He send a smug smirk as you walked off.

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[captainjaspenor]

Fire in My Bones - Chapter 4

heFirst of all, I want to say a huge apology for the wait. First I moved, and then I had to get settled in, and then I was job hunting and before I knew it weeks had flown by. I worked on this slowly the entire time though, so it was never abandoned. Also, I have been working on a Last Kingdom (Finan x Reader) story that was stealing some of my attention. 

Anyway, thank you all for being patient. I appreciate all the nice things you guys have been saying about the previous chapters! I hope this next one doesn’t disappoint. It does have some action in it for you too!

Surprisingly no one guessed last chapter’s song title which came from “I Know Places” by Taylor Swift. As usual, if you know this week’s song title comment or message me and you’ll get a shoutout. 

Title: Fire in My Bones

Show: Cursed

Pairing: Weeping Monk x Reader

Warnings: Blood, mild violence, language, mentions of death and dying

Summary: “From the trees, shrouded in smoke, he emerges. The Weeping Monk. Around you the terrified screams of the Fey and the pained groans of the dying fade away. You forget the acrid smell and taste of the smoke and ash as it burns your throat and lungs. You forget Nimue, who is hiding behind you, clutching at your cloak, shaking like a leaf.”

Chapter 4: I’m Burning So Deep That Just Breathing Hurts

Note: For the sake of the story, I assumed that Episodes 3&4 happened on two different days.

You wail as your teacher drags you by the arm into the hut where your father holds his council. You’d begged your teacher not to involve your father, but your pleas had fallen on deaf ears. 

Your father is standing on the far side of a large wooden table, which is currently covered in rolled out maps. Around him, his war council discusses plans. At the sound of your intrusion, your father looks up.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he demands.

Your teacher stands straighter, but his hold on your arm only grows tighter. “May I have a word with you, Lord?” He glances at the other men in the room. “Alone.”

Your father glares down at you and you try not to cower under his scrutiny. With a flick of his hand he dismisses the others and they make a quick exit. Your father’s temper is legendary. “Speak,” your father says.

Your teacher steps forward and gives you a shove. You stumble but manage to stay upright. “Go on, (Y/N),” your teacher demands, “Tell him what you told me.”

Your lower lips wobbles, but you don’t cry. It will be worse if you cry. “I don’t want to do the lessons,” you admit.

“Why not?” Your father comes around the table to stand in front of you. “I – I–” you stutter, unable to get the words out now that he’s towering over you. 

“She says she’s afraid of fire. What kind of Fire Folk is afraid of fire?” your teacher scoffs.

“You’re dismissed,” your father says, not taking his eyes away from yours. You’re teacher starts to say something, but your father cuts him off. “Go.” His tone leaves no room for further arguments. Your teacher exits, and though you hate him you wish he’d stay. Because you know what’s coming next. 

Still, the ferocity behind the smack catches you off guard. He’s hit you before, but never this hard. “Get up,” he grabs your by the back of the shirt and half drags, half pushes you out of the tent and into the center of your village. “No daughter of mine is going to be afraid of fire,” he snarls in your ear. The people do not so much as glance at the two of you as they pass, knowing that if they do they risk bringing your father’s wrath down on them as well. 

In the center of town stands a large pillar, where criminals and prisoners of war are tied up and tortured. And if they’re not fire folk, burned alive. You realize your father’s intention now and you begin to struggle.

“No,” you claw and kick and scream, “I’ll do the lessons, I swear I’ll do the lessons,” you sob in fear, “Father, please! I swear I’m not afraid, I swear.” But it’s no use. 

Your father clutches your wrists in one strong hand while using the other to wrap a thick iron chain around them. You try to pull free, but he’s too strong and the chains are locked in place. Your father walks over to a large pile of kindling kept nearby for just such occasions and begins to pile it around your feet. You beg and thrash and fight, but the chains hold and so does your father’s resolve. At last he comes to stand by you. He roughly grabs your tearful face with his hand and forces you to look at him. 

“You are to fear nothing and no one,” he hisses. You sob harder as he creates a small flame under your feet. It doesn’t take long to spread and soon you’re engulfed in flames. You scream in fear as the flames lick your legs and burn away your clothes. You can see nothing but smoke and you feel the warmth from the fire around you. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, an hour, maybe two? You scream and howl until your throat is raw and no sound will come out. Eventually the flames begin to subside taking your tears along with them. When the fire goes out you’re left naked and covered in ash and soot, but still chained. Your wrists are red, raw, and burnt. You wish one of the passing village people would unshackle you, but you know you won’t be freed until the sun sets. Father’s orders. 

You shiver in the cold for hours watching as the sun slowly creeps lower in the sky. The moment the last sliver of sunlight disappears over the horizon your mother is there. She removes the chains and bundles you up before carrying you towards your family’s tent. Her gentle, soothing touch is welcome. 

“Why does father hate me?” you whisper to her as one fat tear rolls down your cheek.

“Oh, (Y/N), your father doesn’t hate you,” your mothers says, “He loves you, very much. He just…Training you to be a warrior is the only way he knows how to be a father. To him, forcing you to face your fears is his way of showing you that he loves you. Do you understand, little one?”

“Mama? I’m not scared of fire,” you confide, “I’m scared because sometimes I can’t control it.” 

“You should be afraid,” she says. You must look surprised because she adds, “Fire is dangerous, (Y/N).  Fire Folk can create fire and manipulate it, but we can’t put it out once it starts to burn. And though we cannot burn, humans and the other fey can.” Her tone grows stern. “That’s why you must only use fire as a last resort.” You nod and she kisses your forehead softly. 

“Mama?” you ask, as the two of you approach the tent. “If fire can’t hurt me then why am I burned?” You hold up your blistered wrists.

“The chains your father used are iron. Iron is the only thing that can burn us. Remember that, (Y/N), but never tell another soul. If the other fey—or gods forbid, the humans—found out, they’d use it against us. 

_

You wake before the monk does. It’s no surprise considering you’re sleeping on the hard floor. You sit up and stretch to loosen up your aching body. It’s been awhile since you’ve slept somewhere this uncomfortable. You pull the blanket up around you to ward off the early morning chill. In the corner the torch still burns, allowing you to watch the monk as he sleeps. 

He looks different when he’s asleep. Peaceful, almost. You don’t know how long you watch him sleep, but eventually his steady breathing becomes shallower and he begins to stir. His eyes open and meet yours. 

“How long have you been staring at me?” he asks, sitting up.

“Long enough to know that you drool in your sleep,” you say. 

“I don’t drool,” he dismisses. He’s right. He doesn’t, but you might be right now. Down to nothing but his undershirt – black, of course – you can see practically every muscle move when he so much as breathes. You nearly moan when he lifts an arm to run a hand through his bound hair. You continue to stare, unabashed, but the monk seems uncomfortable with your scrutiny. He looks down at his hands and picks at the bandages with his fingers. 

“Can I take these off?” he asks.  

“Yes,” you say, though part of you wants to offer to do it for him, just to be able to touch him again. 

He begins to fiddle with the knot you tied in the bandage, but with only one hand he struggles to undo it. After a few futile attempts, he sighs. He looks up at you and you can see the question in his eyes. You debate making him say it out loud, but he looks so pitiful, you give in and go to him. 

He makes a move as if to stand, but you shake your head. This time you don’t hesitate to take your place between his legs as you take his hand and begin to untie the small knot at the base of his wrist. He shifts and little and his thigh brushes your hip. Your fingers fumble and you pray he doesn’t notice. 

“I have to leave the abbey today,” the monk says in a voice not much louder than a whisper. 

You continue to slowly unwrap the bandage. “Why?”

“We’re going to ride out and search for the witch. She can’t have gotten far,” the monk says.

At first you don’t answer. Instead you methodically finish unwrapping the first bandage. You observe your handiwork, happy to see that the blisters have healed nicely. They’ll still be tender, but they won’t impede any movement. You move on to the next hand. “How long will you be gone?” you ask. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. Once again you remain silent. You finish the second hand faster than the first and step back to allow him to see the results himself, but he keeps his eyes on you. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he says.

Somewhere in the back of your mind your father’s voice echoes: No one will ever come back for you. 

You nod and gather the dirty bandages. You drop them on the chest the empty mortar and pestle.  As his prisoner, you really shouldn’t be upset that your jailer is telling you that he won’t be around in order to keep an eye on you today, but somehow you are. 

You observe the monk. He’s still sitting on the bed, his elbows on his knees, looking at his nearly healed hands. You notice his hair is still ruffled from sleep and you fight the urge to cross the room and brush it back. You glance down at the bed and notice a red stain.

“You’re bleeding,” you say. 

The monk looks at his shoulder and presses his fingers to the wound. They come away red. “Well, you did stab me,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “You haven’t gotten it stitched yet?” The monk shakes his head and you let out a frustrated noise. You grab the leftover sutures, needle, and cloth Celia left behind and place them on the bed next to him. 

“What are you doing?” he asks as you thread the needle.

“I’m going to stitch it for you,” you say. The monk seems surprised by your answer. “Take your shirt off,” you demand and you place yourself between his legs once more. 

“No,” he says. “You can stitch it, but I keep my shirt on.” 

You shrug and he unlaces his undershirt as far down as it will go. He pushes the fabric to the side to reveal the bloody wound.

“You idiot,” you chastise him as you begin to clean the area with a damp cloth, “You’ve let it bleed for two days? Do you want to get an infection?” The monk looks a little embarrassed by your scolding and opens his mouth to interrupt, but you shush him. “I don’t want to hear any excuses from you.” Once the wound is clean enough you carefully prod at the edges. The wound isn’t large but it’s deep. You feel bad that you’re the one who gave it to him. Almost. 

“Well?” the monk says when you finish your inspection. “Am I going to live?” he asks sarcastically. 

“You’re lucky I wasn’t trying to kill you, Monk,” you quip. “The dagger missed all the big veins and arteries and only hit muscle. It’ll take time to heal, but there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.” You wish you had something to sterilize the wound with, but you’ll have to make do with water. If the needle going in and out of his flesh bothers the monk, he doesn’t show it. 

You work in silence for a while before asking, “Is Father Carden going with you?” The monk nods. “He must really want this girl dead,” you say.

“She killed one of our brothers,” the monk explains.

“Really? How?”

“She strung him up with branches. The branches were…inside of him,” the monk says.

Your sewing falters. “That is… considerable magic. What else do you know about this Wolf-Blood Witch?” You try to keep your tone neutral.

“Nothing more than what I’ve already told you,” the monk admits. “She told the abbess that her name is Alice, but that’s probably a lie.” You make a thoughtful noise and continue your stitching. You remain silent but your mind is racing, trying to use what little clues you had to figure out the identity of the fey girl in question. Whoever she is, you hope she’s gotten herself far away from here.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks. You shrug so he continues, “Why are you helping me?” 

You consider the question. “My mother used to tell me…” You clear your throat, talking about her is always hard. “She told me that there is a time to kill and a time to heal, and that it’s important to know the difference.” You can tell he’s not satisfied with this, so you elaborate. “You let me live. True, I’m a prisoner, but I’m alive. And I don’t know if it’s for some sadistic reason that I’ll find out later, but so far you’ve been…kind to me.” You make the mistake of looking into those striking eyes of his. His expression is unreadable. “And I don’t like seeing you—I mean, seeing anyone–hurt when I can help,” you stammer. Smooth. You force yourself to break eye contact and go back to stitching. You can feel the monk’s eyes burning into you, but you refuse to look up until you finish the last couple of stitches. 

Finally, you tie off the last suture. You have no excuse to avoid his gaze now. “I’m done,” your voice is nearly a whisper; the two of you are so close.

“Thank you, (Y/N).” For a brief moment you think you see something akin to tenderness in his eyes. He opens his mouth to say more, but the door opens and Celia comes bustling in. You step back and the monk’s face is a mask once more.

“Oh.” She stops and takes the two of you in. “I’m sorry, but Father Carden has asked for you,” she says to the monk. She gives you a look before adding, “I’ll wait outside.”

The monk stands and laces up his undershirt. He dresses quickly, avoiding eye contact to your disappointment. The finishing touch is his sword belt. As he straps it on, he finally looks at you. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he says before leaving once more. You feel almost as if he’s taken your heart with him, but you remind yourself how foolish that is. 

You gather up the bloody rags and discarded needle and place them on the table along with the mortar and pestle. The door opens and for a moment you think it might be the monk returning, but it’s Celia. She doesn’t say anything as she begins to collect up the used supplies. 

“It wasn’t what it looked like,” you try to explain yourself. 

“You helped him.” It’s not question.

“It was the right thing to do,” you say. 

Celia cuts you off. She seems almost subdued. “(Y/N), I’m not judging you. I understand what it’s like to…want something that you shouldn’t,” she says. 

“Is everything alright?” you ask. 

“It’s Morgana,” she admits, “She hasn’t been seen since yesterday. I’m worried something bad has happened.” 

“I don’t know Morgana personally, but from what you’ve told me, she seems like she can take care of herself,” you say, but she doesn’t look convinced. “I’m sure she’ll be back soon, Celia,” you take one of her shaking hands in yours. 

“Thank you, (Y/N).” She smiles softly at you. “I have to go. Father Carden has called for us to gather in the courtyard, but I’ll return later with lunch.” Once again, you are locked in and alone. 

_

Time passes slowly as you wait for Celia to return. You run through a few basic exercises and try to loosen up your sore muscles, but that doesn’t take long and before you know it you’re back to square one. 

Eventually your mind wanders to the monk. He’d said come back as soon as he could, but every bit of training in you screams not to believe him. He could leave you locked in here for days, weeks, even months if he wanted to. He could starve you or let his brothers torture you for information about the fey. He could kill you. And he has no reason not to. You want to believe that the two of you have some sort of mutual respect, but you can’t really trust that after having one – okay, maybe two – conversations with him. 

Your head wants to find a way to escape, but your heart wants to stay and wait for the monk to return. If he returns. If you’re going to escape then this evening will be your best opportunity. You have to assume that most of the Red Paladins are with Father Carden and the monk, searching for the Wolf Blood Witch. Now that you’re hands aren’t bound, you can take on at least a few brothers even if you don’t currently have a weapon. They abbey is a maze and you’ve only been led through it blindfolded, but you can find your way out one way or another, even if you have to persuade one of the brothers to show. 

In the end it’s your loyalty to Nimue that sways you. You know that you owe it to her—and Lenore—to do your best to get out of here and find them. You study the lock on the door. You’re pleased to discover that it appears easy enough to pick given the right tools. You look around the room, but there’s nothing small enough to fit through the keyhole. You dig through the trunk at the base of the monk’s bed, but only find a couple of dusty blankets. Frustrated, you return to the bed and sit. If you can’t find something small enough to turn the tumblers in the lock then any future plans are futile. 

Thankfully you don’t get to wallow in self-pity long because the lock clicks and Celia enters. _

The man screams and begs for mercy, but the monk runs him through anyway. He’s used to killing men as they beg for their lives. It doesn’t bother him anymore. Almost. He turns and walks away from the body. He digs a stained rag from his pocked and begins to methodically wipe the blood from his blade. 

He approaches one of the brothers standing by. “The caravans are run by a man named Dizier. Drives a wagon full of leather goods. Go,” he dismisses and the brother exits to spread the word. 

The monk sheathes his blade as Father Carden approaches from behind. “How many?” the older man asks. 

“Just one. A Tusk,” the monk reports as he uses the rag to wipe any remaining traces of blood from his hands.  

Father Carden nods, pleased. “Still, another smuggler off the road.”

“I found something else.” He leads Father Carden to the trees lining the road, nodding towards the symbols hidden among them. “They’re in the trees and on the ground,” the monk says as he stops to gently run his fingers over one of the intricate spirals. 

“What are they?” Father Carden asks.

“Directions.”

“To where?” 

“I only have pieces,” the monk admits, “Somewhere north. Toward the Minotaur. A sanctuary. The caravans, they move one, two at a time, but this… This is where we’ll find them all. And I know someone who can take us there.” 

_

You’re surprised to see that Celia’s been crying. “What is it? What’s wrong?” you ask as you go to her. You guide her to one of the stools and take the plate from her hands, setting it on the table. 

Celia tears start anew. “The Red Paladins took the abbess. They drug her away and put her in a caravan. Father Carden said she’s to be punished for harboring the Wolf-Blood Witch. He’s going to have her killed,” she weeps. 

You take her into your arms and whisper reassurances. You know what it’s like to have someone you care about taken away from you suddenly and you know that nothing you say can actually help, but you try anyway. 

Eventually her sobs subside to small sniffs and she pulls away. Her face is tearstained and blotchy. “There’s something else.” You raise your eyebrows at her, indicating she should go on. “Morgana’s left the abbey.” 

“How do you know, I thought she hadn’t been seen since yesterday?”

“She came back, but now she’s gone again. I think she blames herself for the abbess.”

“The abbess? Why?” you ask.

Celia lowers her voice, even though you’re the only two in the room. “She’s the one who was helping the girl, Alice.” 

“And where has she gone now? Morgana.”

“There’s this place she’s been talking about, a sanctuary for the fey kind.”

“Nemos,” you mutter.

“You know it?” Celia asks, perking up. “Have you been there?”

“Once,” you sigh and take a seat on the other stool. 

“And Morgana? She will be safe there?” Celia asks, hopeful.

“As safe as any fey, I suppose. But Celia, these are dangerous times for the fey and those who help us,” you warn her.

“I know. I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t budge,” Celia admits. She tears up. You suspect that Morgana may mean more to Celia than she’s let on, but you don’t want to pry. 

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” you reassure her. “Morgana seems more than capable of taking care of herself. After all, she snuck the Wolf-Blood Witch into the abbey right under the Weeping Monk’s nose,” you joke. It works and Celia cracks a smile. 

The two of you sit in a comfortable silence for a while as Celia composes herself.  

“She asked me to go with her,” she finally says. 

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was afraid,” Celia says, “I still am. Part of me wants to go after her, but I’ve never lived anywhere but this abbey. I’m terrified of the world outside of these four walls. And the sisters, they’re my family! I can’t just abandon them.” 

It’s not your place to try and change her mind, but still you ask, “And can you live knowing you may never see Morgana again?” Celia doesn’t respond, probably because she doesn’t know the answer herself. “Look, Celia, I can’t tell you what’s the right choice here, but I want you to know that it’s okay to want something good for yourself. It’s okay to choose love,” you tell her. Celia glances at you shyly at your use of the word “love” but you give her a reassuring smile. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits.

“You don’t have to decide now. Think it over. Sleep on it. You can still go tomorrow if you want.” 

With that the two of you lapse into casual conversation while you devour the lunch Celia has brought you. It’s a slab of meat with some bread and cheese. Nothing fancy, but you’re grateful all the same. It’s during one of Celia’s long-winded answers about one of the sisters at the abbey that you notice it: two small wires coiled tightly around the handles of the handmade utensils you’ve been using to cut the meat. You try to keep your face neutral as you mentally judge about how long the wires will be once unwrapped and straightened out. By your calculations they should be just long enough to use to pick the lock. 

Nonchalantly you nod along to Celia’s story while bringing the fork to your lap. You slowly unwind the wire and leave it on your lap as you bring the fork back up and stick it into the meat. You repeat the process with the knife, taking a few bites in between to avoid arousing any suspicion to what your hands are doing under the table. 

After the meal concludes you place the utensils on the plate and scoot it towards Celia, praying she won’t notice the missing wires. Thankfully she seems oblivious as she gathers up the empty plate and goes to exit. 

At the last second she asks, “(Y/N)?”

“Yes?” 

“I know you’ve probably already figured out how to escape and you’d probably succeed if you tried, but I’m going to ask you not to. I know you don’t owe me anything, but if you run the sisters and I – we’ll be punished and with the abbess gone, I’m afraid of what they might do to us,” Celia says, “If it was just me at risk, I wouldn’t ask, but I fear for my sisters. Please, try to understand.”

You think of Nimue and Squirrel, and send up a silent prayer to the gods that they’re safe and have found each other. “I promise I won’t do anything to put you or your sisters in danger.” You might have just sworn away your last chance at freedom, but Celia’s grateful smile soothes any ill feelings you have. With promises to return later with more food, Celia locks you away in your prison once more. ____ The monk watches in stony silence as his brothers pull the bloated corpses from the bloody pool of water. He can hardly believe that one girl could do this much damage. 

Next to him, Father Carden speaks, “Now this… This is a message. She taunts you, my son.” The monk always likes it when Father Carden calls him that. It reminds him of the bond the two share. One forged in blood. “She taunts you with your dead brothers.” The monk can hear the disappointment in his voice and he wants nothing more than to erase it. 

“Let us pray,” Father Carden continues. The monk bows his head in obedience. “We pray for the lost souls of our fallen brothers, Almighty Father. We beg thee purge us of our weaknesses, skin us of our mercy. Send a heavenly flame to cleanse our corrupted hearts. And should you deem us unworthy, send us your purest soldier, your avenging angel. Amen.” 

Father Carden looks at the monk expectantly. “Are you certain the girl will lead us to the sanctuary?”

“Yes.” The monk nods. “I am.”

_

You sprint through the woods, cursing silently every time you misstep and a branch snaps under your feet. You know you can’t outrun him, so instead you duck down underneath one of the large trees. A small cave has formed at the base of the trees roots, just large enough for you to crawl into. You tuck yourself in and cover your mouth with your hand to quiet your heavy breathing. You wait.  

Moments later you hear him. He doesn’t care how many branches snap beneath his feet, and each step alerts you that he’s getting closer. You try to make yourself even smaller, even less visible, if that’s even at all possible. 

Finally, you see him. You can only see from the waist down, as the roots obstruct your view, but you watch as he paces the area, most likely following your tracks. You should have covered them better, but there wasn’t time.

He turns and walks toward your hiding spot and you stop breathing all together. You pray for him to turn around and walk away, but he doesn’t. In three paces, he’s on you. He reaches down and grabs the front of your tunic, hauling you up. He easily lifts you off your feet and presses your back to the tree. He levels the tip of his dagger at your throat. 

“I’ve caught you,” your father says, “The Fire Folk have lost the battle and now I’m going to take you captive. What do you do?”

You slide one of your hidden daggers from your forearm sheathe and press it against your own chest. Your father steps back and nods with approval. “That’s right. If you’re captured, you fall on your own sword. Why?” he asks. 

“Because no one will ever come back for me.”

He nods. “Because no one will ever come back for you.”

_

You wake to the smell of smoke. You’re fully alert in seconds. After a quick dinner with Celia you’d passed out early, not having much else to do. But now something’s wrong. The smell is overwhelming and you can see tendrils of black smoke seeping through the door. You pull on your cloak and go to put an ear to the door, but you can’t hear anything. Silence. You call out and bang on your door, but still there is only silence.

You mentally run through your options. Stay here and wait to see what happens or go outside and investigate. You still have the wires from earlier and you can pick the lock, but that would mean breaking your promise to Celia. But what if she needs help? Decision made, you make quick work of the door’s heavy deadbolt. It’s all in the tumblers. Tucking away the tools in case you need them later, you brace yourself and open the door. 

A thick black cloud of smoke rushes in around you. A normal person would have trouble seeing with the smoke burning their eyes, but being Fire Folk you’re unaffected. You study the hallway; you’d always been blindfolded when you’d been led through the abbey, so you can’t be sure which way to go. A voice in your head reminds you that when Celia had taken you to bathe, she’d taken you to the left. You would guess that the bathing chambers would be towards the center of the abbey, close to where the sisters sleep. Which means the right most likely leads to a way out of here. You send up a small prayer asking Nimue for forgiveness and go left. 

Around you the temperature has risen substantially in the narrow stone hallway you sprint down. You make turn after turn hoping to hear or see someone, but the place seems deserted. You call out Celia’s name, but she doesn’t respond.  

You force yourself to stop and think. When you first arrived here Celia had led you up multiple flights of stairs, which means you’re on one of the higher floors. A light goes off in your head and you remember that when Celia had taken you to bathe she’d taken you down the stairs again, and the bathing chambers are likely on the ground floor. And if you know the monk, he’s likely chosen a room away from any one else’s living quarters. Stupid. You’ve been searching the wrong floor. 

You check the next floor down, but still have no luck finding anyone. Many of the rooms are locked and you don’t bother picking them, not wanting to waste any time. You find another staircase and continue down. 

It’s on the third floor that you check that you finally hear it. It’s faint, but you think you can hear the sound of screaming. Sweat drips from your brow and into your eyes. It glides down your cheeks and falls from your chin onto your leather jerkin. It’s hotter down here, so you figure you’re closer to the source of the fire, not that it’s a problem for you, but it could be for Celia.

You run hard, but it doesn’t seem fast enough. The heat and smoke grow more intense the closer you get. Still the cries are getting louder and clearer. You can tell there are multiple women. And they’re all screaming for their lives. As you round the last corner, you discover the screams are coming from the other side of a massive wooden door. You slam into it at full speed, trying to force it open, but it doesn’t budge.

“Celia?” you shout over the other women’s screams.

“(Y/N)?” she calls back.

“Yes, Celia, it’s me!” You press your hands to the door, overjoyed to have found her. “Don’t worry, I’m going to get you out of there,” you reassure her. 

You observe the door and quickly realize that someone has put a lock on the door. No wonder the sisters can’t get out. You reach out and grab it to study the keyhole, but the metal scalds your hand. Iron. You swear violently and you drop the lock. You give your hand a few shakes in a futile attempt to cool the burnt skin. You give up and cradle your burnt hand in the other. Blisters are already forming on your palm. You hiss in frustration. You’ll have to work carefully to get the lock off without touching it. You dig out the small wires and begin to fiddle with the tumblers. 

“(Y/N), please, hurry!” Celia begs. You try to drown out the women’s frightened scream and focus on the task at hand. The lock is old and rusty and for a moment you’re worried the wires aren’t strong enough to get the job done when there’s a satisfying click. 

You wrap your cloak around your good hand and yank the lock off. Triumphant, you toss it away and shove open the heavy door. Smoke billows out at an alarming rate, proving your theory that at least one of the fires is nearby, likely started in the dorms. You step into the room, only to be met with a horrible sight. 

Over twenty sisters of different ages are gathered around the door in disarray. The women are in various states of asphyxiation from the smoke. Some of the older ones have already succumbed to it. You’d been so intent on getting the lock open you hadn’t realized the screaming had stopped. You force yourself to look away from a young girl, not much older than Squirrel, who is lying on the floor with her eyes shut, her breathing shallow. 

Behind you a weak voice calls your name. Celia is there, with her dark hair unbound, barefoot and in nothing but a thin nightgown. She has her arms wrapped around an older woman, but it’s clear the woman is moments away from death. You crouch in front of Celia and begin to untangle her arms. She tries to fight you at first, but she’s too weak from the oxygen deprivation. 

“Celia, we have to go,” you tell her as you wrap your arms around her and stand up. You have to lean most of her weight on you, which means you won’t be able to go very fast. You pray you don’t have too many more stairs to climb down. 

“What about my sisters?” she argues, “I can’t just leave them behind!” Celia begins to struggle against you.

“Celia, please! Most of them are gone already. Think about Morgana! She’d want you to come with me,” you try to reason with her. With that, all the fight leaves her body and she nods. Her breathing is becoming more and more labored. You have minutes at best. “Celia,” you shake her as she drowses, “How do we get out of here?” 

With a tremendous amount of effort she lifts her head. “Down the hall to the left,” she mumbles, “Then we go through the courtyard and take a right to the entryway.” You basically drag her down the hallway, praying for a miracle that the courtyard isn’t on fire. 

Unfortunately, the gods aren’t on your side today, because as you step through the doorway a large flaming branch from one of the trees snaps off and smashes to the ground only a couple feet in front of you. Sparks go flying and Celia cowers in fear. You hold fast and look around, searching for a way around the fire to get to the aforementioned entryway.  

What was clearly once a well-kept courtyard of flowers and trees is now completely ablaze. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s dark outside, because the glow from the fires is so intense and it bathes everything in an eerie orange glow. Plumes of gray smoke disappear into the night sky, so thick that it’s impossible to see the stars. Beside you Celia coughs and takes ragged, painful breaths.  

You take off your thick cloak and wrap it tightly around her, making sure to cover her mouth and nose. And then, you summon the Hidden. The flames in front of you part, not unlike the way the Red Sea parted for Moses. If only the Church knew… You keep an arm wrapped around her as you guide her forward. You know the cloak will not catch fire, but it doesn’t cover all of her and the exposed skin on her body has begin to blister and burn from the overwhelming heat coming from the walls of fire on either side of you. You can smell the burning flesh and hear her soft cries. You wish you could ease the pain for her, but have to settle for moving faster and calling out reassurances. 

Finally, finally, you lead her out of the small inferno and through the threshold that leads to the abbey’s main entryway. You pray from some reprieve from the heat of the fire, but inside the entryway is also ablaze. In front of you stands a massive wooden and metal door, easily three times taller than you and Celia. You pull her forward, so close to your destination, when you hear a loud crack above you. You glance up to see one of the wooden beams from the roof come loose and plummet towards you. You shove Celia back and fall to the ground, slamming your not quite healed head on the concrete floor. You see stars. For a second you feel the blackness of unconsciousness pull you down, but you fight it and force your eyes open. Your vision remains blurry but you can once again see the burning room around you. You crawl on your hands and knees to where Celia has fallen. 

You pull yourself up next to her and look at the now inaccessible exit. The massive, smoldering beam has landed right in front of the large doors, making it impossible to pull them open and escape the inferno. You pull Celia’s head onto your lap and sit her up a bit, to ease her breathing. 

She lays on the ground, your cloak having come unwrapped. Her face is dirty from the ash and smoke except for where her tears have left thin tracks. Her eyes are swollen and puffy and her hands and feet are raw with blisters. Her lips are cracked and labored breaths barely push through them. 

She takes one of your hands in her blistered ones. “I’m dying, aren’t I?” she rasps. 

Tears prick your eyes and you look up at the flaming ceiling to allow you moment to compose yourself. You look back down at her blackened face, “Yes.”

She closes her eyes and nods in acceptance. A wry smile appears on her face. “I was going to leave tomorrow. I was going to go after Morgana and tell her that I loved her.”

This time you don’t fight the tears that spill over. “Celia, I’m so sorry.”

Celia shushes you softly. “It’s okay, (Y/N). There’s nothing more you could’ve done.” You open your mouth to argue with her, but a cough wracks her body. Once the cough subsides, she continues, “I want to thank you, (Y/N), for showing me that it’s okay to choose love. I hope you’ll do the same.” Another bout of coughing has the tears streaming down her cheeks anew. “Will you tell her?” she asks, “Will you tell Morgana that I was going to find her? Will you tell her that I love her?” 

“Of course. Of course, I will,” you promise her. She gives you one last dreamy smile before closing her eyes. She lets out one last ragged exhale and is still. You press your palm to her chest, but can no longer feel her heartbeat. You cradle her in your arms and press your forehead to hers as you sob. 

You cry for Celia and all the things she never got to do. You cry for Morgana who is going to be heartbroken when she learns the truth. And you cry for yourself, for having been unable to save yet another person you cared about. 

You aren’t able to grieve long, because another large chunk of the ceiling slams into the ground a mere foot away from you. You look up and realize that the fire has eaten away at all the major wooden infrastructure of the entryway and the entire thing is dangerously close to coming down on top of your head. Fire may not kill you, but being crushed by hundreds of pounds of stone will. 

You wipe your eyes and look around for another possible exit. There has to be a window or another door around here somewhere. When your search is unsuccessful you decide you’ll have to go look for a side door in a different room. 

You carefully lower Celia’s body to the ground. You kiss her forehead and take your cloak from her, wrapping it back around your own shoulders. You stand and look down at her for the last time. Part of you loathes leaving her to burn, but she’d want her final resting place to be here: in her home with her sisters. 

Again another piece of entryway comes lose and falls next to you. You flinch and take the hint to get the hell out of there. You sprint back through the blazing courtyard and take a left, hoping to find a wall with a window. You see a couple, but both are too small for even you to fit through so you keep going. 

Around you debris is falling from the ceiling at an alarming rate. Nothing has hit you so far, but eventually you won’t be so lucky. 

You round the corner and come to a halt. In front of you there is a dead end, except for one door. You mentally map out your path to figure out whether or not this door could possibly be an exit, but you’ve never been much good at that. You decide to try your luck one last time and go for the door. 

It’s locked, of course. You take out the wires to work on the lock, only to realize that your hands are shaking. You take a deep breath and try to calm yourself. It doesn’t help much, but you allow muscle memory to take over. It works, because the lock clicks open and you yank open the door to be greeted with a breath of fresh air. You nearly collapse in relief, but manage to stagger forward on shaky knees. 

You take in your surroundings. You’re not far from the abbey’s main entrance and you can spot the road you came in on with the monk. With the adrenaline starting to fade you realize that your body is bone tired. You don’t dare stop and look back at the burning abbey, because if you do you aren’t sure you’ll be able to hold it together. 

You’ve only just made it to the edge of the road when a dark figure comes thundering down the road on the back of a black beast. His cloak billows out behind him. He comes to a screeching halt mere feet from you and dismounts. In the glow of the burning abbey, you see the trademark tears of the Weeping Monk.

You stumble and he smoothly steps forward and wraps his large hands around your biceps to steady you. “You came back,” you say, breathless. 

“What happened here? How did you get out of there? How are you alive?” the monk demands to know as he takes the time to run his hands brusquely over your body to search for damage. Normally you’d take the time to bask in his attention, but your brain in still stuck on the fact that he came back. Satisfied you’re in one piece, he lets go and steps back. 

“You came back,” you repeat, dumbly.

The monk eyes you warily. “I said I would.”

You nod. “I know, but you came back.” You try to emphasize what you mean. You think you might be in shock. 

Apparently the monk does too cause he doesn’t say anything, but instead bundles you up and lifts you onto Goliath’s back. He hauls himself up behind you and turns Goliath back the way he came, this time at a much slower pace.  

_

At some point you must have dozed off, because the next thing you know you’re deep in the Iron Wood again and the monk is bringing Goliath to a stop. You ask him why. 

“It’ll be dawn in a few hours. I thought it best we make camp until then.” You accept his help as you dismount; your feet are still a little unsteady beneath you. He ties Goliath’s reigns to a nearby branch as you go and sit on a fallen tree trunk. 

You don’t say anything as the monk begins to dig a hole and line it with large stones. You watch him circle the clearing, picking up kindling. You don’t think you’ve seen anyone move with such ease and grace, even in the dark. You look away as he walks back toward you and its only minutes later before he has a sizeable fire going. He sits across from you and observes you in the orange light of the campfire. 

“What happened at the abbey?” he finally asks. You’d been dreading the question, but had known it was coming. Of course he’d want to know what happened. It’s not every day an entire abbey burns down. 

“I don’t know,” you admit, “I went to sleep and when I woke up I could smell the smoke. I picked the lock on my door,”—you give him a nervous glance but his expression doesn’t change—“and I went to find Celia.” The monk doesn’t say anything; instead he lets you take the time you need to relay the story back to him. When you tell him about losing Celia, you don’t even try to stop your tears. “I thought I could get her out. I thought I could save her,” you admit to him. You look up to see the monk watching you with a peculiar expression on his face, but before you can ask him what he’s thinking, it’s gone. 

“I’m sorry about your friend.” The words are so quiet you almost don’t hear them. Before you can say anything back, the monk stands and goes to his saddlebags, where he retrieves food for the both of you. He holds out your portion to you, but you don’t take it. 

“I’m not hungry,” you tell him.

“You have to eat something. Please.” The last part is an afterthought. Surprised by his use of the word, you accept the food and take small bites. 

The two of you eat in comfortable silence. After you finish you lean back and watch as the monk takes his sword out and begins to clean it. You feel a pang at the sight and you wish for your own blades. 

“I wouldn’t have killed the boy.” The monk doesn’t look up as he says this, his eyes on the cloth in his hand as it works its way up and down the blade. You hadn’t realized how sexy cleaning blood off of a sword could be. 

“What?” You’re really killing it today with the clever comebacks. 

“The one you call Squirrel. I wouldn’t have killed him. I don’t hurt children,” the monk says. You can’t help but scoff at this and he looks up, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. 

“You don’t think you hurt Squirrel when you burned down our village, murdered his father, and stole his innocence by using him as bait so you could slaughter his friends in front of him? You might not kill children, Monk, but you do hurt them.” The monk narrows his eyes at you, and for a moment you fear you’ve said too much, but his expression switches to one of contemplation and he focuses back on the task at hand. 

Again you two sit in silence. You think he almost might prefer it this way, but after a few minutes you can’t take it anymore. “Why did you come back?” you blurt out.

The monk shrugs. “I told you I would.” 

“Yes, but why?” you press, “Did you find the witch?”

The monk’s hand stills on his blade and he scowls. “No.”

Picking up on the obvious tension in his body, you ask: “Did something happened?”

The monk only grunts in response. You wait, figuring he’ll share when he’s ready. Eventually he sighs and runs a hand over his face in frustration. “She killed half a dozen brothers today.”

“With magic?”

The monk shakes his head. “She used the sword. It seems the longer she has it, the stronger she gets.” Lenore had warned you about that. She’d also warned you that the sword corrupts those who wield it. You hope whoever this girl is she’s able to overcome whatever hold the sword has over her. 

“So what now?” you ask.

“I think she’s going somewhere. A Fey sanctuary.” The monk’s eyes never leave yours, and you know he’s studying you for a reaction. You try to keep your face neutral as the he continues. “The directions are hidden in symbols in the trees and on the ground. I’ve been able to decipher some of them, but I need someone who speaks Old Fey for the rest.”

And there it was. The real reason for the monk’s timely arrival at the abbey. Perhaps even the reason he kept you alive in the first place.

“I won’t help you slaughter what is left of the Fey. Even if most of them deserve it.”

The monk cocks his head to the side. “You don’t care for your fellow fey kind?”

You chew the inside of your cheek indecisively before asking him, “Do you know why you’ve never seen a Fire Folk before?” The monk shakes his head. “It’s because the fey council had them all murdered when I was a child. Not unlike the way you and your Red Paladins have been doing to them.”

The monk seems genuinely surprised by this revelation. “How did you survive?”

“Lenore. She begged the council to spare my life. My mother wasn’t so lucky.” 

The monk places his sword to the side and leans forward, blue eyes boring into your golden ones. “Would helping me not be the perfect way to avenger her?”

For a second you’d been lured in by the sincerity in his eyes, but his words make your blood run cold. “I will not tarnish her memory by helping you wipe the fey in her name.”

“Even if refusing might cost you your life?” The monk’s words are eerily quiet. There it is. The moment you’ve been waiting for. The one where he finally starts treating you like the prisoner you are.

“Even if,” you say. 

“Why? Why are you willing to die for those who wouldn’t do the same for you?”

“I could ask you the same,” you taunt. The monk doesn’t take the bait and you sigh. “Because there are dozens of children living there. You say you don’t hurt children? Well, if I take you there then I assure you nothing will stop brothers from slaughtering every last one of them.”

“I will not ask you to help me to find the sanctuary. But I also won’t stop searching for it,” the monk warns. You nod and the tension dissipates.

You ask the monk the question that’s been on your mind since you first saw the lock on the sisters’ sleeping chamber door. “Was if you? The fire at the abbey. Was it the Red Paladins?”

The monk had been staring at the stars in the sky above you, but when you started talking he’d locked his gaze back on you. You can’t help but feel guilty somehow. Like you’re accusing him of something. Which is silly considering how many fey he’s killed, seemingly without remorse. 

“How do you know the fire was set on purpose?” he asks.

“It’s just... I know Father Carden had the abbess taken away for helping the witch. And there was a lock... on the door... which is why the sisters couldn’t get out... and there’s no way the fire spread that quickly. Someone must’ve set multiple fires all over the abbey. And I just thought... did he do this? To punish them?” Shit, you’re rambling. You can’t help it when he’s staring at you like that.

The monk seems to be amused by how flustered you’ve become and his gaze softens. “No. We didn’t do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Father Carden doesn’t do anything without a reason. And this.... what reason could he possibly have for this?”

“Okay.... You’re right.... I just... If it wasn’t you guys, then who? Who would want a bunch of nuns dead? It doesn’t make sense.”

“At first I thought it was you.”

“Me?”

“Who burned down the abbey, but then I saw how upset you were and I knew I was mistaken.”

“Why did you think it was me?”

“Because you managed to walk out of a burning building while everyone else inside died. The smoke alone should have killed you. But then it came to me: you’re immune to fire.” You tense at his words. “I’m right, aren’t I?” You nod, warily. “Do the other fey know?” he asks.

“Some. The older ones, who were alive before the Fire Fey were massacred, though I suspect many of them have forgotten. I don’t make it a habit of showing off that particular talent.”

The monk hums in acknowledgment. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, “Your secret’s safe with me.” He gives you a conspiratorial (and uncharacteristic) grin before going back to cleaning his sword. 

You stare into the campfire in front of you.  The flames dance in a hypnotic pattern, one you are familiar with. One you used to find comfort in. But now you can’t help but picture Celia’s terrified face as the flames around you came closer. You glare down at your hands in despair, blinking back tears as the sound of the women’s screams echo through your mind.

The monk must sense your distress because he leaves his spot on the other side of the fire to approach you. He crouches in front of you, forcing you to look at him. “You blame yourself.” It’s not a question. The monk continues, “You can’t save everyone.” You open your mouth to protest but he silences you with a look.

He’s right. You know he’s right. But still, you hate to admit it. And you sure as hell aren’t going to do it out loud. Instead you settle for a nod. The small gesture brings your faces closer together. The monk glances down at your lips and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, but instead he says, “You should get some rest.” 

You fight back a groan of frustration as he pulls away from you and returns to his spot on the other side of the fire. Nonetheless, you obey and make a place to sleep near fire while the monk does the same. It doesn’t take you long to realize that you’re not going to be able to sleep. Every time you close your eyes you see Celia’s face. You let out a soft sigh and stare at the stars overhead. You try to keep your breathing even and steady, to make the monk think you’re asleep. It doesn’t work.

“I can hear you thinking,” the monk’s voice cuts through the darkness. 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you retort. 

The monk ignores you. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I can’t,” you say, softly, “When I close my eyes I see… her.” Normally you wouldn’t be so vulnerable, but somehow you know the monk won’t judge. 

At first you think he isn’t going to say anything or that he’s fallen asleep but there is a sudden flurry of movement to your right as he stands and begins to gather his belongings.

You sit up. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” the monk says, “but if you can’t sleep then there’s no sense in staying here until dawn.” 

“Scared I’ll kill you in your sleep?” you tease.

The monk helps you into Goliath’s saddle and hands you the reigns as he goes to put out the fire. “I just thought you wouldn’t want to be alone with your thoughts all night,” he says, his back to you. 

You can’t say anything, overwhelmed by the tenderness you feel in your heart towards this man who should terrify you. Instead, you offer your hand to him when he returns. He accepts the offer and together you pull him up and into the saddle behind you. He settles in and wraps his arms around you to take the reigns. 

“Ready?” he asks. You nod and the monk digs his heels into Goliath’s sides, sending you galloping through the forest once more.   ____

And there it is! Let me know what you think in the comments!

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Last Line Tag

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Tagged by @randombtsprincessa

From Nothing But Understanding (Weeping Monk x Reader One Shot)

“Your regular room is available. I’ll be round with some dressings after a while,” you said, doing your best to curb the worry that threatened to shake your voice. “Till then, drink a bit.”

Sliding the stein across the table, you gave him one last fleeting look, then turned back towards the rest of the patrons. “It’ll take the edge off.”

Tagging: @rivendell101 @southsidewrites​ @halcooper @serpentineo @american-satanxx @ohlancelot​ @sweetwaterprincess​ @cactiem​ @lonely-full-of-secrets​ And anyone else who wants to join in. Especially all you Cursed fandom writers- we need more fan fiction floating around!